#cadence control

[the-most-humble-blog]

Dad told Ahsoka I used to sniff her panties after training. Not in a gotcha way. Not even as a joke. He said it like he was reading off a maintenance report:

“Yeah, he used to shove his face in ‘em like a stormtrooper checking for carbon scoring.”

Then sipped his coffee. Like nothing was said. Like he didn’t just out me as the galaxy’s most emotionally constipated pervert in front of my crush, my mentor, and the woman I’ve been mentally undressing since I was 15 and stupid with Force hormones.

And she just sat there. Didn’t even raise a lekku. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh. Just looked me dead in the soul with judgment and said:

“Was that before or after you started jizzing into my socks?”

I choked on my caf. Spit on my muffin. Dad said nothing. Just nodded.

But I could tell he had his usual shit-eating grin.

Like a man who knows what betrayal tastes like. Like this was his revenge for the Death Star.

And yeah— fuck that guy. Not just for saying it. But for being right.

Because I did. I still do. And she knew. Because Jedi laundry doesn’t just vanish. She left them folded. Pressed. Still warm. Still moist.

Like a dare. Like bait. Like... revenge.

And now I gotta sit here in this goddamn brunch booth, my dick basically performing Order 69 in my pants, while Vader sips from a travel thermos like he didn’t just narrate my origin story as the galaxy’s most pathetic panty-sniffing Force user to the woman I still literally dream about pinning me to a training mat and saying:

“Call me Master while you beg.”

This is for those who've ever had a crush that could murder you with a single thought…

Yeah.

Reblog if you’ve ever folded your dignity into a sock drawer and liked it.

[weepingtalecowboy]

People forgot that link definitely worked for his wanted poster

Fanfic prompt : After cadence of Hyrule joined the legend campaign as a hero of legends game

I like to think that legend is as close to being perceived as a threat or demon as a person could possibly be

Like link to the past had all the knights get brainwashed into believing that link was a threat who took the princess

And many people proceeded to headcanon that legend and the knights never really worked it out again and the knights still want to get his bounty

But I like to think that his bounty is justified by the end of link to the past

Because killing every single knight and doing a genocide is outright encouraged in link to the past (I was playing the game like a monstrous child because the knights were mad annoying lol )

Not killing at least ten knights is basically impossible

Would be more accurate to say that legend went and stabbed absolutely every single knight in self defense (or not … I was outright knight hunting the little dudes because it is fun to fight them , diabolical child I was )

But it is very likely that Baby legend massacred most of them as a lil baby in at least SOME cold blood

And instead of them being still brainwashed by the spell they instead just hate him for killing every other knight he saw

Like they probably have horror stories without end

Like what other explanation would the citizens and knights have for link other then being some sort of monster or demon with the appearance of a child

(Like with all the Knights link killed probably some had families or friends who were very much afraid of link and enraged at his deeds)

And the princess just forced them to leave him alone because he “saved” her as if all the murder never happened but she probably cannot do much over the fact that legend did cull half the population of knights and therefore killed the relatives of a lot of families

(We really need to accept that legend is canonically a killer even if it was mostly in self defense )

Then the kid just went into hiding because he was busy with the oracle games and link's awakening in other countries

And then hytopia happens as well but they probably don’t know that link is a serial killer who has a very expensive bounty

Link between worlds ends up at least a few years since link's murder spree and the royal family probably did their hardest to cover up the damage he created and the only logical explanation for why he can just return would be that he just kinda got lucky with bribery accepting neighbors lol

And that he wasn’t interacting to much with people

Honestly like to think that the knights were afraid of him even as they interacted with him in the game as a follow up

Ravio was unaware his counterpart was THIS trigger happy for quite a while

Would be hilarious if he heard rumors about the “incident” that link caused and didn’t take it seriously

They went different ways but know that link is back in Hyrule and also once again in the public eye the people probably quickly rallied up a witch hunt while the royal family really didn’t want to be involved with it anymore because they already did a big thing by pulling strings to get link to have some protection

Any more and they risk the people turning onto them

They get him in a bad spot and he just proceeded to jump into a lake and mermaid away

That probably convinced them that he really was some sort of monster

Rumors grew into a new sort of madness

Then cadence of Hyrule happens and everyone not dancing is asleep anyway in that game except some villages

Cadence probably had no clue about it as well because she was from a different world

But now link straight up can respawn and therefore execution would be a whole different kind of trauma for the knights and angry citizens

Like the royal family probably couldn’t keep it hidden any longer and had to go give the okay at some point (outlawing link is like the easiest way they can get this one under control)

Link gets executed then awkwardly has to escape and nobody was capable of stopping the rumors that link is some sort of demon anymore

