#[[ tossing up a tw just to be safe. ]]

[yanderenightmare]

Yandere Seven Heavenly Virtues

♡ AN: from the Promptlist

♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, nsfw, noncon/dubcon, kidnapping, yandere, harsh language, sexual exploitation, age gap, bondage, vomiting/forced/emeto, implied piss-drinking, zero holes safe, misogyny, weight-loss, and more, read at your own risk

♡ FEM reader

Humility is a filthy rich businessman. 

You’re a pretty little young thing on his contract—silly signature keeping you prisoner like a leash.

Yeah, you thought being a sugarbaby was going to be a glamorous gig. But he makes it anything but, keeping you in his penthouse dressed like a peasant girl in only an old-fashioned chemise you have to handwash with a washboard, only allowing you baths in a tin tub with all but freezing cold water you have to gather yourself by the bucket.

You wait on him hand and foot. Like a maid, back in the 1800s. You make his bed, clean his bathroom, serve him food, and eat the scraps he tosses on the floor for you, licking the marble clean like a dog.

He’s into extreme subjugation with a kink of utterly humiliating you, fetishizing watching you clean his house and iron his shirts despite having actual maids who already do that sort of thing. 

He’s a freak. 

Honestly, you thought his senior age was going to keep him mild and mannered and more than happy with some short, sweet vanilla sex. You’d be long gone ages ago if it weren’t for the binding contract you’d signed back when the two of you hadn’t even started the arrangement and you thought the worst thing he would ever ask for was anal.

You really should have read the fine print. But alas, here you are… kissing his boots with only yourself to blame. And you mean that in a literal sense.

“That’s a good girl. Lick it clean. Earn it,” he groans from above.

You try to block it out the best you can. Keeping your eyes closed, you envision it’s anything else. The only issue is that you’ve yet to find anything that has the same leathery texture as a dress shoe. 

At least he isn’t stomping on your head, though he might as well be—the way he’s stomping on your pride like a spent cigarette and all but grinding it into nothing, no embers left.

“Mmh, that’s enough for now, com’ere,” he says after a while. “On the bed.”

You really wish that were better. But far from it.

“Look at you—groveling for coin—offering your body to a man twice your age.” He tuts his tongue at you where you lie before him, thighs spread, presenting yourself in the missionary position he loves so much, giving vanilla sex a bad name. 

“Not a shred of pride left in you, is there? Just a humble little slut ready to take everything and anything this old man gives her.” He feels the smooth inside of your thighs with both hands, stroking and feeling you up like putty with an ugly smile on his face. 

“Open your mouth for me, baby,” he demands while leaning forward. 

And you obey, already knowing what to expect but having no legal stance to disobey despite desperately wanting to. Eyes closed while rolling your tongue out like a welcome mat.

The disgust ignites goosebumps across your body, spreading instantly like wildfire in a dry field—bone-dry despite the blob of spit he’d dropped on your tongue.

“Drink up.” He’s gleeful as he watches you swallow and downright delighted when raising his brow, asking, “What do we say?”

What pride you have left, you swallow to make space for the words. “Thank you, master.”

“What a good girl,” he praises, now with his hands at the meeting point. “Spreading your legs so wide, showing me your pussy.” 

His thumb is crass, pushing your slumbering clit like a button. You’re quite certain he likes you dry. In fact, you’re sure he prefers it. Or else he’d put his drool to better use instead of making you swallow it.

“Such a pretty thing—and you’re giving it all to me just for some spare change?” he cooes—playing a game, using your pussy instead of a gameboard. “What a poor baby—needing to whore herself for a living.”

The slaps makes blood rush to your cunt, followed by unwilling wetness. And again, all you can say is, “Thank you, master.”

And that’s how it goes. Him, going in raw with his viagra-spiked cock and a fist wrapped tightly around your throat, slapping your perky titties while they bounce as he abuses your womb—uncaring if you cum, only caring for how hard you squeeze and milk him.

Your eyes roll back, trying to let your mind take you anywhere else. But at least you’ll be rich by the end of your contract, you think.

You desperately need it—now more than before. 

You know? To pay for all the therapy you’re going to need.

♡ BNHA – Enji, AFO ♡ JJK – Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Aiku ♡ AOT – Erwin, Zeke

Patience is your therapist. 

You’d been a real wreck. Not really an alcoholic but more or less—a destructive whore, at least.

Something about getting old had you feeling a little crazy, making you act like a teenager discovering booze and sex as if for the first time. Blacked out after yet another day of ill choices, you'd been rolling around in bed and wallowing in the sickness, when you felt a sharp and sudden sting. Rushing to the bathroom, chanting curses out loud, you'd turned around before the mirror and found a pair of angel wings tattooed on your lower back.

And it was in the following moment that you finally decided it was high time you sought professional help.

Best decision of your life. Hands-down. You’d always been skeptical about therapy, but he’s really made you turn over a new leaf. You regret ever having waited. What’s not to like? Having a nice older gentleman listen to all your issues and troubles, giving his sage advice in turn, always warmly thanking you for showing up and telling you how he hopes to see you the same time next week. 

He’s like a father. Teaching you self-respect, how not to invite random men back home from the club, keeping you from falling off track, going weeks and months now without a single drunken night full of stupid decisions, he’s even helped you with cutting off toxic friends without any lingering feelings of guilt haunting you.

For the first time in a very long time, you finally feel your age—still young and free, but ready to let the wild part rest, fully prepared to live your life responsibly as an adult should. 

He listens to you ramble, telling him you feel like a new person, thanking him for all his help, saying that he’s cured you. And all he does is smile—that kind old smile you’ve put all your trust in. 

He really has fixed you, hasn’t he? Polished you like a dirty dime he’d picked out of the gutter. Looking like a sloppy whore he’d found in the worst part of downtown, now sitting there all pretty like a good god-fearing girl.

You were a real handful, you know that? He’s had to be very patient with you. And now, all that patience has finally borne fruit. He never once doubted it would—those who wait never wait in vain.

“I’ve been saving up for this. Haven’t cum once since we started seeing each other,” he groans, hands tangled in your hair, holding your face steady while your arms and hands twist to be freed, using all the air in your lungs to scream—but to no use. Nothing ever leaves these soundproof walls. It’s all confidential. 

“Be a good girl now and relax your throat, this pretty face of yours isn't going to fuck itself. And I’ve got two big balls' worth stored up all for you,” he hums, sending his cock through the ring-gag he’s fixed between your teeth, paying your throaty wails no mind, liking how they strum his length as he props your mouth like a pacifier, watching the fearful tears trail down from your terror-wide eyes, nose leaking above the pretty circle of your widely-stretched lips. 

He only smiles as his cockhead presses up against the back. 

“Gonna give you a nice big reward for finally completing your sessions—so be sure to swallow every drop once it comes.”

You try to pull your hands free for dear life, but the white straitjacket is a contraption meant for the most volatile of patients, not mild-issued muggles such as you. And so he abuses your throat to his heart’s content while you struggle—hacking away at your uvula and enjoying the tight way you gag around him until he finally stills up, throwing his head back and blowing his load right onto your tongue with a loudly enjoyed “Fuck yes!”

It's thicker than you’ve experienced before, and there's a lot. A whole mouthful and more—so much it’s spilling down the side of your chin, running the same path as the drool before it.

“There's more, baby,” he insists in a last-gasp voice, slowly rubbing your face into his crotch. “Wait for it… Get every last drop.”

You sob with his cock in your mouth—his pulsing tip pressed up against the inner-wall of your cheek, making it bulge on the outside, feeling the rest of his load pump out onto your taste-buds, making you retch. And still, he keeps gyrating against your face, slowly, savoring it, wiping himself against the wet, welcoming bed of your tongue, letting it tease the last of him out.

Then he sighs, full-chested and pleased, before backing up and tilting your head up.

“Swallow,” he orders, looking into your open-ring mouth and the pretty white he’d just dumped inside it. Keeping you still with a firm grip around your jaw when you try to shake and spit to the best of your ability. 

His gritty fingertips are rough against the softness of your cheeks, pinching them hollow while he sighs, “I’m a very patient man, sweetheart, I can stand here all day with my cock in your face if that’s what it takes. ‘Cause sooner or later, one way or the other, you are gonna take your medicine like a good girl.”

You refuse. But after a small while, you fear it’ll take the wrong pipe as you feel it starting to trickle down your throat on its own, and you cave. Swallowing harshly—open-mouth and all.

And he grins. “Good girl.” Giving your jaw a jiggle while leering down at you.

“Next is your yellow medicine.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks ♡ JJK – Kenjaku ♡ BLLK – Aiku

Diligence is your personal trainer. 

He’s uber professional, not letting you give up or rest before you’ve completed your goals for the day, and always making sure you stretch properly after. 

You didn't know things were weird. You thought it was normal. How could you have known? You’ve never had a personal trainer before. So what if his bulge squeezed tightly against your mound? It’s not exactly avoidable in this position, and he’s only helping you stretch, right? What’s the harm? You wouldn’t exactly be able to get into this position on your own, now would you? Folded flat, knees by your head, feet behind it, thighs on par with your spine. Never, not even in a million years, would you ever be able to manage!

“Get off!” you squeak—all air pushed out of you. “This is not–”

Okay—that's what you were going to say, but the word is robbed. Trampled by the guy squatting above you—using your own bike shorts and panties against you, having pulled them down to your ankles and wrapped the crotch around the back of your neck—keeping you fixed in the odd position all to his liking.

“I don’t think so, baby. I’ve put in the work,” he gruffs. “And now I'm gonna reap what I sowed and get my dick’s-worth out’a this tight little pussy of yours—give it a good workout just like I did the rest of you, train it to take cock like a champ. Then we’ll see about rewarding it with a little clit-rub—if you’re a good girl, that is.”

He pulls himself out of his sweats while you flail around like a flibbed bug that’s had all its legs ripped off—achieving nothing except exhaustion as he taps your bared pussy with the thick curve of his cock, fucking himself through the chub of your gathered lips for a moment before pressing through them, bullying your hole open with his fat tip—not even savoring it with going slow, but pile-driving himself ball’s deep on the first thrust. 

And even then, when buried from stem to stern, he only whistles at the tightness for a fleeting moment, offering but a breathy chuckle. Holding your thighs in a squeeze while all but sitting on top of you as he starts to pound you fast and utter fucking silly—ball’s slapping your ass while you cunt starts spitting, making noises that have you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head trying to block it out.

“No slacking now, squeeze me with all you got!” he encourages strictly despite the way you refuse, treating it the same way he does when you try to weasel out of doing all your reps. “I wanna feel this pretty little muscle of yours work for it!”

You can’t control it, but you do exactly as he says. Struggling for air in the pressed position—only able to wheeze out moans like a squeaky toy. Feeling him pound your guts—almost like there’s someone kicking you in the stomach. There isn’t much left for you to do but tighten up every core muscle.

“That’s what I thought—sex is the best trainin’ for girls like you,” he laughs with rust. “It’s only natural. Men put in the work, and bitches put out to repay ‘em.” 

Free of air and all sensible thinking, you can only dumbly nod in agreement while he continues to jeer from above, “Lucky you, huh? Allowed to lounge around all day—just a lazy little stay-at-home slut.”

♡ BNHA – Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Gojo, Toji ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Shido

Temperance is your health trainer.

He keeps you on track, telling you when and what to eat and when and how to work off the calories. You don’t know why you hired him exactly... Suppose you just wanted to know what it would be like, as well as a little curious about the results. 

And sure enough, you are losing weight—but holy hell if it isn’t the worst you’ve felt about yourself ever. You’re hungry all the time, and none of your clothes fit anymore. You just wear baggy stuff and feel miserable all day long.

So you decide to quit. You’re going to call and tell him tomorrow. But for tonight, you’re going to enjoy a big tub of Ben & Jerry's to your heart's content, and nothing and no one is going to stop you. And tomorrow, you’re not even going to bother beating yourself up about it.

Or… at least, that’s what you thought…

But it turns out he’d planned a surprise visit.

“You indulged. And now we gotta take out the trash.” His voice is cold and sharp, laced with a certain anger, joined by a streak of sadism as his fingers claw into your cheeks, holding you steady while forcing the digits of his other hand into your mouth, clawing the tips down your throat where he curls them harshly into your tongue.

“Don’t struggle,” is all he says to your screaming, having tied your wrist behind your back with one of your knee-high fuzzy socks—those you wear when you want to cuddle up and get all cozy by yourself—now being used to keep you on your knees before the couch, where he’d caught you red-handed like a pig rolling around in its own filth.

You throw up violently. All melted ice cream with bits of cookie-dough still intact.

“That’s it, come on now—everything must out–” he drawls through gritted teeth, holding you in a tough grip to keep you from fighting as you start coughing and retching around his sticky fingers that don’t stop their pursuit but continue to bury themselves as deep as they can reach down your gullet, as if he wants to reach all the way down into your stomach and start hand-shoveling. “Every last crumb of junk until there’s nothing left.”

You only notice the raging bulge in his pants once you’re done, once every last drop of stomach acid is spent, and you’re left hollow on the inside. That’s when you notice it—how horribly hard it all had made him.

“I thought I could be lenient…” he clicks his tongue. “But I see now, I was wrong.” 

He breaths heavily as he starts pulling you away from the mess—nasty grip in your hair—dragging you across the floor, down the hallway, towards the ajar door at the very end—the one that gives a sneak peek at your bed.

“I should have gone with my instincts from the get-go,” he states. “A girl like you should be on a strict diet of cum and nothing else. So, you better make it a habit of swallowing every drop.” 

There’s a raspy laugh—halfway unhinged, halfway deadfast.

“I don’t think it’ll be too hard for a glutton like you.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Overhaul, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Daichi, Sakusa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae ♡ AOT – Erwin ♡ WB – Umemiya

Chastity is your crazy cult leader.

A middle-aged madman who happens to be obsessed with preserving your virginity.

He’s sick with it—utterly unhinged. Concealing your pussy behind black tape, two strips marking a cross upon your entrance—or, your purity, as he likes to call it—cooing at you about how cute it is, how it needs to be preserved.

He doesn’t kiss you, either. 

And the restriction makes him so hard—fucking his meat through those pretty pious lips, feeding you his cum when you haven’t even had your first kiss yet. It makes him all feverish from head to toe. 

“Don’t worry,” he’ll say, vowing, “I’ll protect your virginity until the day I die, I promise.”

It only makes you shudder and sob. All but begging him to take your pussy instead when he starts prepping your ass with rough fingers.

He just shakes his head and mollycoddles you, “No, no, no, sweetie—your precious virginity is something to cherish, not something for you to throw away.”

You keep begging as he eases into you, softly bouncing you on his lap, balls-deep in your tight ass, fucking you leisurely whilst cuddling your bound body—a hand holding your cunt, cupping it over the tape, giving it a few soft strokes every then and there—as if consoling it for being denied.

“I know, I know, baby—it’s so overwhelming, isn’t it? You want cock in your sweet pussy so bad,” he all but mocks your whining, rubbing one of your nipples between his fingers—twisting, pinching, and pulling—making you squirm, wanting to rub your thighs together so bad, but not allowed to. 

“Don’t worry, I’m here to keep you pure, baby. I’ll never let anything corrupt your sacred little virgin gem.”

You all but grind against his hand, but he keeps the touch so light it only serves to make you wish for more. The tape all but peels off on its own like a wet bandage from how slick you get. Pussy all chubby with need, desperate to be touched—but cruelly ignored.

He sighs sternly, “Such a needy little virgin.” Clicking his tongue, he huffs again. “Look at the mess you’re making.”

Your cunt drips down his balls where he’s busy stuffing your ass, filling it up with cum from the sight of how wrecked you look—pussy throbbing with need, all glossy and begging to be sated. 

He only smiles, ball’s spent and satisfied, cock softening as he shakes his head at you.

“I’ll have to wash you extra thoroughly tonight.”

He carries you bridal-style, then washes you without even touching it, only with a soft stream of cold water rinsing all the arousal off—like he’s watering a plant—making the waste of pussy juice run down the drain.

And then he fixes a nice snug chastity belt around you—to keep your grubby hands away from playing with yourself.

“Poor thing—I know it’s torture,” he coos, watching you cry for some relief, trying to rub yourself against his thigh. “But I can’t give you what you want.”

The smile on his lips is all but a sneer as he kisses your forehead, hugging you close and rocking with you as if to comfort you.

“Nothing is ever ruining your sweet virginity.”

No, no, nothing at all. It’s all for him to admire—his greatest, most sacred possession. If anything were to happen to it, it would be nothing short of a travesty—he’d be livid with grief.

So you could only regret it when he walks in on you after coming home one day, only to find it butchered…

It’s like stepping into a crime scene. 

Your chastity belt has somehow been pried off and thrown aside, discarded like unwanted trash.

Your precious nightgown has been done the same injustice, lying in a torn heap just shy of the bed.

Then there’s you—lying in a puddle of your own undoing, high off of bliss with three fingers savaging your poor, sweet virgin pussy—every jerk off your hips furthering your fall from grace.

That’s when he realizes… he’s been treating you like something sacred for so long… when really, all this time you’ve been nothing but a filthy whore.

That’s right… a slut who’s only good for being a dirty hole he’s going to bury all his sin inside—like a dumpster. 

And since you brought it all on yourself, you’re not allowed to regret it now. A whore should be used several times every single day by her master—so much she should never be able to leave the bed again.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Aizawa, Overhaul, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Kenjaku ♡ AOT – Erwin ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya

Gratitude is your traditional husband.

And you’re his sweet and pretty stay-at-home wife. 

You wake up and make the bed in the morning, air out the house, beat the carpets, do the laundry, and tidy up room after room—it’s never much when you do it every day—after which you take a long shower where you do all sorts of maintenance, go to your wardrobe and pick out a flowy dress, apply a modest amount of makeup before the mirror, and do your hair up all nicely. 

And then you get started on making dinner, frilly white apron tied together behind your back in a pretty bow, priding yourself on making everything from scratch.

While it simmers and cooks, you clean up and make sure everything’s perfectly splendid for when he comes home. Setting the dinner table with candles and flowers you went out and picked while tilling the garden earlier, then fixing his plate, so that everything’s ready and waiting for him when he comes through the door.

You greet him with a smile and a hug, and a soft “Welcome home~” 

And he in turn smiles lazily and says “Thank you, sweetheart—something smells good, ” and kisses you on the cheek, giving your ass a firm squeeze before lowering his voice into a rusty rumble, “Almost as good as you look.” 

You only giggle, asking, “Really?” Feeling flush and ticklish in his hands as they continue to roam freely, up and down your thin dress, burying his face in the dip of your neck and inhaling your fresh scent. 

“Mh, good enough to eat.”

You take his hungry kisses with an open mouth, letting his tongue make a home down your throat and only moaning sweetly in return. And when he finally parts, you use what breath you have to ask, “After dinner?” 

It would be such waste if the food got cold after all.

He groans, squeezing you tightly against his body, letting you feel the firm bump, before sighing with rust and conceding, “Not a second after.”

The two of you take your seats on either side of the table, then hold hands in the middle. Eyes closed, he begins like usual, “I’m grateful for my beautiful home, the delicious food we’re about to eat, and my loving wife, who makes me the luckiest man in the world.”

And then you, “I’m grateful for my beautiful life and my amazing husband who makes it all possible.”

Then you eat. You ask him about his day, and he answers in detail, and you listen as if his office antiques are your obsession. And after dinner, you take the dishes while he goes to get himself washed up.

You’re all smiles when he returns, ready to make his every desire come true—right there on the cleared table if that’s what he wants.

“I have something for you,” he says. “Close your eyes and turn around.”

You do as suggested, spinning around with your back to him. He takes off your old pearl necklace and replaces it with something light and cold. You turn back around, holding the pretty diamonds in your hand while looking down with them in your reflection.

“Do you like it?” he asks, calm smile on his lips, watching you with love and something darker you never dare put a name to.

You only beam, bright enough for none of it to matter, jumping into his arms while squealing, “I love it!”

He hugs you back, like before, molding you against him, chin on your shoulder and voice at your ear, “Aren’t I good to you?”

“Yes, the best,” you agree.

“Yeah? Show me. Take off everything except your new gift.”

Of course you do, obeying so prettily, like it’s your favorite thing to do, stripping yourself down until you’re just a pretty pin-up doll in a nudie magazine he’d bring with him into war.

“God, I love you, my pretty housewife,” he chants when he has you up against the wall, greedy hands gripping your ass, propping you up to take him as he fucks the moans off your soft lips. “Prettiest in the world and all mine, ain’t that right?”

You nod sweetly, breathing in his exhale like it’s your very life-essence.

“Yeah? You belong to me?” he moans, mouth finding your ear, nibbling on it before sucking your neck full of teeth marks that have you nodding faster. 

“Mh, say it,” he growls under his breath, all raggedy and hot. “Let me hear your pretty voice.”

“I belong to you,” you gasp, “Yours–all yours.”

He grins against your throat, “That’s right. ” 

Hips stilling, he makes sure he’s all the way inside you, spilling his worth right at the mouth of your womb and feeding it all his worth.

“There’s nothing else you want...”

Mumbling into your wet skin, sore from his endless attention.

“You just wanna be my happy housewife forever…”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Touya, Hawks, younger Enji ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Naoya ♡ BLLK – Baro, Aiku

Charity is a goodwill worker. 

You’re a throwaway, and oh, such a skittish little thing—he can’t bear the thought of leaving you to fend for yourself out in the streets all alone with all those ruthless thugs. You’ll be eaten alive! No, he just has to take you in—he’s got more than enough space—no payment required. Trust him, just seeing you get out of those filthy rags is more than enough.

Oh, and aren’t you a sight for sore eyes when you’re cleaned up all nicely? All soft skin in your birthday suit while he lathers you up in expensive lotion.

You may squirm now, but you’ll thank him later on. He just needs to teach you first. Come time, you’ll learn to like eating out of his hand. He might have wrangled you in from the streets like some sort of wildling, but you’ll be a housebroken pet for him soon enough, you’ll see. You’ll love all his soft touches so much you’ll moan for him in the sweetest gratitude.

“Poor baby… you’ve probably never been in a soft bed like this before, huh?” he hums when he has you down on his Egyptian sheets, tied up with silken rope—so that you don’t hurt yourself.

“Please, please, please don’t, please,” you whimper and squirm as he crawls on top of you, terrified out of your sweet mind where you lie, spread open like a starfish that’s had its arms pinned down with nail and hammer. 

“You don’t have to beg me, darling—I’ll give you everything I have and more,” he only croons while pumping your pretty freshly-shaven pussy on three of his thick fingers, making sure you’re all wet and ready for the next thing.

“No, no, no, please–” you whine, sobbing, trying desperately at twisting and hiding, but kept right where he wants you as he lifts his heavy cock between your thighs, kissing and licking your wet slit with his tip before finding purchase at your entrance.

“No—” you croak as he starts easing inside, treading your pretty cunt over his length, fitting him all snug with a sting that makes your breath erratic, looking down at it as if you expect to be split in two.

He pushes his palm down on the bulge when he’s buried to the hilt.  

“There we go, all seven inches,” he hums, roosting inside you without letting up, keeping you propped full while feeling you squeeze him tight like a vice.

“Ah, please, pull it out, pull it out!” you shriek, wiggling your hips, wanting to escape higher up the bed, but kept in place by the leashes holding your feet tied to each bedpost.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over and licking up the pained tears running down your cheek. “I'm not forgetting about your little clitty.”

Next to you, resting heavy in the bed, was a big black wand with a power cord plugged into the wall. You’d never seen anything like it before—it looked more equipped to be a power tool than something belonging in a bed.

You’re convinced he’s planning on drilling a hole through you when he picks it up and turns it on, buzzing loudly and spinning full circles around itself.

“No, please!”

He brings it down right above where he has you stuffed, pressing it against your clit, merrily kneading the pearl to his heart’s content with the viscous vibrations—paying your protests no mind.

“Ah, no, please! Please turn it off!” you wail while shaking, immediately taken by a vivid toe-curling climax, looking like he’s exorcising a demon out of you with the way you lay there spasming and drooling.

“Yeah, you like that? Your pretty pussy’s hugging me so sweetly, so, so good–”

He only hums as your voice reaches highs he bets you didn’t even know you were capable of. Watching your chest arch off the bed and your hands wring themselves silly. He only responds by beginning to roll his hips back and forth, fucking your pussy while it makes a mess everywhere.

“Aww, you’ve been neglected for so long, haven’t you, baby?” he babies, “I can feel it—so touch-starved you’ve already wet yourself.”

He smiles and turns up the power on the toy while he says it, making your clit go both numb and haywire under the attack. It isn’t long before your lower belly twists in desperation yet again, making you pant as it unravels.

“That’s it, baby, let go for me,” he encourages, watching you tense up and shiver, feeling your pussy throttle him tightly. “Such a sweet girl. Go on, cum as much as you want. I’ll take good care of you from now on—you won’t ever go without again”

Once more, he turns up the power and sends you into another thrashing seizure, making you think you’re going to die—panting and drooling and sweating, feverish and delirious, moaning around his salty fingers as he messages your tongue and fucks you with slow abandon.

“I’ll give you everything you deserve,” he smiles, watching you all but lose your mind. “And more.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Natsuo, Mirio ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Gojo, oldman Yuuta ♡ HQ – Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Isagi, Aiku ♡ AOT – Erwin, Zeke ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ DEADLY SINS ♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[cordidy]

Just needed to get this out of my head after Sylus's Myth so i hope you like it :)

TW : drunk MC, fluff, it's sad I guess ? No proof read cause i'm a savage, english is not my mother tongue

“......tail ?” 

“What did you just say kitten ?” Sylus asked, gently patting the back on your thigh while steadying you on his shoulder as you exited the elevator together, .

At first he had been quite surprised to receive your call.

Even more so when you bluntly asked him if he would be ok playing bodyguard and keep an eye on you while you indulged in a night of carefree debauchery at the club but hey, who was he to judge ? 

Besides, if you felt safe enough to be in such a vulnerable state around him, going as far as trusting him with your safety and your apartment key to make sure you would make it back safe and sound, he was not going to complain.

“I….I said…ooooh that spins…do…do you ever miss your tail ?” you repeated, your voice tired and slurred, words barely comprehensive despite your best effort.

Sylus couldn’t help the chuckle that came as you poked his lower back through his jacket.

You really were wasted…

But you had a good reason !

Your week has been shitty as hell.

Your nights were even worse lately, barely getting a couple hours of sleep only to wake up either with a sore throat, screaming or crying at something you could not recall.

And, on top of that, you were off duty as Zayne decided you needed a break and refused to sign your abilitation.

“Come on Zayne, look, I’m fiiiiiiiiine” you tried to convince him with a huge smile and so much concealer on your face you could open your own makeup shop.

“As your physician I cannot let you go on field with such results” he retorted not even looking away from your chart “You should be dead with such a high blood pressure”

“I’m a tough cookie !”

“And you’re going to have to stay in the jar until these get better. You’re not only a danger for yourself right now but also for your partner”

That was a low blow but he had a point.

Clearly, you needed a break, something to unplug your brain, something fun, a good night out to leave all your problems behind and get shitfaced to oblivion. What you did not need though was the unwanted attention a young woman alone at the club would probably get and, while you were very capable of handling those kinds of situations, you did not really want to have to be on the lookout constantly or end up in a cell for assault.

You tried Tara, back to her family for the Holidays.

Simone ? Night shift.

Xavier….doing God knew what God knew where….

So, with a heavy heart you picked up your phone and called your secret weapon…

“Not necessary,” Sylus finally answered in a calm, composed voice, as he opened your apartment door, being extra careful as to not bump you in the doorframe. Based on the current humming coming from you right now and your kicking feet, your head was already going to kill you tomorrow.

Better not add “commotion” to the list of your impending issues.

“To be honest, being half human half cat was quite annoying” he admitted, walking you toward your bedroom to tuck you into bed. “I don’t like not being in control of myself and beside, it was bad for business to be away from the N109 zone for so long...although…I kind of enjoyed having to hide here and spend time with you…” he added with his signature smirk, poking your side before tossing you onto the bed, making you giggle like an idiot as you plopped on your back. It was the first time you allowed him into your room and, although he did plan on being a gentleman despite what you could think of him when sober, he couldn’t help the loving smile on his face as he watched you mumble something about a potato bag while fighting with your plushies for room.

“I miss you tail” you retorted in your drunk voice, closing your eyes in hopes it would help with the dizziness while Sylus started to remove your shoes and socks.

“I quite remember you telling me how insufferable it was” the man said in a collected tone while making his way to the kitchen once he was done. 

“Yeah but it was sooooo pretty…I miss how you used it to grab me with it and…and toss me around ! That was funny !” you laughed, mimicking being tossed around like a ragdoll in the middle of your plushies as Sylus was coming back in your room, a glass of water in his hand.

He stopped in his tracks, a puzzled look on his face.

“I never use my cat tail to...toss you around” he corrected. His Evol, yeah, on a daily basis at some point actually, just to annoy you and enjoy those little lovely sounds coming from your mouth, threats mostly.

He had not been able to use it at all during the time those damn kittens from Hell had turned him into one of them though.

Your foggy brain did not hear him though and just kept mumbling in your drunken state, propping yourself on your elbows, trying to focus your gaze on him.

“You would think scales are cold and harsh…” you started, raising a finger to look all serious before falling back onto your pillow, not registering the look of surprise on his usually steady face.

“Kitten wh…” his voice was faltering as he looked at you getting all comfy like you had not just shaken his world upside down with your words.

“...but it was sooooo soft and sooooo warm…” you continued, grabbing your pillow to hold on tight as if you were looking for said warmth. 

Your voice was starting to fade as sleep was settling in.

“...felt safe when you wrapped it around me…I kept holding mine to sleep after…but…”

The glass in his hand fell to the ground, shattering as he froze in place, eyes wide open in shock. 

“…it was not…not the same…” you mumbled before losing consciousness, your body going limp against your pillow, before starting to snore.

______________________________________________________________ Pssssst, you liked it ? P2 is already up here :) https://www.tumblr.com/cordidy/770227784125677568/a-few-days-ago-i-wrote-this?source=share

[abbyslovergirlxo]

Same Damn Time

Caitlyn Kiramman x Reader x Ambessa Medarda

tw; Dom!Ambessa, Dom!Caitlyn, sub!reader, rough sex but they’re not so mean towards the end, wlw, sadism (cait/bessa), choking, slapping (everywhere lol), knife usage, blood kink??,masochism (you🫵) , crying, reader has a mouth on her and then folds (typical😒), idk why i made cait psychotic but oh well, oral, degradation, crumbs of praise lmao, ALL SEXUAL INTERACTION IS CONSENSUAL, I am not someone who writes noncon

Word count: 7.8k

… = time skip

a/n; whewww! like what can I even say, this fic is crazy asl. Like I actually think they’re gonna bring back stoning people just for this. Lowkey deserved. But I know there’s someone out there who’s gonna match my freak 😭 i had tooo much fun writing this while listening to the song, made me think of them 😩lots of tw!! so plz read that before scrolling!!! I feel like this is something you’re either really going to love or really going to hate sooo idk. Also I was literally fixated on Sevika/Ambessa and one edit drove me to madness so here we are, getting double teamed by Commander Kiramman and General Merdarda 😩 They’re both evil twins in this but Caitlyn is the more evil twin but no seriously read the tw…. anyways enough of my my rumbling, this fic is long enough lol.

Your ear shot up, body reacting involuntarily to the large grey door opening. Heavy echoing footsteps, hushed whispers, and then a closed door.

“ This is the one?”

The judgemental tone would’ve sent you spiralling, had you been anywhere else. But menacing glares and sharp words would do little for you here. The lights were dim, unfavorably so, only illuminating distinctly right above your chair that you sat in.

Their voices held unyielding authority. Everyone from topside did to be fair but something about these two gave away their status. Their faces were shielded slightly, your eyes squinting in an attempt to see who they were. That attempt was shot down, the small space of darkness they stood in protecting them.

You cursed yourself for not having been smarter that day, faster. For if you had been, you’d never know what the inside of Stillwater’s interrogation room looked like.

“ Yes, General. My enforcers found her near one of Jinx’s old hideouts. From the items that were taken from her we can safely say this one knows something. She knows Jinx. My men attempted to speak to her a couple of days ago but nothing came of it.”

You thought back to the ‘men’ who questioned you, hammered you with prompts that you refused to answer. The bruises on your back proved how badly they wanted to know but you never relented.

“ I don’t know anything.” A lie. A clear one. Both of the women ignored you, tossing back and forth bits of information. You tugged at the shiny metal cuffs, now wishing you’d taken Vi up on those lock picking lessons. I’m so fucked, you thought to yourself. The room was a bit cold and you weren’t exactly dressed for the occasion when they snatched you. So, somberly you shook a little, giving up on listening to whatever they were saying.

You weren’t going to rat. You knew that much.

Your head was hung when you heard them get closer to you. Not bothering to look up, you heard two chairs groan from being pulled, until they sat down from what you assumed.

“ Name?”

Finally you peered up. Your expression faltered for a second, not expecting the sight in front of you. Their outfits clashed and blended seamlessly all at once. One sat in an all black attire, her long blue hair hanging down. The other was engrossed in clads of gold and red.

Sitting right across from you, they both had menacing glares. Well, the glares you expected. Not quite the faces. Shamefully you imagined seeing them somewhere else, maybe in The Last Drop? The younger, sharp features and pinched eyes, looked at you with a particularly hateful look. That didn’t bother you though, she was as intimidating as the drunk men you’d fought with in the undercity. Pretty though, you thought. The other one was a different story entirely.

She was tall, you could tell from how she towered even sitting down. Something about her was elegant. But she looked dangerous. Growing up it was quite necessary to assess who you could and couldn’t take on, and the moment your eyes locked with hers, you knew. The scars on her face also gave way to what she was capable of. She was a problem, even if her stare wasn’t as heinous as the woman beside her.

“ Name?” She pressed. Her voice was calm but she didn’t look like someone who didn’t know how to raise it.

“ I don’t know anything. I don’t even know who Jinx is.”

The blue haired girl scoffed, clearly unimpressed. Her companion remained analytical of you.

“ You’re a terrible liar.” Her voice came off unforgiving and brutal. You’d be lying (again) if you said you weren’t slightly offended. But you kept a neutral face, ignoring her.

“Listen, this doesn’t have to be rough. How this goes depends entirely on you, you choose. We know you know Jinx. We know that you know something. The information you have is quite important to me,”

The older woman paused for a split second, her stare unwavering and promising. She looked over to the younger one before looking back at you.

“ to us. So we’re leaving this room with something, I can assure you that. But I can also assure you that if you help us, we will help you.”

Her voice was smooth, like wine. Well according to what people say about wine, you’d never had it. She was firm in her words, almost as if she herself knew the power behind her promise. That would’ve reassured you had it not been for the fact that she was after your fucking friends.

You looked between the two of them again, assessing the scene in front of you over and over. You were unimpressed, if you were being honest, something you hadn’t been since these cuffs first touched your wrist. Sure, you could tell they meant business but this was futile as an interrogation tactic.

Good cop, bad cop?

While the older wasn’t exactly nice, you expected a missing eye, pulled nails and burnt skin. What you weren’t expecting was two, unfortunately attractive, topside pigs to do a century old method. If anything they should’ve switched, you thought to yourself.

Maybe then they’d get somewhere.

“ Still don’t know who Jinx is or why I’m here.”

“ You’re lying, again. And protecting a known fanatic and criminal. Tell us where we can find Jinx.”

You furrowed your brows, annoyed with her insults and claims. Who is she to tell you that were lying? Well, you were of course. But regardless, the tone in the blue eyed woman before you made you unsettled.

“ I’m not lying.” You gritted out. “ I’ve been detained wrongfully. You’re wasting your time. I don’t know anything.”

“ Yes, you do.” Her voice was firm, final. You scowled at her, but it was nothing in comparison to how she looked at you. Constantly her jaw flexed, on edge and angry. But she had no right to be angry in your mind, after all you were the one chained to a table being talked at rather than talked to. Secretly you wished for the older woman to speak again, at least she wasn’t such a bitch.

“ Are they your friends? Is that it? Because I promise you that we will find Jinx, it will just be a whole lot messier without your help. I don’t mind that. But I’m sure you will.”

You fought the urge to wipe that domineering tone and look off her face. You’re never going to find Jinx! You’re nothing but a power hungry topsider who doesn’t know the first thing about friends! I’m not telling you shit. Was what you wanted to say. But instead,

“ I don’t know Jinx or whatever else you people plan on asking me. Like I said, you. are. wasting. your. time.”

You put emphasis on each word, tired of repeating yourself. But to your un-satisfaction she rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“ Look… I shouldn’t be here. I can’t give you anything because I don’t kno—“

“ Right.” She cut you off, so obviously tired of your insistent lying, even in the short minutes. “And you’re not an undercity animal.”

“ And you’re not a topside pig.”

In all fairness it came out before you could stop it. You weren’t used to being talked to like this and keeping quiet, it almost came out of pure instinct. But if you were surprised by your words you didn’t show it one bit, a small smile almost playing on your lips.

Her nostrils flared slightly, her breathing elevating. For a moment you thought she’d explode before the other woman spoke.

“ Kiramman.”

You memorized the name, not sure if it’d be useful later once you escaped but just in case. She simply collected herself, nodding at the woman who she called ‘General’. Maybe this is where you went wrong, your natural element slipping out, your ego on its way to arriving.

“ You should learn to control yourself, ya know… during interrogations and such.”

“ Shut your mouth.” It was harsh and whispered. This is when you should’ve stopped but you didn’t.

“ You must be new, since you need a supervisor to help you.”

“ Shut it.”

“ You guys have nothing on me. You’re fucking desperate. I’m n—“

Mistakenly you were so focused on Kiramman that you hadn’t been prepared for the harsh grab of your chin. It was quick, unbelievably fast and that scared you more than anything. The strength of which she used to crush your face also attributed to the pit in your stomach.

“ You’ve chosen miserably.”

Her voice was meaner now, she talked as if you were nothing. Like you were stupid. Instantly you regretted wishing for her presence.

Embarrassingly you struggled against her trying to pry away but it was useless. She effortlessly held you there, your cheeks red with humiliation and anger. You tried to ignore the victorious face planted on Kiramman.

“ She said shut your mouth so you shouldn’t be doing anything but that.”

“ Thought you w-wanted me to talk, which one is it?”

You half expected her to break your jaw or lash out like the woman beside her. Instead she remained calm, eerily calm. Anyone with such strength and patience was someone who got what they wanted. But, you weren’t going to talk, you reminded yourself.

She pulled you closer, not without the rebellious tug from you. Silently she analyzed you, staring into your eyes painstakingly long. You squirmed and averted your gaze. She let you go with a ‘hmph’.

“ She won’t talk, not like this.”

The blue haired girl whipped her head towards her, then back to you, a blue fire blazing in her eyes. From the short time they’d been in the room it was clear the older woman held a higher position, authority oozing from her undoubtedly. But now you noticed something dark about the Kiramman that you should have picked up on before.

She was angry, unreasonably so. There was something constantly threatening to set off inside of her.

“ Everyone talks. There has to be something that’ll make her.”

The General hummed. “ I agree, but not like this. She’s loyal to them and she’s prepared for a cell if not this. She’s attempting to use our anger to distract us. She needs something else.”

The goosebumps from the cold air became accompanied by ones born from anxiety. Your mind went into a dark place, worried you’d never leave Stillwater. What if they starved you? Kept you locked in some cell as your body slowly decayed while you still lived? True fear found its way to you for the first time, the unknown overwhelming.

Kiramman seemed to hold back a sigh, instead taking a moment to actually listen to her superior's words. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking but from the firm nod she let off to the General, you knew it wasn’t in your favor. The grey haired woman stood now, making your heart race. Desperately you tugged at the chain once more, attempting to repeat your overdone line.

“ Look, I really don’t know anything.” Ignored.

The blue haired girl remained seated, leaned back slightly, watching silently as the older woman walked around the table. She walked to you with a certain prowess about her. She was taller than you’d expected, to your dismay. You refused to look at her when she was finally standing beside you, face aimed at the grey table.

You pinched your eyes waiting to be hit, choked maybe, or stabbed if they didn’t mind the mess. Your breathing raised as you tried to silently comfort yourself through whatever pain soon awaited. You held back a flinch when you felt large hands pulling at your chains.

It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Fuck.

*clink*

You snapped your eyes open, seeing your handcuffs now undone.

“ Stand up.”