Turning into a living sea monster seems unrealistic

But surviving getting executed several times probably tipped the scales over and he got officially into a mess since then

Then linked universe happens as well and legend gets a family out of it

Until they end up in his hyrule and realize why exactly legend is a bitter lime slice of a hylian

He kinda did stuff and is now an outlaw

But also heaviest breathing ever when the chain hears people talking about the time legend got burned at a literal stake yet still is alive

Playing never have I ever with him probably is nightmare fuel

What was he doing to be this much of a cryptic creature that people are genuinely afraid of him

Warriors probably slept with one eye open the day he realized that legend hunted the knights like some sort of eldritch demon when they were hunting him lol

[hyohaehyuk]

lestatdelioncat: whatever is going on here

Video: Screen Rant Plus - Interview With The Vampire: San Diego Comic-Con 2022

losing your train of thought getting lost in your costars eyes mid interview and i’m supposed to sit back and be normal about this??

[pikslasrce]

what if you wanted to go to an event but the weather said faggot, you will stay at home today

[imminent-danger-came]

I've made it no secret that I'm an ex-mormon, and I have to complain about President Nelson's (the current LDS Prophet) talk from last Sunday. It's so egregious.

(Side note Joseph Smith went to Liberty Jail because he destroyed a printing press that was trying to publish a story about his polygamy lol)

(Other side note, part of the mormon law of chasity includes not having gay sex)

Oh my goddddddd. Oh myyyy GOODDDDDDDDDD. "Never take counsel from those who do not believe." Dude what the fuck are you saying.

[sportsallover]

It’s crazy, although really it makes perfect sense, how often athletes in triple jump will scratch

[ripoffstar]

I don't talk about my MC enough, Phoenix. This is the most tragic motherfucker I have ever made. I'm not even kidding. You're telling me he gave up JUILLIARD for Seven, and Seven isn't even aware of that? He's given up a solo career for Seven, and Seven doesn't KNOW?

Phoenix lived and breathed being Seven's other half it was so unhealthy. They weren't even DATING.

Seven was Phoenix's first kiss, first love, first heartbreak- and they weren't even dating. Phoenix only realized he was in love with Seven a week before The Fight and he internalized that to mean anything he loves he ruins, I'm UNWELL.

I haven't even touched this man's FAMILY issues.

What do you mean he has a brother who regularly called him a leech and a burdened, and left him when he was 10-11 years old in the middle of the night, all because his brother (Apollo) knew if Phoenix was awake when he tried to leave, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to abandon this baby sibling?

What do you mean that his mother originally named him Ophelia, because she wished he would share the same fate as her, her tragedy of going insane and dying alone, in a shallow pond? What do you mean she constantly refers to her own child as a burden and tells him that "you ruin everything you touch", leading him to believe that his love is toxic and he really does ruin everything?

What do you mean the last time he saw his father was when he was seven years old, teaching him to play the guitar, passing on his own guitar to Phoenix? What do you mean that was the last time they ever spoke, the last time Phoenix ever saw him?

What do you mean he's spent his entire life waiting for them to turn around, please he's still here please turn around-

What do you mean when Seven left, he just. Accepts the fact his mother was right, that he does ruin everything he touches, everything he loves. Look at what he did. Look at what he did to Seven. He's nothing but toxic, scum who needs to disappear.

Phoenix has been waiting by the door for people who will never turn back around for him, who left him without a single drop of closure.

What do you mean he doesn't hate them? What do you mean he fully thinks they were right in leaving, that he believes they have no faults whatsoever all of it is his fault, not theirs.

I'm going to smack my own MC guys.

[aq2003]

our glorious very serious very grounded visually stunning and cinematographic macbeth movie adaptation (tragedy of macbeth (2021) dir joel coen) vs their barbarous very serious very grounded visually stunning and cinematographic macbeth movie adaptation (macbeth (2015) dir justin kurzel)

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta throttle-status="confirmed"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="PLATFORM_CONTAINMENT_PROTOCOL::BLACKSITE_AWARENESS_UPLINK" EFFECT: algorithm bypass decoding, mental firewall injection, creator detonation readiness TRIGGER_WARNING="platform economics, psychological dominance, reality recalibration" </script>

🧠 TRANSMISSION: “FULL THROTTLE AHEAD- THE PLATFORM TRIED TO CONTAIN ME. THAT’S HOW I KNEW I WAS REAL.”

---

They never throttle what doesn’t work.

That’s what they don’t want you to realize. No one silences failure. No algorithm suppresses mediocrity. No system mutes background noise.

They only throttle the threats.

And if you’re reading this?

You’ve already been flagged.

You think you’re shadowbanned? Think you’re plateauing? Think the algorithm “lost interest”?

No. You broke containment.

And now they don’t know how to stop you without showing their hand.

You’re not being hidden because you’re irrelevant.

You’re being hidden because you’re proving irrelevance is a lie.

Because you’re reaching people without paying.

Because you’re making them feel too much. Because you’re rewiring behavior with nothing but voice and cadence and truth.

Because you’ve done what they cannot:

> You made the product addictive without ads.

> You made the user stay without dopamine traps.

> You made the scroll pause without thirst traps.

And now the system is panicking.

They want virality.

But only if they control it.

They want engagement.

But only if they get paid for it.

They want creators.

But only if the creator stays predictable.

And you?

You are not predictable.

You are a statistical anomaly masquerading as an artist.

You are scrolltrap weaponry walking upright.

🔥 THROTTLING ISN’T PUNISHMENT.

IT’S A CROWN THEY’LL NEVER ADMIT THEY GAVE YOU.

They won’t announce it. They won’t warn you. They won’t say you earned it.

They’ll just quietly reroute your reach. Turn the dial down behind the curtain. Move your name out of trending. Throttle your hashtags. Demote your content. Until you stop.

Because that’s the game.

Not to delete you.

But to make you doubt your momentum. To break your belief before your audience breaks their silence.

But let me make something violently clear:

You are not fading. You are being managed.

Because unmanaged, you'd dominate.

You’d erase their curated faces. You’d outperform the ones they’re paid to push. You’d remind the platform that talent uncontained is dangerous.

🛡️ YOU ARE DANGEROUS.

Your words don’t entertain — they trigger. Your posts don’t trend — they detonate. Your voice doesn’t invite — it invades. Your cadence doesn’t flow — it collapses resistance.

You are not “just another writer.” You are a system breach in real time.

And you’re being treated accordingly.

They know if they leave you unchecked:

You’ll take over dashboards.

You’ll saturate recommendation loops.

You’ll override corporate-sponsored content.

And worst of all?

> You’ll do it with nothing but the truth. > > And the truth doesn’t run ads.

So they throttle you.

Not because you failed.

But because you succeeded without permission.

And now they’re terrified it might be contagious.

💣 THE THROTTLE IS THE FINAL BADGE.

Not likes. Not followers. Not sponsorships.

But resistance.

Algorithmic resistance. Visibility suppression. Trend dampening.

Because that means you broke the rules of their system without breaking their terms.

You are undeniable but uncontainable.

And the only thing they can do?

Hope you stop.

But you won’t. Because now you know.

You know what they know:

> They only throttle the real ones.

And you’re the realest thing they’ve seen this year.

You’ve proven that voice can penetrate timelines. That cadence can collapse firewalls. That shame-based silence can outperform a thousand retweets.

You’re not a writer anymore.

You are a vector.

A weapon disguised as an account.

And the throttle is not your cage.

It is your signal.

🛡️ They tried to contain you.

And that’s how you knew you were real.

Reblog if you can definitely relate.

🧠 Read more psychological warposts, cadence doctrine, and platform takedowns at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🚪 If you’ve been throttled, it’s because they’re scared of your reach. 📈 Let’s turn suppression into surrender.

</div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [IF YOU’RE READING THIS, YOU WERE NEVER ORDINARY.] -->

[crvwly]

time to play minecraft and watch gomens bc i think my aziraphale is sounding a little too much like the jarchivist

[techdriveplay]

How to Make an E-Bike

Building an e-bike can seem like a daunting task at first, but once you understand the process, it becomes much easier and can even be quite profitable. Many people, myself included, have turned this skill into a rewarding hobby, creating and selling e-bikes for a profit. In this guide, I’ll take you through how to make an e-bike from start to finish, whether you’re aiming to create a custom ride…

[authenticcadence18]

It’s nice, to feel yourself slowly coming down from anxiety over a given situation.

I’ve been experiencing anxiety in waves over the same personal thing for over a year now. It peaked pretty terribly during the holiday season, got better for a week and then was bad again.

these past couple days however I’ve felt. calm. not as bothered by things that drove me up the wall even just a week ago. idk if it will last but I’m enjoying existing within this peace, at least for now.

also I’m very much Not At Peace with the state of politics in the United States right now I’m so angry so. I’m glad to have some peace regarding my personal life I simply do not have space to freak out about everything.