You took in a breath, silently grateful that you hadn’t been harmed. You stood now, relieved. At least whatever they were going to do wasn’t happening in the now you thought. You looked towards the giant closed metal door, expecting your arm to be snatched as she led you to your dark cell. But to your surprise she simply spoke again.

“ On the table.”

You looked between the two of them.

You shook your head, not even at them, it just shook. No way in hell were you going to lay down on some metal table while these two psychopaths did whatever they wanted to you. You weren’t exactly happy about the bruises that already resided there, definitely not hoping for extras.

“ …No.”

You hadn’t wished to say it but you couldn’t bring yourself to willingly place your body on that table before they hurt you.

“ You misunderstand the situation. You’ve chosen already. So get on the table.”

You didn’t choose shit. That’s what you wanted to shout, to scream at them until your bones betrayed you. A million emotions rushed through your head, clenching and unclenching your hands. Instead you remained silent and unmoving, your refusal to acknowledge was saying ‘no’ in its own way.

“ Fucking impossible…”

You didn’t even have a moment to react to the words before you were pulled. A grunt left your mouth as your hair was gripped painfully. Anger coursed through you upon seeing the black uniform in your peripheral. You used your now free hands to try and pry her hands from you but she only gripped impossibly tighter, your scalp beginning to burn. She was swifter than you’d imagined she’d be, strong too, grabbing both of your hands with one, pinning them. This somehow was worse than cuffs.

“ Fucki— let me go!”

Ignored. Why did they ignore everything?

“ Where do you want her?”

Her General's eyebrows raised, but you didn’t see surprise. Not even disappointment. Content, maybe? You didn’t put it past her.

“ Let's put her on her back to start.”

She moved without question or affirmation. Irritation was clear across your face now, upset at the stinging that wasn’t letting up on your scalp. But clearly the woman behind you didn’t care, roughly forcing you onto the table. She wasn’t as tall as her companion but she was taller than you and it wasn’t an advantage on your part. The force behind her movements were unsettling, you hadn’t thought she was powerless at first glance, but her grip on you was unnerving compared to what you thought she was capable of.

The cold metal wasn’t welcoming. It felt like a million needles were puncturing your skin causing you to shudder. Your tank top strap had fallen off your shoulder amidst the struggle, close enough to slipping down making you wish your hands were free.

“ Give me her wrist.”

They swiftly transferred your hands, the Generals grip matching hers but you could tell there was more strength to be given behind it. You didn’t want to imagine her really trying to squeeze you. The cuffs you were free from moments ago encased you again, and you didn't miss the two extra notches she clicked causing your bone to shift uncomfortably with the metal. You scowled.

“ It’s too fucking tight.”

Not even a pitied glance, nothing. Ignored. Again. You shifted your wrist again, overwhelmed and upset. And this bitch is still gripping my hair, using her other hand to keep your shoulder on the table casually. So easily, and that made you feel vulnerable, helpless. And your now restrained hands weren’t helping, the slight burn making something in your throat want to creep up but you wouldn’t dare allow it, deciding to instead take it out on them.

“ Let go of my hair, you bi–”

You hissed, the stinging sensation pulsating across your cheek. It wouldn’t leave a bruise but you damn sure felt it.

“ Mind your tongue.”

The General ignored the glare you sent her straight from hell, instead taking off her jacket revealing a dark sleeveless sort of top. You couldn’t begin to imagine or decipher the detailing of it, topsiders always dressed too flashy in your opinion, too stuck up. Her arms were as big as you'd thought. Both being ridiculed with scars.

Then, another sharp crack resounded through the dark room, a quick punishing tug to your scalp. This one would unfortunately leave a bruise. You could tell. You didn’t hiss this time, too stunned, on the verge of groaning from the way she used your hair as a plaything.

“ What she said.”

Kiramman finally let go of your hair, the residue of her strength still pounding through your head. You tried to sit up but she instead used both of her hands to hold you down. With only your legs to move, you kicked but the General shut that down as soon as it started. Effortlessly she used only one hand to keep them pinned down, now looking over you and at Kiramman.

What now? You thought. Cut my skin until I fess up? Break my bones until I don’t have any? Beat me bloody while I lie on this cold table? Are they going to kill me when this is all over, when I don’t say anything? I’m going to die here, aren’t I? I’m going to die and nobody’s gonna know.

It’ll be ok. It’ll be ok. It’ll be ok. I can take it. I can take it.

Eyes suddenly squeezed shut, recited echoes of wishful thinking, a scratchy throat. You braced yourself.

“ Last chance. Tell us where we can find Jinx and I’ll send you back to your cell. Untouched.”

Your voice came out a little exasperated, anxiety and anger laced into it. You kept your eyes shut.

“ I don’t know who Jinx is so I can’t tell you that. I don’t know anything.”

Your shoulder crushed more into the table, pale hands squeezing.

“ You continue to choose stupidity, insolence. No more of that.”

Suddenly the grip on your legs were let go and you opened your eyes. She was still at the head of the table staring down at you. For a moment you considered kicking again but as if she read your mind…

“ Kick me and I will break every bone in your knee.”

Her tone wasn’t intimidating, demeaning absolutely, but not intimidating. The certainty in her voice made you throw away any ideas of using your legs. You liked your knees to say the least. You peered straight up to see an upside version of Kiramman, her long blue hair creating a shadow around her neck, her jawline distinct. Even without seeing her face, only the outline of lips and nose, the anger radiated off her body.

“ What now?”

The General looked over you, straight at her.

“ We’ll need to take her pants off for the next part.”

You and Kiramman spoke at the same time.

“ Wait, what? My pants?” “ Her pants?”

The older woman simply gave a one word reply, meant to supply both of you with a firm answer, ‘yes’.

“ Wait, wait.”

She looked down at you, eyebrows raised.

“ Do you remember something about Jinx? Something you’d like to tell us?”

You listened to the flickering sound coming from the light above you. One by one you let them pop into your head. Jinx, long blue hair and wild face as she hugged you. Vi, stuffing her favorite foodsin your face. Isha, making paper airplanes with you. For a moment you thought a tear might slip but it didn’t. You drew in a shaky breath, ignoring the sting on your wrist.

“ No. I don’t know anything. I just…”

You averted your gaze.

“ Is it going to hurt?”

A stupid question in your mind. No doubt torture hurts. But something in you needed to ask, needing some sort of certainty in what was to come.

“ That depends on you entirely. I’ll give you pain when you give me insolence. But when you give me answers, I’ll give you… ”

She suddenly ghosted a hand over your calf.

“ Relief.”

You shuddered a little, her graze unexpected. But you didn’t dare move your leg, not wanting to test what qualified as a kick to her. You didn’t want to imagine what she meant by relief, because it couldn’t mean that. It couldn’t mean that.

“ How does that sound?”

“ It sounds like I have nothing else to say to you.”

She hummed. Without another word she slipped her large hands in your waistband, pulling them down to your ankles. You wanted them back the second your bare thigh touched the cold metal. A click echoed and you looked to see a blade in her hand, small in size but formidable in design. Gold snakes seemed to embroider its handle. You sucked in a harsh breath at the sight, your eyes locked on it.

Your eyes flicked up at the blue haired woman, her position now changed so that you could see her face again. Her eyes almost beamed? For the first time an expression other than anger displayed itself on her features. Now she looked almost… pleased. Excited.

It’ll be ok. It’ll be ok. I can take it. I can take it. I can take it. Hopefully.

You ignored the last words, watching as the General kept her eyes trained on your plump thighs. Opening them, she traced it right on the inside of it. Immediately you could tell it was sharp. Too sharp. It was cold against your skin, not as harsh as the table but unforgiving nonetheless. Anticipation rushed through you. Hands clenched within its restraints, the light flickering and flickering, her soft hands on your shoulder, icy metal on your skin, her hand slipping onto your thigh and then….

“ Ngnh!”

Your head pressed into the metal slightly. You’d have been embarrassed by your whimper if it wasn’t for the sudden warm drip down your thigh. Blood, you assumed. You’d been through worse but you still squirmed at the cut now adorned on your skin. She pushed down on your thigh, not fond of your squirming. Then she continued, tracing the blade across your thigh, waiting until your body finally relaxed, stopping itself from that state of bracing. And right when you did, she’d swipe a quick line across your shaky, burning legs. Always between your thighs, always.

It felt like electricity was rushing through you, it was all so overwhelming. You felt like you were being swallowed alive and they had barely done anything. The cuts burned and sent a rush of pain through your nerves and skin. Everytime you looked at Kiramman her face was becoming alive with intoxication. It’s like she couldn’t pull her eyes away, trained on the way your leg wobbled under her General’s hand, how you whimpered lowly, the light trace of blood on the expensive blade. You jolted again, particularly harder this time.

“ Relax. It's just a little cut, you're a big girl.”

It continued like this. You tried your best to stifle the whimpers coming from your mouth. The last thing you wanted was for them to hear what they were doing to you. Over and over she painted your thighs with your own crimson, and it hurt. It hurt, it did. And that's all it should be.

But your stomach kept getting that feeling. It burned, like the surface level cuts she gave you. It burned every time her calloused finger swiped across your sliced skin, collecting blood. It burned when she smiled suddenly, as if proud of her work. And it was scalding when you looked up and saw those blue eyes entranced. But it wasn’t pain. It wasn’t…anger. It was something else. Something that made you want to release that feeling in your throat, made you wish she meant something ungodly when she offered relief.

“ What's this?”

Your skin was hot to the touch now, sweaty. Trembling slightly, you looked up at her. For a moment you couldn’t begin to imagine what she was referring to until you traced her eyes. You silently prayed that it wasn’t what you thought. But from the way she asked, you knew.

“ What is it?”

Kiramman asked, curiosity clear in her voice. The older woman smirked, staring down at the wet spot in your panties.

“ It seems her body is more honest than she is. I think our little prisoner likes this. Her panties say so at least.”

Your face burned so hot that it rivaled the sun itself. You considered saying something, protesting and denying it. But what was the point? It did feel good, the burn felt good. And she had the evidence right in front of her. You couldn’t meet either of their gazes, looking to the side in shame. Kiramman laughed, the vibrations reaching you through her touch.

“ I knew it, she was whimpering like a dog. Isn’t that right?”

You shook your head, still refusing to look. But she wasn’t having it, using one of her hands to pull your chin. Even upside down, she looked menacing. She forced eye contact. Her face was rampant with mocking undertones, sadistic glares.

“ Is that why you’ve been so rude? You wanted us to give you a little pain, show you a good time? You really are pathetic.”

“ That’s not tr– n-ngh!”

A stinging pain after a quick slap to your clothed cunt made you whimper louder than anytime the blade touched you. It felt like a live wire tapping your skin, your legs snapping shut. The wet spot in your panties grew, your breathing uneven.

“ Insolence. Tell the truth.”

I can’t. You thought. Telling them that you’d enjoyed it, even a tiny bit, seemed more daunting suddenly than ratting.

“ I’m not ly– f-fuck…”

You weren’t sure if you’d ever be allowed to finish a sentence, her hand opening your legs followed by another slap coming down. Your eyes fluttered for a moment, your face squeezing with pain and pleasure. Kiramman used the hand she never removed to guide you. A smile was now on her lips, wide with genuine amusement.

“ Oh god, did you just… moan? You really are something aren’t you? Is that what it’s going to take? A few more slaps to your cunt and you’ll be blabbering? Or maybe…”

She lowered herself, close enough that her hair brushed against your face. You whined again, another unsuspecting smack from the older woman. You hadn’t even done anything, she just liked the way your panties got damper with each hit. Kiramman almost thanked her for it, relishing in hearing the noise even closer. She whispered to you.

“ If I make you cum enough times you’ll remember something. I bet you’d like that, letting a… what was it that you called me…a topside pig make your cunt cry?”

Finally, you gave way to the ache in your throat. A tear fell down your face suddenly. Another burning sensation forming in your stomach at the feeling of the General toying with the rim of your panties.

“ Please…”

It was quiet, almost matching the decibels of the wind. But you knew she’d heard it. It was obvious from how her grin widened, her eyes looking like ones of a deranged woman.

“ Please what? Please…make me cum? Please…let me go? Please fucking what?”

In this small moment of time, you almost felt like you were watching your dignity physically leave your body. You imagined telling her to let you go, that you didn’t know anything and a few cuts to your legs wasn’t going to change that. And you considered it, over and over. Then something played in your mind, a sick fantasy woven in desperation. In it, you asked her what you really wanted to. And in it they kissed you until you couldn’t breathe, made you finish until you didn’t know how to walk. You considered both. But only one of them made your core ache with desire. Your eyes were even glossier now. Suddenly you were working yourself up for a new kind of courage.

I can take it. I can take it. I can take it.

“ Make me cum please.”

“ Please who?”

I can take it.

“ Please, Kiramman.”

“ That’s it. Finally something coming out of your mouth other than horseshit. But you still need some manners…”

The grip that had left your ears ringing suddenly came back, her pale fingers peeking through your hair. She pulled your head up, forcing you to look at the General. You groaned, arms thrashing slightly, the sting of the metal never relenting.

“ I’m not the only one here. Go ahead, ask General Merdarda too.”

You gritted your teeth. This was already humiliating, and she was just reveling in it. Your legs were already spread, panties damp, dried crimson on your skin, hands bound above your stomach. You’d already asked, multiple times. And now you had to say it again, with a death-like grip on your hair and those hazel eyes peering at you, awaiting.

“ …but I already asked y—“

The slap was even stronger this time , the force of it driving your body insane. Merdarda grinned at you, even laughing a little at the noise you made. Another tear fell down your cheek but Kiramman was quick to wipe it. Right before she licked her finger.

“ But you didn’t ask me.”

If she slapped your cunt again you’d probably start grinding against the table, somehow making you look more pathetic than you do right now. So you gave in.

“ P-Please General Merdarda, will…”

I’m never speaking about this if I get out of here.

“…Will you please make me cum?”

“ Well would you look at that, that’s all you had to say little one. But what do we get in return? Surely you can’t expect us to make you cum with nothing given back.”

“ …But…I already said I don’t know anything.”

Kiramman scoffed.

“ Even after you soak your panties from a little cut, you still have the ability to lie. I’m almost impressed.”

She let your head drop back onto the table.

“ Almost.”

….

For a second you thought she’d kiss them.

At first glance it seemed so, her soft lips trailed over the red raised wounds, her nose spilling cold air on them. You reveled in it, an ember threatening to go a blaze within you. That was until she nipped at it, a hiss leaving your mouth. You couldn’t see her smile but you felt it sweeping across the throbbing skin. You cursed under your breath, the force behind her bite growing more rabid. She slapped the thigh she wasn’t ravaging, quick and harsh.

“ You like that, don’t you?”

There that voice was again, smooth and sultry. You weren’t sure if she was referencing the strike on your leg or her roaming fingers but murmured yes anyway. Yes to all of it. She had your shirt hitched up, breast exposed. Every once and awhile she’d toy with them, trace an outline around your nipple, wait and then pinch. So often though she found herself distracted, your features giving away how desperate you were.

Merdarda found enjoyment in watching your contort every time Kiramman did something to you, anything to you really. You were like a tight coiled spring, threatening to snap at any given moment. It's like every touch has you ready to risk everything. And you learned quickly they were into this a little more than you, mania clear across their faces. You were trembling, Kiramman taking advantage of how sensitive your legs were.

“ C’mere.”

You felt a little dizzy, seeing her lift her head up from between your legs. She grabbed your cuffed hands, pulling you up to meet her face. It all happened so fast and you winced from the strain in your shoulders. She was closer now and it was just now that you noticed the traces of blood on her lips. You hadn’t expected a kiss this time around, but it happened. It wasn’t gentle, if anything it felt like she was trying to cannibalize you with her tongue. Shamefully you pushed against her, sick to your stomach at how good she tasted. Hints of copper on your tastebuds, her wandering hands. She pulled back, being sure to bite your lip before doing so.

“ You taste that? It’s you.”

She dropped her eyes to your thighs, licking over her lips once more. A trance almost seemed to describe the hunger behind her stare, but you couldn’t be sure. You didn’t care either way, you just wanted her to do whatever was on her mind to you and soon.

“ fucking delicious.”

The whispered lust in her voice rivaled the reaction brought out from Medardas heavy hands.

“ You should taste her General. She’s sweeter than that filthy mouth of hers.”

Wordlessly, she captured your lips next. Her movements were more experienced, methodical and you felt as though you melted into her due to it. Ruby lipstick smeared onto you, a groan slipping from her as she made sure to taste everything you had to offer. The metallic tinge on her tongue made her pull in deeper. You whimpered, dizzy from lack of breath and insatiable roaming hands.By the time she pulled away your eyes were low, an unfocused look about you.

“ I wonder if her cunt tastes even better.”

Kiramman smiled sickly to herself, her gapped teeth giving you a warm tinge to your cheek.

“ We’ll know soon enough.”

….

Your wrist were nearly rubbed raw with all the thrashing you were doing. Time and time again you made attempts to close those abused legs of yours, in hopes of protecting your cunt. Unfortunately, Kiramman wasn’t pleased and she slapped it raw until you cried enough apologies. She mumbled something along the lines of ‘can’t be stupid and greedy’. But you somehow continued to be prove to be both, whining endlessly about the torture of her tongue. She never let up though, only unlatching from you to say obscene things or mark up your poor legs.

It seemed the pair held similar views, sick desires. Medarda would litter your neck and breast with purple marks shamelessly. She smelled of some expensive plant you’d never heard of, all you knew was that it made you whimper everytime her skin was pressed onto yours. She’d whisper siren-like words to you, etched in sin, rough kisses between them all. And yet you drank them into your ears like milk and honey.

“ You just came, didn’t you? Nasty girl.”

“ Do you remember anything now, hm?”

“ Don’t be so dramatic, keep your legs open for her.”

“ You must spread yourself open often. You’re a natural.”

“ Your cunts almost as noisy as you, dear.”

And when her tongue wasn’t making you drip onto the table, Kirammans words were just as wicked, if not more. Her posh accent was a coverup for all the nefarious things laced into it. A very, very poor coverup.

“ I said— keep. them. open. Unless you need a second pair of cuffs? … No? Then fucking listen.”

“ Go on, you can cry. I know it feels good. Yes filthy girl…just like that. ”

“ You’ve made a mess. Say you're sorry.”

“ Quit it, you can get a break when you remember something.”

“ Don’t act so sweet now— had quite a lot to say earlier. Isn’t that right?”

This was wrong, every bit of it. There was nothing exactly right about two high ranking officers of Piltover and Noxus eating you alive in the depths of Stillwater. The thought alone should send you running. It should have you drinking hot flashes of anger, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. But it didn’t. It only made you spread your legs wider and beg shamefully for more kisses.

It all felt so good. They felt so good and a redeemable, rational part of you hated that. But every time rationality tried to sink itself into you, Commander Kiramman and General Merdarda were right there to sink into you faster. And by god, they made you feel more full than any morale.

You were so sure you were going to die before. And that thought that hadn’t been removed just yet, except now you thought you’d pass away from all the onslaught orgasms caused by the ravenous women beside and inside you.

“ a—angh! oh god…pl–please”

Kiramman held back a sly smile, seeing the way you twitched, body so sensitive. Her fingers were drenched with you, now gloveless. Initially her signature black gloves dug inside of you but the minute she tasted you she knew she didn’t want it anywhere but on her skin. Quite roughly, she had pulled three orgasms, somehow each one more intense than the last. But that wasn’t enough, not to them. Nothing was enough until those pretty lips whimpered something they could actually report back. And even then she wasn’t sure she’d want to stop.

“ Are you going to make a mess again for us?”

Pathetically, you fought back the white of your eyes before looking down at her. She couldn’t help but grip your thighs tighter at your teary face, nodding exhaustingly down at her. Medarda kept you slightly upright, your back arching into her bicep while she sucked on your breast. Honestly she hadn’t a clue how long she’d been at it but by the rate she was going you’d look a fucked out mosaic by the time they were done. She laughed to herself but you knew it was at you. And that fact only made you rut against the table more.

“ This is going to be your fourth one dear. We’re never going to leave this room if you keep being so stubborn.”

She trailed her kisses up your chest. A peck here and a peck there. The slow ascend of her affections compared to the rapid thrust of the others fingers made you bite your lip, the skin pulling between your teeth. By the time she was up to your ear you were practically panting.

“ Or is that what you want? For us to keep making you cry until you can’t anymore?”

They’d never know it and thank god for that but you almost whispered a yes.

Kiramman couldn’t hear what was spoken but she definitely felt it. You clenched around her even harder, a long mewl spilling from you. She creased her blue brows slightly as she sped up her fingers, making sure to never be gentle with that special spot, secretly itching to hear just how loud you could get whenever you came. Her counterpart was just as wanting for it out of you, a more balanced desire about her. Even in spite of the way she pulled you in for another kiss when she heard you sob, “ ‘m s-so close..”

This time Kiramman both felt and heard it, her fingers happily accepting the tight squeeze of you. She latched back onto your clit which was practically begging to be consumed again, if you asked her. Immediately you tensed, using every ounce of self restraint to not slam her cheeks with your legs. It also got devastatingly hard to keep up with Medarda’s mouth, she pressed into you like she forgot you needed air, like you only needed them. And as the coil in your belly grew and the sloppy sounds of her eating away filled the room, you did need them.

A muffled moan ricocheted into Merdarda and she invited it wholeheartedly. When she finally pulled away, you used your bound hands to grab at her hand groping you. You squeezed it the second you felt Kiramman offer a grunt inside of your cunt. She licked you like she was rabid, lost in whatever drugs your pussy clearly had laced in it. Merdarda found it all so nasty, so amusing. Seeing the renowned Caitlyn Kiramman so cruel but so feral, and you with your slick mouth gone and lips swollen, made her clench around nothing.

Even if nobody in the room spoke it, you were all enjoying this ‘interrogation’ a little too much. That manic laughter that constantly filled Kirammans head, those stupid pigtails and flashy gadgets, had even subsided for a moment. She still wanted nothing more than to rip that smile off her face, but the way the tears journeyed down your face so easily made her want something more.

Right now all she wanted was for you to cum on her face, and she nearly keeled over when she finally heard you sing that song for her. A moan that could only be replicated in the best whorehouses of Zaun left you. The pair both smiled the moment they heard you whimper what they already knew.

“ i th—‘m gonn—“

You could barely manage a single word, back practically ingraining itself in her arm the way you arched over it.

“ Let it out, make a mess.”

Your body truly was more honest than you and clearly obedient because the second she said it you did. Your self restraint abandoned you, left you on that table shaking and crying. Your bruised legs kissed her cheeks (not so gently) as she ate and thrusted at the same pace she did before, never letting up. Even with your legs shaking and around her she just drove in deeper. The pleasure slipped into overdrive making you shake your head, trying your best to pull away, use your hands, anything to make her stop. But Merdarda snatched your cuffed hands.

“ kira—kirammannn!”

Wow, that’s the only time she’s heard her last name and wanted to hear it more. But she ignored you, knowing you were begging for her to stop. By now your legs had dropped, too weak to hold up. Your whole body practically vibrated as you lost your breath. Maybe it was the burning sensation ripping through you or the cotton in your head but you stupidly turned your head to look up at Medarda.

“ help��me…gonna fu— die!”

First she looked at you, toyed with your nipple as your hands fought against hers. So pretty and so pathetic, she thought. Then looked down at Kiramman, whose eyes now opened and met hers. An amused glint was in her blue tinted stare and suddenly Medarda couldn’t think of a single reason she’d help you.

“ She’s eating child, don’t be so rude. Have some manners.”

She was looking at you when she said it, but from the mockery in her tone you knew it was meant for more than just you. And it was confirmed when a smile traced itself onto your throbbing cunt. But it quickly went away. She was eating after all.

“ i canttt! pleasee!”

Kiramman didn’t stop until you went silent, unable to speak, inconsistent babbles of nonsense here and there. You weren’t even shaking now, just twitching and breathing like the oxygen in the room had been sucked out. When she finally got up from between your legs she couldn’t help herself and gave two quick bites. A strangle mix of a hiss and moan could be heard as you watched her stand. She lifted her fingers to your mouth, shoving them inside.

You expected her to be rough and jam them down your throat but to your surprise she simply swirled them around your mouth. Despite that voice in your head you sucked at them tiredly hoping to please them. And pleased they were. They both watched as you weakly licked her fingers clean. By the time she pulled away they both knew that previous orgasm just couldn’t be the last.

“ Do you remember anything now?”

You were fucked out, but not that fucked out.

“…no”

Thank god, they both thought in unison.

“ I guess it’s my turn then.”

…

BONUS

Kiramman walked with pure candor on her face. She heard the whispers as she walked past but she ignored them. What was the point in entertaining fools? Besides, the moment her eyes met theirs they always went silent. Always. Today hadn’t been the best day for her. Most days weren’t, hunting for that psycho and her friends wasn’t an easy job or a fun one. But she wouldn’t rather be doing anything else. Well…maybe someone else…

“ Don’t let anyone in.”

The guard nodded dutifully.

By the time she reached the room, she was already imagining her sweet song. She didn’t have to wait long to hear it in person because it was practically blasting throughout the room the moment the door opened. She closed the door behind her, smiling deviously as she placed her heavy cape onto the chair.

“ She’s even wetter today, if you can believe it.”

She laughed softly, “ Oh I can believe it. How many has she got so far?”

“ Just two. Don’t worry, you didn’t take too long.”

“ God, I know. I got caught up with that fool Salo.”

Medarda laughed now, knowing all too well how annoying he could be.

“ medardaaa”

Your toes curled, struggling to handle the two large fingers inside of you. Both were devastatingly skilled with their fingers but hers were undoubtedly bigger. Way bigger. And if the size wasn’t agonizing enough, she was hitting that spot over and over. This time your hands were free, and you used them to grip her bicep.

Suddenly your throat had a new necklace. Not a very nice one. She squeezed her free hand around your throat, speeding her fingers. Clearly she wasn’t a fan of your interruption, despite the way her cunt ached when she heard her name in such a filthy way.

“ Can’t you see us talking? And you didn’t even greet your Commander. She came all this way to see you.”

You thought you were going to pass out, the squelching sounds and sultry insults becoming distant. Your mind and body gave into her once the resisting clearly wasn’t doing anything. And you loved it. Each filthy posh coated word, lingering touch, rushed collided lips left you undone. The strength behind their hands made you want to never be without it. And for the past two weeks it continued to, leaving you right here in this room on this desk, unable to breath, only able to cry and spread your legs wider.

Medarda let go, allowing Kiramman to finally slip beside you. As much as she loved the song you offered, she wanted your lips. You gasped into her, them giving you no time to actually catch a breath between the transfer. Lightheaded, you still pushed against her, wetness dripping from your face to hers. She pulled away, licked the rogue tear from the corner of your mouth.

By the time she was looking at you, you were heaving, clasping onto her bicep instead of Medardas now. She watched with such marvel as your face contorted into those beautiful expressions, such a drastic difference from the stupid girl she interrogated. Logically she knew she couldn’t call what all of you were doing an interrogation. So she opted to saying ‘some investigating work’ the few times someone inquired about her abrupt departures. It wasn’t a complete lie, her and Medarda were investigating something every couple of days. your cunt

Her gaze traced to the brown fingers moving in and out of you, then to glisten on her General's hand and finally to your thighs. They were healing nicely. Unfortunately for her they wouldn’t leave a scar according to the doctor she took you to. She almost frowned at the thought.

But then she heard you whisper a quick, “ h-hi Kiramman…”

She smiled at you, a warm thought coming to her.

“ Hi, filthy girl.”

We’ll make sure they scar next time.

P.s. They had the officers who beat you killed 😜

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

part two– summary | It's a shitty situation, dependency brimming unspoken and one wrong move puts your life in danger and once again, you find yourself owing everything to Joel.

content warning | DDDNE — DUBCON, coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, attempted sa (briefly), brief mentions of pregnancy and procedures to prevent it, mean!joel, unhealthy coping mechanisms for trauma, all angst no fluff but a lot of emotion, smut (bc without it who am i), sex riding an adrenaline high after life or death situation, joel fucks you against a tree, showering together, weird domesticity, guilt-riddled joel, bed-sharing, unprotected piv, creampies, lots of progress made here i promise

author's note | part three will more than likely be out by the end of this month i promise! also thank you to everyone who's shown this story so much love, it means so much to me. this chapter is about as light as this story gets...so....sorry? <3

word count —9k

part one | part three | strangers masterlist

They argue about you like you’re not standing a few feet away.

“She needs a job,” Tommy tells him, “Rules, Joel. Everyone pulls their weight—how this works.”

“You act like I don’t know that,” Joel gripes, “but what are you expecting her to do? She don’t talk, she refuses to go anywhere without me. She sure as hell ain’t gonna be much use workin’ the stables or fixin’ fences when she’s so goddamn skittish.”

Tommy shrugs, “Patrol, then.”

Joel’s eyes narrow, “Like hell,”

Another silent standoff you were more than happy to stay out of, the nylon of your coat scratching against itself as you take a couple steps back in the fear of an impending blow up.

“Give me another option then,” Tommy argues, “You just said she won’t leave your side—”

“She ain’t ready for that,” Joel says rather defensively, your brow furrowing at his disdain over the idea, ignoring the fact you were on the run for several weeks, surviving on your own—this was different.

Admittedly, you had clung to Joel.

He was safe, comfortable, and had become a strange sense of home in an unfamiliar place.

As much as he tried to act like it didn’t affect him, he’s grown used to your presence. Though, he’s set a hard boundary with you—no touching, keep your distance, and always make yourself known. You were always quiet, eerily so, and Joel hated that.

Tommy attempts to decipher Joel, staring at his brother, “You don’t think she can do it,”

“Both,” Joel admits, both of their eyes flickering toward you briefly, expressions unreadable.

“I think she’ll surprise you,” Tommy admits.

Joel shakes his head in a lazy disbelief, not believing an ounce of what Tommy is trying to convince him of, “We’ll see—but she’s with me, no one else. Not even Ellie.”

“Figured that,” Tommy retorts, “You’re goin’ out pretty far, we haven’t hit the lodge in a couple weeks. That alright?”

Your body tenses at the mention of it, but neither of them notice. Joel’s hand curls into a fist and flexes open, a nervous tic you’ve noticed about him when he was trying to steady himself, he nods silently in response.

When you both arrive back to the Miller home, Joel begins packing his bag up, already half-stuffed and switching out a few things. He tosses you a tattered bag, old and well-loved before he’s pointing toward the basement.

“A couple pairs of clothes, extra pair of shoes, nothing that ain’t a necessity—I’ll stock your pack with the other stuff come mornin’ before we head out,”

You had a night then.

There was only one lodge near Jackson that you could remember. It was the last time you saw them.

The men in tailored gear, embroidered with a gold patch that designated their status amongst the group. 

Trackers, seekers—they handled the recruiting, though often forced. They were glorified kidnappers, taking young men and women against their will if they were unfortunate enough to cross their path, but they also managed the hunting.

If someone escaped, they never came back in one piece.

Whether that was a shattered mind or a missing limb, it was never good.

The lodge was empty when you found it, just at the crest of winter when you had snuck in, fitting yourself into a sizable gap in the flooring covered by a wooden panel.

The men had been on your tail for days, tracking you through the miles of forests behind you and into the town.

Luckily, they were unsuspecting at that moment.

Your misfortune came later, but the lodge was a warning.

They were near, always near—you had no idea if they were still searching, even after a few weeks of settling in.

It was the unknown, the looming presence, that terrified you. 

They had an obligation to follow demands but most of them did it for sport.

It was never anything but a game.

—

Sleep is fickle that night, scratching at the rusted metal of your bed frame until it was caked under your nails, the soft hum of electricity above as it moved through Joel’s house, his soft footsteps as he woke, gentle as he strolled barefoot, eventually trading it for heavy footfall as his boots went on—it was early dawn when the tap came to your door, feigning sleep as you hid under the sheets.

Joel gives you a few minutes, pacing beyond the threshold.

His patience reminds you of the kind you used to wish for back when everything was different, back when you were nothing but a prisoner—you were pushing it, though. Even Joel’s patience would wear thin, making your best attempt to delay the patrol before he’s opening the door with a click, the key shoved into the mechanism before the door creaks open.

“Get up,” he barks, “we’re already late and holding up the rest of ‘em,”

You moan tiredly, barely audible, shuffling under the sheets, only for them to be ripped back in an instant.

“You’ve got about five seconds,” he warns, snatching your pack off the floor as he stands over you, daring to pry your eyes open to take a peek at him, “or I’m rippin’ you out of that bed,”

He catches your eyes as they open and his brow is cocked authoritatively, making your body move despite your apprehensiveness for the entire situation and Joel eyes you skeptically, stepping around you as you move with little enthusiasm.

“If you changed your mind, I can talk to Tommy,” Joel says with a tone that makes your chest tighten with fear—both of abandonment and helplessness, “I’m sure he’ll find somethin’ for you to do here while I go and—”

You stop in your tracks at his words, coat on and shoes barely slipped over your heel as you’re approaching him with immediate worry, shaking your head furiously as you grip onto his bicep, eyes pleading.

He’s always direct with you now, making sure your eyes connect with his. He’s learned to read you through facial expression and emotion, settling with the fact you weren’t going to speak to him, whether capable or not.

“Alright,” he sighs, and you shrug slightly but not enough to break your hold, “then hurry up.”

His voice carries the weight of a thousand other mornings like this, where silence and glances fill the space between you. He’s grown comfortable, surprisingly. He didn’t like how normal your presence had become or how you seemed to settle into his life easily.

“Probably make a few stops along the way,” Joel explains, “I took myself off patrol duty for this,” he means you, this, the burden of your situation and disruption, “the lodge is far but usually out there we aren’t dealin’ with much, less infected in the cold and all.”

But not people, you think.

He sees you tense at the mention, coat shrugging over your shoulders.

Last ditch effort. Anything.

Just change his mind.

You reach for his palm as he extends it face up, examining you carefully.

You tap your pointer finger into the center of his palm before pointing it at the floor, the hand holding his wrist tugging insistently.

Stay. A finger into his palm.

Here. A finger to the floor.

You repeat it a few times until he seems to understand through the silent communication.

“Stay..stay,” he begins, deciphering your message, “we’re not—no we’re not stayin’ here.”

Your face falls, instincts turning to drastic measures as you drop his hand, invading his space in a way he’s been careful to avoid, hands curling around the side of his face and the soft brush of his beard itching your palm before you’re leaning forward to press your lips against his own, eagerly pulling him toward you.

Joel’s quick, though. He rips your hands away, fingers tightening around your bicep harshly.

“Don’t try that shit again,” he growls, “ain’t no fuckin’ choice in you stayin’ here.”

You try to yank away from him but it was pointless.

“Are you gonna listen or do I need to drag you out?”

Your jaw tightens and you slackening under his grip and while he could let you go, he doesn’t.

You stumble behind as he pulls you with him, up the stairs, around the hall and into the living room until you’re standing at the door and he’s releasing you to jab a finger in your face, flinching with every flick as it grows closer, making you go nearly cross eyed. 

“You give me even the slightest amount of trouble while we’re out and I won’t hesitate to leave you behind,” Joel threatens, that sinking feeling of regret swirling in his gut the moment your expression softens.

She fucking trusts you, he reminds himself.

As slippery as that slope could be, he’s got a responsibility. 

You nod shakily and the tightness of his grip pierces your soul, immediately submitting to his hold as he jerks you to face forward and reaches around to grab the knob, chest pressed against your back as you step outside.

A swirling wind greets you, whistling its own kind of warning as Joel drags you through the brittle, dried grass. Your boots crunch against the frosty ground, doing your best to keep pace with him, breath puffing out in frantic clouds. Cold air bites your skin and the crunch of your boots, now on gravel, fills the silence between you. It’s tense. 

You follow him to the stable as he releases his grip on you, to the weapon compound, close at his side as he steers the horse to the front gate, looking rather apologetic to his brother who seems to sense the situation between you and Joel and quickly averts the watchful eyes of others with his voice, calling off the list of locations and names like a roll call.

“Get on,” he orders, softer now but still edged and you oblige, feeling a hovering touch of his hand over your thigh as you climb onto the horse and lean back, making room for him to climb on.

Joel’s arms snake behind him to wrap yours around his jacket before he grabs the reins and clicks his tongue. The horse hesitates, feeling your combined weight, then lurches forward. You cling to the saddle as Joel steadies you with a firm grip, holding you close as Jackson fades from view.

The solace you’ve come to appreciate slipping through your fingers, even if temporary, made the pit in your stomach grow rapidly.

The landscape stretches out in muted colors. Bare trees reach like fingers, tendrils to the gray sky and frost clings to their branches. Joel’s silence feels like a wall between you, and you bite your lip to fight the chill that’s creeping into your bones, shrugging the hood of your coat over your head as you bury your face in between his shoulder blades, eyes peeking over.

It’s a strange kind of comfort for Joel the way you settle into him, close and warm. 

As much as he tried to keep his distance, there was always a loophole.

“You gonna explain what that was back there?” Joel asks, knowing his questioning is pointless, the roar of the wind and the bumpy ride making it nearly impossible for any type of silent communication, “I don’t want you doin’ that anymore, thinkin’ you need to act that way to…I don’t know—do whatever you’re wanting to do,”

The landscape rolls by like a somber, black and white film strip; broken fences and abandoned cars sprouting from the ground, dead infected and rotting animals, houses abandoned. It wasn’t as normal now, living in a lively place with such a dichotomy only a ride away, reminding you just how temporary your life was in this world.

“Were you scared to leave Jackson?” he asks curiously, trying to decipher what he could.

You hesitate, unsure how to answer. It was a yes and no question—safe was anywhere with Joel, but you were still weary. You don’t answer immediately, so Joel assumed that wasn’t the problem.

“Is it the weather? Don’t like the snow?” you shake your head almost immediately, uncaring for the elements, finding that dying from frostbite or heatstroke were both equally miserable.

“The lodge?” he asks after a long, drawn out silence—the ride was still long, more difficult as the snow began to pick up, falling in thick sheets, “Is there somethin’ out here you ain’t told us?”

You shift slightly, the leather of Joel’s jacket creaking beneath your cheek. The question hangs heavy, like the snow. It’s too much to explain, the knot of reasons tangled inside you. You press your face into his back again, wishing you could dissolve into him and stay there. You feel his sigh before you hear it, learning the way his body works through touch and sound. It’s not disappointment—it’s understanding. 

But, that frightens you too.

Joel makes a few short stops along the way, simple checks on smaller lookouts that don't even require you to get off the horse, keeping watch as he was in and out within a couple of minutes, eyes always on you no matter where he moved.

You can sense the way his anger lingers in his face and the stiffness of his shoulders but his instinct to protect is stronger, shoving the sturdy emotion aside to traverse through the heavy storm until, hours later, the lodge comes into view, your heart hammering in your chest.

Your fingers tighten around the lapels of his jacket and he looks down, watching the way you strangle the fabric under your grip, shifting slightly on the saddle as he slows to a stop just inside the lodge before Joel helps you off the horse and ties him, leaving you for a moment that feels nothing short of a century, frozen in your spot as you hold your bag close to your chest.

“At some point you gotta start talkin’,” his voice startles you as it comes from the shadows, jacket stripped as he kneeled down at the fire pit near the center of the room, working quickly to warm the place up, “it ain’t about inconvenience either, it could get you killed.”

You move silently and sit nearby, eyes downturned and lips pulled tight.

It’s impossible to explain, the way your throat constricts at any attempt to speak, like a knee jerk reaction as you anticipate the strike of a hand or foot, a lash at your back or the hot prick of a cigarette into your skin. 

You still felt it occasionally, the phantom pain.

Your bottom lip trembles as they part, desperately wanting to make the attempt but knowing your body won’t let you out of self-preservation. Joel doesn’t see the struggle, but he can see your fingers fidgeting, restlessness laying in wait. 

“Did you bring your paper and pen with you?” Joel asks, sounding fatherly in a way that hints of a life lived and lost, “You can’t just ask the way you did this morning for no reason, I want answers,”

You nod obediently, riffling through your bag for the items.

Joel waits until they're in your hand and the fire crackles to life before he asks his first question.

“Is it the lodge? Is that why you wanted to stay in Jackson?” he asks, watching you scribble down a swift answer.

Yes. But, more.

He leans forward on his knees and into your space to read the scribbled note, sighing tiredly.

It isn’t what he wanted, obvious in the roll of his eyes.

“Explain,” He says tensely, “Stop bein’ so damn cryptic, I don’t like that shit,”

They followed me here. I hid. 

Joel’s face contorts in confusion.

“They followed you that far?”

It was their job. Bad men, all of them. They enjoy it. I hid and they didn’t find me. That time. I was worried they might find me again. They didn’t that time.

Joel examines the concentration on your phase as you write out the words, taking the notebook as you gently shove it into his palm, large fingers wrapping around the notepad.

“Who is they?” Joel asks, “You keep writin’ they,” his fingernail scratches over the word, leaving an indent in the paper, “We’re tight about patrols out here, we woulda saw ‘em. You sure it wasn’t someone else? Maybe just some random raider? They stroll through from time to time lookin’ for shelter.”

No. Not random. They wore emblems, gold and threaded to look like an anchor. There are men we serve, higher-ups. Then ones that follow a code, like an army. The men after me were hunters. Trackers. Do you understand? Not for animals.

“Sick fucks,” Joel says mostly to himself as he reads over your writing,

Don’t leave me. Please. I will do anything.

His earlier words echo in your head, seeming to cross his own mind at the same time.

You shove the notepad at him hastily, hands trembling slightly,

“Don’t get worked up," Joel says, voice a little gruff, "I’m not leavin’.”

Safe. He writes it out underneath your own words. 

Thick. Heavy. 

He nods.

Suddenly, as Joel feels around in his pocket as he stands, he comes across an object Tommy had handed him before he left, careful as he approaches you and reaches for your hand, pressing the solid weight of the object into it.

It was your knife, cleaned up and sharpened to a dangerous point.

Joel makes a noise of warning, fingers tight around your wrist.

“This ain’t yours to keep,” Joel explains, “jus’ while we’re out here, in case you come across an animal or something, it comes right back to me when we leave, understood?”

Begrudgingly, you nod.

“Put it away,” he instructed, watching as you closed the knife and stuffed it into your pocket.

You couldn’t explain it, but the frustration in him still simmered, unsure if it was because of you or not. Joel was a sorrowful man, carrying enough guilt for a thousand men—it could be that he was just having a day, desperate for a moment to himself.

It comes a while later after you’ve both settled in and the place was filled with warmth, “Keep watch, don’t wander—I’ll sleep for a couple hours then take over, got it?”

You nod quickly, perched on the wide, open window as you watch the snowfall. 

Something about it was oddly therapeutic, looking over to watch the scowl on Joel’s face soften as he fell into a deep slumber, leaning half reclined against a wall with his jacket balled up by his head to double as a pillow.

Hours pass without incident, thankfully. Joel said two, but it was already four and he was still sleeping, snoring now as he’s slumped down into a more horizontal position, growing slightly restless as the storm had calmed and the sun was shining overhead, desperate for a few moments of fresh air now that you were here, feeling comfortable enough in the quiet and with Joel’s presence that you could step out for a moment and breathe, putting on your shoes and coat quickly as you slipped out the back door of the lodge and watched a pair of birds on a branch as they hopped beside each other, chirping quietly.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt this calm or relaxed, glancing over at Joel sheepishly despite his obliviousness. 

You inhale deeply, letting the crisp, post-storm air fill your lungs. 

The lodge is silent behind you, save for the faint sound of Joel’s snoring. The fresh air feels like a relief, a moment of stillness that you hadn’t realized you needed. That you deserved.

Your eyes follow the pair of birds a moment longer, chirping softly to each other.

It’s peaceful—almost too peaceful. 

A small prickle of unease creeps up your spine, but you shake it off.

It’s just quiet. 

Nothing’s wrong.

Then—

You feel your throat swell.

The snap of a twig.

You freeze. The birds flutter away, startled. Your breath catches.

You don’t have time to turn before an arm locks around your chest, a rough hand clamping over your mouth. You couldn’t scream even if you wanted to.

“Oh, easy, ea-sy,” the stranger coos with a sickening softness, “don’t wanna wake him up, do ya?”

The faceless attacker holds you tight, something sharp and jagged at your back as he guides you backwards, further away from Joel.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you struggle, but he’s strong. 

He reeks of sweat and damp clothes, his grip unyielding.

"You people think you’re so damn careful… but you’re just easy pickings if you ain’t watchin’,” he sounds so smug and amused, greedy as he dragged you further and further away, feet stumbling out beneath you as you fell into the snow against him, a grunt shooting from his chest but ultimately it was followed by a spine-chilling chuckle, a hand slipping underneath the material of your shirt and over your abdomen, “been camped out here all day watchin’ you both, thought you were a dime, though–couldn’t pass up the opportunity,”

You twist sharply, managing to get free, clawing at his arm as you shove it away. He grunts in irritation but grabs at your ankle, yanking you back down as you fall to your ass, silently groaning at the pain.

"Feisty," he mutters. "I like it. Ain’t much fun otherwise."

You’ve fought for your life plenty of times and this was no different.

It shouldn’t surprise you that misfortune met you at every turn, allowing yourself to fall into a false confidence only to be disappointed once more as the man looms over you, a shadow of menace. You kick wildly, connecting with his shin. A low snarl escapes him.

“Little bitch,” he hisses, shaking his leg as if to brush off the sting. 

But, it gives you a moment to scramble backward on your hands and heels, snow biting at your palms as you shoved your hand into your pocket to find your knife, watching as he stalked toward you in a pure rage, opening your mouth in a scream you know will never come, but then he’s tripping, scrambling to catch his bearings over you.

The tip of the blade slices through his guts like butter, feeling the bile rise in your throat at the sensation and the warm spread of blood over your hand, desperately trying to force his weight off of you, but his hands finds your face, thumbs reaching for your eyes in any attempt to injure you but then there’s a shot ringing out, startling the both of you.

Simultaneously, the man jerks violently, his hands going slack around your face as he falls with a gurgling choke. Blood flows down his neck and onto you, drenching your clothes in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You scramble to your knees, backing away without looking toward the gunman as you panic, wiping the blood from your skin and into the snow, desperate to rid yourself of the thick fluid before Joel’s invading your space, fingers tightening into your coat to yank you upright as he shoves you back against a tree, blinded with pure rage.

He had saved you. He was angry, sure. But, he saved your life. Again.

“Are you fucking stupid, girl?!” he asks, his tone tight and harsh, met with a meek nod.

“Wrong answer,” He snaps, “I said two hours, then you wake me. I said not to wander and you did—so answer me again, are you—fucking stu—”

He doesn’t register that sting of your teeth in his bottom lip until your hand curls around the back of his neck, tongue spearing into his mouth as his mouth parts in surprise, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him into the kiss. 

Thank you, it breathes.

His grip slackens for the briefest moment before turning to steel again, fingers knotted in your clothes, twisting and pulling you closer. The violence of him feels like a lifeline, like something sure and solid in this brutal world. He’s safe. 

Safe.

He shoves you harder against the tree, rough bark biting through your coat as his teeth gnash against yours, tangled breaths turning to steam in the cold.

Your head spins, heart shuddering up into your throat, and you lose yourself in the way he feels, like fury itself. His hand moves from your clothes to splay over your belly, warm and forceful where the knife was just seconds before on your attacker who lay lifeless on the snowy ground.

You can’t stop thinking. 

The coppery taste of blood lingers everywhere: on your clothes, on the dead man, on Joel’s mouth now. The snow around you is red-stained as his hands roam over you, your own hands mirroring his unspoken neediness as you tear into the belt of his jeans, feeling him undo your own in tandem, unable to look one another directly in the eye at that moment, desperate for connection by other means.

He shouldn’t be allowing this, but the urge to consume your gratitude is stronger.

His thumb fumbles with the button of your jeans, and you’re practically writhing to get them off, burning up despite the chill. You sigh internally as he manages to get them free, yanking them far enough down your thighs before he’s turning you against the tree.

The world fades around you; it’s just him, just you, each breath mingling as he frees himself from his pants. You feel his heat press against you, insistent, frenzied, somehow apologetic as it fits between your thighs.

You feel his fingers fit between your legs and spread between your folds like instinct but you’re shaking your head, hand clawing at back of his neck as you arch your ass into him, a silent plea for him to just fuck you instead, needy as you bring his mouth to yours with a distinct hunger, swallowing up his ragged breaths as he rubs his thumb and pointer finger over the head of his cock and through your slick before he’s stretching you open with little grace, mouth open in a silent gasp as your free hand grabs at his hip.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth, words dissolving into a groan as he sets an unrelenting pace. The tree bark is rough against your skin, but you don’t care, the rawness of it only adds to the frenzy growing between you. Hastily undressed and filthy, the kiss-smudged blood across his face smearing into yours.

He’s practically holding you up like this, his grip slipping over your hips as his mouth finds your neck, biting down just enough to bruise or draw blood of your own, not entirely sure.

His thrusts breath raw desperation, nails clawing at bare skin as he hisses into your neck.

There’s nothing soft about it, no measured rhythm, just a brutal need for each other. 

Joel is acutely aware of the way your body is responding to him, silent sobs racking your chest as you pull him impossibly closer, “I gotcha,” he says, “I feel you, you’re gonna give it to me, aren’t ya? S’right there, I feel it,”

And he wants it more than he was comfortable admitting to himself, the satisfaction of filling the insatiable need you had craved from him.

His hand snakes over your mouth, smothering sounds that would never surface, but the gesture is heady, biting at the skin of his palm until you knew it would sting.

Desperation blurs into pleasure, and you feel it shuddering through you like an electric current and the world comes rushing in again all at once: the cold air nipping at sweat-slick skin, branches clawing at your chest like a bitter, jealous lover. It’s hard to tell, the way you both are clawing at this for dear life, but you think this is maybe as close as the two of you have ever been, filthy and frantic and burning up together as you come, feeling Joel pull out in enough time to spill into his fist, low and drawn-out grunts that had you cunt pulsing, resting dissociatively against the tree.

It was the most human you’ve felt in years.

“Get inside,” Joel says suddenly, pulling you back to reality—surprisingly, his voice is calmer.

And for once, you don’t argue.

–

Joel watches you change, trading the bloodied clothes for fresh ones and wiping you down in between, a silent but intimate gesture that neither of you outwardly address, eyes scanning his face carefully as he taps at your chin so he can wipe underneath your neck.

And you don’t speak about it.

Joel doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He takes care of the body, stays on watch despite your quiet persistence to help

But, as your hand trembles at your side as you approach him beside the fire pit, his fingers thread into your own, a heavy weight holding you down until it stops shaking. You can feel the small tremor on his own, harbored for different reasons. But, it calms him too.

You felt like there was finally equal ground to stand on.

–

When you arrive back in Jackson a couple days later, Joel relays information about the raider with some omissions, only suggesting that there be more frequent checks, but as you and Joel settle into a routine, things become almost…too easy.

He’s always expectant of your knife the moment you approach the gates, handing it over without problem, but just as easily sliding it into your own as you settle into your patrol spot for whatever rotation you both ended up on, still increasingly weary around others that weren’t Joel, you find a similar protection with Tommy, though not entirely comparable. 

Tommy only took you out so far as to teach you how to shoot and clear out infected that were a safe enough distance they couldn’t do any real harm, only swarms passing through.

Joel still hasn’t initiated any touch with you since that day, but his actions are increasingly more intimate despite his body language around you—though, that doesn’t mean he stops you.

Maybe it was how he justified his own righteousness, that he was absolving himself of the guilt that he had knowingly allowed you to attach yourself to him, almost selfishly.

With Ellie’s growing independence becoming more and more obvious, Joel leans toward your odd connection and the ease it brings to his routine.

You’re shivering over a cup of coffee one morning despite your layers and blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the chill making your bones ache.

“You can sleep up here, you know,” Joel tells you, “the couch is comfortable, s’close to the fire, too.”

You shrug nonchalantly, sipping softly at the strong brew.

“Sleep up here,” he tries again, a command, your hesitation curling around the steaming cup as your eyes connect, nodding hesitantly.

His mug scuffs the counter as his fingers curl around the ceramic, his hip settling into the edge as he leans into the surface and you meet him with an honest gaze.

“Are you only agreeing because I’m tellin’ you to?”

Sheepishly, you nod.

Joel doesn’t harp on it, though. It was a small battle won, less worry of you catching frostbite or a cold down in the basement, your presence more apparent as you move into the neutral living space, there when he wakes and when he retires for the night, quiet and somber.

Then, there was an instance with the shower that became routine. 

Your skin caked with dirt and re-opened cuts crusted with days old blood, a particularly rough run-in with a group of infected that Joel had dealt with mostly, you trailing close behind and taking out the few stragglers.

Joel always opted for privacy anymore—save the moment at the lodge when you had shed your blood stained clothes and Joel had to make sure none of it was your own, but your body was exhausted as was your mind, losing your footing as you stumbled into the sink and made a soft noise that Joel’s never heard before.

He’s never heard anything from you, really. 

Only your breathing, heavier in moments of anxiety or despair, but soft as you slept.

You were hunched over the tub and half-dressed, your head pounding as the blood rushed there, eyes squeezing shut as you bit at the inside of your cheek and Joel’s presence is there, but far, hovering near the door as he just needed eyes on you to confirm you weren’t hurt.

As the door closes and you’re pushing back to your feet, you yank it back with a similar strength and Joel watches your hand reach for him, curling in the fabric of his shirt as you silently plead for him to come closer.

Help me, your eyes plead.

Quietly, you guide the shirt over his head and his mind finally catches up, reaching behind you as he turns the water on until the bathroom was smothered with steam, his eyes wondering anywhere but you as you both stepped in naked under the stream, guided by Joel to turn away as he washed you in silence, careful and methodical, leaning into his touch as his fingers curl around the back of your neck to wash your hair.

It happens once or twice again, based around the frequency of patrols and whenever the house was empty and though Joel is hesitant to your touch, eventually he gives in, eyes usually closed as you face him, hands tugging through his dirtied hair and over his chest, a low rumble as your fingers curl a little too low, grazing over the curve of his ass before his fingers catch your wrist and his eyes pry open, shaking his head.

Eventually, his resolve fades.

He tries, but your persistence is steadfast, growing needful to his proximity in every facet of your life and the kisses are shy at first, gentle presses to his shoulder or arm, occasionally over his chest or neck, his hands hovering but never touching without necessity. 

He doesn’t like to talk, either. But, he became familiar with the scar on your lower abdomen, just above your pelvis and thick, the skin clearly marred but not like the others on your body.

You always guide his hand away out of discomfort, unsure how to explain without using words.

Though, given what you’ve told him and the behaviors you’ve exhibited, Joel can make a guess.

He blurts it out one night as you shower until the water grows cold.

“They take something from you?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod slightly, hands curving over his shoulders to dig into the muscle and knead, his eyes downturned and dark, intimidating as always.

The doctors performed a salpingectomy on many, including you, unsafe and at risk of death given the environment and lack of understanding, there was no telling what kind of damage they had done, but the most important part was that reproduction was null, some sick and twisted belief to keep women obedient and available. 

You don’t remember much, but it was years ago.

Your face heats as you mimic a pregnant belly, ignoring how his hand guides over your breast with the soapy rag as you lock eyes with him, shaking your head.

His face twitches emotionlessly, nostrils flaring, “I’m sorry,” and he means it.

Joel remembers the harsh accusation he’d thrown at you, assuming your motives without understanding or knowing, but this—it gives him perspective. 

–

A few hours later, you wake from a night terror.

It was dark, pitch black and quiet, but you couldn’t move.

Your mouth opens to scream but nothing comes out, thrashing against invisible bindings until you come to, Joel’s hands locked around your shoulders to keep you still, shaking you back to reality.

“Hey, hey,” his voice is an instant drug that soothes, eyes ripping open and searching frantically until they land on his face, “breathe, kid—you’re here, not there,”

Joel knew—of course he did.

He stays until you calm, pushing up on your hands to sit up and reaching for his arm as he stands, repeating the same gesture in his palm that he’s come to understand, crystal clear.

Stay, you gesture.

“Okay,” he agrees quietly, but you’re pulling him closer, fingers curling against his sides and Joel shakes his head, giving you some resistance, “nono—ain’t enough room for that, alright?”

Your grip tightens, begging.

Joel exhales through his nose in defeat, his hands twitching slightly where they still hold you. 

He doesn’t even need to ask, your footsteps following closely behind his own as he turns, padding back toward his room down the hall, slipping into his bed and under the sheets without a word, the weight of him next to you enough to settle your anxiety.

The second time you crawl into his bed, it’s after another nightmare. 

He doesn’t say anything—just lets out a tired sigh and shifts over, leaving space for you. You don’t touch him, not at first. Just tuck yourself into the blankets, facing away, the tension in your body easing just enough for sleep to take hold.

Then, it happens again. And again.

Every night, the same thing. 

You slip in, quiet as ever, and Joel tells himself it’s fine. That he can keep his distance.

But, you always end up entangled by the time you wake.

Your cheek pressed into his chest. His arm curled protectively around your waist. 

His breath in your hair.

Him, around you.

Joel knows he should stop this. 

He should tell you to stay in your own damn bed.

That it ain't right.

That he can’t be what you need him to be.

One night, he’s not asleep when you slip into his bed.

He feels the mattress dip, the hesitant pause before you settle in beside him, close but not touching. Joel keeps his eyes shut, breath steady, pretending he doesn’t notice.

But, then your fingers ghost over his wrist, then around his waist, your knee shifting between his thighs as you curl into him and nuzzle against his neck, lips pressing into his pulse point.

He stiffens. Feels you hesitate, then try again, pressing a kiss into the sensitive skin of his neck.

"Kid," he mutters, voice low, warning.

He can feel the neediness in your touch, eyes flicking up shyly to look at him as he bows his head to look down at you.

"You do everything I tell you to," he murmurs, and he’s right—voice rough with sleep. "If I told you to go back to your own bed, would you listen?"

Silence.

Then, your fingers tighten slightly where they’re wrapped around him. A slow shake of your head to answer his question and a sigh from him that follows, it shakes the room.

It’s defeat.

Your lips brush against his jaw first, tentative, testing. When he doesn’t stop you, you press again, slower this time. Then lower, over the rough stubble of his throat.

Joel lets out a slow, shuddering breath. His hand finds your waist, fingers curling tight before forcing himself to loosen his grip.

His fingers twitch against your waist, the calloused pads pressing firm into the soft give of your skin. His breath is heavy, slow, controlled—because he has to be.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he says, but it’s weak, “can’t be.”

A hollow protest. 

You don’t say anything, just tilt your head, lips tracing along his pulse, feeling it thrum beneath your mouth, slow and steady. He’s always so calm, a constant beat that never skipped or faltered.

He exhales sharply, his grip tightening. “Christ,” he breathes, head tipping forward until his forehead brushes against yours. “You don’t listen worth a damn, do you?”

You shake your head again, more deliberate this time.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and searching, like he’s looking for something—one last excuse to push you away. 

But there’s nothing—he’s guilty for the need of this too.

And then you’re pulling him down, lips pressing against his, soft but insistent, and any last restraint he had left crumbles in an instant.

Joel groans against your mouth, deep and wrecked, his hands still hesitant to touch, only allowing it as you initiate, dragging his hand to your waist and down, under your thigh until he’s hiking your leg over his hip.

His lips part, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he kisses you again, harder, deeper, like he needs this just as much as you do. Like he’s just as desperate for it.

He is.

Joel pulls you closer, his hands gripping at your waist. His lips are slow at first, searching, but when you whimper against his mouth, something inside him snaps. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard, the first he’s ever heard, surprising yourself as the sound slips out, throat immediately collapsing on itself in fear, awaiting the hands that wrap tight around your throat and suffocate.

Instead, his hand fists in the fabric of your shorts, curling around your hip as your core drags over his groin, his quickly hardening cock pressing against the inside of your thigh.

"You don’t even think twice, do you?" he rasps against your lips, his breath warm and unsteady. "Just do whatever the hell I tell you without arguing?”

You nod, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. You nod, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. With your muteness, it meant Joel’s eyes had to be on you, constantly waiting and searching for communication.

It made you feel special, the way he was attentive to you at all times.

Your thumb drags over his lip as you pause for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in.

His eyes darken, something unreadable flickers across his face, and his hands still for a moment too, resting heavy on the bare skin of your leg.

“That ain’t always a good thing,” he tell you, but he’s already leaning back in, following the push into his shoulder as you raise your leg over his abdomen to straddle him, pressing him into the mattress as you grind down into him.

Somehow you know he’ll follow, that he won’t resist. 

He’s guilty, too—doesn’t ever think twice when it comes to you. That’s what eats at him the most—how easily you give in to each other. How willingly.

Your hands skim down his chest, nails scratching lightly over the thick hair there, down to his stomach, lower—until he catches your wrist, shaking his head.

"Slow down," he murmurs, voice strained, rough around the edges as your hips moving at a leisurely pace, glancing down to admire the thickness of his shaft as the fabric hugged around him, leaving no part of him to imagination, the thick trail of hair that disappeared beyond his waistband, "You don't gotta—"

You shake your head, mouth hung open in silence as your eyes fall shut.

A groan rumbles low in his chest as he lets go of you, hands falling to his side as lets you use him, slowly realizing what this moment was for you.

A reclamation of your own pleasure and autonomy, using his body for release that did nothing to benefit him outside of the wonder that bloomed into his features as you move more frantic, fabric bunching up higher at your hips as you chase your high, working toward the crest of your orgasm that you just couldn’t reach, face scrunching up in annoyance as you start to hit as his chest with soft blows, seemingly frustrated.

Joel knows what you need, skin against skin, flush connection.

You look up at him with a pout that pleads, screaming out.

And this time, he doesn’t stop you as you shift, a fury of limbs as you remove your shorts with impatience, tossing them to the floor as you tug at his sweats, his cock bobbing heavy and free, just far enough down his thighs that you can see how his balls tighten at your touch, taking a moment to admire him this way, his face contorted into something unreadable as your thumb slides over his slit, leaking with precum and his tip a blushed red.

Joel lets out a strangled breath, his head tilting back against the pillow as your fingers wrap around him, slow and deliberate, dragging over the length of him with just enough pressure to make his stomach tense.

He breathes slowly, his hands twitching at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to touch you. 

To guide you. Teach you.

But he won’t—he lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace. 

You shift upwards, lining yourself up with him, the heat of your slick cunt teasing against his length, dragging up and down as you shudder at the feeling, the head of his cock sliding against your clit, the shlick of your bodies as they move against each other.

His jaw clenches, muscles taut as he watches.

Your fingers curl against his skin, nails pressing into him as you take all of him, inch by inch.

He finds himself waiting for a sound, silently begging for it, curious if you would sound as wrecked as he did, grunting when you’re seated fully, the burn mixing with pleasure so intense it makes your head fall forward. 

Joel’s breath stutters. His hands find your waist with your guidance, squeezing tight, like this was your attempt in trying to get him to ground himself too. He doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust up into you—just lets you adjust, lets you take him however you want. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, voice wrecked. “You feel that?” You nod, biting your lip, rolling your hips experimentally. A pleasurable ache growing in your gut. He groans, low and guttural, his fingers digging into your flesh. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Take what you need.” 

And you do.

You start slow, your hands braced against his chest, feeling the taut muscle beneath your palms as you roll your hips, testing, searching for something you’re not sure of. The stretch is deep, almost too much, but it’s what you want—what you need.

Joel’s hands grip your waist, like he’s holding himself back, like if he lets go, he’ll take over. 

But he doesn’t. He just watches, dark eyes hooded, jaw tight as you find your rhythm.

He exhales through gritted teeth, watching the way you move, the way your body trembles every time you take him deeper, your breasts shifting under your shirt as you bounce, finding himself speaking before the words filter, like his pleasure has a mind of its own.

"You always listen so well, don’t you?"

Your breath hitches at the praise, the smallest whimper slipping from your lips, and Joel's fingers tighten on your hips, not guiding you, but steadying you, anchoring you to him. You’ve never made sounds like this before, not even by accident.

With him, the fear of retaliation has begun to ease. Each noise that slips isn’t met with anger or rage, but astonishment, eyes widening in wonder.

“You like that?” he asks, voice rough, like it’s been dragged down a gravel road, "Doin’ what you’re told?"

You nod frantically, grinding down harder, desperate for more.

For him, you think. Only for him.

Give me safety. I’ll give you everything.

He curses under his breath, his restraint fraying at the edges. "Fuck—look at you," he groans, his fingers digging into your flesh now, a warning, his own control slipping. "Takin’ me so fuckin’ good."

A shudder runs through you at his words, your walls fluttering around him, making him hiss.

"Keep goin'," he murmurs, lifting up slightly as he settles on an elbow, the thumb of his free hand stroking your skin, the tension in his body betraying how much effort it takes to stay still, “I feel ya, how bad you need it,”

Your fingers reach for him, prying his grip from your waist and guiding his hands up, over your body, pressing them against your breasts, your stomach, anywhere you can, until he gets it—until he stops holding back. He rises to meet you, arms wrapping around your waist similar to how you had cornered him on the couch in the basement, but the implication is different.

A deep, guttural groan escapes him, and then his hands are moving on their own, sliding down to grip your ass, to spread you wider as he thrusts up into you, slow but deep, pushing a broken moan from your throat.

"Yeah?" he rasps in surprise, voice strained. "Is that what you wanted?"

You nod helplessly, nails scraping over his chest as you try to keep up with his pace, but Joel doesn’t let you. He takes over now, fucking up into you with long, deliberate strokes, each one dragging a whimper from your lips.

More sounds, he needed more sounds.

"You gotta tell me," he pleads, his grip almost bruising now. "I need to hear it."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a breathy gasp, your head falling forward against his shoulder, and Joel growls, wrapping the arm around your back tight to keep you pressed against him.

"Say it," he demands, voice thick with need as he looks up at you, "Tell me what you need. I know you can—you’re doin’ so good," It was such a stark contrast, the praise.

Your lips part, voice shaky, barely above a whisper and broken, your voice foreign to your ears as it leaves your mouth

"You."

Joel freezes beneath you, stilling for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it’s gone, replaced with something darker, something deeper.

He wants to fucking ruin you and build you back up watching as the tears form in your eyes, knowing what the action meant, the energy and bravery it took, he doesn’t push it aside.

His chest rises sharply against yours, breath stalling like he’s not sure he heard right. His fingers twitch against your skin, gripping tighter, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You feel the weight of it, the shift in the air. 

His pulse hammers against your palm where you press against his throat, his body locked beneath you like the words had cut him deeper than any knife ever could.

Your voice.

You’ve never spoken before.

Not to him. Not to anyone.

And now, with your body wrapped around him, shaking, desperate, it’s him you ask for. 

Him you need.

His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say it. 

You just press closer, urging him with slow rolls of your hips, hoping he understands, hoping he doesn’t make you say it again—because you don’t think you can.

And then, Joel moves.

Slowly. Carefully.

His hands roam, sweeping over your back, your waist, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ribs like he’s memorizing you, feeling you breathe. His touch is softer now, reverent, as if the moment itself has changed, evolved into something neither of you expected.

You nod to an unasked question, pressing your lips against his cheek, his jaw, anywhere you can reach, trying to coax him back, trying to keep the moment from slipping away.

His hips snap up, slow but deep, dragging a soft, broken moan from your throat that makes his grip tighten. A noise barely audible.

"That’s it," he breathes, his voice thick with something you can’t explain. His hands guide you now, steady but unrelenting, moving you with him, driving deeper, harder, every roll of your hips pulling another sound from your lips, another shudder from your body.

He drinks in every noise, every gasp, every trembling sigh like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Collecting them all and committing them to memory.

"Keep talkin’ to me," he mutters, voice ragged, desperate. "Let me hear you."

But, you can’t.

The pleasure is too much, coiling tight, pulling you under, and all you can do is cling to him, gasping against his throat as your body starts to shake through your orgasm. The energy it takes to speak, the courage bleeding you dry. You’d lost your voice again.

Joel feels it—your unraveling, your breaking, the way your walls flutter around him—and it undoes him completely. Your hands cradle your face, tilting his head back so you can see him, his dark eyes burning into yours as he thrusts up hard as he spills inside of you, not entirely thinking as he does it.

"That’s it, baby," he praises, “Keep squeezin’ me, I’m right here,”

And for a long moment, neither of you move. 

The only sound is his ragged breaths, the pounding of your heart.

His lips brush your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin.

"You," he murmurs to you, soft, like it means something to him too.

Maybe it does, you weren’t sure.

–

He reaches you this way, through connection and touch.

Sex or something similar, the intensity of the moment clouding your thoughts and relaxing your worry, and his too.

It was a give and take with each other, distracting Joel from his constant stream of troubling thoughts and worries, still never approaching you—it was always under your guidance.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s wrong. But every time your hands find him, every time you press yourself into his space, silently asking for comfort, for connection, he gives in.

The moment you touch him, the constant, gnawing dread in his mind quiets.

Just for a little while. And selfishly, he needs it.

Your fingers trail up his chest, light, uncertain, tracing the scars like a map. Joel watches, his breath slow and steady, his muscles tense beneath your touch—but he doesn’t stop you.

He never does.

You cornered him in the kitchen this particular night, his hands curled over the edge of the sink with his head hung, chest heaving like he had just woken up from his own nightmare, sneaking out of bed but not quite enough that you wouldn’t notice.

When you press your lips against his skin, soft and searching, he exhales like he’s been holding it in for too long. 

Like you were the answer.

"You sure?" he asks, his voice rough, low, but there’s no demand in it. 

No expectation. 

Only restraint. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can hold back, between the constant time spent together and the nights spent inside of you, allowing your greediness to take hold.

He pushed his own aside, stuffed until it was boiling over.

You nod, and that’s all it takes.

His hands find your waist, pulling you against him, guiding you the way you he needs, the way he knows you need too, his grip firm, like he’s holding something fragile—something breakable.

That's what this was, after all.

A delicate balance. A silent understanding.

You give each other this, and in return, he gives you himself, as do you—fully, completely, no barriers, no walls.

When he moves it is slow and deliberate, when his mouth finds your throat and his fingers grip your neck, guiding you against and up on the counter, fingers spreading underneath your top before it’s torn over your head, it was all the same. His palms curve around your neck, pulling you toward him as his lips capture yours in a surprisingly tender kiss, lips parting immediately as his tongue licks along your own, mirroring his touch as you spread your legs to make room for him. 

You don’t need anything else but this.

Only this.

Only him.

Only you.

But, there’s that gnawing in Joel’s chest that makes him out to be the monster he knows he can be, taking advantage of your trauma and pushing your limits, using you like you’ve been used before.

He’s no better, he thinks.

If anything, he’s worse.

[vigilante-3073]

Daddy's Credit Card

Cullen Family x Female Vampire Reader

Jacob Black x Female Reader

PART 12

Summary: Y/N continues to spend increasing amounts of time with Jacob and Carlisle worries that she isn't taking her health seriously.

TW: Arguments, mentions of medical testing/treatments/injuries

Carlisle paced the floor of his office, clicking Y/N's contact on his screen and lifting the phone up to his ear. Carlisle had given Y/N a lot of leeway, but her tests showed that her condition was continuing to worsen.

Carlisle understood that she may be feeling better, but she shouldn't be pushing herself. Y/N and Jacob had been spending a concerning amount of time away from the house in the last few weeks. Y/N had been dismissive, refusing testing while continuing to disappear for hours on end with Jacob.

Carlisle had previously encouraged them to spend time together, but now he was beginning to regret it.

Carlisle had been waiting for Y/N to return home all night and had been calling her for the last two hours. Carlisle couldn't shake the tension that blanketed his body.

What if she was injured? What if Jacob had lost her? What if she had done something stupid?

Carlisle shook his head with a huff as he heard Y/N's voicemail message for the tenth time in the last hour.

"Still nothing?" Edward questioned from the doorway, Carlisle shook his head.

"I haven't been able to reach her," He said.

"Bella hasn't been able to get ahold of Jacob either," Edward stated.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Carlisle muttered, setting his cellphone down on the edge of his desk.

Edward turned his head slightly, both of them falling silent as they heard the faint sound of Jacob's motorcycle approaching. Edward and Carlisle wordlessly made their way out of his office and through the house.

Carlisle descended the stairs with Edward following closely behind him. He opened the door and stepped outside as Jacob helped Y/N off the back of his motorcycle.

"Are you alright? I've been calling you for hours," Carlisle said.

"I'm fine," Y/N replied dismissively.

"Where have you been?" Edward asked, crossing his arms.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I spent the night at Jacob's house," Y/N snapped.

"Y/N, you should have come home last night... What if something happened while you were away? Every second counts when dealing with an unexplained illness like this," Carlisle questioned.

"I'm not going to spend whatever time I have left as a lab rat, Carlisle," Y/N stated, walking up the stairs and into the house without another word.

"It was my idea for her to spend the night. Not hers," Jacob said.

"I appreciate that you care for her, but her situation is very precarious at this time, Jacob. She needs to be here where we can intervene quickly if something goes wrong," Carlisle replied.

"She just wants some normalcy. I get that you all want to keep her in this little bubble, but she should have the chance to actually live before she dies," Jacob stated, making his way up to the house.

Carlisle shifted on his feet, turning towards his son, "This is not going to end well," Edward muttered.

Carlisle didn't reply, reluctantly returning back into the house and walking up to Y/N's bedroom. He lingered in the doorway, watching her as she shrugged off her jacket with a grimace.

"Are you in pain?" Carlisle questioned.

"I'm fine," Y/N snapped.

Carlisle sighed softly, "I don't want you to be angry with me, Y/N. I worry because I care and want you to be safe," He said.

"I hate what my life is turning into... I can't do anything without everyone being all over me about it," Y/N said angrily, tossing her jacket on the bed.

Carlisle tensed as the hem of her shirt lifted slightly, "I need to see your back," He said.

"We're in the middle of a conversation," Y/N snapped.

"Yes, you can get back to scolding me after you let me look at you," Carlisle said, stepping closer to her.

Y/N rolled her eyes, allowing him to lift up the hem of her shirt. Her side and back were covered in large purple bruises.

"Did you get into an accident while you were away?" Carlisle asked.

"No, why?" Y/N replied.

"You're covered in bruises, Y/N," He stated.

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she looked down at her side. Carlisle touched the skin carefully with his fingertips, applying gentle pressure to the bruise.

"Does that hurt?" He questioned, she nodded.

"You didn't notice any bruising or pain overnight?" Carlisle asked.

"No," Y/N said.

"I want to check your vitals, take some blood and do an ultrasound," Carlisle listed, gently moving his fingertips over her ribcage.

She made a soft noise in her throat, grimacing as she flinched away from his touch.

"I think your ribs may be broken," Carlisle stated.

"How? I didn't even do anything," Y/N said.

"I don't know," Carlisle replied.

...

Edward sat in the chair at Y/N's bedside, silently watching over her as she slept. Carlisle's testing had revealed that Y/N's body was almost entirely depleted of calcium and the clotting factors in her blood were concerningly low. This meant that her bones were incredibly brittle and any bleeding could easily become unmanageable.

Carlisle quickly placed her on bedrest, restricting her activity as much as he possibly could. X-rays revealed that Y/N had multiple broken ribs and fractured bones all over her body.

The pain soon became apparent and Carlisle ensured that Y/N was given the necessary medications to relieve her discomfort. She had been sleeping steadily for the last few hours, only stirring when the pain began to resurface.

Y/N shifted with a grimace and Edward sat forward in his chair. He watched her as she struggled to find a comfortable position before standing up from his seat. Edward moved over to the door, opening it and leaning out into the hallway.

"She's in pain," He stated.

Carlisle nodded, standing up from his seat and making his way down the hallway. Jacob stood as Carlisle slipped into the room, slowly approaching Edward as Y/N was given another dose of pain medication.

"I can take over," Jacob offered, Edward nodded.

Jacob lingered by the doorway as Edward returned to the living room. Carlisle lifted the blankets over Y/N before quietly exiting the bedroom.

"Is this the only thing we're doing for her now? Dosing her up when the pain becomes too much?" Jacob questioned.

"I don't like this either, Jacob. But there's nothing else I can do for her right now. Tests are pending and hopefully we'll get some good news," Carlisle said.

"We both know that she didn't want to end up like this," Jacob stated.

"It was unavoidable," Carlisle replied simply.

"We could have let her go out on her own terms," Jacob said, Carlisle tensed for a moment before steeling himself.

"Maybe you should return home for a while, Jacob. This situation doesn't need to become more difficult than it already is," Carlisle said calmly.

"I'm not leaving her," Jacob responded, making his way over to Y/N's bed.

Carlisle didn't reply, closing the door quietly before returning to sit with his family. Jacob stepped out of his shoes, lifting the blankets and laying down in the bed behind Y/N.

Jacob shifted closer to her, carefully wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her body back against his chest. Y/N exhaled softly as she settled back into his warmth, body relaxing in his grasp.

Her fingers brushed over the back of his hand gently as she intertwined their fingers, "Thank you for staying," She mumbled.

"Can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be," Jacob replied.

...

Y/N's strength and mobility had become increasingly limited as the days went on. She could barely manage to make it to the bathroom without being carried. Y/N had lost a great deal of weight, her bones stuck out from under her skin as she wasted away to nothing.

Carlisle tried to get her repositioned in bed or moved to a chair to keep her from resting on any newly exposed bony prominences. The last thing she needed was a bedsore on top of everything else she was already going through. Carlisle had her on fluids the majority of the time, but her nutritional intake was virtually inexistent.

Y/N couldn't keep anything down and the constant vomiting had led to a tear forming in her esophagus. She had been throwing up blood for days and she remained anemic after countless blood transfusions.

Nothing was helping and Carlisle was running out of options. Y/N was miserable and everyone could clearly see that she wasn't getting any better.

Carlisle had been moving her out into the living room every day, hoping that a change of scenery or some television would distract her.

It didn't.

Y/N barely spoke, staring off into space as she struggled to cope with the pain in her throat and body. Jacob stayed close to her at all times, watching over her for as long as he could before eventually falling into a dreamless sleep.

Y/N slept on the couch with her body leaned back against Jacob's side. She shifted slightly in her sleep and he looked down at her, waiting for her to settle before his eyes returned to the television.

Bella watched him from across the room, smiling slightly at how caring he was. Y/N was truly lucky to have him at her side during such a hard time.

"What are you smiling about?" Edward questioned quietly, standing beside her.

"I think he likes her," Bella replied, watching Jacob as he pulled the blanket up over Y/N's body.

Edward huffed a laugh, "Of course he does... They understand each other in a way that most people don't," He said.

"I can hear you," Jacob muttered, not bothering to tear his eyes away from the football game on the screen.

Y/N brow furrowed as she opened her eyes, "Are you okay?" Jacob questioned.

She shook her head, turning slightly with a grimace, "Wanna go back to bed?" Emmett asked, Y/N nodded.

Emmett stood up from his seat, moving over to her, "I can take her," Jacob offered.

"Nah, don't worry about it. You stay here, I can sit with her for a while," Emmett said.

"Okay, let me know when you want to trade off," Jacob replied.

"Will do," Emmett nodded, bending down and sliding his arms underneath her body carefully.

Emmett lifted her up and she let out a cry of pain as a soft cracking noise filled the room. Carlisle shot up from his chair, rushing over to them as Jacob shifted off the couch.

"Lay her down as gently as you can manage. Edward, get the portable x-ray machine and bring it over here," Carlisle instructed quickly.

Emmett lowered her down on the couch again, removing his arms from under her body, "I'm so sorry. I don't even know what I did," Emmett said.

"Her bones are incredibly fragile. You were as gentle with her as you could have been," Carlisle replied, kneeling down on the floor beside the couch.

"Where does it hurt? Your back?" He asked.

"Yeah," Y/N whimpered, eyes glossing over with tears as her body trembled.

Edward returned with the x-ray machine, Carlisle slid the board underneath her before taking a few images. He viewed the pictures for a moment before turning off the machine.

"How bad is it?" Jacob questioned, holding onto Y/N's hand.

"Her back is broken.... We should get her back into her bed and I think we need to refrain from moving her," Carlisle stated.

"What kind of life is that?" Jacob questioned.

"Jacob, please, not now," Carlisle said firmly.

"No, we can't keep pretending that she's gonna be fine. We need to talk about what we're doing for her because this isn't working. She's throwing up blood, can't eat, can't talk, her bones shatter like glass and she's in pain every single day," Jacob listed angrily.

"You people claim to care about her, but this isn't what loving someone should look like. You're selfish. All of you. She told you exactly what she wanted and none of you even considered it. Y/N deserves to make the choice about how her life ends, not any of you," Jacob continued.

"You really want to kill the girl that you love, Jacob?" Edward questioned, his tone was eerily calm.

Jacob glared at him, "I want what's best for her," He spat.

"Carlisle just needs more time. He could find the cure for whatever this is tomorrow and it'll be for nothing if she's dead," Edward snapped.

"She should have-," Jacob began.

"There isn't one," Carlisle stated, swiftly cutting Jacob off.