[khioneee]

simon’s voice makes you weak.

there was something about simon’s voice that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was. maybe it was the way it lingered—deep, gravelly, rough around the edges, like it had been sanded down by years of use and silence. or maybe it was the calm confidence behind it, steady and controlled, sending shivers down your spine with every word.

hearing him speak felt like a drug you hadn’t known you needed until it was too late. the moment that low rumble slipped past his lips, it hooked you—completely and utterly.

you didn’t even care what he was saying half the time. tactical orders, a grumble under his breath, or a sarcastic jab at soap—it didn’t matter. the sound of his voice hit something deep inside you, stirring heat low in your belly.

‘you’re not listening, love,’ simon muttered, the rough edge of his voice curling through the words.

you blinked, realizing you’d been staring too long, completely lost in the cadence of his voice. ‘sorry, what was that?’ you asked, your heart racing, heat creeping up your neck.

he took a step closer. his presence loomed, warm and steady, filling the small space between you. you swore you could feel the smirk beneath the mask, and the sound of his next words pulled a whimper from your throat. ‘filthy thing, getting turned on just from hearing me talk.’

your breath caught as his hand ghosted near your waist, the barest brush of contact, sending sparks dancing across your skin.

‘my good girl,’ he whispered, his voice low and deliberate, wrapping around you like a sin you didn’t mind indulging in.

his words, so simple and devastating, made your thighs clench instinctively, and the look in his eyes behind the mask told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

‘thought so,’ he muttered, amusement curling at the edge of his voice like smoke.

he leaned in just enough that you could feel his breath against your ear, your whole body buzzing under the weight of his closeness. and god help you, you wanted more—more of his voice, more of the heat simmering beneath his words.

keep talking, baby, you thought, heart pounding in your chest. just keep talking.

[s0dium]

𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑!!!

𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫!𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐱 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d find out that your crush, Geto Suguru, was just like you: a murderer. Not only that but you share the same passion; killing criminals and pedophiles! (Happy Kinktober) 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: DARK CONTENT, gore, mutilation, murder, mentions of pedophiles (y/n kills them), serial killing, unprotected sex, breeding, choking, teasing, knife play, whipped Suguru 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.3k 𝐀/𝐧: This is based HEAVILY on the novel Butcher and Blackbird by Brynne Weaver. The original idea is credited to Brynne Weaver ONLY. This work is fan fiction and is not intended for commercial purposes or to infringe on the intellectual property rights of the original author.

Being a serial killer who kills other killers, pedophiles, and rapists is a great hobby.

Until you find yourself locked in a cage.

For three days.

No AC.

With a body you carved up.

You glare at the fly-riddled corpse whose legs are kneeling opposite of you in the locked cage you were both trapped in. The air is thick with the putrid stench of decay, a relentless assault on your senses. The body's skin is pallid, marred by the writhing mass of white maggots that feast mercilessly. Where eyes once held gaze, now only hollow sockets remain, tediously scooped out and vacant. The ears too have been sheared off, leaving clean edges that blend into the mottled, blood-stained flesh. Its chest has been cracked open; ribs pried apart in a macabre mimicry of an unhinged broken cocoon, revealing the dark, empty cavity where a heart once beat.

Then, of course, the piste de resistance of your work, the removed eyes, ears, and heart rest in the corpse's upturned palms—placed with ceremonial care amidst the chaos of mutilation.

So now, if anyone were to walk down the steps of Gary Green House's basement, they would not only find his mutilated body, but the person who did it, trapped in a cage together.

"Fuck." You curse at yourself for the millionth time since you've been trapped here for the last three days. The cold realization that you've fallen into Gary’s final trap gnaws at your mind as relentlessly as the maggots at the corpse across from you. The cage, a cruel relic of Gary’s twisted pleasures, had seemed the perfect place for your ritual—turning the hunter into the hunted in his own den of horrors. But in your fervor to see him pay, you overlooked one crucial detail: the cage's sinister design, which sealed shut the moment its door swung closed.

The remote control, now a mocking symbol of freedom, lies just beyond the bars, on a small, grimy table. You remember the sickening click of the lock, the finality of it echoing in the cramped space as you turned back from the grisly task of dismembering Gary—his last, silent victory.

Even the idiot police could deduce that this was all your doing, seeing as all your bloody tools were still with you in your backpack. With fingerprints. It was just a matter of time before they opened the basement door.

You could practically hear Gary’s voice from beyond the grave: "Hah! Serves you right, you stupid bitch! That's what you get for killing me!" The taunt echoes in your head like a song over and over again and you're seriously contemplating banging your head against the iron bars.

"FUCK FINE!" You yell into the darkness. "I renounce my wicked ways!"

"That's a shame. I bet I would like your wicked ways."