The room fell silent, "What?" Jacob asked softly.

"There isn't a cure... I don't know what this is, neither does the Volturi," Carlisle said.

"You said that we weren't going to involve them in this," Edward said.

"I had no other choice. I tried everything that I could, but found nothing... The Volturi was my last option and they've never heard of anything like this," Carlisle said.

"How long have you known this?" Rosalie questioned.

"Two months," Carlisle stated.

Jacob felt his body temperature rise, anger burning like a fire in his gut. Edward looked over at him, "You need to go before you hurt Y/N," He instructed.

"This isn't over," Jacob growled as he stormed out of the room, bumping harshly into Carlisle as he raced out of the house.

"Jacob," Y/N called softly, crying out in pain as she attempted to sit up.

"He'll be back, he just needs some time to calm down," Bella assured, desperately hoping that she was right.

Jacob ignored her cry as he rushed into the woods, skin burning with fury as his body trembled. He threw off his clothes, breathing heavily as the wolf took over. He sprinted through the forest as fast as he could, claws digging into the dirt as he ran.

Jacob had never been more enraged in his entire life. These people were monsters. Carlisle had known that he couldn't save Y/N for two months and hadn't said a thing.

Jacob believed that Carlisle would figure out what had caused her illness and cure her. He hoped that they could be together for more than her final days and he felt like a fool.

They had both been through so much and Jacob had been planning a future that they could never have. Jacob wasn't sure when Y/N became such an important person in his life, but she had found a way into his heart.

Jacob had fallen in love with her and now he would have to watch her die.

Bella had shattered his heart and he had finally started to put the pieces back together when he met Y/N. They were two broken people who needed someone on their side.

Jacob wasn't ready to lose her, but he knew that he didn't have a choice.

...

PART 13

[soluversworld]

Caught him in 4k! Oh wait, Both of you are...ones! - Solivan Brugmansia x Yan! G.N Reader (Smut)-(Rewriting due to mistakes)

Genre: smut, (I got a heads up. I have added female pronouns some points, I'm really sorry

Summary: —REQUEST COPIED

Reader is the same from the Sol series!

I apologize for this late, I hate this smut. I hate my writing, self doubt era came again..If you're Edgar poe allan's fan You might...enjoy a little.

I HATE THIS, THIS IS SUCH A BAD AND OLD DRAFT PLEASE, DON'T COME AFTER ME. sol is kinda top in this

( Reader is a g.n!)

words : 13k (WHY)

Content & Trigger Warnings (TWs/CWs):

Sexual Content / Heavy Suggestiveness

Sensual Touching / Physical Intimacy

Mutual Exploration / Inexperience

Strong Language / Dirty Talk (implied or actual)

Blushing / Flustered Behavior

Piercing Play (mentioned/suggested)

Power Dynamic Shifts (playful, consensual)

Mentions of Arousal (non-explicit but direct)

Emotional Vulnerability & Clinginess

Faint D/S Tension (soft dom/sub dynamics – non-explicit)

Heavy Romantic Tension / Love Confessions (implied)

Fade to Black or Cut-off Scene (depending on how you end it)

Did not proof read/Rushed.

“Take care of Sol for me, okay?”

And just like that, he walked away.

You slipped into your apartment, shutting the door behind you. The darkness wrapped around you like a second skin. You groaned, fingertips brushing the wall as you searched for the switch.

The silence buzzed in your ears.

You flicked on the lights and were greeted, as always, by the warm, flickering glow of a single bulb that probably hadn’t been changed since the dawn of time. Your apartment—your god-awful apartment—looked just as miserable as you left it.

Peeling wallpaper curled like dead skin off the corners of the ceiling. The floor creaked with every step you took, protesting your presence like the building wanted you out just as badly as your landlord did.

The place. Your apartment.

Handpicked by Mr. Z himself—how generous, right? A second-floor rat hole near the park, not far from your school. A commute on rainy days, a walk on sunny ones, like you lived some idyllic city-life dream.

It didn’t allow pets. Something about "past complaints"—as if the neighbor’s roaches weren’t already squatting rent-free in the walls. The broken window in your room? Still unfixed. And if the landlord caught wind of that, he’d chew your neck like a starving mutt.

But it wasn’t just a crappy apartment. It was yours.

Or... it was supposed to be.

The land.

The land your father entrusted to you. The land Mr. Z came to take, that smug little bastard with his crisp suits and crocodile grin, calling himself a “nice guy” while casually tossing people off metaphorical—and sometimes literal—ledges.

You had no idea why he was so willing to shoulder your rent, your food, your tuition, your entire fucking life. But deep down, you knew the truth. It was never kindness. Never charity.

It was a game.

A trade.

Your land... or your head.

You stood in the middle of your shitty apartment and tried not to shiver. Not from cold—but from how close you were to snapping. You clutched at the thought like a lifeline. That land. That land was everything. It was the one thing still tying you to your past, to your family, to your sense of self. And losing it?

You would break.

Your hands trembled. Your mind spiraled. A sharp twist of pressure built in your chest, scraping against your ribs like rusted wire. You could feel the insanity curl up your spine like vines—

—until you remembered Sol.

The pressure cracked.

You remembered how Sol tilted his head, how his voice curled around your name like a secret. You remembered his laugh. His eyes. How safe and dangerous he made you feel all at once.

And just like that—you started laughing.

You pressed both palms to your cheeks, barely able to hold your face together, tears streaking down in hot, erratic lines. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp before it broke into messy, shaking laughter.

“FUCK...” You wheezed, half-sobbing. “Fuck, Sol...”

You dropped to your knees, the cracked tile biting into your skin. Your body rocked with hysterical laughter, voice raw.

“Heheheh—ahhh!!” You screamed. “FUCK—HAHAHA—FUCK!!”

You scrambled to your desk like a lunatic possessed, yanking out your sketchpad, markers spilling like blood across the surface. You started to draw him.

Your fingers didn’t stop moving, even as your breath hitched and stuttered, even as you cried harder and harder, smile widening until it hurt.

“Sol,” you whispered between gasps and giggles. “I saw you. I got you. I have you...”

And maybe that was the scariest part.

You weren’t scared anymore.

You were thriving.

You held your thumb, biting down on it like it could muffle the whimpers bubbling up in your throat. One hand clutching the bandages he'd left behind, still faintly smelling like him—like sweat, like warmth, like danger. You crushed them to your chest like a lifeline.

Ah... ahh... It was too much. It wasn’t enough. You wanted more. More of him. More touches. More of that soft, sinful voice that wrapped around you like silk and chains.

Your body rocked forward, a small, broken sigh slipping through clenched teeth as you leaned over your sketchpad. The lines on the paper blurred, not from poor technique—but because your eyes were swimming.

Your hand kept moving. Drawing him. Like your fingers were puppets and his memory was the puppeteer.

"A-ah..." you choked out again, lip trembling but pulled into a wide, cracked smile. Your cheeks ached. Your chest hurt. Your lungs burned. But you didn’t care.

He made you smile. He made you smile.

And that was terrifying. And that was beautiful. And that was real.

You huffed, then giggled—this sharp little exhale that turned into a manic sound that could've been a sob or a laugh or both.

Your face dropped into the crumpled bandages as you whispered,

"Why the fuck do you do this to me..."

And all you could do was draw him again. And again. And again.

You clutched the bandages to your chest, the fabric warm against your trembling skin—soaked with the scent of him, like fire, like ash. There was no relief, no escape from the madness that churned inside your bones, for you had been marked, bound in an invisible thread by a presence both suffocating and sweet.

Your thumb, trembling and pale, bit into your own flesh, the taste of salt and blood a poor attempt to smother the ache rising from within. Each movement was a silent plea, a frantic whisper to make it stop—or to make it drown you completely. Ah… ahh… It was not enough. The hunger within you, the hunger for more—more of him, more of this maddening, intoxicating thing—grew unbearable.

Ah, the drawing! The lines on the paper blurred like forgotten dreams, impossibly distorted through the heat of your fevered mind. You could feel your hand shaking as it moved, guided not by reason, but by a wretched longing to capture something of him that you could not possess. His form, his smile, his scent—how desperately you sought him in this crude reflection.

“Ah…” A sound, a whimper that escaped your lips, twisted between a sob and a laugh, hollow and broken. The act of drawing—was it an attempt at salvation or a cruel ritual that tethered you to your torment? Your chest heaved, and the corners of your lips pulled, stretched into a grin that was not your own. A grin that he had planted deep within you, like a seed of poison that bloomed with every passing thought of him.

The ache in your cheeks, the weariness in your body, could not quench the fevered delight that surged within you. He had made you smile. He had brought you this strange, sickly joy—this thing that cracked your soul wide open and spilled it for the world to see, for the world to consume.

And yet, in the depth of your torment, there was no true horror, no bitter revulsion. Only the strange sweetness that clung to you, like a drug that tasted of ruin. Your heart raced. The laughter spilled from you like a madman's confession, sharp and jagged, the weight of it bearing down on you like a thousand unseen hands. Why? Why did he do this to you?

The question, like all the others, hung in the air, unanswered, abandoned in the void where reason had long ceased to reside.

You wanted to laugh. Ah—ah!!

The sound ripped through your throat like a gasp turned inside out, manic and breathless, dancing the razor-thin line between agony and ecstasy. Your shoulders shook. Your jaw ached. The kind of laugh that bubbles up when you're far too gone to cry. The kind that doesn't ask for permission—it erupts, uninvited, like wildfire through a paper house.

Your fingers twitched, still dragging that pencil over paper like a ritual knife carving holy symbols. His eyes. His mouth. That stupid smirk that made you want to scream and kiss and bleed all at once.

"Ah—ahAHA—!" Your head tipped back. Your knees hit the floor. You clutched your sketchbook like it was a holy relic, like it was the only thing anchoring you to a body you weren’t even sure was yours anymore.

He was there. Not really— But in the lines, the scent, the burn in your lungs as you whispered, “Sol… Sol, you bastard…” A shaky breath. A grin. “What did you do to me?”

You laughed again. You had to.

Because the truth was dripping from your lips like honey-laced venom:

You liked it. You liked this. You liked him.

And that… That was the funniest part of all.

You decided to skip dinner. Again. Your stomach growled like a feral animal, but you ignored it—because food meant risk. Food meant trust. And trust was a noose you weren’t ready to slip around your neck.

You hadn’t even touched the second batch he left you. The first might’ve been drugged. Might’ve been poisoned. Might’ve been laced with something that tasted like care and went down like control.

And Sol... your dear Sol... he’d smile through it all, wouldn’t he? He’d say something sweet with those devil-dipped lips, tilt his head in that soft, curious way, like,

“Don’t you trust me?”

And you’d say yes—even if every fiber of you screamed no. Because the worst part wasn’t the fear. It was the want.

So you didn’t eat. You wrapped yourself in your blankets like armor and pretended to sleep.

Not for rest. Not for peace. But to watch him.

You kept your breathing steady, shallow, perfect. The way your body stilled, the way your lashes fluttered—convincing enough for someone who wanted to believe you were asleep.

You listened. You watched. The way he moved. The way he stood over you, like a god admiring his creation. The way the shadows kissed the curve of his jaw, how he looked down at you with something terrifying and holy in his eyes.

And in that moment, you kissed his bandages. Pressed them to your lips like a prayer, like a confession. They were still faintly warm, carrying the echo of him—his presence, his pain, his claim.

You tucked them away. With your secret stash of photos. The ones you took when he wasn’t looking.

Then, finally, you slid under the covers. Curled up in the dark.

And went to bed.

Still pretending. Still smiling. Still his.

You closed your eyes, but sleep never came. It never could, not with the way your mind thrummed, electric, on edge—waiting. Hoping. Terrified.

And then—the sound.

Clink. The window. Your window. Slight, deliberate. Like the whisper of a knife slipping between ribs.

Your breath caught. Not out of fear—no, that wasn’t it. Not really. It was him.

He’s here.

Your fingers clenched around the pillow like a lifeline, knuckles whitening. You kept your body still, perfectly still, except for the frantic hammering of your heart. Maybe if you focused on pretending, you could convince even your own nerves.

"Hm...? Still broken, huh?" That voice—his voice—low and smug and impossibly soft. It slithered around the room like smoke. "You should be careful, pumpkin..."

You almost bit your tongue holding back the laugh. Fucker. Smug, smug, smug.

You teased him in your heart, biting the inside of your cheek to stay quiet. He thinks you’re asleep. Let him. Let him play his role. He’s more dangerous when he thinks he’s the only actor on the stage. He’s more honest. More him.

You swore you could hear the grin behind that mask of his.

Clad in black from throat to toe, with a mask of matching shade obscuring his face—except those eyes. God, those eyes. Red like a dying sun. Like the first blush of spilled blood. And they were glowing.

Glowing with love. Twisted, possessive, pure.

He moved closer, each step slow, reverent. Like he didn’t want to wake you—like he wanted to devour you whole.

And then—his touch. A single finger, tracing down your cheek.

Gentle. Precise. Claiming.

Your skin tingled. Your breath nearly hitched—but you kept it steady. You had to. Your heart? That traitor was doing backflips in your ribs.

He hovered there, beside you. Watching. Worshiping.

Sol: "Look at my sleepy sweetheart..."

The voice—his voice—slithered through the chamber like a dying hymn, each syllable weighted with a reverence so profound, so profane, it might have been uttered by a mourner at a lover’s grave. His tone was not one of cheer, nor of mirth—it was the tone of a man who beheld divinity in ruin, of a soul cradling its own damnation and whispering sweet nothings to the flame.

You lay still, a corpse feigning sleep, breath shallow, lashes shuttered over trembling pupils. The air hung heavy, cloying, perfumed with rot and roses. You could feel him before you heard him—felt the heat of him as though your body were naught but tinder awaiting the match. And oh, he was fire. A slow, crawling blaze. Not the kind to light a room—but the kind that swallowed it whole.

He stepped closer, and the night moved with him. Clad in black, cloaked in silence, his mask was the color of the abyss, hiding a face carved from longing and lunacy. But his eyes—ah, his eyes—were exposed. Red as a wound. Fever-bright. As if every heartbeat carved poems into his chest, and each stanza bore your name.

Sol: "Makes me wonder who supplies Hyugo those sleeping pills."

He scoffed, low, amused, the sound curling like a grin pressed against your ear. You wanted to scream with laughter—those shitty pills don’t work, Sol, not on me, not when I’m like this. But your mouth was sealed, your jaw locked in some twisted covenant of silence. You could only pretend, could only endure—and ache.

He reached for you. Not as a man reaches for a woman—but as a moth reaches flame. Slow, reverent, inevitable.

The mask fell away.

And then his face—that face—lowered, descending like a ghost of your most debased desires. He leaned in and breathed, breathed, burying his face into the tender hollow of your shoulder. A kiss fell there, light and damning, and the shiver that racked his body was not from cold.

It was need.

He inhaled. A deep, trembling, hungry inhale. And then he shook.

Like a man who had just tasted opium and couldn’t tell whether he was floating or buried alive. You felt it—the quake of his form, the tightening of his fingers, the stuttering hum against your skin. He drew you into his lungs like the scent of rain before the flood. His drug. His madness. His.

Your body burned—your fingers clenching in your pillow, the only tether between you and the scream coiled in your throat. You wanted to moan, to shudder, to call his name with all the madness he inspired in you—but instead, you lay there in martyrdom, in silence, in delirium.

Sol: “Fuck… you smell so good…”

The words were broken glass dipped in honey.

Sol: “Pardon me.”

His lips brushed your cheek, and your soul left your body in a quiet, choking cry that never reached air. Your pulse thundered like cathedral bells during a storm, and still you held on—fingers white-knuckled in fabric, breath held like a secret between two graves.

You were not asleep.

But God, you were dreaming.

And Sol—your blessed, ruined Sol—was the dream that would gut you from the inside out.

Ah—ah! The cry lodged itself inside your throat, thick and trembling, like a hymn unsung, trapped in the cathedral of your body. The ache curled tighter in your chest, wrapping around your ribs like thorns as he leaned closer, ever closer. His shadow loomed over you like a stormcloud starved for lightning. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t dare.

His hand—warm, calloused, trembling—slipped into yours. So slowly. So gently. A reverent act. A prayer disguised as a touch.

And oh, you wanted to squeeze back. To lace your fingers through his and hold him like he held your very breath in his palms. But you couldn’t—you mustn’t. This charade, this silent theatre of sleep, was your only sanctuary. If he knew—if he knew—the spell would shatter, and you would be lost, devoured whole by the flame you've been kissing in secret.

And then, he kissed your neck.

Soft. Tender. Possessive. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. A lightning bolt made of lips and heat. He lingered there, buried in your skin like a whisper that left bruises. And you—helpless, trembling beneath the weight of his love and your own starvation—nearly broke.

Your face. Oh God, your face. You didn’t know what expression had spilled across it, only that it must have betrayed you. Must have shown too much—too alive, too consumed, too awake. Did he see?

He paused.

Sol (in a murmur, sweet and broken): “Look at you… even in sleep, you ache for me.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw your arms around him, to weep into his chest and tell him, yes, yes, I do, I ache, I burn, I’m drowning in you. But your fingers only curled harder into your pillow, bones aching from restraint. He kissed your hand next—tenderly, worshipfully—as if you were porcelain and he was a priest.

Sol: “F-Fuck... you’re so sweet. It’s not fair.”

He laughed then. A low, breathless thing. Not cruel. Not amused. It was the sound of a man who had found heaven in the shape of a sleeping person—and didn’t knowthey were burning alive in their silence.

You could feel your thighs trembling. Your spine was ice and flame. And still you played your part, the sleeping beloved, untouched by the tempest that pressed its lips to your skin and called it mercy.

But in your mind? In your chest? You were already ruined.

And somewhere beneath that blanket, your fingers twitched with the ache to touch, to hold, to moan. But you didn’t.

Not yet.

Sol: “Quite ticklish, aren’t you…”

The words fell from his mouth like sin dipped in honey—gentle, taunting, worshipful. And still, he pressed forward, a man drunk on the sacred altar of your skin.

His mouth returned to that spot—that spot, right where your shoulder met your neck, the very place where your breath hitched like a dying prayer. He kissed, then licked, and kissed again—slowly, deliberately, until the tender flesh bloomed with a feverish red. A mark. A wound. A brand. His.

Sol (low, bitter): “Those filthy scums think they could touch you…”

The softness was gone. In its place—rage, veiled in grief. The sheets beneath his hands crumpled like paper under flame as his fingers curled, trembling. His breathing turned ragged, heavy with possessive anguish.

Sol: “You’re mine. No one else. No one else.”

Each word was a vow.

—each syllable trembled like a blade held to the throat of fate itself.

Sol (a whisper, venom-soft): “You belong to me…”

His voice was not loud. Oh, no. It was a hush—a murmur that crawled beneath your skin and wrapped itself around your spine like a silken garrote. The kind of whisper that could undo kingdoms. The kind that could kill.

His fury did not burn; it smoldered. A low, steady ember in the pit of his chest, threatening to rise, to consume. But not you. Never you. You were the altar at which he knelt—bloodied knees and all.

Sol: “If I ever see those bastards again…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

His hand—gentle now—rose like the tremble of a dreamer in the throes of fever. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, movements reverent, as if you might shatter under anything less than worship. Then he pressed his lips to your forehead, a kiss so delicate it felt like a prayer.

And then—oh gods, and then—his mouth grazed the corner of your lips. Just there. A ghost of a kiss. A promise. A brand.

A shiver tore through him like a tremor through the bones of the earth. His breath hitched, caught between hunger and reverence.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear the sky in half and pull him inside your chest and never let him go.

Your fingers curled deeper into the pillow, the only tether you had left to the lie of sleep.

You wanted to hold him—oh, how you wanted to hold him.

But still you lay there, silent and still, skin alight, nerves screaming, as his breath ghosted over your neck again.

Sol (softer now): “You’re everything…”

He buried his face there again, at the cradle of your throat, where your pulse fluttered like a secret bird beneath your skin.

He kissed it once more. Slow. Possessive.

And you nearly broke.

Your thighs clenched beneath the sheets, your chest ached, and your throat pulsed with the weight of a scream you dared not let out.

Ah—ahhh…

Your heart beat like the wings of a trapped moth—wild, doomed, and so, so in love.

After sometime, he began to put on his mask.

WHAT

NO?

WHY!?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

One hand darted out, fingers closing around his wrist. The other pressed against his chest—his heartbeat kicked hard under your palm, like he’d been caught mid-sin.

He froze.

Not like a man caught in the act. Like a ghost realizing it had been seen.

And then—your lips brushed his neck.

Not gentle. Not asking. A brand. A spark struck to dry leaves.

His breath hitched. Sharp. Audible. His whole body trembled above yours like the strings of a violin pulled tight—too tight.

You felt the heat rise off him in waves.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

He whispered your name like it hurt.

Like a confession, a prayer, a curse.

His eyes—those impossible eyes, red and gold and glassy with disbelief—met yours. Wide. Unmasked. Wounded. Worshipful.

You saw it hit him all at once: you were awake. You had heard him. You had kissed him.

And you weren’t running.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him down, mouth ghosting his jawline now, hot breath against flushed skin. You wanted to drown in the scent of him, the weight of him, the ache in his touch.

He was shaking.

You’d never seen Sol shake.

He opened his mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to apologize—but all that came out was a choked sound. His hands hovered uselessly at your sides, like he didn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart.

Your forehead pressed to his. Skin to skin. No more lies.

And he whispered, barely a sound:

“…don’t leave me.”

You pulled him closer.

Not a word was spoken after that. There didn’t need to be.

That final thread snapped somewhere behind his eyes, the horror and the hunger crashing together in a kaleidoscope of realization. You didn’t forgive him.

You matched him.

“You’re not scared,” he whispered, almost reverently. “You’re not running.”

You laughed softly, cupping his face again like he was something sacred—fragile porcelain wrapped around dynamite. “Scared? Oh, Sol, I ran toward you.”

And he broke.

Right there. That beautiful, quiet little fracture. The air between you both was trembling now—charged like lightning trapped in a jar. You saw his pupils dilate fully, swallowing the gold in his irises like ink in water. His throat bobbed with a shallow swallow, and then—

“You...” he said again, like if he repeated it, maybe you’d finally flinch.

But you just smiled wider. Like a saint. Or a devil.

“I'm not dumb, Darlin!" you whispered, brushing your thumb over his lower lip. “You didn’t notice, did you? That I was baiting you just as much?”

His breath hitched. “You wanted me to—?”

“I wanted to see how far you’d go,” you cut him off, your voice featherlight, yet sharpened to a blade’s edge. “And darling, you exceeded expectations.”

He stared at you, that smug little mask he always wore peeling away at the corners. For the first time, maybe ever, Sol looked like he didn’t know what came next.

But you did.

“You asked me why I don’t hate you,” you said slowly, your lips ghosting just over his again, barely a breath apart. “The truth is…”

You leaned in, pressing your body just close enough that he could feel your heartbeat crashing against his chest like a war drum.

“Actually fuck that! I just love you! So tell me, Sol,” you purred, your voice dipped in sugar and venom, “What the hell are we gonna do with each other?”

He finally moved—only a twitch—but it was everything. His fingers clenched in your shirt, his mouth opened like he was about to confess or damn himself, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You licked the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate. Just enough to make him freeze.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you. , brushing hair back for like a lover, like a goddamn maniac. “You thought you were the monster in this story.”

He choked on a breath.

“But I think I just proved,” you whispered, nose brushing his cheek, “that we’re both wearing the same mask, darling.”

Then, you pulled back just slightly—just enough to meet his eyes. Both of you locked there, staring into something so horrifically perfect, it almost felt holy.

“So…” you said, your voice breathless, trembling with affection and madness, “why don’t we seal it?”

He blinked. “With what…?”

You grinned like the end of the world. “A promise. A kiss. Blood whatever! I don’t really care. Just make it hurt a little, Sol—so I know it’s real.”

You couldn’t help it—you were losing your mind for him. The way Sol looked at you with those eyes—soft, adoring, like he didn’t see the frenzy boiling under your skin. Like he didn’t realize you would ruin everything just to keep him close. Just to have him like this.

And yet.

You leaned in slow, your lips brushing the corners of his mouth again and again—taunting, torturing, giving him nothing but scraps. Little kisses like broken promises. You were so cruel.

He shivered each time, chasing after your mouth like he needed it to breathe. His hands wandered desperately over your back, trying to pull you closer, closer, like he didn’t understand that you’d already crawled inside him—mentally, emotionally, obsessively.

“Hah,” you giggled, that sharp little laugh you gave only when your heart was spiraling. Your voice dipped into something unstable. Sweet. Possessive. “Do you even understand how much it hurt when you kissed everywhere but my lips?” Your breath hitched. Your eyes glistened, wide and glassy. “The corners,” you whispered, like the word itself made you tremble. “You kissed the corners, Sol. Did you know what that did to me?”

You thought he’d be scared. You thought he’d flinch. But instead—

He looked beautiful.

So beautiful you wanted to crush him. Preserve him. Pin him open like a butterfly and say “mine.”

And then, finally—finally, your lips crashed against his. No teasing. No space. Just the kind of kiss that says you belong to me and I’ll break you before I ever let go. You held it, mouths locked together like you could pour your love down his throat.

Only when oxygen clawed at your lungs did you break away, panting.

Sol gasped—so pretty when he gasps—then surged back in. His tongue traced your lower lip, trembling, gentle, desperate. It shocked a breathy sound from your throat, high and too sweet. But your body didn’t hesitate—of course it didn’t.

He tugged you down by the back of your head, pulling you deeper, swallowing every sound you made. You were still on top of him, legs bracketing his hips, his mouth warm and wet and starved for you—just like you were for him.

Tongues tangled. Spit shared. You kissed him like you wanted to carve the memory into your bones. Like your heart would stop if you didn’t.

You shifted your weight to one arm, just enough to free your hand—because you needed to touch him. Not wanted. Needed. Craved it like air. Your fingers ghosted down the front of his shirt, the rough weave scratching delicately against your skin like it was daring you to go further.

But the way he wore it—tucked in all proper, all teasingly inaccessible—almost made you laugh. Was he trying to make you work for it? You didn’t mind. You liked peeling him apart.

Pinching the hem, you tugged the fabric free from his waistband, deliberately slow. Watching him. Waiting to see if he’d stop you. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Your hand slid beneath the shirt, palm pressing flat against the heat of his stomach. His skin twitched under your touch. His breath stuttered—oh, he was trying to hold it in. Cute. That only made you push higher.

Sol let out a shuddering gasp and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath—hot and uneven—brushed against your lips, your cheeks. You drank it in like it was sacred.

Your hand moved higher, fingertips skimming up until they found the firm curve of his pecs. You let your palm settle there, then squeezed—not gently. You wanted to feel him tremble. You wanted him to know it was you who made him weak.

And he did. His fist found your nightwear, fingers curling tight in the fabric, pulling at it like he couldn’t stand the tension building in his chest. His lips parted—but whatever he said was lost in a breathy, strangled sound. Mumbled. Meaningless.

Didn’t matter.

You translated for him. The whimper in his throat. The way his body leaned into your touch, even as it shuddered. You knew exactly what it meant.

He liked it. He liked you.

Your fingers roamed again, tracing every muscle, every dip and ridge like you were memorizing it for the last time. Sometimes you squeezed, just hard enough to watch him flinch—just hard enough to remind him he was yours. Entirely, irrevocably yours.

And he was so good for you. So beautiful, shaking under your touch like that.

God, you loved him.

You’d carve his name into your soul if it meant never losing this feeling.

Sol pulled you in like he couldn’t bear a single molecule of distance. His arms locked tight across your back and waist, holding you as if he was afraid you might vanish, might dissolve in the heat of the moment if he didn’t anchor you.

When his lips met yours, it was anything but gentle. The pressure—his mouth, his arms, his presence—closed around you like a vise. His legs shifted against yours, slotting into place along your sides, and for one brief moment, you thought: He’s letting me drown in him.

And then—without warning—he moved.

Your stomach flipped as Sol rolled you both over in one fluid motion, suddenly slamming you against the mattress with a low thud. You gasped, the breath ripped from your lungs not just by the motion but by the sheer force of him—the way he hovered over you now, the air thick with heat and tension, and something desperate clawing at both your chests.

The kiss had broken—but barely. A thread still tied you together, breath mingling, lips centimeters apart. His eyes remained closed like he was savoring the memory of the kiss… or afraid that if he looked, he’d see regret on your face.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Not when he was above you like this. Not when your body screamed finally, finally, finally.

When he finally let his eyelids flutter open, heavy-lidded and glassy with emotion, he blinked down at you.

And something shifted.

Because that’s when he realized. Realized what he’d done. The position. The weight. The pinning. The overwhelming closeness. And how you weren’t pulling away.

How you were staring up at him like he’d just handed you the entire world.

How your fingers gripped his biceps like they belonged there.

How you wanted more.

“Ehh, Sol,” you muttered, breath still hot and heavy against his lips, “you can actually top.”

He froze. Blinked. You felt the tension ripple through his whole body like a wave crashing—and then retracting.

His face went red.

The kind of blush that climbed from his neck all the way up to his ears, like his body was trying to reboot but the wires got crossed somewhere in his brain. His grip faltered just a bit. His mouth opened—no words.

Oh no.

You ruined it. You ruined the moment.

…Except—you didn’t think so. You thought he was adorable.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, suddenly hit by an overwhelming urge. “You’re so cute I’m gonna die.”

Before he could react, you reached up and squished his cheeks together with both hands, making him pout involuntarily.

“Jesus Christ, look at you! You’re blushing! Over me!”

“Y-Y/N—!”

You giggled. Cackled, actually. Then you leaned up and kissed the tip of his nose like you were branding it, your lips lingering obnoxiously long just to watch his brain implode in real time.

He went stiff. Completely red. Entire systems down. Emotion.exe stopped responding.

Sol.exe has stopped working.

“…You’re not normal,” he mumbled, stunned. But his hands were still on you. And his eyes were soft. And his heart was sprinting.

“And yet you’re still on top of me,” you whispered, eyes gleaming, voice soft but dangerous. “Who’s the real weirdo here, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

Sol’s breath hitched like he’d just been shot—by you, no less, loaded gun of a smile and that kiss to his forehead still echoing in his bones. He clutched at your sides like you were vanishing fog, blinking too fast, lips trembling around syllables that never made it out alive.

“You.. I… you r-really mean—” kiss Another one. Right to his temple this time. Gentle. Grounding. And ruining him.

His face flushed all the way to his ears, blotchy and blooming like a fever dream. Pupils blown wide, chest rising like he was preparing to confess to something unforgivable—or to worship.

And then your eyes dipped down. Your grin twisted. That deranged little sparkle lit behind your lashes.

“Oh... Sol,” you purred like you’d caught a secret. “You’re really…”

He looked mortified. Not from shame—no, shame couldn’t shake a boy like this—it was desperation. He was trying not to die. Trying not to implode right here in front of you.

Your laugh—God, that laugh—shattered the moment like a mirror.

“You’re hard already?” You cooed. “That forehead kiss really did you in, huh?” His hands were trembling now, clutching fabric like he could anchor himself through sheer will.

“I– I didn’t mean— it’s not— you kissed me and I just—!”

“Shhh,” you cut him off, thumb stroking over his cheek. “Even though I wanna take the lead…” Your voice dipped lower, silk wrapping around a blade. “I wanna see what you can do.”

You felt him twitch.

“I’ll have my turn later,” you whispered, almost reverent, almost cruel. “But tonight? Tonight we’re gonna help ourselves to everything. Slowly.” You leaned in close, nose brushing his too..

He exhaled like he’d been gut-punched by God.

His voice was barely there, breathy and wrecked already, like the mere idea of asking might ruin him:

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

God, as if he had to ask.

You leaned in, voice low and honey-slick, almost cruel with how soft it was: “You don’t have to ask.”

And then your hand—slow, deliberate—dragged up the inside of his thigh. You felt the jolt run through him, like a shiver made flesh, hips twitching the tiniest bit under your touch. His breath caught like he’d been holding it all night just for this moment.

He kissed you.

But not shy. Not sweet.

Starved.

It started slow, lips brushing like he was scared you might vanish mid-breath, but then he melted—tongue tracing yours, cautious at first, then bolder, desperate. His hands found your waist, fingers splayed wide, clutching like he needed you to stay real beneath him. You tasted the heat off him, tasted the tension and want and the way he kept breathing your name in pieces between kisses.

Your fingers gripped tighter on his thigh, and he gasped into your mouth, swallowing it back with another kiss, deeper this time, wetter, messier. His tongue moved with a purpose now—slow licks, teasing flicks, a rhythm he built between stolen gasps and muffled whimpers.

He kissed like he’d been dreaming of it for months. Like you were the only god he’d ever pray to again. Like every second without your mouth was a curse undone only by this.

And when you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, your lips swollen and his pupils devouring you whole—

You whispered against his mouth, “Sol… you kiss like you’re gonna die without it.”

He just moaned softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and shook.

Your hand threaded through that wild mane—black with streaks of radioactive green, warm from the heat pooling between you. His hair was soft despite the chaos, falling like ink between your fingers, that middle bang brushing your nose as you tilted his head just right.

You murmured, "Let me see you," and he did—eyes fluttering open, and fuck, they glowed. That twisted sunburst of color: burnt orange at the core, ringed in blood-red. Like staring into the last seconds before a supernova.

Then, oh… oh, you got greedy.

You kissed the spider bites on his lip first—just a soft nip, enough to make him shiver, then soothe it with your tongue. He whimpered, voice cracking like a prayer slipping into sin. Next? That long upside-down cross earring. You took the chain between your teeth and tugged it. A small sound escaped him—half gasp, half please—as your fingers trailed down his neck to his choker.

You nipped that buckle too. Clink. Your teeth caught the edge, and he twitched beneath you, body tense, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice barely hanging on. “You’re—ah—cruel—”

“Oh!!!" you purred, kissing up the line of his jaw, “we’re not even halfway.”

And then came the piercings.

You kissed each of them. Every little stud, hoop, and ring you could get your mouth on. You nipped, licked, and grazed teeth along every piece like they were your own personal playground. You even whispered to each one like they were separate lovers.

Left ear first—lobe stud, then the helix. Your tongue flicked over the metal, and he arched. Right ear next—double helix, slow kisses between them, then one quick bite that made his hips jerk. Then? The necklace—that key. You bit down on it and dragged your mouth up the chain like you were unlocking every inch of him.

And gods, when you finally tugged up his shirt and saw those nipple piercings—

You moaned like you’d found treasure.

“Awh, Sol… these? These are mine now.”

You nipped one with your teeth, and he cried out, thighs clenching, head thrown back so fast it nearly knocked you off-balance.

He was shaking. Writhing. You hadn’t even touched the hard part of him again yet.

And that was the plan.

"You're gonna beg, sweetheart," you whispered, lips brushing the metal again. "One piercing at a time."

You kissed them—slow and savoring. Each nipple ring cool against your lips at first, but that changed fast, your breath warming the metal, your tongue flicking against it just to hear him gasp. The piercings twitched with every flick, every soft suck.

His hands fisted the sheets, hips lifting without permission, a helpless grind into nothing. "Fuck—" he hissed, voice strangled, barely hanging on.

Your tongue circled one of the hoops, slow as sin, before you sucked—deep and filthy, like your mouth had every right to claim it. He whimpered, and the sound was wrecked. Like he was unraveling beneath you.

“Sensitive?” you teased, dragging your teeth along the ring before biting down just enough to make his back arch. “Thought you could handle a little attention.”

You switched sides, letting your mouth trail across his chest, kissing the space between—slow, possessive, like you were mapping him out. When you reached the other piercing, you didn’t wait. You closed your mouth around it and sucked hard, lips tugging until he moaned so pretty for you, like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

One hand stayed on his chest, keeping him steady. The other slid down—slow, slow—to rest just above his waistband. Not touching yet. Not giving—just threatening. Teasing.

"You’re falling apart and I’ve barely even started," you whispered, breath ghosting hot across his chest. "Gonna let me ruin you, Sol?"

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, pupils blown wide, chest heaving under your lips.

So you kissed the ring again—gentler this time, a silent good boy—and smiled against his skin.

"Don’t worry," you murmured, "I’ll take my time."

Your palm hovered just above the heat between you, barely grazing, and still—you felt it. Throbbing. Desperate. So hard it almost ached to look at. Sol’s breath hitched the second your fingers brushed over him, even through the layers. His hips twitched up, chasing the contact like he couldn't help himself anymore.

“I wanna help you,” you breathed, voice thick, trembling. “I wanna make you feel good, Sol…”

His name tasted like devotion and danger on your tongue. Your eyes, glossy and glassy, locked with his—and God, the way he looked back at you, pupils drowned in red and gold, lips parted, flushed and shining from where you'd kissed him raw… He looked like he’d break if you stopped. Like you were the only thing keeping him together.

"Please," he whispered, broken and breathless. “I… I need you…”

You pressed your forehead to his, panting together, your breaths hitching and stuttering in tandem. Two heartbeats pounding in sync, two souls tangled in fever. Your free hand came up to cradle his jaw as your lips ghosted over his—kissing without kissing.

Then you said it. Sweet and deranged, like a promise only you could deliver:

“This night’s for us. We’re gonna do everything, Sol… every slow, messy, perfect thing…”

And your hand slid lower, down, down—ready to show him exactly how much love you had to give.

Your breath hitched—not from the crushing hug (though god, Sol really didn’t know his strength), but from the heat radiating off him. That sound… the unmistakable, slow click of a belt being unbuckled. You froze, blinking up at him as he pulled you even closer, burying his face into your neck, like he was trying to hide the sheer intensity blazing across his flushed skin.

“Y-you don’t have to know everything…” he whispered, voice low, strained, shaky with nerves and want. “I’ll… I’ll teach you. If you’ll let me.”

Then you peeked under the covers—and there it was.

Throbbing.

Your cheeks flushed so fast it felt like a fever. You couldn’t look away. His cock twitched, hard and leaking, resting against the slope of his thigh, flushed so dark it almost looked angry. You swallowed hard, lips parting on a shaky breath as your eyes darted back to his face.

Sol wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely wrecked just from being seen.

“You’re so beautiful like this…” you said before you could even think to be embarrassed.

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

Your hand wrapped around him again—this time softer, a trembling curiosity guiding your touch. Sol gasped, his whole body jolting like you'd struck a nerve, forehead pressing hard against yours as he choked back another moan. His lips hovered just above yours, parted, hungry, desperate.

“D-don’t hold so tight,” he whispered, the breath of it fanning across your cheek, voice raw and pleading. “J-just… yeah. Like that…”

You adjusted instinctively, sliding your palm down the length of him with slow, reverent strokes. The way he reacted—hips twitching, lips falling open with another helpless sound—made your stomach clench with molten need. God, he was beautiful like this. Ruined just by your hands. Yours.

He groaned your name like it was the only word left in his vocabulary, each syllable dripping with devotion. His head tipped back, throat exposed, sweat-slicked skin gleaming in the low light. You couldn’t stop yourself—your lips found the curve of his jaw, then his throat, tasting the salt of his skin as he shuddered under your touch.

Your pace quickened. He was getting louder. So were you.

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t careful. It was consuming. Teeth, tongue, heat. A clash of need and reverence, of wanting to devour and worship at once. You moaned into his mouth..

He cried out your name like it was a prayer and a curse in one—shattered against your hand, clinging to your body like a lifeline, hips stuttering as he finally, finally let go.

Warmth spilled across your clothes, thick and hot, soaking the front of your nightwear..

Both of you froze.

Sol’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, then dropped to the ruined fabric between you. His entire face flushed crimson.

“...Oh f-fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, voice still broken from the high. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

You stared at the mess, then back up at him. Your smile was slow and wicked.

“Well, someone owes me laundry,” you murmured, leaning in to steal a kiss from his swollen lips. He melted into it immediately, pliant and eager, still twitching from the aftershocks.

Then you pulled back just enough to whisper, breath hot against his mouth:

“How are you gonna make it up to me, Sol?”

His eyes widened—then darkened. Hands trembling, he cupped your cheeks, like you were something holy. Something he’d ruin again and again just to worship better the next time.

"I'll....!"

His breath hitched as you tilted your head, offering your neck like an invitation, like a challenge. And Sol? He was never one to back down from a dare—especially not when it tasted like your skin and sounded like your voice moaning his name like sin.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse and reverent. His fingers ghosted down your sides, just shy of where you really wanted them. “You know what happens when you tell me I can start…”

You didn’t answer with words—just arched your hips, smug and wicked, watching his pupils blow wide. That was answer enough.

Sol’s hands moved with a hunger he could barely hide anymore, sliding under your wear to trace the slope of your waist, then curling possessively around your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You tease me like that,” he muttered against your collarbone, lips brushing the heat of your pulse, “and expect me to behave?”

He bit down gently, enough to make you gasp—then soothed the sting with his tongue. Marking you, loving you. He trailed kisses down the side of your neck, slow and messy, until he reached the hollow between your shoulder and throat. He sucked a deep bruise there, then pulled back just to admire his work.

“Mine,” he whispered. “Mine.”

His hands slipped lower—one grounding you by your hip, the other sliding down between your thighs, teasing the waistband like he wanted permission even now. But you’d already handed him the reins. And the rope. And maybe the whole damn chariot.

You gasped when his fingers dipped in—just one at first, slow and gentle, testing. You clenched around him immediately, and his breath caught.

“Oh my god,” he moaned softly, forehead pressing to your shoulder. “You’re already—fuck, you feel so good.”

He didn’t even give you time to catch your breath before the second joined in. His rhythm was deliberate—patient, almost reverent—but the way he curled them? Filthy. Perfect. Designed to make you sing for him.

And sing you did.

Every whimper you gave, every gasp and curse and half-begged Sol, had his cock twitching against your thigh again. But he didn’t rush. Not yet. He was watching you—fixated, obsessed, cataloging every flutter of your lashes, every hitch of your breath, like you were a song he was learning by heart.

“God, you’re so beautiful when you get like this,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “All smug and cocky one second, then falling apart for me the next…”

He kissed your cheek, then your temple, then buried his face against your neck, fingers picking up speed as your hips rocked into his hand.

“I wanna ruin you slow,” he murmured. “I want to. Make you cry out so sweet no one’ll ever look at you again without knowing you’re mine.”

You moaned his name—raw, needy—and that was it. His pace faltered, then grew firmer. Deeper. Devoted.

You could feel the heat coiling tighter in your belly, dragging you under with every curl of his fingers, every dark promise against your skin.

His fingers hovered over your chest, tracing the lines of your body with a slow, deliberate touch. It was almost torturous, the way he teased—lingering, never quite touching where you needed it, like he was savoring the way your body reacted to each brush of his fingertips.

"You feel so good," Sol murmured, eyes dark with desire as they dropped to your chest, his breath hot against your skin. His lips followed the trail his fingers had just left, trailing kisses down the curve of your neck and then across your collarbone, moving lower with each slow exhale.

The pressure on your chest was light at first—barely there, like he was testing the waters—but you knew better than to mistake it for innocence. His touch was possessive, controlled, a slow burn that had you gasping, heart racing.

He grazed over the soft fabric of your shirt, fingertips just brushing your skin, making you crave more. "You like this, don’t you?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, like he was enjoying the power he had over you, the way you melted under his touch.

Without waiting for an answer, Sol's hand slid beneath your shirt, cupping your chest with a possessive pressure. The heat from his palm spread through your body like wildfire. He didn’t hold back, kneading and massaging gently, just enough to make you shiver, to make you ache for more.

He loved the way you responded—so responsive, so eager to give him what he wanted. His thumb brushed over your nipple, once, twice—deliberate, circling, drawing out a whimper from your lips. He smiled at that sound, pressing his chest to yours, the weight of his body only adding to the intensity.

"I won't let an- Not him....Especially him....," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His other hand slid to your thigh, squeezing, giving a subtle push to coax you closer to him.

"Y/n.."

You gasped, your chest rising sharply with each breath as his touch became more insistent, more demanding. Each stroke sent a shiver down your spine, and you could feel your body responding, tightening, yearning for more of his hands, his touch.

Sol’s mouth found yours again, messy and desperate, and he groaned into your lips as his hands kept working you over, feeling every inch of you like he couldn't get enough. His fingers were all over you now, pulling at your shirt, tugging it off with impatient desperation.

Sol’s hands roamed over your body, the facade you’d been holding onto—your smug control—started to slip, thread by thread. His touch was unrelenting, driving you closer to the edge, pulling out the needy parts of you that you usually kept buried beneath layers of deflection.

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid down to the sensitive spot on your inner thigh, the heat radiating from his touch setting your skin ablaze. You tried to hold it together, tried to keep your usual cool, but it was becoming harder and harder with each passing second. His teasing was pushing you past the point of control.

“Sol...” Your voice came out breathless, softer than you meant it to be, a desperate plea slipping from your lips before you could catch it.

He paused, just for a moment, his fingers hovering on your skin as he looked up at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn’t that cocky smirk you were used to—it was softer, almost knowing. Like he could finally see through you, see that all that smugness you’d been holding onto was just a shell.

“Are you finally gonna let go?” he whispered, his voice laced with something far more tender than you expected, despite the hunger in his eyes. “You need me, don’t you?”

You tried to bite back a moan, tried to hold onto the last shreds of your defiance, but it was impossible. The need was there—aching, overwhelming, raw—and you couldn’t hide it anymore. You gave him a look that was no longer playful or mocking. It was pleading, exposed, a silent surrender.

“I do,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. “I need you.”

Sol’s breath caught, the realization dawning on him as he saw the shift in you—how you were no longer in control, no longer the one who was teasing and taking what you wanted. Now, you were the one needing, the one falling apart in his hands. His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw the raw intensity of his desire match yours.

“I need you, too,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with something deeper than lust—something possessive, something real. His hand moved again, more urgently now, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

The shift in the air was palpable now, the balance of power changing in the space between you. He was no longer just teasing you—he was giving you what you craved, just as you had given him everything he wanted. Your walls were gone, shattered by the intensity of his touch, and now all that was left was the raw need you both shared.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear with a sinful sort of gentleness. “I said I was gonna go in,” Sol murmured, voice thick with promise—and before you could even gasp out a “Wait—”

—his fingers pushed in.

The sudden stretch made you jolt, hips instinctively jerking forward into his hand. The gasp that left your throat was half surprise, half moan, and your fingers clenched tight around the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t stop—no, he curled them slow, deliberate, like he was already memorizing the shape of you, the way you reacted, every twitch and breath and tremble. You bit your lip, but that smug composure you wore so well? Gone. Utterly demolished.

Sol noticed. Oh, he noticed. And he looked so smug about it.

"Thought you were the one teasing me," he whispered, kissing your jaw, his fingers moving with aching patience. "But you're already falling apart on me, Pumpkin."

You tried to glare. You really did. But all that came out was a whimper as he added a second finger, your body tightening around him, breath coming in short, shaky bursts.

“You're...!” he murmured, dragging his lips down your neck, tongue teasing the skin before he bit down just hard enough to leave a mark. “I'm making you feel like this. No one will ever...!”

Your head tipped back against the pillow, overwhelmed—by the heat, the stretch, him. Your legs fell open just a little more without thinking, hips starting to rock in slow, desperate rhythm against his hand.

"You're clenching so tight, Pumpkin." he muttered, mouth brushing your ear again, "Like you don’t wanna let me go. Like your body knows it’s mine.”

You let out something between a curse and a plea, and Sol—bless his sinful heart—just chuckled low in his throat, fingers working deeper, stroking just right.

His cock pressed against your sex, hot and heavy, his other hand still between your thighs—fingers slick with everything you gave him. His breath stuttered, voice low and wrecked as he leaned in, lips ghosting over yours.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he murmured. “So damn warm around my fingers… can only imagine how good you’ll feel around this.”

Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails leaving faint trails as your body trembled under the weight of him. You barely had a second to respond before—

He pushed in.

Slow, relentless, deep—filling you with every inch, drawing a strangled sound from your throat as your forehead dropped to his shoulder. The stretch had your whole body clenching, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the way every nerve lit up under his touch.

“F-fuck,” Sol hissed into your neck, voice thick with awe. “You take me so well… like you were made for me.”

That did something to you. Your whole body reacted—pulling him in closer, tighter—and he groaned, caught between control and desperation. One hand slid up your chest, teasing and playing with every sensitive spot he could find, making your hips rock helplessly into his.

He started to move. Slow at first—deliberate, dragging each thrust out to feel every inch of you shudder around him. You couldn’t pretend anymore. The smug mask you wore had shattered, replaced by whimpers and gasps and the way your nails bit into his skin.

And he was drinking it all in. Obsessed. Devoted.

He kissed you again—hot and hungry, his tongue slipping against yours, coaxing more of those beautiful sounds from your lips. He needed them. Needed you.

“Too much—ah! S-Sol…!” you choked out, barely holding onto words as your body arched into him, trembling and raw with every overwhelming sensation.

His rhythm faltered, just for a breath, and his gaze flicked up to meet yours—concern and lust tangled in those deep, dark eyes.

“Wanna be on top this time?” he rasped, voice soft but hoarse with need. “You can set the pace... take what you need.”

You tried to nod, but the moment you moved, your limbs faltered. You were boneless, wrecked, trembling from the aftershocks still rolling through your nerves. “I… I-I—” you tried, but the words melted against your tongue, leaving you breathless and aching.

He kissed you. Slow and reverent. A kiss that tasted like yes.

You shifted, trying to reposition yourself with what little strength you had left—but your body shivered from the stretch, the heat, the sheer intensity of him still buried inside you.

“Hey, hey…” Sol whispered, arms catching you gently. “Let me help you, pumpkin.”

He guided your hips with a care that almost made you cry—like you were something precious, like he could fall apart just watching you fall apart. The moment you finally sank down on him again, your back bowed, a sharp cry slipping from your lips as your hand flew to your mouth—biting into your thumb and nail just to ground yourself.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching your reaction like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “You feel incredible... Look at you.”

Your breath stuttered. His hands cradled your waist, steadying you, but you could feel his restraint unraveling with every passing second.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathed. “You’re perfect like this. Want me to move with you? Or… just let you take what you want?”

You swallowed hard, still biting your thumb, unable to answer—so you just rocked your hips experimentally, and shuddered when the sensation ripped through you like lightning.

Your moan came out shattered.

And Sol?

He looked like he’d die happily just to hear that sound again.

Your forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, lips brushing over the sensitive skin there as you tried—tried—to move.

He held you close, arms wrapped tight around your back like he could fuse you to him, breathing heavy and ragged against your shoulder. “You okay?” he murmured, his voice low and trembling.

You nodded against his neck. “Y-Yeah, I just—” You shifted your hips, slow and shaky, but even that made your breath hitch and your legs quiver. The overstimulation hit like a wave, rolling up your spine and curling your toes.

Then again. Just one more push. Just one more move.

Your thighs shook. You bit your lip. Everything felt too good, too much, and it made your muscles jelly.

“Shit,” you hissed, nails digging into his back. “What’s… wrong with me?” You half-laughed, half-whimpered, breath catching in your throat. “Why am I so—why are you so damn deep?”

Sol’s arms tightened around you instantly, and you felt it—the way his breath stuttered, the way his heart slammed in his chest right against yours. That wicked, warm chuckle rumbled through him.

“Guess I just fit you too well,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Or maybe you’re just that gone for me, huh?”

You whimpered, biting your knuckle again. He tilted your head back gently, nose brushing yours, voice thick with a mix of awe and filth.

“You’re not broken,” he said, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “You’re just so full of me you don’t know what to do. Let me help.”

And before you could protest—he rolled his hips up into you.

Slow. Smooth. Deep.

“Guess I’ll have to help a little,” Sol murmured against your ear, voice honey-slick and low.

His hands moved to steady your hips, fingers splayed wide as he guided you slowly—gently—down again. Your breath hitched hard, every nerve flaring as you sank into the heat of him. He was already shaking, just from watching you fall apart above him.

“You’re really trembling inside,” he groaned, awe and reverence tangled in his voice. “Pumpkin… I never thought we’d be doing this. Not like this. Not so—” His voice cracked as he looked up at you. “So close.”

You tried to say something back, but all you could do was whimper, your voice lost somewhere between need and disbelief. Your face was burning, your whole body flushed from the inside out.

And Sol saw it—every flicker of emotion, every twitch of your lips, every clench of your fingers in his hair.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “Your face right now…” He looked wrecked. Adoring. “I wanna satisfy you more. Make you fall apart again. And again. Until that smug little mask drops for good.”

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your fingers curling in the sheets. Sol met you halfway, hands still guiding you, breath syncing with yours as the rhythm built between you like a secret language only your bodies could speak.

n Sol’s eyes—something darker, more needy than you’d seen before. His hands were still guiding you, but they were trembling now, almost desperately, as if he was afraid you might slip away from him. His chest rose and fell with each strained breath, and his gaze never left your face, burning with intensity.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice rougher than before. “I can feel every inch of you. Your heart, your breath, your body... I can’t get enough of it.”

His lips brushed against your throat, hot and possessive, as if marking you, claiming you with each kiss. It was almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, like he was driven by something more than lust—need. You could feel it in the way his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, urging you deeper. His lips trailed along your jaw, desperate but gentle, like he was savoring every second of this.

“Don’t... don’t pull away,” Sol gasped, his voice low, strained. “I need you... I need you with me. Don’t go anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. He kissed you again, his touch becoming more urgent, more possessive, until you could feel the weight of his emotions crashing into you—raw, unfiltered, as if he were willing to burn everything just to keep you here.

And in that moment, you realized: it wasn’t just his body that he was offering—it was his soul, his vulnerability, his fear of losing you.

His words were barely a whisper against your skin: “You’re mine, right? You’re not going anywhere...”

"Sol... shit, I—" Your voice cracked on the edge of a gasp, spine arching helplessly into his touch. "I’ve never been so—so greedy... I need more..."

Your words were barely coherent, trembling out of you like confessions in the dark. You clung to him, breath hitching with every aching movement. Your whole body felt too hot, too sensitive, too full—like one more touch would shatter you completely.

And Sol, sweet Sol, was smiling down at you with a look so tender it hurt. His fingers were still working you open, slowly, lovingly, obsessively—his other hand cradling your cheek as if you might break. You looked up and—fuck—you were gone.

“Hey, Y/N,” he whispered, voice syrup-sweet, eyes glittering with something deranged and soft all at once. “Look at me.”

You did—and instantly regretted it, because those eyes—those spiraling, impossible eyes—locked you in place. That inner ring of burning orange, surrounded by crimson-red, swallowed you whole. Your breath caught. You couldn't look away if you tried.

“Swear to me,” he murmured, his voice suddenly trembling at the edges. “Swear you’ll stay with me. Always. I need to hear you say it.”

“I—I’ll stay,” you gasped, lips brushing against his. “I’ll stay w-with you, Sol—Sol!! AHHH—!”

Your words broke off in a cry as another wave hit, tearing through your body. His name was the only thing left on your tongue. Your thoughts dissolved completely, leaving behind only raw need and that voice—his voice—telling you how good you were, how much he wanted you, how much he needed you to stay.

Sol kissed your cheek, then your neck, then your lips again, all while whispering like a man possessed: “That’s right. Mine. You’re mine, pumpkin... forever.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you, and you could feel his heartbeat hammering against yours—wild, unhinged, terrified in its own way.

No one had ever held you like that. No one had ever wanted you like that.

Sol started to move—slow at first, like he was savoring the moment, savoring you. Every shift of his hips sent another shock of heat through your already overwhelmed body, and you couldn’t stop the gasps that tumbled from your lips, couldn’t hold back the broken whimpers as the pleasure spiraled way past what you thought you could take.

You were barely conscious of your own voice—just helpless, dazed sounds between half-finished words, desperate declarations tumbling from your mouth like confessions in a fever dream.

“C-can’t... can’t think—ah, Sol—! I wanna stay—I belong to you—!”

Those words snapped something inside him.

He froze for half a second—just one—but his breath hitched, his grip on you tightening as if he was anchoring himself in your heat, your need, your truth

His eyes were wide, glassy with something raw—something shattering. And then he moved again, with more force, more need, like your words had sunk straight into the core of him and detonated.

"Say it again," Sol gasped, voice cracking like his heart was too full, too fragile. "Say you belong to me—"

You couldn’t even speak. Your body was trembling, helpless in his arms, your face pressed to the crook of his neck as he held you like he’d never let go. All you could manage was a choked, breathless whimper of his name, and that was enough. Too much.

He kissed the side of your face like he was praying. Like you were sacred. Like he'd break if he ever lost you.

"You’re mine," he whispered hoarsely, a promise and a plea. “You’re mine and I’m yours and—gods, I don’t care if this world burns, just stay with me.”

You tried to nod—tried to respond—but the waves crashing through your body stole everything. Your breath. Your thoughts. Even your strength. You could only cling, nails digging into the fabric on his back as your body arched into his, as he moved faster, deeper into whatever bond had fused your souls together.

Sol was unraveling. You could feel it—every sound he made, every tremble in his voice, every desperate grind of his hips said the same thing:

"I love you. I need you. I can’t lose you."

And just when it felt like your world would collapse from the inside out—

He buried his face against your neck, gasping raggedly. "Y/N—!!" His voice cracked as he reached his peak, breath hitching, movements slowing into deep, shaking pulses. You felt him fall apart around you, within you, every bit of that obsessive love spilling out in every broken whisper and trembling kiss.

And even in the aftermath—panting, sweaty, and trembling in his arms—you knew:

This wasn’t just need.

It was devotion. It was possession. It was love—sharp-edged, overwhelming, maybe even dangerous.

You didn’t even know when it shifted—when your legs were pushed back, when his weight settled over you like a storm you couldn’t escape, didn’t want to. Sol’s hands gripped under your knees, spreading you open with a reverence that burned. His gaze locked to yours, wild and worshipping, like he could see straight into your marrow and wanted to carve his name into every inch of it.

"Look at me," he panted, voice low and ragged. "I need you to feel how much I want you—how much I need you. Like this. Always like this."

Then he sank back in.

Deep. Full. Unyielding.

You cried out, fingers scrambling at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch, the impossible closeness. His body caged yours, chest pressed flush to yours, his mouth kissing your tears away even as he wrecked you with every thrust—slow at first, almost reverent.

But it didn’t stay slow.

He snapped his hips forward, hard, fast—desperate.

The sound of skin on skin echoed, lewd and dizzying, your broken moans swallowed by his kiss. His arms trembled with restraint, but his pace never stopped, hips grinding in deep with every stroke like he was trying to brand himself into your bones.

“I can feel you,” he gasped against your mouth. “Clenching around me like you were made for me—like you belong to me.”

Your body gave no answer, only a choked sob of pleasure that made his pupils blow wide, made his control unravel at the seams. He hooked your thighs tighter around his waist, angling himself just right until stars exploded behind your eyes.

And when you cried out his name again, broken and raw and holy, Sol lost it.

He slammed into you with a grunt, forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling as he moved faster, harder, chasing something that felt more like a fall than a climax. “That’s it—take it, take all of me—”

You were shaking, overstimulated and breathless, but he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. His rhythm turned erratic, deeper, needier, like every thrust was a vow:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

And then he shattered.

With a strangled cry, he drove in to the hilt and came undone—his entire body trembling, hips twitching with every pulse of release, his face buried in your neck as he chanted your name like a lifeline.

“Y/N… Y/N—fuck, I love you—I love you so much I can’t—can’t breathe without you—”

You held him as tightly as you could, every part of you aching, humming, complete. He stayed buried deep inside you, wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go, like pulling out would unravel everything.

And maybe it would.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was him giving you everything.

His obsession. His madness. His love.

And in that dazed, dizzied haze, as your body trembled in the aftermath and his heart thundered against yours, one thing was clear:

You were never getting out of this.

And gods help you…

You didn’t want to.

You didn’t even get a moment to breathe.

Sol was still inside you, still trembling from his high, but his mouth was already moving again—soft kisses, scattered like devotion across your jaw, your cheek, your lips. And then, without a word, he rolled his hips.

Slow. Deep. Heavy.

Your body jolted. A strangled sound caught in your throat, half-moan, half-beg, but it never made it past your lips—because he kissed you.

Hard. Messy. Desperate.

Tongue claiming, teeth grazing, swallowing every ruined sound you tried to make. You couldn’t even gasp. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was feel—his hips grinding into yours again, filling you to the hilt, his body somehow more feverish, more hungry than before.

“You can take it,” he breathed between kisses, voice dark and reverent, wrecked by love and lust and something far too raw to name. “You’re perfect—gods, you feel so perfect like this. So full of me.”

Your nails dragged down his back, helpless, overstimulated, trembling from how much you needed him, even as your body screamed from the intensity. He moved deeper, slower this time but with that same unbearable pressure—like he wanted to melt into you, fuse your bodies until there was no more him or you, just us.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, even as his hips rocked into you again. “I can’t stop. I should—but I can’t. Not when you’re like this. Not when you feel like—like home.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, reverent, lips dragging over yours like he could taste your soul on your tongue. You whimpered against him, tried to speak, to moan—but the pleasure was too much, the fullness too overwhelming. All you could do was sob softly into his mouth as he started to move faster, desperate for another high, another chance to lose himself in you.

“You’re mine,” he breathed against your lips, fucking you through the aftershocks, through the haze, through the surrender. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Sh-shit—Sol—wait—!” you choked, but your voice cracked on a sob as his hips pounded into yours again, no room to think, no room to breathe, just the sound of slick, obscene rhythm and your own whimpers catching in your throat.

You tried to push at his chest, not really meaning it, just needing something to hold onto—but he only groaned, low and wrecked, and leaned down to kiss you—soft, almost sweet, completely at odds with the way he was driving into you like a man possessed.

“Just a little more,” he panted into your mouth. “Just a little more,Pumpkin—come on, stay with me.”

You couldn’t. Your back arched, legs trembling, pleasure shattering through you again so fast it knocked the breath from your lungs. You moaned something—his name, maybe? A plea?—but it was swallowed by the way he bit down gently on your neck, groaning against your skin like he was trying not to lose himself too fast.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasped, still thrusting, still holding you so sweetly, like you were precious even as he ruined you. “We’re gonna be together, okay? From now on. Just us.”

He licked over the bite he left, kissed your cheek, and kept going—slower, now, but so deep, like he was trying to carve himself inside you permanently.

“We’ll eat good food. We’ll be happy. You won’t need anyone else, Y/N,” he murmured, voice shaking with something more than lust. “You’re mine. I’m yours. No one—no one will love you like I do.”

You stared up at him, dazed, lips parted to respond but all that came out was a soft, broken cry as your body clenched around him again.

He smiled, so soft, eyes wide and in love and unhinged.

“And you won’t love anyone like you love me. Right?” he whispered.

You tried to say yes—tried to breathe it, to nod, anything—but your body betrayed you, trembling and writhing beneath him, lost in the feeling of him pushing in, pulling out, fucking that question into you like he needed the answer etched into your bones.

And he took it as a yes.

He kissed your temple, lips brushing the sweat-slick skin like a promise.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “No one else. Just us.”

His name tore from your lips in a gasp, and with one last, deep thrust, he came—hard, pulsing inside you, shaking as if he'd just been brought to the edge of some abyss.

His body tensed, fingers digging into your skin as he gripped you close, holding you like his very existence depended on you being there—on being his. He buried his face against your neck, leaving soft, ragged kisses as his breath hitched in the aftermath, his body trembling with exhaustion and still needing more.

You could feel him inside you, warm and spent, but there was no relief—not really. You weren’t sure where he ended and you began, the line blurred by the way your bodies intertwined, by the way he held you so tight, so desperate, as if there was nothing left for him to hold onto except you.

He whispered your name, broken and raw, so tender despite everything.

“You... you’re mine. I’ll keep you safe. Keep you close. Never let you go,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and shaky.

Your mind was a haze, thoughts swimming as you struggled to gather yourself, but he kept you there, pressed against him, unable to move, unable to break free from the pull he had on you.

“I love you. I need you,” he said softly, his voice cracking on the last word.

And then, as if the intensity of what had just happened wasn’t enough to bring him to his breaking point, he pulled you even closer, his lips brushing your ear.

Sol’s grin was like a damn sunbeam, glowing with something that was all devotion and satisfaction, his chest still rising and falling quickly as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, like he couldn’t get close enough to you. The moment was everything to him—the sweet aftermath, where the world felt soft, and all he could do was hold you and drown in how good you made him feel.

You were too dazed to speak, too lost in the warmth of his body against yours, the softness of his breath on your skin.

His lips were gentle as they pressed against the sensitive spots of your neck, leaving kisses so soft, so loving, it almost felt like worship. He pulled you in closer, not letting you go, even though you couldn’t form a coherent thought at the moment.

“You did so good, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice still thick with need but now touched with tenderness. “So, so good. I’m so proud of you.”

He said it like it was a sacred truth. His words melted into your skin, every word a claim, a reminder that you were his—and he wasn’t letting you forget it.

His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you tighter, his grip firm but with an underlying softness that only spoke to how deeply he cared. He tucked you against his chest, his heart still beating hard against you, as if it couldn’t slow down just yet.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice muffled and full of warmth. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, Y/N. I’ve got you.”

You felt like you might melt into him, his warmth spreading through you, his kisses and soft reassurances so grounding you couldn’t help but sink into the safety of his embrace. There was a sweetness to him now—clingy but in the most affectionate, secure way—as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

He wasn’t letting go. Not now, not ever. And you couldn’t deny how right it felt to be so completely his.

You could barely keep your eyes open, the world spinning and your body so spent from the intensity of everything that had just happened—but something inside you snapped.

The laughter bubbled up, low and deranged, escaping your lips before you could even think twice about it. It was manic, almost delirious, but it was real. You were feeling it—feeling him, feeling that wild, crazy need to take control now, to flip the script just a little.

Sol, his face still buried in the crook of your neck, froze for a moment. His breath hitched as he pulled back slightly, eyes wide and glowing with that possessive hunger, that unshakable devotion.

“What… what are you—?” he started, but you silenced him with your eyes.

You could barely keep yourself together, but there was fire in your chest. You were done being so lost in him, done just lying there while he took the reins. No, this time, you were going to show him.

“I wanna take control too,” you muttered, voice raw, the grin pulling at your lips almost feral. “This isn’t over yet, Sol. Night’s ours. Let’s love each other too much, okay?”

His eyes widened, pupils dilated, the grin curling on his lips as he tilted his head slightly. He was shocked—and yet, the way his hand slid over your side, the way his thumb brushed against your skin, made it clear: he loved it.

“Fuck, Y/N… you think you can handle me?” His voice was low, teasing, but that gleam in his eyes said something else entirely—something darker, something like he was ready for you to burn everything down with him.

His arms were still tight around you, but now, it was almost like he was daring you. Daring you to take the reins and lead him somewhere new, somewhere he was all in for.

You woke up, your body still humming with the aftershocks of last night. But something was... different. You looked around, confusion clouding your mind for a moment—until your gaze fell on the pretty man beside you. The one who had stolen your breath away with his wild, captivating energy.

Sol.

His hair—black with those electric green streaks—looked even more striking in the soft light of morning. It cascaded in a half-up-half-down style, those bangs framing his face in a way that made his eyes even more arresting. His irises—oh, gods—those hues of orange and crimson, like they could see right through you, like they were made to entrap you.

You couldn't look away. Even as he lay there, peaceful, so effortlessly beautiful in his sleep, you found yourself staring, not even caring if it was a little unsettling. He was yours now. You couldn’t stop the way your heart raced at the thought.

You reached out and gently patted his head, your fingers grazing the strands of his hair, feeling the soft texture. It was almost too much, too perfect, too real. And just like that, those vivid eyes blinked open, meeting yours with that sleepy confusion, before they sharpened and narrowed, those mesmerizing eyes locking onto yours.

"Good morning, Sol..." you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips as your pulse quickened. You had to explain. You had to claim him.

"We need to take a bath... Y’know?" Your voice was light, teasing even, but underneath was something darker, a promise of what was to come.

For a moment, Sol stayed silent, his gaze steady, those eyes studying you. There was something about the way he looked at you now—it was almost like he was waiting for you to confirm what this was, what you were. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You held him gently by the face, your fingers brushing against his skin, before pulling him closer, locking eyes with him as if you were both trapped in this moment. This love.

“This isn’t a dream,” you murmured, voice turning darker, more twisted. “We’re together now, Sol. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Forever.”

Your smile, deranged, yandere-like, spread across your face as you whispered it again, your hands gripping his face more firmly now.

“I love you. I love you so much, Sol,” you confessed, the words leaving your lips like a vow. Your voice was almost manic, desperate. "No one else could ever love you like I do. No one can have you but me. You're mine—body, soul, everything. And I'll never let you go."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, his breath mingling with yours, and you wanted to savor every second of it. The world outside—irrelevant. All that mattered was that Sol was here with you. And you were never letting him leave.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, your breath shaky, heart thudding in your chest.

"You're mine, Sol. Always. Forever. And there's no way out, is there?"

You managed to hobble to the bathroom with Sol’s help, giggling the whole way like you weren’t on the verge of collapsing. He bathed you both gently, sweetly, as if you were glass he’d cracked with his love last night and was now trying to piece back together. His touches were reverent, every kiss to your shoulder like a whispered apology and a promise.

And then—he said it.

“Let’s skip university today.”

You blinked at him.

"Together?"

He grinned, still wet from the bath, towel hanging low on his hips, eyes sparkling like he’d won the damn lottery. “Yeah. Let’s just... be us. Just for today.”

You could’ve cried. But instead you nodded and muttered something like, “Okay... only if you make curry.”

That made him laugh. A full, warm laugh, like you hadn’t completely shattered him the night before with how much you loved him.

Later, he was at the stove, humming while the smell of spicy, warm curry filled the air. You tried to help. Really, you did. But when you tried to stand—

“Ah—!” you winced, collapsing right back onto the futon, legs still jelly.

“Hey—hey, hey!” Sol rushed over, panic rising. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, grinning way too wide. “Can’t walk because you... you know.”

His face flushed a deep crimson, but he didn’t deny it.

Then, as he was stirring the curry, his voice came soft. Too soft.

"...Did you look after me too?..I mean"

Your grin widened—slow, almost foxlike.

You raised your hand and pointed to the cupboard in the corner. Sol tilted his head in confusion, then padded over.

When he opened it...

Silence.

He stared.

There, in a neat but deeply unhinged box, were dozens of photos of him. Drawings—some accurate, some bordering on manic. His used bandages. Pieces of fabric from his worn clothes. The one with a heart drawn around his face in red marker. Oh. And the other side?

Your notes.

Obsessive, stalker-style notes. Favorite foods, times he left campus, places he sat when he was sad, one particular napkin , Multiple drawings of him "Y/N + Sol 4ever" scrawled beneath.

His hands trembled as he picked up a drawing of himself you did from memory—wildly off-proportion, but filled with adoration. The kind of adoration that could turn a person feral.

You tilted your head and asked sweetly, “Why’re you red, Sol?”

He didn’t answer.

He collapsed.

Like, full-on faceplant.

“SOL?!” You scrambled (as best you could) over to him, panic blooming. “SOL ARE YOU OKAY?! BREATHE, BREATHE—OH GODS I BROKE YOU—”

You pulled him into your lap, frantically patting his cheeks as his body shuddered, somewhere between laughter and a panic attack. His face buried in your chest as you whispered urgently, “You’re mine, Sol. Don’t break. I can’t fix you if you break—!”

But Sol just let out a breathy, dazed laugh.

“I—I was the-” he muttered, staring blankly at your shrine box. “I thought I was the insane one. I thought I was obsessed. But you—you—”

You grinned, cradling his face, nose touching his. “You love me, right?”

He blinked at you, dazed. “Yes—of course—”

“Good.” You kissed his forehead. “Because You loved me first. I’ll love you forever. And if you ever leave me, I’ll carve your name into my skin and haunt you!”

He just stared. Still red. Still broken.

Still so yours.

And somewhere in the kitchen, the curry began to burn. But neither of you cared.

[puck-luck]

change-up | luke hughes

warnings: unprotected p in v, creampie, oral f!receiving, multiple orgasms, squirting, dirty talk, praise praise praise, fingering & masturbation, references to prior & future hookups, hookup culture, TW: hinge😩, mentions of size difference pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader summary: “because of how shy luke was when he first met reader, she thinks that he’s going to be inexperienced in bed and she‘ll to have to take the lead..but really lukey absolutely ruins her”, “could I please request luke Hughes smut where he loves being so much bigger than you”, “LOVEEDD the luke hughes one def write more dom stuff” wc: 4382

“Do you, maybe, want to go back to mine?” Luke asks quietly, his lips a mere nudge against the shell of your ear. Even in the loud bar, his voice cuts through the chatter like a flash of light. 

You’d only met Luke earlier that night, a Hinge date gone right for you and your best friend. When Luke had invited you out to the bar he was at with some of his teammates, your best friend had jumped to point out that this could be your Kylie Kelce moment– you had to go and meet your Jason, even though Luke didn’t resemble the football player at all. Not that you minded.

You consider his words– Luke’s arm is thrown over your shoulder comfortably. His body is warm against yours. He’s been pretty shy all night, quiet enough that you felt like you had to control the conversation, but while Luke was in the bathroom, one of his buddies had revealed that that was normal for Luke. He was a quiet boy around new people– it didn’t mean he didn’t like you.

Clearly, it didn’t mean he didn’t like you. If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t be inviting you back to his apartment. You’re not a fool. You know what that means. 

Regardless, you agree. “Sure,” you say with a smile. 

Luke returns the smile, leaning over you to gesture towards the bartender. He closes his tab, which houses both his and your drinks. You each had only had two drinks, so you’re feeling tipsy, but not drunk enough to stop what’s about to happen.

Once Luke has closed out, he guides you to his car and opens the door in a gentlemanly way for you. The ride to his home is silent save for the country music playing from the radio. Luke’s hand rests on your knee, a weight that has you squirming.

As shy as he is, you’ve come to realize that Luke’s love language is easily physical touch. He’s been sweet when he speaks with you, and he paid for all of your drinks, which kept words of affirmation and gift giving in the running for a while, but he’s kept a hand on you all night. 

He had seemed hesitant to do so, playing it safe by touching your arm or your knee or your shoulder. When you hadn’t shrugged him off, but rather presented him with a smile and a lean into his heat, Luke had become more sure with it.

You don’t know anything about his sex life or how experienced or inexperienced he is, but you expect that you’ll have to do the same thing in bed. You’ll have to reassure him that yes, you actually want to do this, and you actually like this. He’ll want to make sure he’s being good for you, because he’s the sweetest, but if you’re honest, you’re a little disappointed that you’ll have to take the lead.

One of the reasons why you had matched with Luke on Hinge, aside from how cute he was, was that he looked like an athlete. You’ve always been someone who likes to be overpowered a bit, liking someone bigger than you, and Luke looked like he could throw you around easily. You wanted him to do so, but that just doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards tonight, and you can accept that. You’ll hook up with someone else who will toss you around eventually– but Luke is too pretty and too kind to pass up.

When he pulls into the garage and parks, Luke rounds the car and opens your door for you. He leads you by the hand into his apartment. Your purse slips down your arm and, once inside the apartment, Luke takes it from you and hangs it on a hook near his front door. 

The apartment is still dark and you find yourself distracted trying to look at his furniture through the shadows. Giving up, you turn back to face Luke with a smile on your face. 

Shockingly, he’s already moving toward you. 

Luke pushes you against the wall, his hands on your hips. He’s kissing you, swallowing your noise of surprise. You’re frozen against him for just a moment, caught off guard by his insistent movements and confident grip on your sides. You melt into his touch when his presence finally registers, the catalyst being Luke’s fingers shifting to tug at the belt loops on your jeans. You place your forearms on his shoulders, crossing your wrists behind his head. 

Luke pulls your hips against his, pressing into you with his growing length. He’s leaning over you, causing your shoulders and head to rest against the wall while your back and hips arch into him. Smoothly, he steps forward and moves one of his hands so he’s bracketing your head. 

His tongue flexes when he enters your mouth, his muscle sliding against your own. You melt even further against him, moaning against his lips. You sag against the wall and Luke’s strong hands catch you, holding you upright. 

His fingers roam along your skin, eventually resting on the swell of your ass. He squeezes your cheeks harshly, grunting in appreciation as your bottom fills his large hands. Luke lifts you up and you wrap your legs around his waist, sitting prettily with your clothed core barely brushing his cock. You grind down against him, and Luke’s mouth curves in a smile, lips still touching your own. 

“Eager,” he mumbles, sounding smug. 

“Happily surprised,” you correct, words muffled and interrupted by your kisses. “I thought you’d be shy.”

“Mm, not when we’re alone,” Luke hums, holding you with one hand around your waist. He starts to march down the dark hallway, pushing open his bedroom door with a bang. “Not when I’m so close to getting what I want.”

Luke gently lays you on his bed, hands splayed across your back. He’s still kissing you, adamant and consistent. Now, he’s got gravity on his side. His body is covering your own, trapping you against the soft mattress. A soft curse leaves your mouth, filling Luke’s. You’re sharing the air between yourselves, aching for the other person.

“What do you want?” You ask, one of your hands finding his curls and toying with the strands. 

Luke groans, parting from you to nuzzle against your neck as you continue to scratch against his scalp. He mouths over your neck messily, his tongue painting your skin like long brush strokes across a canvas. 

“Want to mark you up,” Luke mutters, nipping at your neck. He sucks the fleshy skin at the base of your neck between your clavicles. “I want you to remember this night.”

You moan, curling a hand along his collar and pulling at the t-shirt adorning his body in an entirely unnecessary way, in your opinion. You expose his collarbone, sharp and smooth all at once, but you don’t get to reap the rewards. 

Luke instead just chuckles and bats your hand away, capturing it in his own. He presses your wrist into the mattress above your head, exposing you further. “I want to make sure you think about me for weeks.” Luke feeds the promise to you with a swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip and a tiny nibble along the same path. “That every time you get yourself off, you think about how my fingers would be better than your own, or that my cock would fill you better than any toy you own, or any other boy you find.”

You knew that this would be a hook-up sort of thing, nothing more serious because Luke’s Hinge profile clearly stated he wasn’t looking for anything long term, but his possessive tone fuels a fire in you that has you whining and tugging his hair.

He shifts your hand to join the other, his fingers gripping both of your wrists while his other hand starts to explore your body. He dances over the curves of your breasts, along your elongated stomach. Your ribs are prominent and your stomach is flatter with your back against the bed– and Luke touches your skin like you’re precious to him. For a first night together, you already feel so seen. 

After caressing your skin, Luke pulls your shirt up and bundles the fabric near the base of your neck, revealing your little lacy bralette to him. He licks along the band, going from your neck down the V of your chest, then back up to your other shoulder. You watch his nose bump against your curves and your jaw slackens a bit with the possibilities that are running through your head.

You’d give anything to get his mouth on your clit, already swollen and pulsing with faux-lightning shocks from each of Luke’s touches. 

“Eat me out,” you say, a push in the right direction. Boys like when girls speak their mind, right?

Luke stills, his lips hovering above your sternum. You watch him smirk, then resume his kissing, sweet wet pecks marking the space where your breasts meet. “Lost your manners?” He finally asks, pulling away from your body to remove your shirt. He leaves it tangled along your wrist, wrapping it a few times and tucking the end into the band of your watch to secure the fabric in place.

You pout petulantly and Luke slides off the bed, kneeling between your legs that are bent over the side of the bed. He runs a finger along the seam of your jeans, taking extra care to rub his knuckle over your clothed entrance. You keen and he draws his hand up, resting it on your mound with his thumb stationary and heavy against your clit.

“Baby, I want to,” Luke assures you, his thumb lifting up and patting your clit a few times, causing you to jolt. “But I can’t until you ask me nicely.” He starts to rub your clothed clit, up and down in slow movements. He’s peering up at you with wide eyes, blinking like he’s innocent even though he’s driving you crazy.

“Please?” You try, your voice a little squeaky. 

A tiny smile on his face, Luke tilts his head at you. “You can do better than that,” he says, shifting forward to plant a kiss where his thumb rested. “Give it a second try.”

“Please eat me out, Luke,” you say, putting another pout on your face for good measure.

“Better,” Luke teases, trailing off. He reaches for your zipper, dragging it down. He inches the denim down your legs, revealing the panties that you’re practically soaking with your slick. They match your bralette– a purposeful decision that doesn’t do unnoticed by Luke. He thumbs over your clit again, then dips lower to flick over the wet spot staining the fabric. “Keep going. I want you to beg.”

He removes your pants with a kiss to the inside of your knee. His hands move to your thighs, feeling up the skin, keeping you warm in the chilled apartment. His breath passes over your core as he switches sides and you ache for him. It breaks the floodgates and you give him exactly what he wants, falling into that submissive role you’re able to fill so well.

“I need to feel your mouth on me, Luke. I know it’ll be so good– I know you’ll make me feel so good. Fuck, Luke, I want to come on your tongue. Taste me, please, please fuck me with your tongue.”

Luke’s crooked grin returns, his teeth peeking out from behind his lips and glinting at you. “Such dirty words for such a pretty girl,” he teases, but he hooks his fingers along the crotch of your panties and tugs them to the side, revealing your wet folds. He flexes his tongue, pointing it into a solid spear that he uses to spread your lower lips and locate your entrance. “Let’s see how fast I can make you come,” Luke murmurs before diving in and lathering your clit in a wet kiss. 

He pushes your legs apart, using his strong hands to pin your hips to the bed and keep them there. You want to wiggle out from under him and grind against his face, but Luke forces you to relinquish control with his size and strength.

It’s just what you wanted. Whining and tugging at the fabric around your wrists (easily removable, although you choose not to do so), you relax against the mattress and let Luke have his way with you.

He loves it, eating you out like he could do this for hours, like he could die happy between your leg. He’s moaning against you and massaging praise into your skin, all while licking every inch of your cunt. He fucks his tongue into you, he spits along your folds and watches the saliva drip down the crack of your behind before scooping it back up with his tongue and closing his lips around your clit. He leaves you wetter and wetter each time he pulls away, admiring his handiwork from a distance with a slack jaw before locating his next target and assaulting it with his tongue and gentle scrapes of his teeth. The first time he swept his bottom teeth against your clit, you flinched, but it quickly became a moan for more.

You’ve always been a glutton, addicted to toeing the line between pleasure and pain. 

It surprises you that Luke is the same way– although he would prefer to inflict the sensation than receive it. You align perfectly.

The sharp press of his tongue inside you draws a litany of noises from your mouth and it reinvigorates Luke’s efforts, with him flicking the muscle as far as he can within your cunt. He clutches at your skin, reaching under you to envelop both of your ass cheeks in his palms and lift your pussy to meet his face. There’s no room for reprieve, no space between you, and Luke is bullying your core with inconsistent nudges of his nose to your clit. 

“Luke, my clit,” you beg, chest heaving with how badly you yearn for your release. “Please.”

“You can come without that,” Luke replies, licking over the bundle once in consolation before returning to your hole, where you’re leaking fluids. Slick, saliva, and your impending orgasm all find their way onto Luke’s tongue, running down his chin and moistening the bed beneath you. You can feel the sheets growing wet beneath you, but you don’t care. Luke is making you feel even better than you imagined he would. 

You come over his tongue with a series of moans, bringing your still-tied hands down to his hair and tugging at his locks. Luke flicks over clit with quick kitten licks, only stopping when you’re crying out from oversensitivity

Luke kisses up your body, capturing your nipples between his lips over the lace fabric of your bralette, leaving the peaks pointed and cold when his mouth travels further north. 

He brings his lips to yours, ravishing the plush curves until they’re red and bruised. All the while, Luke mumbles praises to you until they blur together and you’re arching your back to feel his torso against yours again.

“You wanna go again?” Luke checks, nibbling on your bottom lip. “Ready to give me another one?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, nodding and knocking your nose against his. He leans in and gives you a proper Eskimo kiss before pecking you one last time. 

Luke uses his strong hands to maneuver you the way he wants– chest pressed into the bed, ass pulled up and flush with his groin as he kneels behind you. He snaps the band of your bralette against your shoulderblade, then kneads the skin of your hips. 

“Close your eyes, babydoll,” Luke commands in a gentle voice. “I want you to feel this, just focus on feeling me.”

He rolls his hips against your behind, his cock still clothed but poking at the fabric like it’s trying to find its mark and sink into your heat. He pulls you against him and you wiggle your hips, obeying his command and closing your eyes. Your t-shirt fell from your wrists during the repositioning, so you clutch freely at the pillow under your head with one hand and hold your breast with the other. You squeeze the skin, moaning at the pleasure.

Luke brings your attention back to him with a sharp spank, making you yelp and clench down with both of your hands, scrambling for something to ground you. Luke chuckles and spanks you again, harder this time and on your other cheek. 

“Can’t wait to see this ass bounce,” Luke announces, smirking obviously even though you can’t see it. “I’m gonna make sure it’s pretty and pink while I fill your pussy up.”

If your eyes weren’t shut, they’d be rolling in your head at his words. You’re helpless, reduced to a moaning mess beneath Luke. 

You had no idea that the night would turn out like this, having fully expected to push him down and ride him until he came inside of you because he just couldn’t take the pleasure any longer. The tables have turned– now you’re the one leaking beneath him, your hole spread open from his thorough meal and positively waiting for him.

Luke disappears from behind you to remove his shorts, you assume. You keep your eyes closed and you hold your position, hoping your obedience will result in a reward. 

His voice washes over you, warming you like he’s still draped over your shoulder back at the bar. 

“Keep yourself full for me while I grab something, eh?” Luke asks, a prodding question that you’re scrambling to fulfill before he can even finish his sentence. 

Your middle two fingers slide into your hole, a wet squelch pushing a breath of a laugh out of Luke from his distance. You grind against the heel of your hand, spreading your knees for more leverage. 

“Good girl,” Luke coos, making his way back onto the bed. He’s behind you once again, naked, and you wish you could open your eyes and sneak a peek at his cock. You want to see how well endowed he is, feeling him brush against your thigh before a line of spit drips down your crack and crawls toward your hole. 

You fuck yourself on your fingers, hips rocking back. There are whimpers and whines filling the room, sounding needy and desperate for more, and it takes you a minute to realize that the words are muffled into the pillow, falling from your mouth. Biting down on the pillow to silence yourself, you curl your fingers inside yourself, hoping to reach your g-spot. In this position, you fall just short.

Luke’s index finger traces over the valley of your fingers, nearing your entrance. He’s silent, his moves calculated, and his index finger presses into you. He joins your middle and ring finger, his index finger reaching your insides in a way that has you keening. You can feel his fingertips against your nailbeds, then Luke wiggles his finger in further. 

You feel like you actually drip onto the bed when he pets over your g-spot, the spot that you couldn’t find on your own. Your knees are wide and your hips are slowly coming lower and lower. Your body is defaulting to the position in which you’ve gotten off so many times– hips flush against the bed, clit rubbing against your palm as you clench down on your own fingers. 

Luke uses his knee to bring your ass back up to its previous height, swatting at your flesh when you let out a complaint at the loss. Your clit is feeling neglected, practically calling out for pleasure, but the feeling of your fingers– and Luke’s– inside you is too good to take away.

So Luke does it for you. He removes his finger from your heat and digs under your knuckles, removing your digits from their wet home. The loss of contact comes with a devastating empty feeling and Luke soothes you with a cooed praise when you express your discontent. 

He solves the problem by slapping his thick cockhead against your open hole, resting it there until you’re squirming against him and pleas are leaving you with increasing intensity and higher pitch.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” Luke murmurs, pinching your skin as a reprimand. “You’ve been so good, listening to me so well. I’m going to reward you, don’t worry. Let me take care of you.”

He inches his cock inside your pussy achingly slow. You can feel every inch of him, every vein rubbing against your walls. You can feel the precum leaking from his slit and mixing with your own wetness. His tip finally nudges at your cervix, kissing the opening with another blurt of precum, and you ache for Luke to fill you up. You wish you were facing him so that he could drop a line of spit onto your tongue in a similar way.

When Luke starts to move, drawing himself out of you then forcing his way back in, all images disappear from your mind. His cock is all you can focus on– the warmth, how it’s pulsing inside of you, how it’s stretching your hole even though you had three fingers inside of it just minutes ago. 

Luke is consistent, fucking into you with hard and sure thrusts that leave you moaning. A puddle of drool is pooling on the pillow and your mouth is nearly constantly open, your tongue dry and breaths ragged. Your noises continue in their high-pitched tone, spurring Luke on. He pounds your pussy, ruining it for everyone else. 

Luke was right. You’d be thinking about him for weeks to come. 

He has you shrieking with each slap to your ass, the skin growing hot and becoming more red with each swat. You had no idea that you could be so loud in bed– you’ve normally got a handle on yourself. Normally, you’re not so wet that each thrust results in a pornographic sound of skin meeting skin. 

Luke is in a league all of his own.

“So tight,” he groans. “‘M gonna come, baby.”

“Come in me,” you beg. “Fuck, Luke, come in me.”

“I will,” he promises. “I want you to come first.”

Your abdomen is tight, burning with the need to release. You feel like you could explode and the thought pops into your head– you’d never been able to before, not with another man nor when fucking yourself, but you bet you could squirt now.

“Can I touch?” You ask, desperate. “Please, wanna touch my clit. Wanna come for you. Wanna be good. Please, Luke, tell me I can.”

“Go on,” he encourages. “Let me feel you.”

It’s like an out of body experience. You have control of your hands, but your fingers feel foreign as they find your clit and start to rub frantic circles over the bundle. Your chest is snug against the bedsheets. You spread your legs even further, needing the space to keep yourself open and feel even wider. Luke notices and loops a hand under your thigh, lifting the leg and holding it up. He’s able to keep you balanced, able to keep you steady as your fingers slide over your dripping cunt.

His grunts and moans spur you on, your back arching. His tip finds your g-spot and abuses it, knocking the air out of you with each bump.

“Luke,” you whine, his name elongated on your tongue.

“I’m here, baby, let go.”

He’s reassuring and calm, so sure behind you and panting. He drapes himself over your back, kissing behind your ear. 

It’s the smooth brush of his lips that sends you over the edge. Your vision, already black, turns into a staticky void that you fall down like you’re skydiving. 

Luke is your parachute, fucking you through the spray of your orgasm and releasing his own seed inside of you. He fills you up with his warmth, fucking you until you’re sagging on the bed and breathing hard, barely able to move. Luke drags his cock out of your cunt and brings some of his come with it, although he promptly plugs you with his fingers and a kiss once he’s turned you over onto your back. 

His fingers are mostly still inside you, slowly pumping in and out in a way that isn’t meant to derive pleasure. He simply wants to feel you. His kisses are soft and sweet, soothing you and bringing you back down to Earth. 

Eventually, you regain control of your limbs. You shift one of your legs over Luke’s hips and cuddle close to him, rolling your hips against his finger. Your tongue slides against his, tasting your first orgasm on his lips. 

The moment dies slowly. You’re both tired, ready to sleep. Luke draws his fingers out of your entrance, pecking your lips one last time. 

“Go pee, baby,” he tells you. “You’re not getting a UTI on my account. I’ll get some PJs for you while you’re gone, then we can take a shower in the morning after I serve you some breakfast in bed.”

“Mmm,” you hum, beaming. You lean up to kiss Luke again. “How’d you get so good at aftercare? Lots of experience?”

“Just want to make sure you’re satisfied,” Luke replies, fondly smiling at you when you roll away and patter towards his ensuite bathroom. He laughs a little as you cringe, the mixture of come seeping out of your hole and dripping down your thighs.

“How about I take a quick shower now and we’ll discuss that breakfast in bed when I’m done?” You tease, already pulling back his shower curtain and turning the nozzles to find your optimum heat. 

“Don’t pee in my shower,” Luke calls, pushing the covers off the bed and gathering the wet sheets to throw in the wash. He’ll put new sheets on the bed while you’re cleaning yourself.

“I’m not!” You deny, affronted. “How dare you assume such a thing?”

The last thing you hear before stepping into Luke’s shower is his cheeky, throaty laugh. You fail to bite back the smile that comes with it.

[itheunknown]

odi et amo - (01) all i had

negelected! meta! reader x platonic! batfam

masterlist / prev / next

(TW) : emotional neglect, self-destructive behaviour, self-harm, suicide, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, underage smoking, underage drinking, alcohol abuse, bpd, depictions of mental illness, violence, trauma, ...

the wind was howling.

your bag felt heavy on your shoulders as you brisked through the night, flickering street lights as your only source of light. your phone died a while back, but it's fine since you knew every nook and cranny of the route from your workplace back to your aunt's apartment. 

you've had a pretty shitty day so far: customers yelling in your face about things out of your control, your bicycle getting stolen (again) rendering you having to travel back on foot, and on top of that, you have exams coming up this week.

all you could let out was a tired sigh while trying to revise the material under your breath.

just as you're about to turn the knob of the apartment door, looking forward to finally getting some sleep before having to drag yourself to school that starts in a few hours, the door swings open violently and you stumble back, startled. the sight of your aunt gripping the door while holding a broken bottle greets you as she stands there with an unsettling and wild look in her eyes, her tone final.

“get in the car, now.”

sitting in gotham’s police department with the background noise feels distant, everything is incoherent, too much noise, too much light, just too much.

you feel hollow.

can’t wrap your head around the series of events that had just occurred, alternating between gnawing your lips and picking your fingers, the chatter zoned in and out as you just sat there, not knowing what was to come.

you don’t know how long you've sat there while the police were making phone calls and running through their data records of you after taking multiple different samples 2 days ago in order to decide where they should toss you to next. you’ve been placed under watch just so they could make sure there were no complications from the injuries you sustained, practically living in the station. it wasn’t that bad, the GCPD was well-insulated, safe, and you’re given food to eat for free (not that you can taste anything). it’s much better than being left to fend for yourself in the streets.

you know you should be planning on what to do next, but your brain feels like tv static, nothing making sense. you had worked so hard despite the circumstances you were in, tried to make the best out of the shitty cards dealt. you weren’t happy, but you were in control, you had a plan. work hard, save up, get a degree and move the fuck out of this godforsaken city. start over.

staring at the ground, a pair of shoes enters your vision.

“your labs came back, we got your DNA results.”

this was not what you had in mind.

you’ve never been in a car this luxurious before. the man who introduced himself as alfred, the wayne’s family butler, your father's butler, was seated in the front driving to your supposed new home. you stare outside, gaze unfocused, arms cradling your backpack close to your chest - your entire life in it: your school supplies and a few other personal items, while the rest remains at your aunt’s apartment - that is currently taped off by police and under investigation. eyes trained on the passing view outside, you feel bad for alfred who’s tried to strike up conversation to get to know you, but you couldn't find it in yourself to elaborate on your short responses. you hope he doesn’t take it too personally.

before you knew it, the car rolled to a stop outside the wayne manor. grabbing your bag, you trail behind the butler, the feeling of dread suddenly consumes your entire being.

“i do apologize for the absence of master bruce, young miss. i’m certain if he weren’t caught up with this current case, you would've received a personal welcome from your father himself", he gave you an apologetic smile.

you nodded in response, not really processing his words despite the tiny feeling of disappointment felt as you step foot into the grand yet empty manor. your presence a stark contrast to the fancy room you've entered.

however, you do look forward to seeing your new family: your father and siblings that alfred mentioned in brief, insisting for you to get to know them yourself while singing them high praises.

maybe this was the start over you needed. maybe you'll finally know what it's like to be loved.

you should've known then.

expectations only lead to disappointment.

you're tired, so very tired.

you're done.

nothing feels worth it anymore.

you don't have it in you to continue.

feet dangling off the crumbling abandoned building, you feel oddly at peace. everything is quiet. everything feels right, no responsibilities, no burdens, no more. you've decided.

for once in your life, you feel assured, this is the most optimal solution.

for once in your life, you're looking forward to something.

death must be so peaceful, lay buried within the earth, surrounded by silence. no yesterday, no today, no tomorrow. forget time, forgive life.

you'd be no more.

the wind is howling.

you stand up, staring down the steep drop. standing tall, unafraid, certain.

everything was quiet.

you're ready.

you shuffle closer to the edge, one foot hovering off as you will your other foot to do the same, fighting against your body's survival instinct. you're finally doing something for yourself.

"that's a big drop."

you stumble forward in surprise, nearly falling off until a hand grabs the back of your shirt, pulling you back further from the edge. you're stunned speechless, turning to see the source of the whistling voice.

"that's pretty ballsy of you, kid, i gotta admit."

this is embarrassing.

still unable to form any response, you let out a strangled noise in return as he let go of your shirt.

why the hell is one of gotham’s vigilante here.

an uncomfortable silence ensues, you don't know what to say, occasionally glancing up at the masked vigilante while you shifted your weight from one foot to another, feeling awkward.

just as you're about to try and weasel your way out of the situation, he beats you to it.

"nice spot! how'd you even get in?"

he asks casually while stretching and looking around. you don't know what to say.

"it's a still a weekday tomorrow , don't you have school? your parents must be worried you're out here."

your aunt is still waiting for you to return with your half of the pay for the rent. you have an assignment due tomorrow that's worth 10% of your final grade. there's nothing to look forward to.

"...i guess?"

now, you're uncertain, not knowing whether he genuinely didn't understand the implications of your actions or trying to lighten the severity of the situation.

he's uncertain.

he doesn't know how to approach this. he's never had to deal with this before.

you can tell by the strained smile and tensed posture that he also doesn't know what to do. somehow, you appreciate it. the situation is somewhat amusing now that you think about it. one of gotham's most dedicated vigilante standing in an abandoned building trying his best to stop a nobody from ending their insignificant life.

you almost let out a chuckle.

the vigilante bends down to pick up your discarded bag that was tossed to the side, handing it to you. you mumble your thanks, grabbing it and swinging it over your shoulders.

hesitantly, he places his hand on your much smaller frame. his voice warm and soft.

"go home. i'm sure someone is waiting for you."

you've waited for a year.

surrounded by the four walls of your assigned bedroom in the more cold, desolated part in the manor. you didn’t really mind, this arrangement was a blessing in disguise as it turned out, or maybe this arrangement was what turned you into the person you’ve become.

you don’t think you’re a great person, but you weren’t bad either, so you don’t understand why no one in the wayne manor would give you their time of day. sure, you were never reduced to begging for life necessities and having to bust your ass off at some sketchy restaurant working under legal age, while also balancing school work - this was objectively a far better environment for a person to live in compared to when you lived with your aunt. 

but was it wrong to want to be noticed by your own family? against your better judgement, you dared to hope.

you hoped to feel the warmth and care of what being tied by blood could grant. you hoped for an embrace, you hoped for company, you hoped for compassion, you hoped for connection. you hope and hope and hope, all you did was hope, until your memory was mostly filled with what you hoped, until you finally understood you were with them yet you were alone.

you had no place in their life.

just like the day you first arrived, bruce wayne, your father, was always busy. a persona to upkeep in the public eye, an enterprise to maintain, and his children to look after, to be a worthy role model.

but not you, never you.

despite alfred’s effort in trying to arrange for you two to get to know each other in the first week, there was never time. you were trying to wrap your head around the drastic changes that happened, from the procedures of transferring  schools, collecting what little belongings you had from the police station after the investigation, and quitting your job. meanwhile, bruce was still busy chasing leads to his case, determined that he was close to solving whatever it was. it took another week for you to stand in front of bruce’s door, wanting to formally introduce yourself and express your gratitude for taking you in, even if he was legally obligated to. when you finally saw him, you dared to hope. standing in front of you was your father, someone who shared your features. you see him, you see yourself. 

you could never forget the look in his eyes.

it was clear he had no idea who your mother was, but it was fine, you didn’t know her either. your desire to get to know him was not returned. was this what having a father is meant to be like? he couldn’t care less about you. all he did was run you through the ground rules of the house, who to go to if you were to request something, to inform him if you needed anything.

you needed him to look at you.

tim drake was the next person you encountered, your slightly older brother. you hoped that with the proximity in age, it would be easier to connect to him. however, it always seemed like he was preoccupied with something more important, he could not even be bothered to pretend to show interest when you had introduced yourself. you felt small, both in the figurative and literal sense. he was undoubtedly intelligent and talented. you’ve seen the way bruce look at him, actually hold a conversation with him. he was deserving, nothing you could measure to. bruce actually looked at him.

why does nobody look at you?

then you ran into jason todd. to your knowledge, he does not primarily reside within the manor anymore, which would explain why you haven’t really seen him around at all. it doesn’t explain why your first encounter with him was assuming a burglar had snuck in through the window at 3 in the morning. you had nearly dropped your cup of coffee, hearing a brief commentary on how there was another caffeine addict in the house before leaving the kitchen with you still holding your breath in shock. you can’t form a solid opinion on him since you barely see him.

in stark contrast, you had met richard grayson, or dick. the ever sweetest and most amazing older brother that any younger sibling would dream to have. you do too, seeing how much of a brother he was to the other members of the house, but not to you.

never to you.

you’d like to blame him for blindly hoping for things to be different, with his empty promises when he accidentally runs into you while on his search for someone else, and small talk when he’s waiting for something. you catch your father’s appreciative glances towards him sometimes, when dick helps out with managing your siblings.

especially damian al ghul, your half-brother. you were excited to have a younger blood sibling, not that the others were any less important to you, but merely for the delusion that blood could bring you together.

blood meant nothing.

damian was introduced after you were brought in, and his last name was promptly changed into wayne. your encounter was different from the others, him being the only one that sought you out first. again, you had hoped. trying to hide your excitement, you had mistakenly thought he was different from the others, your flesh and blood. 

it’s all the same.

damian had berated your existence, bringing up how you were so unworthy of being a wayne you had yet to receive your father’s last name. you stood there listening to everything he had to say. your flesh and blood.

you admired his strong personality and ability to assert what he wanted. you were complete opposites. it’s no surprise that that’s why he was worthy of the last name.he ended up being the one who had interacted with you the most, even if it was mostly him bullying you. secretly, you held him dear, seeing resemblance between damian and your aunt. he was your flesh and blood.

cassandra cain was yet another sibling you falsely assumed having something in common would bring you two closer. but at this point, you no longer had it in you to put effort in forming a connection with anyone else, worn down by the countless times you’ve been casted aside. 

you remain in the shadows, watching them carry on their daily lives, watched the life you had desperately wanted to be part of but found it impossible. you don’t belong with them, you don’t belong anywhere.

their silence made you feel forgettable.

do you even exist if no one remembers you?

the wind is howling.

and so are the voices.

i don't think im a good story teller since i mostly wrote analytical essays ^^' hopefully it makes sense like who let them (me) cook?? likes and reblogs are appreciated!!

(TAGLIST) lmk if you'd like to be added to the taglist :heh:

@confused-they @hoeinthehouse @heartjwonie @strwberryglass

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

WHAT MAKES A WOMAN.

PAIRING — bucky barnes x f!reader

CONTENTS — ficlet; fluff; slight angst; established relationship; body image issues [tw: hysterectomies]; self-indulgent to the max.

SUMMARY — When your relationship with Bucky begins to progress physically, you decide to divulge some very personal information.

WORD COUNT — 1.3k

NOTES — so i struggled with whether or not to repost this due to its unique and potentially triggering subject matter, but what the hell. experiences like mine should be told. and i want you all to know you’re beautiful :3 yes, you! 🫵🏻 i will accept no notes on this <3

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

Of course, you don’t need to tell him anything.

The relationship is still so new, and it isn't like Bucky would be able to tell—could he? You can probably take this little secret of yours to the grave and it likely wouldn’t affect your relationship whatsoever.

But Bucky isn’t like any of the other men you’ve been with. He’s sweet and kind and so very loving, even if he doesn’t often get the chance to show it. And whether you’re out in the field together or back at home safe and sound, you do trust him completely.

Your rational brain knows he, of all people, would never treat you as something less than. Your irrational side, the part of you that has been disappointed time and time again, paints a different picture.

What if, just like your exes, he finds you repulsive after he learns what’s bothering you? What if he withdraws, tosses you aside like some days old garbage?

You hate it. You hate the part of you that doubts him, that is so full of doubt and fear despite the fact that you’ve fought aliens and mad titans.

But you have a policy of always being honest and upfront with your partners. At the time you had the procedure done, you didn’t think your medical history would be a big deal. These things happened, couldn’t be helped, and it didn’t change your lifestyle or overall health—in fact, your quality of life has improved dramatically since.

Regardless, the very necessary hysterectomy you’d gotten left you without all the parts that, according to some people, made you a woman.

Your ex-boyfriend actually recoiled when you told him, a decision you made just as things were getting serious between you. You thought you’d nip it in the bud in case the topics of marriage or children ever came up, considering you wanted neither of those things and the latter was no longer physically possible for you.

He couldn’t see past the health complications you would’ve had to live with if you hadn’t gotten it done. He accused you of lying to him, insisted you’d somehow betrayed him, and clearly didn’t understand what a hysterectomy actually was no matter how much you tried to explain it to him.

If you’d told him before you’d ever been intimate, he was audacious enough to confess out loud, he never would have touched you in the first place.

You never felt so undesirable and so ugly in your entire life. You ran back to the compound after the breakup and straight into Natasha’s arms, who didn’t ask any prying questions but made promises of revenge, torture, and murder.

You resolved to never date again. You swore off men and decided to throw yourself into your career. You did have a pretty good one, after all. What more did you need?

Well, him.

Bucky won you over the very first day you met, looking every bit as tense and anxious as you felt whenever you walked into a crowded room. You somehow plucked up the courage to walk over and introduce yourself, welcome him to the team.

He turned away from Sam and Steve at the sound of your voice, the scowl melting off his face and turning into something else entirely as he almost dropped his beer. With your quick reflexes, you managed to catch it before it shattered on the floor, handing it back to him with a small smile.

“Sorry, thanks,” he mumbled, eyes locked onto yours as he clumsily took back his drink. “I’m—beautiful, you’re so—Bucky.”

“I’m sorry?” You asked, still grinning.

“I mean—I’m Bucky,” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head as he took your hand and shook it, still flustered. Steve and Sam, however, exchanged a look that said they would never let him live this down.

What followed was a slow but sweet courtship. Bucky was evidently a fan of taking things slow, which you didn’t mind at all. You liked that he was a little old-fashioned, always buying you flowers, holding out his arm for you to take as you walked down the street to the restaurant where he’d made reservations. He calls you “sweetheart”, and he always kisses you like it’s the very last time.

A dream come true, that man is. With your ex, you understood you just so happened to pick a particularly bad apple out of the whole orchard; the asshole was just one guy. Not everyone would feel the way he did, and you know Bucky would never say or do anything to make you feel bad about yourself.

Your own brain, on the other hand? He’s going to think you’re disgusting. He’s going to break your damn heart and you won’t survive.

And to make matters worse, lately, he can’t seem to keep his hands off you. Bucky grows bolder each day, steadily moving past all the sweet smiles and coy glances across briefing rooms. One time, you were even caught feverishly making out in a supply closet by a mortified-looking Pepper Potts. You couldn’t bear to look her in the eye for days.

But because Bucky pays attention, observes much more than he speaks, he can tell you’re holding something back. Even as he’s got you in his room, straddling his lap while the two of you kiss like a pair of hormonal teenagers, his hands relentless and seemingly roaming everywhere all at once, he can tell you’re distracted.

He’s not always an angel, because he plays dirty. He pleads for you to tell him what’s wrong, to spill your heart in soft hushed tones, his lips planting sweet kisses along the curve of your jaw.

You confess embarrassingly quickly for an intelligence agent who’s been trained to withstand literal torture. You turn away from him in shame as you tell him about the surgery; you don’t have a reproductive system, you no longer menstruate, and you’re technically in menopause.

You need hormone replacement therapy, and you cannot ever have children. By some people’s standards, you are incomplete and always will be.

You move to leave, to retreat from his piercing stare, but Bucky winds his arms around you. He hooks a finger under your chin and gently turns you back to face him. His eyes soften at the sight of your watery ones and he kisses you again, chastely, sweetly, this time.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t really care what parts you do or don’t have,” and again with those magical hands of his, he sets out to prove it to you.

They cup the sides of your face with reverence, one cool thumb caressing your kiss swollen lips. They then slowly begin their descend down your neck, ghosting over your chest, and smoothing down your belly, drawing soft lines toward your pelvis.

“Do you care that I can only ever hold you with one good arm?”

Your heart cracks at that thought. “No, I—!”

“You’re so beautiful. You don’t even know, do you?” Bucky then proceeds to ravish every part of your body with his sweet yet sinful mouth, leaving literally no inch of skin unkissed, only pulling back when he’s left his mark. “Thought you were a goddess the first time I saw you.”

“Oh, stop it,” you scoff, your cheeks warm, your arms curling around his shoulders.

“Still have my suspicions, actually,” he grins before grabbing your hips to flip you onto your back, swallowing your startled yelp with another searing kiss. Bucky doesn’t give you time to catch your breath before he’s tugging your clothes off, making you laugh at how eager he is, and tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

You feel exposed and vulnerable underneath him, but when you look up he only looks back at you with adoring eyes.

“I promise, sweetheart, you look all woman from where I’m standing.”

FIN.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[emmyrosee]

tw // jokes about being tied up, jokes about "kidnapping," all for the sake of comedy. no kiyoomis were harmed in the making of this post ❤️

-----

“I have a plan.”

Kiyoomi chuckles softly as his thumb continues to scroll through his phone, the other gently rubbing back and forth over your shoulder. Your legs are tossed over his lap, arms around him, while his free arm encases you in a loving, safe hug.

Silence fills the room, a lightness to the air that only comes from your sacred time together, time where there’s no Miya barking in his ear, or Bokuto excitedly yelling. Time where your own boss isn’t in your mind, time where your thoughts are only filled with each other and only each other.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my plan?” You ask.

He shakes his head and juts out his lower lip in thought, “nah. No, I’m good with just lettin’ you think.” When you reach up to grab his lower lip, he tucks it away, “oh my god, fine, what is your plan?”

You smile sweetly up at him and curl deeper into his side. He, taking your bait, puts his phone away and cradles your body, his head resting against yours and holding you as close as his long arms can gather.

You press a kiss to his neck, and the tender skin there bursts out in goosebumps from the unfamiliar sensation, skin that probably should be used to your affections by now, but perhaps that means you should just do it more.

“Okay,” you sigh happily. “Here’s my plan.”

“Go for it.”

“I’m gonna tie you up-“

“Dear god, not where I thought you were going, okay.”

“-and lock you in the attic, so like, no one can see you, except me and your family.”

“I’m glad you’re allowing my family to see me,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “but you can’t kidnap me.”

“It’s not kidnapping,” you defend. “It’s tactile hiding.”

“Okay, it still sounds sketchy and illegal,” he snorts. “You can dice it however you want. What about my team?”

“You’re trying to convince me to not kidnap you and you use your job as a defense?” You scoff. “They see you sweaty and perfect and handsome every single day, what if Meian steals you from me?”

He laughs softly at your words, pulling back to look at you sweetly, "sometimes, I would love to hear what goes through your head when you look at me that conjures such feral thoughts."

"Aw, sweetie," you coo, kissing his jawline. "No you don't."

"You're right, no I don't."

[abigailovesz]

thinking about..older!jj coming home from a oh so long day.

(tw: smut, p in v, fingering.)

the front door creaked open and slammed shut with a thud. you looked up from the couch, book slipping from your lap at the sound of jj’s heavy boots dragging across the floor.

he looked wrecked - sweaty, shirt untucked, a smear of dirt across his cheek, and muscles flexing under the strain of his work shirt. his blonde hair was a mess beneath his backwards cap, and his jaw clenched like he was holding back the weight of the day.

“rough day?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

he didn’t answer.

he just looked at you.

dark eyes locked on your stretched out legs, bare thighs, the oversized tee you wore that definitely used to be his - thin, worn, falling off one shoulder. jj dropped his tool bag and stalked toward you like a man on a mission.

“jj-”

“up,” he ordered, voice hoarse, low.

you stood slowly, eyes wide, heartbeat already quickening. he said nothing else as he backed you toward the wall, his hands already gripping your waist, rough palms sliding up under your shirt, dragging the fabric with them.

“ya know what it’s like,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as he caged you in. “bein' out there all damn day..lifting, sweating, thinking about you in this…”

he tugged the shirt up higher, baring your stomach, your ribs, until you raised your arms and let him pull it over your head. his gaze dropped to your chest, and he sucked in a breath, biting his lower lip.

“jesus, baby..”

his hands gripped your thighs next, hoisting you up with ease - one of those things you’d never get used to. his strength. how safe it made you feel but also how weak it made you feel too, in the best way.

“ya smell like sweat,” you whispered, breath hitching as he pinned you to the wall with his hip.

“I know,” he muttered against her neck. “you like it.”

and hell - you did.

his hands slid up your bare back as you wrapped your legs around his waist, fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders. his hips pressed harder against yours, pinning you fully to the wall now, leaving no space between your bodies.

"fuck, I missed you," he growled, voice low and rough.

his hands slid down to your ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he held you in place, your pussy now flush against his hard length which was straining against his work pants.

"I missed you too," you breathed, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck as his mouth trailed hot kisses down to your collarbone. Your fingers tangled in his sweat-damp hair, tugging lightly to urge him closer.

jj's hands slid back up your sides, skimming over your curves before cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples through the thin lace of your bra.

He groaned against your skin, hips rolling forward to grind his hardness against your covered sex. "bedroom," he commanded, voice strained. "now."

and without waiting for a response, he carried you out of the living room, kicking open the bedroom door and tossing you down onto the bed. you bounced slightly on the mattress, watching as he quickly shed his shirt, revealing his lean, tanned torso, abs clenching as he reached for his belt buckle.

your tongue darted out to wet your lips, chest heaving with anticipation as you waited for him. jj's eyes darkened with lust as he drank in the sight of you splayed out on the bed, hair fanning around your face, chest heaving with anticipation.

he quickly shed his remaining clothes, tossing them carelessly to the floor until he stood before you, completely bare and glorious in his nakedness.

climbing onto the bed, he hovered over you, one hand braced by your head as the other trailed down your body, pushing your little skirt up around your waist. his calloused fingers brushed against your inner thigh before hooking into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down your legs.

"fuck, baby," he groaned, eyes locked on your now exposed sex. "you're fuckin' soaked."

he rubbed a finger through your slick folds, teasing your clit before pushing two thick digits deep inside your tight heat. you gasped, back arching off the bed as he began to pump them in and out, curling and stroking your inner walls.

"jj.." you whimpered, hips rolling to meet his thrusting fingers.

"not yet, sweetheart," he murmured, free hand sliding up to wrap around your throat lightly. "gonna make you fuckin' beg for it first."

approximately 10 minutes later, your moans and cries filled the room, growing louder and more desperate with each passing second. just as you were about to tumble over the edge, he abruptly withdrew his fingers, leaving you whimpering and empty.

"please, jj, I can't...I need..." you begged, voice ragged and breathless.

"shh, sweetheart. gonna give ya whatcha you need," he soothed, voice low and rough.

he settled between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. with a swift thrust of his hips, he buried himself balls deep inside your tight heat, stretching you around him.

"fuck-" you cried out, back arching off the bed as he filled and stretched you completely.

"shit, baby, you feel so fuckin' good," he groaned, hips pressed tightly to yours.

he began to move, pulling out slowly until just the tip remained before slamming back in, setting a hard and fast pace. the bed creaked and rocked beneath you with the force of his thrusts, the headboard slamming against the wall.

"fuck- i gotta take off work more.."

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki

TW: PTSD, trauma, angst

gn reader

Seven days.

For seven days the two of you were trapped beneath that building, in the rubble and dust, in the cold, dreary dark, waiting for the air to run out.

He had shrapnel through his thigh, and any movement made him bleed to no end. He would have died if you hadn’t done your best efforts at first aid and forced him to sit still, talking him out of any plans of blowing the debris away as it would only make it come crashing down on you both.

He’d been curt with you the first few days you were trapped as he struggled with the fact that he’d wasted his life sacrificing it to save some quirkless nobody. He should have just left you when the building came tumbling.

But, something happened to him beneath the rubble with you – in the midst of the two of you huddling for warmth on the cold concrete and telling each other your deepest secrets with the fear that you wouldn’t get to tell anyone anything ever again.

You didn’t even tell him your arm was broken. You wouldn’t burden him with the information while you set out on those dangerous scavenges you both would have died without – crawling through collapsed flooring for a mini bag of chips and a can of coke you survived on until rescue finally dug you out. 

It felt wrong to sleep without you the days after the rescue. A lot of things felt wrong. He kept waking up with the fear that you’d died in your sleep – tossing and turning in his soft silk sheets with his heart hammering and brow beading with sweat until realizing you were soft and safe in your own bed somewhere.

He thought long about it. He wanted to talk to you but didn't really know how to approach it all… after all, you two didn’t really know each other – only under the circumstance of life or death.

Therapy wasn’t going well for him. Suppose he could reach out and ask how it was coming along for you…

It wouldn’t be all too strange for him, as a professional hero, to check up on a victim. Especially given that you’d survived the incident on account of each other. In fact, it would be strange if he didn’t contact you. You ought to be each other's pillar of support in all this.

But, running through the logistics, he comes to the conclusion that it could never go long-term. 

Any relationship you’d establish would be based on your shared trauma together and he isn’t delusional enough to deny how it could only end in disaster for you both.

So despite how much he wants to hold you again, he’ll steer clear so that you can heal.

[sweetyyhippyy]

After Party. Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader. *Fluff*

Summary: Eddie's fiancé has the best time at her bachelorette party. So much fun that Eddie has to take care of her when she gets home.

Word Count: 1.6k

TW: Very drunk reader. Mentions of alcohol. Reader being kind of an airhead (she's drunk its not her fault). Reader also being hungover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie had long nodded off on the couch, the reruns on the tv had run their course and now the late night infomercials played. He felt himself falling asleep while he waited for his fiancé to make her way back home from her bachelorette party, bargaining with himself he would only close his eyes for 5 minutes.  

The rapid ding of the doorbell jolted him awake, his brown eyes scanning the room in confusion at first until the annoyance of the constant ringing brought him back. He lifted himself onto his feet, shuffling to the door and opening it up. 

His fiancé was wrapped around her best friend Gianna, a squiggly smile on her face. 

“She’s fucked up.” Gianna says, handing Eddie his bride-to-be's discarded boots and her clutch purse. “I would have called to have you come pick her up, but she threatened to push me into a bush if I called you.” 

Eddie sighed, tossing her belongings onto the floor next to him and stepping out to grab hold of his fiancé. 

“Hello, handsome.” She slurs the second Eddie takes her by her hand. “I’m a married woman!” She snatches her hand out of his, furrowing her eyebrows at him. 

Eddie wanted to be amused, but he also knew she was going to fight him every step of the way until her eyes closed for the night. 

“I tried to get some food in her, but she wanted nothing to do with it. I brought it just in case you have better luck.” 

“I want him to give me chicken nuggets.” She grumbles at her friend, giving her a glaring look. 

“If you come inside, I’ll give you some chicken nuggets. But you have to let me help you.” 

“But Eddie will get mad if you touch me.” She pouts her bottom lip out dramatically, batting her eyes at him adorably. 

“I’ll talk to him and tell him I was just trying to help you and feed you.” He offers his hand again slowly, her hand reaching out for her while she untangles herself from Gianna. 

“She had like 5 tequila shots. That’s what this is.” Gianna laughs. “Your turn now.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He replies, giving her an unamused face. 

“You put a ring on it, you’re responsible. I’ll call her in the morning to check up on her.” 

“You need me to call you a cab?” Eddie asks, not wanting to let her go without a safe ride home. 

“Gareth picked us up. He’s parked out front. Thanks though. Good luck.” 

Eddie leads her inside, carefully guiding her through the house 

until they reach their bedroom. “Here, let’s sit right here so I can help you get undressed.” 

She giggles loudly, bouncing on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to see me naked? And on the first date?” 

Eddie can’t help but smirk at her, kneeling down on one knee, grabbing her by her ankle to take her sock off. 

“My husband has that necklace. You kinda look like him, but he’s hotter.” She wiggles her eyebrows, laughing to herself. 

Eddie secretly loved she already referred to him as her husband.

“Where is he? He’s not here taking care of you while you’re drunk.” Eddie teases back to her. 

She stares at him for a while, quiet for the first time since she’s been home. 

Eddie was ready to jump up and grab the trash can in case she was unable to hold her liquor anymore. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“You look a lot like my husband.” She pokes his cheek with her finger. “But he’s hotter.” She repeats herself, smiling from ear to ear. 

As much as he loved her, she turned real dingy when she was drunk but it always made for an entertaining night. 

Eddie goes back to taking her socks off for her, rubbing her ankle when she complained her ankles were sore from her boots. 

“I miss my husband.” She sighs, laying back on the mattress dramatically. 

“What’s your husband like?” Eddie teases, wanting to see what she would say. 

She sits up onto her elbows, smiling like an idiot. “Well like I said earlier, he kinda looks like you, but he’s so much hotter. He has really pretty brown eyes, and he has this really cute mole on his lower tummy. And he’s kinda nerdy but I like it, nerds are so cute. And he’s really sweet, he loves me even though I’m really annoying and even though I drool in my sleep.”

Eddie stifles a laugh, he sure did love her despite her drooling in her sleep. “Sounds like a hell of a guy if you ask me.” 

She hums happily. “He got me this.” She shows off the engagement ring on her hand, smiling at it. 

He wasn’t going to lie, he wasn’t entirely happy with the engagement ring he had bought her. He always wanted to get her a flashy diamond like her friend Janett Marks had when she got engaged. But all he could afford was a puny diamond that was barely .5 caret. He thought she deserved something so much bigger. 

“Eddie worked so hard to get this for me. Worked a lot of hours and saved a lot of money.” A warm smile spreads across her face the longer she looks at the ring. “I really lucked out with him, I have such a good man.” 

Eddie couldn’t help but smile at her, wanting nothing more than to kiss her but she didn’t even know who he was and he didn’t want to confuse her. “Yeah, it sounds like you have a good one there. Why don’t I get you some pajamas and get you to bed?” 

She whines, throwing herself back into the bed. “I’m hungry! Eddie always feeds me!” 

“What do you want to eat, sweetheart?” 

“First,” She hops back up, wagging her finger around in the air. “Nobody calls me sweetheart other than Eddie.” 

“Okay, noted. I’m sorry.” 

“Second, I want taquitos with cheese.” 

Eddie bites back a smile, nodding his head. “Alright, I can do that. But you gotta change.” He walks over to her dresser, getting out a pair of sweatpants and a band tshirt for her. 

“You’re trying to get me naked!” She laughs obnoxiously. “You naughty boy! You can’t see me naked! You have to go!” 

“Yup, yup. I’m going.” Eddie puts his hands up in the air to surrender, closing the door behind him. “Jesus Christ.” He sighs, never seeing her that drunk before. He knew the next morning was going to be rough for her. 

By the time the taquitos were done in the microwave, she still hadn't come out of their bedroom and he was a little worried that she might have gotten sick or hurt herself by accident. 

He walks back to the room, slowly opening the door to peek his head in. 

She’s in the middle of the bed and on top of the sheets, pajamas surprisingly on her body correctly, small snores coming from her. 

Eddie goes into their closet and grabs an extra blanket, laying it on top of her, along with the trash can next to her side of the bed, just in case. “Love you, sweetheart.” 

*** 

Eddie jumps back from the pan as the grease from the bacon pops at him. “Fucker.” He curses, turning the heat down. 

“Eds?” He hears a mumble from behind him. 

He turns around to see his fiancé dragging her feet into the kitchen, eyes half open, black smudges under her eyes from the makeup Eddie tried to wipe off her face while she was asleep, and hair going in every single direction. 

“Oh good afternoon sleepy head. So nice of you to get up this fine Saturday morning. How’d you sleep?” Eddie puts on his best chipper tone, teasing her in her hungover state. 

“I feel like a giant bus hit me and ran me over.” She whines, sitting in the chair a few feet from him. “Did you have to come get me?” 

“No Gareth and Gianna brought you home, but not without a fight from you.” He smirks, putting a large glass of ice water and Tylenol in front of her. 

She grimaced at him, only imagining what she did or said to him last night. “Oh god I’m sorry. Did I say anything incriminating?” 

Eddie chuckles to himself as he flips the bacon onto the other side. “Just that your husband is hotter than me.” He turns back to look at her reaction, a shit eating grin on his face. 

She groans to herself, struggling to open the medicine bottle before whining and looking to Eddie for help. 

Eddie walks over, taking the bottle from her and opening it, shaking two white pills out and handing them to her. “Would you like a tequila sunrise to wash that down?” He teases. 

Her body visibly retches at the word tequila. “God no, eww.” 

“Come on babe!” Eddie chuckles loudly. “They say the cure to a killer hangover is to keep drinking.” 

She glares at him, holding up her middle finger to him. “You’re an ass.” She pops the pills into her mouth and takes a few sips of water before putting the cup down. “I’m sorry if I was embarrassing or was too much last night. I know sloppy drunks aren’t fun.” 

He smiles as he kisses her temple. “You had fun at your bachelorette party and I’m glad. I’ll gladly take care of you when you’re fucked up any day. It’s all part of the deal, right?” Eddie takes her left hand and touches her engagement ring. 

She smiles at him and softly nods her head. “All part of the deal.” 

“Besides, next weekend is my bachelor party. And who knows what kind of shit the guys and I are going to get into.” Eddie smirks before walking away to finish cooking breakfast.

She knew she was going to be in way over her head with drunk Eddie next weekend. She would no doubt have to rope Wayne into helping her.

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Three: blood always recognizes blood

tw: child abuse

The water won't stop running. 

It has to be some cruel, twisted fate that makes the walls of his room so small. This home has always felt like a prison in some capacity, but it’s grown ugly teeth in the form of closing walls and a decaying ceiling. Or, maybe the room is just trying to match how small his body has become. Peeling posters rattle as heavy footsteps pace outside of his room. They grow louder, almost loud enough to drown out the running water in the bathroom next door, but it’s not enough to quell his sniffling. 

Fat, hot tears stream down Simon’s face as his hands press against his mouth. If he could, he would smother himself. Desperate fingers claw at his throat as the urge to rip out his vocal chords nearly eats him alive. Even now he can hear his brother’s warning clear as day. 

Not a sound. If you make a sound, he’ll shut you up for good. 

Simon doesn’t realize it, but it’s useless. His father’s hearing transcends anything human, and he should have known better—his father became a monster long ago. It’s only natural that his senses follow such a bestial transition. No matter how tightly he clamps his hands over his mouth to stifle his cries, he’s already lost. His father can hear the blood that gushes through his veins, smell the salt in his tears, taste the fear that seeps beneath his bedroom door. 

Blood always recognizes blood, and Simon’s is screaming clear as day. 

There’s nowhere for him to run when the door opens. The walls have closed in so tightly that they’re holding him ripe for the picking, cornering him like an animal. Yellowed, bony fingers grip the collar of his shirt with surprising strength. Simon can’t hold back his childish sobs any longer. Monsterish in nature, but still human-like in appearance, Simon begs his father for forgiveness—for pity. But such terrible ears are not meant for hearing useless words; they’re meant for hearing screams. 

His father yanks him off of his bed, tearing off the Superman themed comforter as he’s dragged out of the room. Digging his heels into the floor, Simon wails against his father’s arms as he attempts to wiggle out of his grasp. Blood always recognizes blood, and he’s praying that this time it will do him some good. He prays that the blood in the man who’s hurting him will finally have sympathy—that he’ll be forced to realize the hot sin that sears through his heart and allow him to go free. But he has no heart. The only thing that flows through his veins is bile and rage. 

Wood floor turns into tile as the sound of running water becomes overwhelming. His father barks something at him, but he can’t hear it over the pulse in his ears and the running bathtub spout. More silent words leave his father’s lips, and Simon watches in horror as his teeth morph into daggers, like he’s ready to taste the muscle and bone that lies beneath his son’s flesh. 

Instead, those terrible, spindly fingers grab him by his grown out hair and he’s tossed him into the tub. 

His nose cracks against the spout before his flesh meets cold water. There’s no need to waste warm water on an easy kill. The spout is unforgiving as his father holds his face underneath the flow, causing Simon to sputter and trash. Tiny limbs try grabbing for any purchase he can find in the area only to be met with frigid tile too slick to aid him. 

Simon wants his mom. He wants to curl into her side underneath a thick blanket while his favorite cartoons drone in the background on the TV. He wants to fall asleep nestled safely in her arms and let the bruises heal beneath her soft kisses. 

Simon calls for her. Or, at least he tries. The moment his mouth opens his words are drowned by algid water filling his throat. He finally realizes that nothing can save him from the wrath of a father who hates his spawn. 

But blood always recognizes blood—especially when it screams. 

Kinder hands—softer hands—reach into the depths of the water to rescue him from the tub. It’s not until his head breaks the surface that Simon realizes the water is no longer running. An overwhelming silence cracks as he coughs and sputters, forcing the water out of his mouth. A familiar smile fills his vision as he blinks the water from his eyes, still trembling. 

“My sweet boy. What has he done to you?” his mother ponders as she rubs a hand against his cheek. When she pulls her fingers away, they’re tainted a bright pink. 

“I can’t! I wanna go home!” Simon wails. His voice feels small and warbly, like it doesn’t really belong to him. Like it’s a voice that’s been long lost in his throat. 

“I know, but there is still so much fighting ahead,” she says, voice somber. “You’ve been so strong. So brave. My brave boy. I just need you to be strong for a little longer.” 

“I don’t wanna!” he sobs. Tiny fingers grab at her, tearing at her shirt and skin like he wishes he could crawl back inside of her. “Please mummy, take me home. I’ll be good! I wanna go home!” 

Instead of responding to him, she presses her lips against his forehead before gently lowering him back down into the water. Simon’s eyes widen as his fingers reach over the edge of the tub only for him to brush against ceramic rather than flesh. 

“I’m sorry, Simon,” she says as she lets him go. “You have to learn to swim eventually.” 

Simon is wet when he wakes up. 

Not from the bathtub that he had suffered in during his dream, but from the sheer amount of sweat that soaks him head to toe. It turns his skin into a warm, sticky mess that has his bedsheets clinging to him as he sits up. Tense fingers press against the bridge of his nose, and he winces as if the wound is still tender. 

A thin veil of darkness shrouds his room. Dawn has yet to break over the city, leaving him sitting in the early hours of the morning in an empty bed. He’s up much too early for how late he was up last night chaperoning his boss’s drunken wife and her friend. Still, his muscles pulse with thick blood, and his mind refuses to quiet. 

His sigh comes heavy as he swings his feet over the side of the bed and stands. It’s useless to attempt to sleep again after dreams like these. Though the man has been dead for years, Simon’s father still haunts him like some ghost he can’t quite exorcize. Not that it usually bugs him. Simon doesn’t think of his father often as the memories aren’t that fond, and he has more important things to do than mourn a man as rotten as him. 

Important things like fixing the damn door in your apartment. 

Hardware stores don’t open until later in the morning on Sundays, which is fine as Simon figures you’ll be sleeping in today anyway. He takes his time retrieving the screws and plate; he even goes far enough to grab several different sizes just to ensure everything fits. Though he had been a butcher by trade—and part of the mafia as of late—Simon’s always been good at fixing things. Usually, he would patch up holes his drunken father would punch into the walls at his mother’s home, but he likes the smaller fixes too. 

He always keeps his hands busy with something, lest his mind begin to rot. 

When his knock sounds at your door around noon, you nearly jump out of your skin. Lips pressing together, you urge your heart into submission as you stare at the entrance, arms firmly wrapped around yourself to prevent your towel from falling. You’re not expecting anyone today—if you were, you certainly wouldn’t have been caught in nothing but a towel fresh out of your shower. 

Tossing your towel to the side and haphazardly donning a robe, you approach your door before cautiously peering through the peephole. Much to your surprise, Simon waits on the other side. He’s rubbing at his jaw as he stands back from the door, staring down at the floor by his feet. Your brows draw together as you unlock the deadbolt and swing the door open. 

“Simon,” you greet. You attempt to sound happy to see him, but confusion seeps into your tone before you can stop it. “What are you doing here?” 

A small paper bag rustles in his hand as he holds it up for you to see. With a gentle shake, you hear small metallic clinking, which only confuses you further. 

“Came to fix your door,” he answers. 

That jogs your memory a little. You recall his scrutinizing gaze at your door last night and how he picked at the screws that held your door plate together like they would fall out of the wood with a simple glare. Fatigue had pulled so viciously at your mind last night that you didn’t really pay much attention to him when he said he would fix it, but you do recall it now. You hadn’t expected him to come over so soon. 

“Oh,” you reply simply. 

An internal panic bubbles in your chest as you quickly remember how exposed you are. Body hidden behind nothing more than your bathrobe, you try not to let the awkwardness of it all choke you. You wrap your arms around yourself and nod as if it’s of no importance before backing out of the doorway. 

“Come in. I’ve just gotta change real quick.” 

Simon doesn’t follow you very far as you slink back into the flat. Really, he doesn’t pay any attention to you at all as he kneels next to your door and begins to get to work replacing the hardware. Grateful that he’s distracted, you grab your clothes from the corner of your bed before sneaking off into the bathroom to change. 

Once you’re hidden safely behind a door, Simon glances around your apartment. With the aid of daylight, he’s able to make out more now than he was last night when he dropped you off. You’ve spun your own little twist to the decaying walls with various posters and gifts, and he finds himself chuckling at the faux fur rug by your bed. 

Still, the window next to your bed looks cracked, and there’s an incessant dripping sound coming from the kitchen that makes his ears ache. Your upstairs neighbor seems to have little care in the world as he screams over something playing on his television, and someone a few doors down is having trouble getting their infant to sleep. It’s terribly small—almost inhumanely so—and with the housing prices in London, he doesn’t even want to think about how much you have to pay to live here. 

That’s none of his business, and he won’t make it his business. 

It doesn’t take Simon long to fix your door, and by the time you exit the bathroom he’s already begun to gather up the old hardware and toss it into his bag. Though there’s a little reprieve in being properly dressed in front of him, that small pit of anxiety still fumes just as strong as ever. 

He’s gone through all this trouble to buy the supplies and come to your home to fix it, and you have no way to repay him. 

You hate being in debt to people. 

“Thank you for this, by the way,” you speak up. 

It takes him a moment to respond. He’s too busy shutting the door and pulling on the handle to test out his work. Once satisfied, he turns to you, giving you his undivided attention. “Don’t mention it.” 

Still, you aren’t about to let him leave without at least the promise of some way to repay him. There’s not a whole lot you’re able to give him. Twiddling your fingers together, you quickly take a mental note of all your options. You’re strapped for cash, you have nothing useful to gift him—so you go with the next best thing. 

“I, uh, work on Tuesday this week. If you want to drop by, I can comp a meal for you or something. To say thanks,” you offer. It’s not much, but it’s all you have. 

Simon pauses as if he needs to think about your offer. “Sapori, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, surprised he even remembers. 

Nodding, he curls up the paper bag in his hands before tapping it against his palm. Simon is… an odd man. Kind—as he’s proven—but different than what you’re used to. He’s quiet, yet still enjoyable to be around. He takes off the pressure for awkward small talk, at least. Aside from anyone at work, the only man you ever interact with is John, and like Aelin, he treats you like a sister. You’re used to the awkward doting and familial love, but otherwise, you aren’t used to being around people at all. 

Well, there’s Marco. 

“See you Tuesday,” he answers. 

Once your plan for Tuesday night is confirmed, you promptly forget about it. Your memory isn’t the best these days, but there is little need for you to remember many things as you only ever seem to work. It’s for the best anyway. If you had remembered, you would have spent the rest of your much needed days off worrying about it—about him. Instead, you have a near heart attack when you witness him stroll through Sapori’s front door Tuesday night. 

He’s dressed differently than he normally is. A thick leather jacket sits unzipped around his shoulders, which is a jarring sight than his usual cotton long sleeves are. Mussed hair sits on his head like he’s just rolled out of bed, and he rubs a hand over the strands to try and wrangle them back into shape. Out of all his attire, it’s the leather gloves that grab your attention. You’re unsure if it’s just some strange fashion sense he hadn’t shown previously, or if it’s just his way of biting off the chilly November air. 

As he approaches your station, he slips the gloves off of his hands before stowing them away in his jacket. “Evenin’ sweetheart.” 

“Hey,” you greet a bit more tense than you intended. “Is there, uhm, anywhere you’d like to sit? It’s pretty quiet tonight, so we’ve got lots of options.” 

Simon’s eyes flicker to the area behind you in a quick scan of the building. There’s still a fair amount of people, which is to be expected for a restaurant of Sapori’s status. A dull hum of conversation vibrates through the air as patrons eat their meals and enjoy the company of their loved ones. He hums as his eyes settle on a table meant for two shoved in the furthest corner of the room. City lights reflect off the pristine window next to it, giving it a fair few of the streets just beyond. He nods in its direction before bringing his attention back to you. 

“That one over there’ll do,” he decides. 

It feels strange leading Simon through the restaurant. He trails behind you like a dog, but not in the cute and innocent way. More in the brooding, dangerous way, like he’s ready to bite anyone should you give the command. Maybe that’s why John hired him for security at Terminus; if there was someone his height and stature couldn’t scare off, his glare certainly would. 

A part of you feels guilty for being relieved when he sits. Since you work at the front of the house, you rarely have to deal with the patrons aside from seating them. It’s something that made the job so appealing to you in the first place. You don’t think you would be able to handle it if you had to keep checking in on him and asking how everything tastes. You hope he feels the same, or at least doesn’t hold it against you if he doesn’t. You are giving him a free meal, after all. 

A free meal—and once he’s finished, then you won’t owe him anymore. Once you don’t owe him, you plan on keeping it that way. 

“Hey, who’s that bloke you seated at table fifteen?” 

Halfway through updating your seating chart, one of the waitresses snags your attention as she approaches you on your left. Eyes narrowing, you pull at your ear. 

“Oh, right, sorry,” she chirps before squeezing over to your right. “Table fifteen? Who is that?” 

Bianca—who everyone calls Bee for the way she always buzzes from station to station—is one of the few people aside from Aelin who you consider your friend. She’s the granddaughter of the owner, but she refuses to act entitled about it. Chipper and sweet, she’s everything you wish you were. Bright, always smiling—she keeps her curly hair in a high ponytail and always wears different earrings to work each night. Though she’s not allowed to wear her more—as her grandfather put it—obnoxious earrings, there’s always something cutesy about them hidden in the form of a cat’s paw or small flowers. 

“Oh, Simon? He’s… a friend of mine,” you answer. You don’t bother to glance over your shoulder or check the seating chart—you’re already well aware of who she’s referring to. “I’m comping his meal tonight, by the way, so don’t give him a ticket.” 

“Christ,” Bee mutters. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with so much ink on them before.” 

Confused, you finally give in and turn to face the tables and you nearly choke on your own spit at the sight of Simon. All other times that you’ve seen him, he’s always been wearing long sleeved shirts. Even earlier when he first arrived his jacket had been covering his arms, but now that jacket hangs off the back of his chair, leaving his arms completely exposed as he types away on his phone. 

Dark ink swirls around his arms in hypnotizing patterns, and it’s difficult to swallow the lump in your throat now that you have him in sight. You’ve only ever seen hints of them from underneath his sleeves—the parts that dance along the edge of his wrists—but now they’re on display. Not even all that ink can cover the plushy, defined dips of the muscles in his arms. Bulky; healthy. You quickly bring your attention back to your work before you can sweat anymore than you already are. 

“Yeah, quite the art connoisseur,” you say half sarcastically. 

“How long have you two known each other?” she asks.

Your brows draw together at the odd tone of her voice. It’s as if she’s insinuating the two of you are anything more than uncomfortable strangers. 

“Like… a week or two?” you answer. 

Bee hums as she leans against the counter. She pulls at her butterfly themed earrings as she nods. “You sure know how to pull them.” 

Before you can respond, Bee quickly blends back into the noise of the restaurant, which you decide is for the best. Whatever pathetic retort your brain could muster would have certainly turned you into a fool—as if you aren’t already one already. Tight muscles begin to scream in your neck. The galling thrum of a headache begins to tap against your skull, one you desperately attempt to ignore as you return to work. 

Except, you’re never good at ignoring things. They always linger somewhere in your mind, appearing just in time to inflict the most amount of damage. So you keep your hands moving. Always moving. If not with string, then with work. If not with work, then with—well, something. Anything. You have to, lest Marco slip back into your mind. If things get too quiet, then the hum of the patrons around you might begin to sound like the whirring of dryers in a laundromat.

If things get too quiet, then the breathmints sitting in the bowl at your station might just suffocate you. 

“Thanks for dinner, sweetheart.” 

You look up from your work just in time to watch Simon shrug his jacket back onto his shoulders. Rich leather stretches to accommodate the sheer wideness of him, but you try not to pay too close attention as you give him a courteous smile. 

“Of course. I’m glad you enjoyed,” you say, pulling out the robotic response you normally give everyone else. 

That should have been it. It would have if you said it to any normal consumer, but as you’ve grown to realize, Simon is very far from normal. Instead, he holds his hand out for you where a small piece of receipt paper sits folded between his fingers. He passes it to you like it’s a note he’s attempting to hide from a teacher during class. 

“My number,” he explains at your hesitation. “I’d like to fix the faucet in your kitchen. Can’t imagine what the water bill is like, or how you can stand the sound. Figured I’d try and give you a better heads up before headin’ over to your place again. Don’t wanna catch you out of the shower again.” 

A tense laugh bubbles up in your throat as you grab the paper from his fingers. “Yeah, probably not.” 

“Just let me know what time works for you. I’ll make it work,” he finishes as he digs his gloves out of his pocket and slips them back on his hands. 

You two mutter simple farewells to one another before Simon vanishes out through the doors as if he had never been here to begin with. Sighing, you stow that bit of paper away in your pocket. You’ve found yourself in a conundrum—if you message him, you’ll just end up owing him again. If you don’t then…

“Hey!” Bee says out of breath as she slides into your station. “That friend of yours? Simon, yeah? He still around?” 

“No, he just left a bit ago,” you say. 

“Fuck,” Bee sighs. Her head rolls back as she stares at the ceiling, fingers pressing against her temples. “This isn’t good.” 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. 

Relaxing her shoulders to look at you, Bee’s teeth sinks into her bottom lip. Sighing, she pulls something out of the pockets of her apron as she shuffles closer, keeping whatever is in her hands hidden from prying eyes. 

“Look at how much he tipped!” she exclaims in a whisper. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of the cash in her hands. It’s difficult to count all the notes just by sight alone, but you’re certain there has to be at least two hundred quid. 

“It’s gotta be a mistake, right?” she asks. “Like, who tips this much?” 

Bee quickly shoves the cash back in her apron as if afraid someone will chastise her for earring so much. You swallow the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as you glance back toward the door. Simon’s long gone, yet your legs still urge you to chase after him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure her, though it’s difficult to get a smile to fall on your lips. “He’s rather generous. I comped his meal tonight, remember? He probably just gave you what he would’ve ended up paying if I didn’t.” 

“Well… shit,” Bee decides after a moment of deliberation. “You should invite him back more often. And, by all means, keep sitting him in my section if that’s the case.” 

Your laughter makes a good cover for your anxiety as Bee leaves to continue her work, but an uneasiness begins to creep through your body with the promise to destroy you. You don’t like being in debt to people, and tonight was supposed to be your way to pay Simon back. Yet here he is, slithering through the cracks of your life and making himself at home by repairing your ancient door and tipping your co-workers. 

The tension in the back of your neck only worsens as your fingers retrieve the crumpled receipt paper that has Simon’s number. Incertitude gnaws at the grey matter in your brain as you add his number into your contacts before you type up a flat sounding text thanking him for what he did for Bee tonight. 

Once more. You’ll let him fix your sink, you’ll pay him back for his generosity, and that’ll be it. 

After that, you’ll never have to deal with Simon Riley again.

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[phantomwithbreakfast]

DANNYMAY DAY 13: Truth

Day 12 • Day 14

⟢ One day late. And now I’m running behind. But that’s totally fine. It’s fine, everything is just fine. (More under the cut)

Genre: Angst / Hurt / No Comfort • TW/CW: Betrayal — Emotional Distress — Implicit Trauma and Desperation • One-Shot • AU — OOC

The Truth Behind The Lie

Tue, May 13 at 5:31 pm TUCK:

Dude, u put it on ur snapchat story!

Tue, May 13 at 5:38 pm DANNY:

What r u talking about? Got no time, fightin’ Skulker atm. Didn’t u see my snap?

Tue, May 13 at 5:39 pm TUCK:

YOU! Phantom! On ur wrong Snapchat, man! Now’s everyone gunna know ur fucking Phantom.

Tue, May 13 at 6:12 pm DANNY:

No, I didn’t. I only sent it to you and Sam.

Tue, May 13 at 6:13 pm TUCK:

Too late now. It’s all over the news.

Tue, May 13 at 6:42 pm DANNY:

Stop making jokes, Tuck. U think it’s funny?

Tue, May 13 at 6:45 pm TUCK:

U think I’m joking? Check ur snapchat, dude.

Tue, May 13 at 6:52 pm DANNY:

I’m back home now. Gotta empty the thermos first.

Tue, May 13 at 6:53 pm TUCK:

Don’t go downstairs!

Tue, May 13 at 7:09 pm TUCK:

Aren’t u back yet?

Tue, May 13 at 7:17 pm TUCK:

Danny?

Tue, May 13 at 7:54 pm TUCK:

Danny???

Danny phased into his room like a gust of wind, panting. The glow peeled off his ghostly skin as he dropped the transformation and staggered forward, fingers numb, suit melting into cutton and denim.

Dammit. Sulker was getting better. Faster. More evolved equipment.

He fumbled for his phone, tugging it from his pocket with some slight trembling hands. The screen flashed Tucker’s name. Several New messages and missed calls.

He exhaled sharply through his nose as he answered Tucker’s message. Then—click. Back into the pocket. He didn’t even read the message that Tucker had sent him. Didn’t care. He needed to do first what had to be done.

They needed to stop calling or texting him mid-fight. If he really died, then fine—call. Whatever. But if he was fighting alone, then he was fighting alone.

A long exhaled, ragged sigh escaped his nostrils as he dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Skulker fights were always a goddamn marathon. Draining. Brutal. But he could handle it—like always. Like he had to. The ghost had been hunting him again. No surprise. At this point, Danny had lost count of how many times Skulker had promised to mount his head on a walk like a trophy.

He wasn’t just a prey. He was the prize. The ultimate prize. A halfa. One-of-a-fucking-kind.

Danny let out a breathy laugh, the kind that tasted bitter on the way up. What the hell was even so fucking special about him anyway? Right. Nothing. He was just a normal human being with a heartbeat and a core that wouldn’t quit. Half-dead, half-alive. A boy who just happened to end up with ghost powers—and ectoplasm pulsing through his veins. All because he was stupid enough to step into that ghost portal. The same portal that tore a hole between the Ghost Zone and the human world. Great, fucking awesome. It was his fault that the town was haunted by ghosts, wasn’t it?

Sure, Vlad was a halfa too. Skulker knew that. Worked for him, even. But he didn’t chase Vlad. No—he wanted Danny. Only Danny.

There was something personal about it now. Like it wasn’t just the bounty anymore—it was the hunt. The thrill. The obsession.

Danny shook it off and opened his bedroom door, heading downstairs. Thermos gripped in one hand, he tossed it lightly in the air, catching it with the other in a lazy rhythm. Back and forth. A little victory dance. His lips pulled into a tight smile, and he started to whistle—off-key, carefree, like he hadn’t just been thrown through three brick walls.

Because today, again, he’d done it. Again. Safed the town. Survived. Over and over and over.

Truly, he was proud of himself.

But then—he froze. There, in the living room. His parents stood side by side like statues carved from fury. Arms crossed. Eyes cold. The TV in front of them flashed with the news channel.

Danny’s whistle died in his throat. He blinked, confused—but brushed it off, continuing toward the basement lab to empty the thermos. But a hand slammed down on his shoulder—tight, brutal. He flinched, turning just in time for the second hand to shove him hard onto the couch. His back hit the cushions awkwardly, limbs askew, thermos jamming painfully into his ribs before he clutched it tight against his chest. His eyes squeezed shut, breathing fast. That fucking hurt.

“Awch—geez, warning next time?” he snapped, his voice cracking, trying to play it off with a forced chuckle.

He ran a hand through his pitch black hair, trying to steady his nerves. But neither of his parents answered and the silence hit harder than the shove.

Then his dad ripped the thermos out of his hands and Danny gasped.

“He—hey! I was about to—I mean, you could’ve just asked…”

Still, nothing. Their eyes just drilled into him. Silent. Cold. And totally unreadable.

The TV continued to buzz softly behind them, replaying pixelated footage of him—Phantom, but it was fuzzy and distorted—but clear enough to see his face. He was the town hero. They played footage of him all the damn time fighting ghosts.

Ugh, he didn’t have time for these stupid games that his parents had in mind. He didn’t know what was going on and why they acted so strange like they were overshadowed by ghosts that wouldn’t talk. But no ghost sense went off—so that wasn’t it.

He was so damn tired—school, ghost fighting—and he still had homework to finish and that stupid math test to study for tomorrow. But if he wanted to become an astronaut, he needed to succeed high school first. His ultimate dream and goal.

“I—” he cleared his throat, sat up straighter. “I have homework and a math test tomorrow.”

No reaction.

His mouth was dry. He glanced between them again, confusing blooming into unease.

“Mom? Dad?” he asked.

Still. Nothing at all. They weren’t blinking. They weren’t moving. Was this like… like a staring contest or something?

Danny stood up, palms pressed to the cushions to push himself up. “Ugh, I don’t have time for this,” he muttered.

Right. He needed to check his stupid Snapchat, his phone in general. But as his hand slipped into his pocket, a sudden hiss sliced through the air. That sick, high-pitched whine that only one weapon in the house made. His spine stiffened as his head snapped up and saw his mom was aiming an ecto-gun straight at him. Perfectly still, safety off. The fuck? Now what?

“Whoa! He—hey. Uhh—hold on there—”Danny swallowed hard, a nervous laugh escaping as he slowly raised his hands beside his head. “What the hell?!”

He tried to laugh again. It came hoarse. Shaky.

“I—this… this is a joke, right?”

His mother didn’t laugh. His dad didn’t blink.

“You,” she said. “Sit down. Now.” Her voice—it wasn’t his mom’s voice. Not really. It was clinical. Hollow.

Danny sank down slowly back on the couch, limbs trembling, every cell screaming that this was wrongwrongwrong and he didn’t know what the fuck was happening and this was, oh god. What did he do that his mom needed to point a fucking ecto-gun toward his fucking head?

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Danny couldn’t help the nervous tremble that crept through him. Slowly, he lowered his hands and rested them on his lap as his fingers began to twitch.

He couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong. Nothing. Not at school. Not at home. Had he forgotten a chore? Missed curfew? Failed to clean the lab? Something? Anything? This whole situation felt off. Unsettling. And Jazz wasn’t home—she was off at college, studying Psychology. Living her dream. Excelling at it, because of course she was. She was the favorite. Always had been. Always would be. Why the hell was he even thinking about her right now? Did he want her here? Did he need her? No. No. Screw that. He just turned eighteen last month. He didn’t need his big sister to hold his hand. He was the protector of Amity Park. He was the one fighting back against the evil ghosts. He was Danny fucking Phantom.

And then—the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, yanking him out of his spiraling thoughts.

His father moved. Like a puppet on a string, he walked to the front door and opened it.

Crash. Boots. Voices. White. So much white.

A dozen Guys in White agents swarmed into the house, weapons drawn. A blue glow filled the room.

Danny stood up, panicked.

“Wait—wait—what is this?”

His eyes flickered back and forth between the Guys in White and his parents.

One of the agents stepped forward—mechanical, cold and so… brutal. Black gloves flexing at his sides. Those gloves. The same kind that had grabbed screaming ghosts by the throat. The same kind that left bruises. That strapped everything that didn’t belong in the terrestrial world down. That hurt. And now, from his belt, the agent pulled out glowing blue cuffs—humming with anti-ecto-energy, crackling faintly like they already knew his name.

“You have the right to remain corporeal,” the agent said flatly. “Anything you phase through, overshadow, or ecto-manipulate can and will be used against you in a federal containment court.”

Danny’s blood ran cold—literally. A chill shot down his spine, fingers tingling with ice, like frost spreading beneath his skin. His nerves lit up, sparking panic through every pore, each breath tighter than the last.

“Wha—no! No. I’m—I’m a human being!” Danny yelled, his eyes darting towards his mother, then his father. “I’m your son. I’m not—I’m not a ghost.”

It was the safest thing he could say right now. But—how did they know? How? Why? Why did they think he was a ghost? It’s not like he was stupid. Not like he was careless. He never transformed where it wasn’t safe. Right? He was so damn careful. Always. Every time. So—how? Why?

But his mother’s grip only tightened on the ecto-gun. And his father didn’t even look guilty. It was like they were proud. Like this was what they were meant to do.

“Mom… Dad… Please.” Danny’s voice cracked, trembling. His eyes stung—burning at the edges with that telltale pressure behind them. He blinked rapidly, but the tears were already forming, clouding his vision.

“You are not my son.” His mother spoke. Cold. Final. The words hit harder than any ghost blast.

Three agents moved in—one with the glowing cuffs, two others flanking him like white shadows. Their movements were practiced. Unfeeling. Predatory. Hands reached for him.

“No—wait!” Danny screamed, stumbling back, jerking away as his back collided against the far wall. His eyes flicked between them, wide, wild, desperate. His heart pounded like a war drum. “I—I am your son! Why would you—why would you even think that?!”

“Entity identified. Ghost-type signature confirmed. Danger level seven. We’ve seen the footage—social media tags. Civilian reports. You carry Phantom’s ecto-frequency. That’s enough.” He advanced, slow and steady, holding the cuffs like a noose.

“I’m not—” Danny’s voice broke into a whisper.

“Save it, ghost scum.” His father’s voice cut in, loud and unforgiving. Danny snapped his gaze toward him. Jack’s face was twisted in something like satisfaction—righteous fury burning in his eyes. “I may not be a teenager anymore,” he said with a mocking laugh, “but I know damn well how Snapchat works. Phantom—you—posted a selfie. On our son’s profile. We didn’t need to look any further.”

Danny’s stomach dropped. Oh, god. He didn’t think—he didn’t notice—

“You possessed my son.” His mother’s voice broke through, trembling now, but still firm. Still armed. Her finger tightened on the trigger. The ecto-gun never wavered. A sniff. A crack in her voice. But not in her aim.

Danny shook his head, tears slipping free now, sliding down his cheeks in silence.

No. No. Tucker was right. Oh, god. Tucker wasn’t fucking joking.

“Comply, or we’ll be forced to initiate extraction by force,” the agent with the cuffs warned. Protocol, not mercy.

To them, he was just a ghost. Not their son. Not human. Not Danny. Not their Danny. Just a threat. Just a target. Just a hostile entity to be captured and contained. But—he was human. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he standing right there—shaking, breathless, skin flushed with fear? There was no glow. No white hair. No echo in his voice. But none of that mattered, did it?

His heart was pounding. His palms were sweating.

They saw what they wanted to see—an enemy. A thing. He wasn’t their boy anymore. Just… it. They didn’t see the raw exhaustion in his eyes. Not the flesh and blood standing in front of them. All they saw was the thing he turned into. The thing he was. A ghost. An intruder in their home. A fucking lie.

His throat tightened, a bitter taste rising as his stomach twisted into knots.

This wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a misread signal or a moment of confusion. It was a damn choice. They chose not to see him. They chose to believe he was the enemy—no, is the enemy. The thing they fear. This wasn’t just bad. This was betrayal. This was a verdict. And to them… he’d already been sentenced.

They were closing in and Danny’s breath hitched, chest heaved. There was no escape. There was—there was no fucking escape.

He was cornered.

His body trembled, instinct roaring louder than thought.

Fight or flight. And by that, flight won.

A surge of power pulsed from deep within his core—two white halos snapped around his waist, one rising, one falling, engulfing him in light. In an instant, his hair blazed pearl white, his clothes twisting into black and white as he transformed into Phantom.

Before he could react, he vanished—intangible, his legs fading into a ghostly wail. He shot upward, phasing through the ceiling, through the roof, bursting into the cold night air with a scream caught in his throat.

He shot into the sky, a streak of light against the dark, and let his intangibility drop as he climbed higher—higher—lungs burning, vision blurring. But then—helicopters. Jets. They swarmed in like vultures. From above, below, left, right—shouting commands through static-filled speakers—

“Surrender now, Phantom! Don’t make this a chase!”

“You’re surrounded!”

“This is your last warning!”

Danny panicked. His chest tightened, his core purring with adrenaline. It didn’t matter what they said—he was already trapped.

He dove back down toward the earth, wind ripping past his ears—only to be greeted by a sea of white vans, blocking every street, flashing lights blinding him.

No. No. No. why do they even want him? Why the fuck did he transform in front of—in front of everyone? His parents. Fuck. He fucked it up. There was no way back now.

He didn’t have time to think. He turned. Bolted. Faster. Harder. But every corner—every alley—every rooftop—they were there. GiW agents popping out like ghosts themselves, guns raised, ready to fire.

And god… he was so tired.

He’d already been exhausted before any of this even started. This chase wasn’t just cruel—it was breaking him. He couldn’t go invisible—they’d still track his ecto-signature. He couldn’t hide. There was no way out. No one to turn to. No where to go.

The Ghost Zone.

But that meant… going back to FentonWorks. Back to the house. Back to them.

Vlad’s portal was too far. And he was too weak. His limbs ached. His core felt like it was bursting out of his chest. FentonWorks was the best option. It had to be. Even if it meant flying straight back into the lion’s den. Even if his parents were waiting with weapons drawn. Because at least there—he knew the layout. He knew the back routes, the vents, the blind spots.

It was dangerous. Maybe even… suicidal. But… he couldn’t die. Because ghosts were technically already dead. Right?

But it was the only shot he had.

And right now?

That was enough.

⟢ And I’m gunna end it hereee. Or else I wasn’t gunna stop. And now I want to write it into a real phic—but with more details and stuff, of course. And now I’m disappointed that I didn’t use something like this for a ‘reveal the truth’ kinda thing in my other phicccc. Dammit. Did I lose footage because of whatever happened all of sudden? Yes. Fucking bummer. But yeah. It is what it is… It also wasn’t the plan to write this much. But her’ we are!

[erodasfishtacos]

A Fix For Loneliness

prompt: YN is learning she has no self-preservation. It’s why she keeps running into her stranger. A man who won’t tell her anything, gives her instructions, and occasionally isn’t downright awful.

word count: 9.5k+

warnings: h is obviously not a good person, violence, blood, medical stuff, mean H, dark H

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-2 days.

There are multiple other parts of this up and will be updated this month

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2

one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

There are currently 350 + pieces available to read

Tier I - $3 USD where you get access to main stories, everything except the mini one shots.

Tier II - $5 USD where you get access to every piece of writing!

you can check it out here

first FIFTEEN to click here can get a free $5 membership for a month!

A little reminder, my prices are still $3USD and $5USD - you have to sign up via web browser and NOT through the App Store - they are charging fees now!

———

YN was too kind.

She knew that.

It’s why she became a nurse, to help others in their time of need, and that’s exactly what she did in the emergency department of her local hospital.

When she was walking down a back alley one night (she knew it wasn’t safe but it was such a quicker shortcut after a thirteen hour shift she couldn’t ignore it even if it was one in the morning).

YN’s half-asleep on her feet when she runs into quite the scene, a man who has to be around her age was dressed in dark jeans and a black tee shirt.

There was blood dripping from his jaw and his bottom lip was swollen up, already bruising under the drying blood.

He had just tossed something into the dumpster before slamming the lid shut with a deafening echo and despite the warning signals, YN can’t ignore him.

“Oh my goodness. You’re bleeding, sir,” YN jumps into nurse mode, hurrying up to him and without permission, tilting his head gently to the side.

The man narrows his eyes at her, clearly taken aback, and takes three big steps away from her reach towards the opposite building.

He makes a show of spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the pavement before wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his hand.

His voice was deep and scratchy, it matched his appearance, his accent thick and rough, “M’fucking fine. Back off and mind your own god damn business.”

YN is used to fiesty patients, it doesn’t phase her much as she examines him from afar now, “I’m a nurse.”

The man sneers at her, “Surprisingly, I’m not fucking blind. I don’t want your help. Run the fuck along now, little miss hero.”

YN glances down, still in her scrubs, of course he would see she’s a nurse, and distraught at this man refusing help.

She’s tired, she’s overworked, and the fact that she knows she’ll perseverate on this if he doesn’t let her help makes her choke out a frustrated sniffle.

The brunette man, with a scowl of impatience scoffs of disbelief, “Are you really about to fuckin’ cry?”

“I jus-just want to help. I lost tw-two patients today and couldn’t-couldn’t save them,” YN begins to tear up now, wiping her eyes, it was always a hard day when she lost patients.

Two today.

An older woman with a heart attack.

A teen in a car accident.

“Fucks sake,” The bloody man groans under his breath, his eyes darting up and down the alleyway, “You’re going to cause a scene over this, aren’t you? I don’t have bloody time for this.”

He stomps towards her which makes her freeze but he stands in front of her with a agitated flick of his hand, “If you’re going to do your nurse shit, do it! I don’t have god damn time for your cry baby act. Of course, I get my plans ruined.”

YN obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he seems like he has places to be and she’s holding him up.

Where on earth could he go with his face looking like that anyways?

“I-I don’t have anything with me,” YN stutters after a moment, this man was intimidating as he had major height advantage, he appeared lean but his muscle definition proved he was strong.

“Okay, then see ya’,” He grunts lowly, moving to turn on his heel but YN grabs his wrist without thinking to stop him.

“My-uh, my apartment,” YN’s throat is dry, what the fuck is she doing, “I have the stuff at my apartment up the street.”

“Did your parents never teach you stranger danger? Inviting a man you’ve never met, bleeding, up to your apartment?” He asks with an eyebrow raise, wiping his continuous bleeding wound with his shirt, flashing a sliver of his carved abdominal muscles.

“You need help,” YN replies unsurely, her behaviors are so uncharacteristic but she felt drawn to help this stranger.

A small group of people pass the corridor of the alleyway, with laughs and drunk words, and the man she’s standing with perks up at high alert.

“Fuck,” He hisses angrily, that seemed to be his favorite word, yanking his hand out of her grip and muttering so softly YN doesn’t know whether she heard him right, “gonna get me caught.”

“Stand over there and turn around,” The man demands sharply, YN wasn’t used to being talked to that way but she finds herself walking towards the edge of the alley and turning away.

YN hears rustling, the dumpster being open and closed again, and a few unidentifiable noises before she hears his footsteps approaching.

His hand on her shoulder is tight as he spins her around, “If I let you fix me up, will you leave me the fuck alone and more importantly, never mention this to anyone?”

YN’s brow furrows, “Why can’t I tell-“

The man hisses in agitation, fingers digging into her skin more has harshly, “Answer me.”

It’s the first time that chills are sent down her spine at his gritted words, everything in her is screaming to run, her fight or flight triggered.

“I-I won’t tell,” YN agrees breathlessly, skin tingling when he lets go and pushes her forward, not aggressively but enough that she stumbles.

“Then move already,” He orders and when she tries to turn around to look at him, his hand comes to her neck, keeping her facing forward.

Whatever he was doing in that alley, he really didn’t want her to see, and he didn’t seem like he was open to answering questions.

YN keeps trying to justify why she’s letting a bleeding, angry man into her home as she shakily unlocks the door.

There’s no justification.

She’s putting herself in so much danger.

It had to be something about how attractive he was that made her trusting that he wouldn’t hurt her, like he was too pretty to be deadly.

A trick of the eye, maybe.

He stands in the entry hall, unmoving, and uncomfortable as he doesn’t look around, keeping his gaze on her.

“I want you to know that I’m only allowing you to do this so that you don’t run around and squeal, alright?” He reminds her, voice a bit louder to scare her.

YN nods.

“I also know where you live now, stupid girl,” He shakes his head, like he’s in disbelief YN was such an idiot, “I won’t hesitate to come back.”

She was.

Stupid.

Now her fingers were trembling as she accidentally drops her keys.

“Bat-bathroom,” YN whispers as she pokes her thumb in that direction, “Uh, my supplies.”

“I’ll stay here. I’m not coming in any further,” He crosses his arms, akin to a cornered animal who’s about to be trapped.

YN hopes he doesn’t see when she nearly trips over her own feet as she makes her way to her small bathroom, her nursing/first aid kit was under the sink.

He’s standing in the exact same place he was before, he hadn’t moved an inch, and fuck, he’s scary.

“Um, can you please sit there?” YN points nervously to the entryway bench, not coming closer until he begrudgingly sits on the edge.

“Hurry the fuck up,” He snaps at her suddenly, shaking his leg impatiently and the abruptness makes her jump, “I haven’t got all day, miss lil’ hero.”

It doesn’t sound like an compliment rolling off his tongue.

YN pulls out a cotton pad, soaking it with antiseptic fluid, and shakily says, “This is going to sting a bit. I’m just cleaning it first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her but he does flinch when she puts her fingertips on his jaw to move his head more to the side.

When she applies the pad, if it hurts, he doesn’t give anything away, his eyes don’t even blink as he sits with his hands on his knees.

After get a fresh cotton pad and drenching it again, she moves onto his lip, and she’s so on-edge, she stumbles over his foot and falls forward.

The man grips her hips hard, pushing her back upright, and appears even more agitated as he huffs, “Chill the fuck out, alright? M’not going to do shit to you. I don’t even want to be here. You’re the one who dragged me to your apartment. Stop being so fuckin’ dramatic.”

YN’s not going to cry despite her bottom lip quivering.

YN’s father was a calm quiet man

She didn’t grow up with brothers.

She wasn’t used to being treated so bluntly, so rudely by anyone, let alone a stranger she was trying to help.

“Are you about to cry?” He asks in surprise, a cruel laugh leaving his throat as he smiles widely, he has dimples, “You’re such a delicate little flower.”

Again, it was definitely an insult.

YN’s throat contracts as she pushes down tears and it wasn’t just because of him, today was hard and she was tired.

“You don’t need stiches. The cut on your jaw is superficial, just a lot bleeding ,” YN determines as she uses a butterfly bandage to close the wound tightly.

YN tilts his chin towards her, his eyes were striking in how green they were as they blinked up at her from under dark lashes.

They were just as frightening as they were beautiful because there was something about meeting his gaze that was like staring at a hungry lion.

YN starts to dab at it with the pad again as it slowly oozes.

She can feel his gaze on her face, it’s making the hair stand up on her arms.

“Skin is just uh, irritated. Nothing major,” YN tells him, holding pressure to stop the bleeding, “How did you get this banged up anyways?”

That triggers him.

He stands up suddenly, making her stumble backwards, and he steps into her space until her back is up against the wall and he’s cornering her.

“I don’t know what bad luck I was dealt to have to deal with such a nosey bitch in my business but you better stop asking questions,” He warns as she can feels his breath, he smelled surprisingly good like citrus and sage.

“I’m sorry,” YN chokes out, it was feeling harder to breathe now.

What the fuck did she get herself into?

“For fucks sake, calm your ass down,” He grunts as he directs her to sit on the bench he was just on, “Stop being a god damn drama queen.”

YN can’t reply, simply nods and stares at the ground.

Why did she let this man in her home?

She needed her head examined, clearly.

He squats in front of her, eyes deadly intent, “I’m going to leave right now. You’re going to keep your mouth shut. If you talk about anything that you saw tonight, I’ll have no problem visiting here again.”

YN nods again, watching him stand and he’s still looking at her as he sighs, hand on the doorknob and says, “Do not ever invite a stranger into your house again, you stupid girl.”

+

YN wishes that she didn’t think about that man again.

But she does.

Over and over.

Every time she walks past an alley.

When she walks home at one in the morning.

But months pass.

No signs of him.

It was a big city.

She didn’t know whether he lived here or not, hell, she didn’t even get his first name during the interaction.

Six months and no signs.

YN dreams about him three separate times.

One of which make her question her sanity.

+

“Be quiet f’me,” He whispers against her lips, hand wrapped around her throat, “Don’t want to hear you unless you’re moaning pretty.”

YN’s staring wide eyed at him, trying to beg with her eyes as he brings her lips to his by the grip on her neck.zzz

“Gonna show me what a nice lil’ pet you can be?” His dimple is popping as he licks her lips before squeezing a bit tighter, “Can’t wait to feel your cun-“

YN wakes up by her alarm, heart pounding, and a hand coming up to touch her throat, the ghost of where she felt his fingertips.

She takes a very cold shower that morning before work.

++

Matthew was nice enough.

He was an emergency medicine doctor which is how they met in the unit.

They rarely worked the same shift but in passing, he had managed to pull YN aside and ask if she’d be interested in going on a date.

YN wasn’t necessarily jumping for joy but she was bored, life was pretty mundane at the moment, and her romantic life was nonexistent.

He was overly cocky, the type of doctor who liked to wear his scrubs into the grocery store so everyone knew his title, corrected people when they didn’t address him with Doctor first.

She didn’t realize that this is how she would meet her stranger once again.

++

The first date was in the afternoon, at a coffee shop in midtown and he had picked the spot.

“I come here atleast once a day,” He laughs as he orders a large black coffee and a bran muffin of all things, “Same ole’ routine.”

“I’ve only been here a handful of times-“ YN pauses when she catches a familiar flash of green, knowing the color distinctly.

She’s been dreaming of it.

Her stranger.

He was sitting in a booth, in the furtherest spot back in the corner with a coffee and a pastry that hadn’t even been taken out of the wax paper.

YN’s heart seizes, blinking twice to make sure that she is not imaging this, that it isn’t just a look alike man.

His unsettlingly intense stare, the scowl etched on his face, it was no doubt the man who had been invading her thoughts for the last six months.

He doesn’t break eye contact first, YN glances back to her steaming chai tea first, lying easily, “Sorry, thought I saw an old friend.”

“Yeah, I run in to quite a few here too,” Matthew agrees without notices her slight shift in demeanor as she forces herself to focus on their conversation.

YN gives herself permission about three minutes later to let her eyes flit across the room, back to that corner.

He was gone.

His coffee and pastry gone.

There was already a new couple sitting there.

YN is half-convinced that she imagined it in the first place, how did she not see him get up and walk past her?

Had that couple been sitting there the whole time?

“I’m so sorry, Matthew. I have to run to the restroom, excuse me a minute?” YN smiles, hoping it doesn’t come off as forced as she stands up and heads towards the back.

YN goes into one of the stalls, sitting down for a moment and just taking a deep breathe because she can’t figure herself out right now.

YN can’t sit in her forever which she wishes she hadn’t even agreed to this date.

When YN unlocks the stall door, she begins to let out a scream when there’s a figure leaning up against the sink, waiting for her.

The person rushes forward, clamping a hand over her mouth as citrus and sage overwhelm her senses .

“Shut the fuck up, right now.”

Why does YN almost slump in relief at the harsh words?

Maybe because this proves that she didn’t conjure him up in her head.

To confirm that he was as startlingly handsome as she has been remembering him to be in the last months.

Even more so actually.

“Are you going scream when I take my hand off?” He asks pointedly, his lips were near her ear, whispering but seeming so loud.

YN shakes her head vehemently that she won’t.

She should scream.

She’s not going to though.

He takes a few steps back, no longer even close to touching her, and once again, he looks angry at her as complains, “Lil’ fucking drama queen.”

This is definitely her stranger.

YN just stares at him, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Why are you here with him?” He asks with the same agitation, his fists were clenched against his sides tightly.

“Do you know Matthew?” YN was confused by his question or why he would care.

“What did I tell you?” He snaps at her, taking a step forward again like he wants to grab her, “Don’t ask me questions.”

“Why can you ask me then?” YN doesn’t know where the confidence is coming from, puffing up her chest.

It gets finished quickly when he brings his hand up to hold her chin, “It’s different. Now answer me.”

YN’s blood pressure must be through the roof right now as she manages to find her voice, “I’m on a date with him.”

The stranger doesn’t like that answer.

His fingertips tighten on her skin before releasing, his tongue peeks out to run over his bottom lip, “I recommend you stay the fuck away from him.”

“Why?”

“You clearly have no sense of self-preservation so I’m trying to save you a lot of trouble in the future. End the date, make an excuse, and don’t go out with him again.”

“I want to know one thing,” YN request as she chews on her bottom lip.

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

They stare at each other.

YN can’t decipher if he’s being truthful or not.

As he did the night they first met, her puts a firm hand on her shoulder, and guides her towards the bathroom exit.

With his lips touching the shell of her ear, he reminds her with a hiss, “Go do exactly as I say. Leave and go the fuck home.”

He pushes her forward, she puts her arms up to avoid smashing her face off the door, and pushes it open, tripping out into the hallway.

YN legs are wobbly as she makes her way back the table, “Matthew, I am so sorry. I’m really not feeling well.”

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” He teases as he stands up and pushes his chair in.

No, I just saw my stranger.

“Would you like me to walk you home?”

“Nope. I’m good, don’t want you coming down with whatever bug I have,” She replies with a dismisses wave of her hand, willing herself not to look back towards the bathrooms.

“I’ll text you to reschedule. I hope you start to feel better soon. Please text me if you need anything,” Matt smiles genuinely, a concerned expression on his face.

Why didn’t Harry want her to be around him?

How did he have the right to order her around when he wouldn’t answer simple questions?

YN’s mind is reeling as she walks home.

It’s like she expects to see her stranger, watching her walk home but there’s no sign of him, and just like that he disappeared into thin air.

++

YN visits the coffee shop multiple more times.

He’s never there.

Matthew texts her multiple times checking on her, offering to bring her soup or medication, and telling her what a good time he had.

In an act of defiance, against her stranger who has only come into her life twice but has occupied her mind ten-fold, she agrees to another date.

It’s not as if Harry will find out but it still felt freeing to actively disobey his warning.

And so when Matthew asks…

Matthew: If you’re feeling better, I would love to take you out this weekend.

YN feels a sense of guilt that she’s thinking more of her stranger than Matthew when she replies.

YN: I would absolutely love that. Just let me know how to dress. :)

+

That is how she finds herself inside of a nice restaurant on Saturday night, dressed in a satin dress and strappy heels that she hadn’t worn in ages.

Matthew had picked her up in his run of the mill, base model sports car, that was flashy but in quite an unimpressive way.

He was dressed in a nice suit and managed to get reservations at an exclusive, small restaurant in the heart of the city.

Matthew and her were sitting at a two person table toward the back.

Next to them was a round table with place settings for six that was yet to be occupied, the notecard only specifying, ‘Styles, Party of Six.’

They are being poured their first very expensive glass of Pinot Noir when a group of men, somewhat boisterous and rowdy for the setting, are seated at the round table next to them.

“And so Doctor Flint told me that the cadaver ligament we were to use was lost. How on earth do you misplace a body part?” Matthew laughs whilst he tells her this story from the old hospital he worked at.

YN was trying to focus but she hears a voice that is eerily familiar.

“Settle down. This isn’t a fucking bar.”

The hair on the back of her neck stands straight up.

Her stranger.

This isn’t a coincidence.

It can’t be.

YN refuses to look up, past Matthew’s head because she’s terrified of what she might see or more like what she knows she’ll see.

“He put it in the employee fridge! Can you believe that?” Matthew honks out a laugh, slapping the table like he just told the world's funniest jokes.

“That’s insane,” YN agrees, forcing a fake laugh out of her suddenly dry throat, “Sounds like it could be a scene from a movie.”

YN knows that he’s watching her.

It’s the untold feeling that’s inkling up her spine.

She feels in danger for the first time.

Real danger.

How on earth is he sitting across from her?

Is he following her?

That had to be the only answer.

Had she acquired a stalker by helping him all those months ago and the coffee shop just sparked it again?

But that does equate to what he warned about Matthew?

YN convinces herself that she didn’t hear his voice, that it’s all in her head, and she’s going to look up to confirm that she was in fact going insane.

After a deep breath, YN tilts her chin up and gazes directly into the eyes of the man she was praying wasn’t staring back.

Her stranger was positively fuming, he was leveling her with a downright murderous glare that actually made her concerned for her safety.

YN darts her eyes back towards Matthew and ignores Harry for as long as humanly possible as he chats on with his friends.

Everything is working out until her date excuses himself to the restroom, before the main course comes out.

Fuck.

YN anxiously pulls out her phone to distract herself.

Until someone is plucking her mobile right out her hands, a thumb pressing into the nape of her neck as a warning to keep looking forward.

“Bathroom. Five minutes after he gets back,” Her stranger leans down to speak into her ear, he moves so sleekly that she’s never even been alerted he got up.

“My pho-“

“You’ll get it back when you meet me in the bathroom,” Harry tells her before he’s standing up and walking back to his table, slipping her cell into his suit jacket pocket.

Did he really just steal her phone?

YN digs her nails into her palm, keeping an eye on the clock after Matthew sits down, waiting until the five minute mark before excusing herself.

There’s only a single bathroom which when she pushes through the already cracked open door, her stranger is leaning against the counter like last time.

YN takes the initiative to lock it behind her.

She shouldn’t but she does.

“Give me my phone back,” YN demands, unsure of where the bravado is coming from as she steps further into the room.

Harry doesn’t give her a wicked smile, his lips are tight, and his jaw is clenched.

He is absolutely pissed.

“What the fuck did I tell you last time, stupid girl?” Harry’s volume is louder than she anticipated, making her jump in surprise.

YN doesn’t respond, the heart palpitations that were now the norm for her interaction with this man are in full effect.

“Come here,” Harry orders furiously, moving away from the counter.

YN stands her ground.

“I said come the fuck here or I’ll smash your phone right off this god damn floor,” He threatens as he watches her, lip twitching in displeasure at her not listening the first time.

YN really would rather not pay for a new cell phone at the moment and slowly, she drags her feet towards him.

”Yeah, I don’t have time for your lil’ drama queen bullshit tonight, darling,” Harry sneers as he grabs her by the waist, moving her forcefully until he can pick her up and sit her on the sink counter.

YN readjusts her dress, she’d heard a slight rip but she wasn’t going to point that out at the moment.

Harry’s hand comes to her jaw, gripping it and forcing their eyes level, “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Is that what this is? Or do you lack any semblance of common sense?”

It’s hard for YN to talk with his hand holding her jaw, her words jumbled when she garbles out, “Why are you following me?”

His brows furrow in confusion, “You think I’m following you?”

”What are the chances that you show up in two places that I’ve been? While I’m on a date? Unless you’re following Matt….” YN trails off because that would make no sense, it was much more likely that he was following her around.

It was clear Matt had no idea who Harry was because he hadn’t recognized or acknowledge him at the coffee shop or at dinner when Matt would have definetly seen him when he was returning from his bathroom break.

Harry grip tightens enough that she squeaks, trying to pull away, and he hadn’t even seemed to realize he was using much force because it instantly loosens again.

Oddly, he reaches his thumb out to run along her jawbone, and it’s half comforting, half annoyed when he mutters, “You’re fine. Stop.”

She was pretty far from fine at this point.

”Are you that desperate for a lay?” Harry asks bluntly, he was standing in between her thighs and if anyone would have walked into this room, they would be under a much different impression than what’s actually going on.

”Excuse me?” YN gasps, affronted at his questioning.

Harry rolls his eyes at he reaction, his thumb was still rubbing against her skin but his grip had him in control, “I specifically told you to never associate with that guy. Here you are a week later, dressed up all pretty f’him, and what…you gonna let him take you home?”

If YN didn’t know any better, there sounded like some jealously in his tone.

”I don’t know what was going to happen after dinner,” YN bites out, trying to exercise her jaw muscle against his fingertips, “Maybe I would have let him take me home and fuck me.”

Harry’s eyes darken, his pupils dialating further in his anger, and his hand moves from her jaw to the side of her neck, thumb ghosting over her pressure point as a silent threat.

”Can I tell you what I think?” Harry murmurs, with the smallest hint of a smile like he’s cracked the code to something.

”You’re going to anyways,” YN mumbles, her own annoyance flooding her body.

”You’re not even into him. I think you agreed to this date just to spite my warning, huh? Tell me I’m wrong,” Harry’s voice is deeper, smoother, and downright dangerous.

”I do-“

”Tell. Me. I’m. Wrong,” He recites each word distinctly, his teeth gritted as his eyes dart from her eyes to his grip on her throat to her lips back to her eyes in a vicious cycle.

YN bites at her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth as she doesn’t know why Harry is so good at figuring her out but now she doesn’t feel like she’s in a position to lie either.

She avoids it by saying, “I don’t know you. You won’t let me ask questions. Why should I trust you? There was no reason not to go on another date. Why because of your ominous warning?”

”Yes because of my fucking warning,” He snaps back at her, stepping further between her thighs until their chests are nearly bumping and his familiar scent is lingering against her, “I know what I’m talking about. Stay the fuck away from him.”

YN shouldn’t push his buttons.

She should oblige, agree, and then avoid him for the rest of her life.

But as always, she goes against all those natural instincts and eggs him on further.

”Well then who would I go home with tonight?”

Harry doesn’t appreciate that comment.

Not by the way he’s moving to wraps his fingers around her wrist and tug her off the counter, “I’m taking you home now.”

“Wait, I-“ YN responds in surprise, not resisting his hold as he helps her onto her feet, her high heels were not made for this type of activity.

”No, you want to keep playing with me? You’re going to lose, every fucking time,” Harry retorts as he begins to lead her towards the door, “You’re going to go home to your own apartment, by yourself. Use your fingers, a toy, I don’t really care but you’re not going home with that guy.”

YN feels awful that Matthew is sitting out there, their main courses about to be served, and it will be the second time that she is ditching him when neither had been her intention.

“My dress,” YN stops moving, right as his hand is on the doorknob, “You fucking ripped it. I cannot go outside like this.”

It was true, from the stretch of the countertop, the already high-cut slit on the right side of her dress was now up to her hip, flashing the obnoxiously red lace she had on underneath.

Harry’s eyes move down with a cluck of his tongue, “Really fuckin’ desperate, huh?”

But before YN can defend herself, he’s shrugging out of his suit jacket and wrapping it around her waist, tying it in the front, and it hangs enough to cover at least where her underwear is flashing.

”There, now come the fuck on. I have shit to do,” Harry retakes her hand, tight and firm as he opens the bathroom door, and instead of going towards the dining hall, he’s going further back into the hallway.

He’s letting them out of an emergency exit into an alleyway.

She expects him to dismiss her, to tell her to get home, and to not contact Matt again.

Instead, what actually happens is that he continues walking with her, out of the alleyway and towards the streets that will lead to her apartment, seeing as he definetly didn’t forget where she lived.

YN was cold, goosebumps breaking out along her arms as her bare arms hit the windchill, her jacket left at the restaurant.

“My jacket,” YN points out, pauses quick enough that Harry nearly bumps into her from where he was following closely behind.

His hands come to her shoulders, encouraging her with a bit of force to keep walking, “I’ll have one of my friends grab it.”

YN hated walking in these heels, it’s why she had spent the money on the Uber.

“It’s cold,” YN complains as they’re about halfway there, he’s only a step behind her, ready to grab her at any moment.

“Walk faster then,” Harry replies in a bored tone, his hands once again moving to her shoulder to give her a light shove forward.

YN wants to scream, maybe unstrap her heel, and hit him with it because he was truly the most incorrigible person that she has ever met in her life.

Her stranger stays silent until they make it to her door, he easily ignores the unflattering comments YN makes under her breath, only receiving a shove or push as a response.

When YN fumbles for her keys, Harry waits like he’s invited in, and YN doesn’t have the will right now to fight.

As soon as they get in, Harry shuts the door behind them and she plops on her couch to start unstrapping the heels.

Her hands are shaking.

She wants to blame the cold but she knows it’s her nerves.

“Pathetic, shaking like a leaf,” Harry huffs as he watches, kneeling down and smacking her hands away, heavy rings stinging her skin, and he begins to undo them himself, “Can’t even get your own shoes off and you want to act like you're tough with me.”

YN watches, heart in her throat at the sight of her stranger kneeling in front of her, his hand wrapped tightly around her ankle as the other fusses with the straps.

Why does she get this deep pitted urge to rile him up, just when he starts to act calm?

“I’m going to see Matthew again,” YN wishes her words had come out with a bit more confidence even though they were a downright lie.

Harry stops his actions, blinking up at her with an unreadable expression, “No.”

“You can’t-“

Harry lunges upward, eye level and angry once again, his teeth were gritted as he went to his usual means of control.

A firm grip of her chin.

“I can. I am telling you I can. Leave it the fuck alone and move on. You don’t even like the bloke,” Harry calls her out, it’s a statement, not a question.

“I haven’t even got to know him-“

“Nor do you need to. Stop fuckin’ around because you’re making my life harder by doing this. And I really don’t like when people make my life harder. Especially spoiled lil’ drama queens,” He’s getting agitated enough that his grip gets harsh, painful, and she flinches in response.

Just like last time, he loosens his hold and his frown deepens, “M’not going to hurt you. Don’t have to act like that.”

“Yes, as you squeeze me. I don’t even know who the fuck you are,” YN pulls out of his grip, he allows it but his other hand is still on her ankle.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Her stranger argues, “Bottom line. Stop. Fucking. Up. My. Plans.”

”I don’t even know what they are,” YN shots back, she felt like they were talking in riddles at this point.

”Go to work, do your cute little nurse shit, and come home,” Harry repeats through clenched teeth, he finally moves to take off her other high heel.

”Forever?” YN snorts sarcastically, wriggling until she can untie his suit jacket from around her waist, making it a point to toss it next to him on the floor.

She felt even more satisfaction when she realized it was a Gucci piece.

Harry’s eyes stay directly staring into hers.

”Until I tell you elsewise,” He replies cryptically, “You’ve ruined enough things f’me. I need you to stop or m’going to have to do something to make you. Don’t try to think you’re smart and defy me. I’ll know.”

YN’s head is spinning, “You’re telling me I’m not supposed to date or have a social life until you say so? A stranger I don’t even know?”

”If you want to stay out of danger. Yes,” He replies like it’s that simple, he’d taken off both of her heels by this point and didn’t seem to realize that he was still holding her foot, thumb pressing into the arch on the bottom.

”This isn’t fair,” YN feels her throat tighten.

Fuck, she was not going to cry.

”It doesn’t have to be fair. Life isn’t fuckin’ fair, darling,” Harry’s voice is venomous as he speaks, his accent was distinct and each word was enounciated harshly.

”Maybe I should just risk it,” YN slouches back into the couch, kicking his hand off of her.

”No, you won’t fuckin’ risk it,” Harry leans up, his hands on either side of her knees, and it would be an intimate position giving any other circumstance, “You need a date that bad? Having a dry spell, pet?”

There’s a roughness in his voice that makes her want to close her thighs.

God, what the fuck is wrong with her?

She is quiet literally being threatened by a stranger and she feels arousal pooling in her belly?

She’s going to fucking die at this rate.

”You said I can’t go out. It doesn’t mean that I can’t have someone come back to my place,” YN is fucking with him at this point, to rile him up even further when she should be doing the exact opposite, “My sex life counldn’t possible interfere with your ‘plans’.”

Harry’s jaw flexes under his skin, if looks could fucking kill.

”Do you need a lesson?” Harry sits up, his hand shifting to her hip and it sends a shockwave through her.

His fingertips were ghosting over the exposed red lace, lightly, curiously.

”A le-lesson?” YN stutters, eyes wide and god, she wanted to spread her legs further.

”Yes, a lesson. To keep you in this god damn house,” Harry reiterates as his fingers slip underneath the thin fabric near the waistband, snapping the elastic against her hips and making her jump, “Do I need to show you how to use your fingers? Buy you a god damn toy? Something because I need you to stay in this fuckin’ house and I don’t know how many different ways to emphasize it.”

YN knows how to use her fingers but there’s something about the texture, calloused roughness of her stranger’s that make her want his instead.

She wasn’t some sex-hungry feign.

Her currently dry spell had been lasting over the past year.

It was something in particular about her stranger that made her realize just how long it had been.

She wasn’t made uncomfortable by his finger wandering by her hip.

Despite how threatening, how out of line this man was, for some reason she felt like she could trust him not to hurt or take advantage of her.

She had never been this risk-taking in her entire life.

And this isn’t normal risk-taking.

”I know how to use them,” YN bleats back, heart jumping when his thumb rubs over the thin skin of her hip, his hand slipping just underneath the fabric of her dress, “Just don’t like to.”

“Then you’re not doing it right,” Harry shakes his head, a bit more solemn and quiet for the moment as he watches his hand.

There’s a pause.

A long enough moment of silence that it reels Harry right back into reality.

He straightens up before standing, kicking her shoes aggressively out of his way as he storms towards the door, “You better fuckin’ listen to me. It really won’t end well for you if you don’t.”

“When will I -“

When will I see you again?

When can I not be a prisoner in my own house?

Why am I going to be a prisoner in my own house?

What the fuck is he trying to protect me from?

What plans am I fucking up?

There’s all those questions and more on the tip of her tongue but she can’t even get the first one out before Harry is cutting her off.

”You’ll know. Now lock your fuckin’ doors and go the fuck to sleep.”

YN also doesn’t know anyone who used the word ‘fuck’ as much as her stranger.

But she finds herself listening as he slams the door on his way out, trembling on it’s rusty hinges, and locking it behind him like he couldn’t manage a way in if he really want.

YN didn’t know exactly what he was up to, but it wasn’t good.

++

It was six days until YN had to face Matthew.

YN had been surprised that she hadn’t received any text or calls.

Then she goes into her settings, realizing that while Harry had stolen her phone that he’d manage to block his number, delete their conversation, and delete his contact information on top of it.

Fucking dick.

YN can’t avoid Matthew in the cafeteria.

As she’s waiting in line for her salad to be made and he strides right up to her with a displeased expression she’d never seen on his normally smile-laden face.

”If you didn’t like me, you could have just said so before standing me up twice,” Matthew tells her, he’s trying to keep his tone casual as he acts like he’s reading the nutritional facts on the back of his energy drink.

”I am so sorry,” YN doesn’t look at him, looking directly at the woman making their food instead as she works, “It’s…this isn’t like me. It has nothing to do with you, I promise. I’ve just had some….issues that had unexpectantly popped up.”

Matthew scoffs, slamming his tray down a bit too aggressively, “If you’re going to lie, at least make it beleiveable. Do you know how lucky you were that I gave you a chance? I’m a fucking doctor. You’re a nurse. You should be chasing me, not elsewise.”

YN squeezes her eyes shut because it’s not worth starting a fight in the middle of their workplace, “Matt, I’m really just trying to enjoy my lunch break on my fourteen hour shift. Please, just leave me alone. Like I said, I’m sorry about what transpired. It’s on me.”

Matthew surprises her by ducking to whisper in her ear, “You are a no one, YN.”

++

None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for her stranger.

She wouldn’t be feeling so useless.

Alone.

It had been four months since she’d seen her stranger.

Not one trace of him.

Despite the fact that she had been listening, she didn’t go out on dates, and she didn’t bring anyone home.

A nice nurse anesthetist named Paul had wanted to take her out on a date, YN was somewhat interested but turned him down gently, stating that she wasn’t ready for a relationship.

It made her angrier as the months went on.

She hated her stranger.

She missed her stranger.

++

It’s takes four and a half excruciatingly isolating months until something changes.

YN had a ten hour shift tonight which wouldn’t have been bad but she hasn’t had a day off in nearly two weeks and she was run ragged.

YN had the next three off to recuperate which would start by passing out immediately in her bed after showering.

When YN unlocks her front door, her eyes are heavily lidded as she locks it behind her, flipping on the switch, and kicking off her black tennis shoes.

”It’s ‘bout fuckin’ time.”

YN drops her water bottle, her phone, and her purse - causing all the contents to start to spill and roll out.

”Jesus Christ, so jumpy, m’little drama queen,” He laughs meanly as his voice doesn’t come any closer.

YN hasn’t looked at him yet but has a sneaking suspicion that her stranger is sitting comfortably on her couch after breaking in.

She should be worried as to why he’s here.

Instead she feels a flair of anger bubble up in her chest, “Four and half fucking months. You let me be alone with nothing and no one for four and a half months, Harry.”

When she turns to face him, her anger quickly dissipates when she realizes that he’s injured.

He’s shirtless, which YN doesn’t have time to let herself look over his tattoos, his rippled muscles, any of it because he’s currently holding his balled up white shirt to his eyebrow.

There was barely any white fabric to be seen, sodden with dark red blood.

“Oh my god,” YN gasps as she steps over her spilled items, rushing towards the couch.

There were streaks of blood trailing down the side of his face, leaving a trace all the way down to his pecs where it finally dried.

“I’m fine. I just need you to do your lil’ hero act on me, okay?” His teeth are stained red from where his bloody lip has poured into his mouth.

YN feels awake suddenly, rushing to her bathroom to retrieve her kit, and running back to her living room just as fast.

“Harry, I don’t-“ YN fumbles, nearly dropping her supplies, going completely scatter-brained in panic and the shock of seeing her stranger after so long.

”Hey,” Harry replies, loud enough to make her jump, and with his free hand, he does what he always does, grips her chin and levels their eye contact, “Stop freaking out. Isn’t this what your fuckin’ job is? Do you do this at the hospital?”

YN shakes her head, “This is different.”

“Well then act like it’s not,” Harry’s hold on her isn’t as rough as it normally is and she has a creeping suspicion that he’s smeared his blood on her face but that was the least of her concerns.

YN goes to her kitchen sink, scrubbing her hand thoroughly before tucking her hands into a pair of latex gloves before she’s removing his destroyed shirt to examine the actual injury.

It wasn’t the worst that she had ever seen but it was far more serious than the injuries that he had the first time that she saw him.

”I’m going to do the same thing as last time. I’m going to clean it first,” YN informs him through shaky breath as she soaks a cotton pad to begin to swipe over the split skin gently.

Harry, once again, doesn’t show any type of reaction that it’s painful.

He only continues to stare at her face as she does her job.

When the cut is completely cleaned up, YN’s able to examine it better, and realizes that he definitely needs stitches.

”You need at least five or six stitches,” YN tells him after taking a step back, peeling off the gloves, “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?”

Harry doesn’t move, his chest is moving steadily, calm as ever.

”No, I want you to stitch me up,” Harry replies like that’s a normal request.

”I don’t have numbing medication or pain medication, I-“

”I don’t need it. Will you come the fuck on?” He pushes, sitting up a bit straighter, and he has no right to get annoyed at her right now when he’s the one causing all of this.

YN knows she shouldn’t do what he’s asking.

Shouldn’t give in to another one of his demands.

But she does.

”Fine,” YN lets out a long exhale, digging through her kit for another pair of gloves and the material for sutures.

”Wait f’a minute,” Her stranger interrupts her, hand coming to grip her hip, and bring her attention back to him, “I don’t want you fuckin’ shaking while you do it. I need you to calm down, okay? Everything is fine, right? You know that.”

”I don’t know that,” YN frowns as she rummages through her kit, ignoring that he wants her eyes on him, “I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t even know you but I’ve listened to you for the past five months.”

“I know you have,” He replies simply.

Was he watching her?

”And nothing bad happened to you, did it?” Harry prompts, squeezing her hip encouraging her to look at him.

YN begrudgingly does, surprised by the softness on his face, his normal harsh frown lines had dissipated.

”No,” YN agrees honestly, “I have just been lonel- never mind.”

She finds herself choking up on the word, tears threatening to spill because she’s tired, confused, and fucking lonely.

Harry’s eyes are unreadable like the usually are, they’re concerned and his squeezing turns almost into a gentle massage of her plush right there.

”I’ll fix it, okay?” Harry sighs as YN tugs on another pair of gloves, “I need you to continue to listen to me, follow my instructions, and I’ll make sure you’re not lonely, okay?”

YN doesn’t believe him for a moment but doesn’t have the energy to argue, “Okay.”

Harry knows that she isn’t buying it, “I mean it. I stick by my fucking word. I’ll fix it if you continue to listen.”

YN nods in agreement, carefully taking the curved needle from the sterilized packaging and threading it through the suture material, “You’ll need to come back here or go to the doctor in about a week and a half to get these remove. They don’t dissolve.”

”Okay,” Harry acknowledges but he’s more subdued, like something about YN complaining about her loneliness had stuck with him.

”Sit back,” YN orders as she’s ready to start work and when she leans over, she not only realizes it’s a shitty angle but her lower back is screaming at her from being on her feet for an unreasonable amount of hours today.

Harry must recognize it, surprisingly perceptive for how cold and disconnected he can be, “C’mere.”

YN should put up a fight.

YN should do a lot of things that she doesn’t.

Harry pulls her in until she’s sitting in his lap, thighs straddling over his closed ones, and she rests her bum on the thick of his quad muscle.

It actually was a much easier angle to do what she needed to do.

Her strangers hands come up to steady her hips, resting in the dip above her hip, and his hands were massive, his fingertips nearly reaching her bellybutton from the way that they were splayed.

”It’s going to hurt. Try not to flinch or anything,” YN mumbles, ignoring the butterflies that were starting to go crazy in her belly.

The roles are reversed when YN grips his chin to keep his head at the angle she needed it as she decided how to go about this.

She can with one hundred percent certainty say that she’s never sat on a patient’s lap while giving them stitches.

Harry doesn’t so much as flinch as she begins, his eyes were studying her face the whole time, hands firm around her waist, and unrelenting in their grip to keep her steady.

The only noise in the room is their breathing, more so YN’s, and a sharper intake from Harry when she has to pierce the needle through his sensitive, bruised skin to pull it shut.

”D-done,” YN replies after she ties the thread of neatly, snipping it with a small pair of scissors before sitting back, her back was still aching.

Harry hadn’t said anything during the whole thing, he doesn’t smile but he isn’t frowning either as he moves to hold her chin, his favorite thing apparently, and his thumb swipes over her bottom lip.

It was oddly intimate.

”Thank you,” Her stranger tells her sincerely, no teasing or harshness.

YN nods, swallowing because she should get off of his lap but she feels planted where she’s at.

Until she can’t help the massive yawn that has her eyes watering, bringing her hand to cover her mouth.

”S’time to get you to sleep,” Harry decides as he stands up and positions her on her feet, “You need to stop workin’ so much. You’re going to die of exhaustion.”

How does he know how much she works?

YN’s too tired to question it further.

”Need t’shower,” YN mumbles back, rubbing at her eye.

”It can wait, you’re ‘bout dead on your feet. Hold on,” Harry disappears down her hallway, she can hear him going into her bathroom like he just has full permission to explore her house.

He comes out a moment later with a damp washcloth, without asking, he begins to wipe at her face, and when the white fabric starts to stain red - she’s alarmed before she realize that it wasn’t her own blood that had dried on her face.

”You can…um, you can shower before you leave if you want,” YN offers as she allows him to wipe her off, moving down her jawline and throat.

She expects him to turn it down.

”I might actually take you up on that. This…this wasn’t part of my plan for the night and I still have things to do. I’ll lock up on the way out?” Her stranger tosses the washcloth on her kitchen counter.

”Yeah, m’going to go to sleep,” YN waves her hand at him, her eyes were starting to close without her permission as she drug her feet towards her bedroom.

”Jesus Christ, I’m fucked.”

YN hears him mutter that under his breath, not meant for her to hear, and she doesn’t know what it means anyways, it was probaly about his plans that didn’t go his way.

After she changes into her pajamas, YN realizes that Harry doesn’t have a shirt on, and she rifles through her drawers until she finds a shirt from an old boyfriend that would fit him.

She folds it, leaves it right in front of the bathroom door, and goes back into her bedroom.

Underneath the covers, she tries to sleep but instead finds herself listening to her stranger.

He must drop a bottle in the shower at some point.

Then the water’s being shut off after awhile.

A bit of shuffling and the door opening.

What she doesn’t expect is when he steps into her doorway, leaning against her doorframe, in the shirt that she had left for him.

”Bye,” He replies simply, no ‘thank you’ or anything.

YN sits up, “No, not ‘bye’. When…when is this going to end? I can’t keep living like this, Harry. I -“

”I said I would fix it, didn’t I? So stop bitching,” Harry snaps, the calmness that had settled between them had disappeared, all the softness that he’d shown just a bit ago had been lost now.

YN frowns at him, “I’m so nice to you. I don’t understand why you treat me so poorly.”

”If you think I’m treating you poorly, you don’t want to know how I treat others,” Harry laughs, the cruelty seeping back into each syllable, “You’re just a sensitive lil’ drama queen.”

”Fuck you,” YN shoots back for the first time because she had been overly nice and accommodating for a man she didn’t know anything about.

The frown lines are back, his scowl set where it normally was.

”Goodnight, my queen,” Harry smirks as the insult rolls off his tongue.

”Get the fuck out,” YN’s voice is quivering but not from fear or upset, from rage.

”My pleasure,” He agrees easily, stepping away from the doorframe and disappearing down the hall.

YN’s too tired to have anymore thoughts after she hears the front door click closed.

What. The. Fuck

++

The next morning, she’s awoken to an obnxious pounding on her front door.

There’s no way that it would be her stranger, right?

He would have let himself in if it was anything like last night.

She had never even questioned where he got the injury from.

When she makes it to the front door, there’s no one in front of her peephole which confuses her, and makes her unlock it to open it up.

There’s a massive cardboard box on her front mat, with small holes poked into the sides, and her name scrawled on the top of it in what looked to be boyish handwriting in marker.

YN hears rustling of all things.

Which makes her kneel down to open the loosely shut box.

When she hears the most feisty mewl of her life.

After opening the flaps, there’s two black kittens inside with a blanket surrounding them.

They were jet black with sleek, shiny coats and bright green eyes- looking up at her expectantly.

Two kittens on her doorstep.

YN is confused but she brings them inside.

When she looks in the box for any explanation, there’s a small note that is in the same handwriting as the scribbles on the cardboard.