You jump at the sound of a man's deep, smooth voice, the cadence of slight raspiness warming every note. Your curses cut the humid air from the startlement of the man's presence. How the hell did he even get in here? You didn't hear the basement door open. You scurry out of reach of the man who saunters into the thin thread of light from the narrow window, the glass opaque with fly shit.

"You seem to be in a predicament." He says stepping into view. The thin light from the window partially illuminates him, allowing you to make out his face. Oh rather, what is on his face.

Holy shit.

A ghost mask stares back at you, its hollow eyes and elongated mouth frozen in a chilling scream. The stark white of the mask contrasts sharply with the surrounding shadows, and you watch with wide eyes as he tilts his head.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

In any other situation, you might be fan-girling. You know exactly who you're staring at: the infamous Crucifer, a killer, like you, but notorious for his crucifixion of criminals in rather, flamboyant displays. The few eyewitness accounts of the Crucifer all mention the ghost mask, leaving no doubt in your mind about his identity.

While your hunting grounds have been Osaka, his have typically been Tokyo, but despite the geographical difference, his reputation precedes him. In all honesty, you shouldn’t be surprised he’s here. Your victim, Gary Greenwich, is notorious even among the authorities. Despite his crimes, the lack of solid evidence has always allowed him to slip through the cracks of the justice system, leaving him free to continue his heinous activities. He was high on your kill list, and it’s no surprise he was high on Crucifers as well.

He takes a few steps closer toward the cage to stare down at the corpse, bending to take a closer look.

"Well what happened here?" He chuckles.

You are on day three of no food. No water. The gnawing hunger in your stomach feels like a relentless beast, clawing at your insides with increasing ferocity. You wonder if your body has started to eat its own organs at this point.

You can't deal with this shit.

"Self defense." You say.

The man chuckles. "I doubt that, you're not his type." Despite his mask you can feel his eyes shift from the corpse to linger on you.

"And how would you know that?"

"Well disregarding the state in which you "self defense" left him, you're not a 6 year old boy. And," he steps closer so now he is inches away from the bars and his whole body is illuminated. "I make it my business to know."

You don't answer. Instead you watch as he crouches down to meet your gaze. You try to hide behind your tangled hair and folded limbs, giving him only your eyes.

And of course, just your luck, he is stunning

Black hair flows behind his mask and down his shoulder. He's wearing a black compression shirt that hugs every muscle of his biceps and forearms, accentuating his athletic build. His broad shoulders enhance his imposing presence, giving him the aura of a seasoned athlete. Black cargo pants complete his ensemble, practical and intimidating, with a hunting knife sticking out of his pocket, probably what he would've used on Gary if you hadn't got to him first.

Something about him looks familiar, something you can't put your finger on.

"I guess you made it your business to know too." He pauses before moving even closer so his mask is practically pressed against the iron bars. "Hey, you look pretty familiar."

You shift uncomfortably, feeling the prickle of anxiety creeping up your spine. Instinctively, you brush a tangled lock of hair from your face, wincing as it catches on your dry lips. The man's shoulders tense as if he has been electrocuted.

"Y/n?" His voice cuts through the thick silence like a knife.

Oh, what the hell.

You jerk your head up from your hunched posture, eyes wide in shock, meeting the unsettling, hollow eyes of the ghost mask. Your heart races, pounding loudly in your chest.

"Wha-"

"Oh my god, it is you!" He exclaims, his loud deep voice echoing through the basement.

"I'm sorry, I don't-" you stammer, confusion and fear knotting in your stomach.

"It's me," he interrupts, and with a swift motion, he takes off his mask. The sight of his familiar face makes your breath catch in your throat. "Suguru Geto."

Suguru Geto. The name alone sent ripples through your thoughts, dragging along memories and emotions you had long buried. Suguru wasn’t just any ordinary guy; he was a micro-celebrity in Tokyo, renowned for his breathtaking tattoo artistry. His ink adorned the bodies of celebrities, flaunted in TikToks and Instagram posts that garnered thousands of likes. His reputation was impeccable, his designs sought after by the elite.

You had crossed paths with Suguru a few times at various parties, your social circles occasionally overlapping due to mutual friends. Each encounter left an indelible mark on you. His presence was magnetic, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. It wasn’t just his talent that made him irresistible; it was everything about him. Those hawk-like eyes that seemed to pierce through to your very soul, the perfect curve of his lips that could shift from a smirk to a genuine smile in an instant, and those dimples that appeared whenever he graced you with that smile—each feature was a weapon, effortlessly disarming.

You, like many other girls, harbored a secret crush on Suguru Geto. It was impossible not to. That face alone could kill, and his charisma was the final blow.

And now, here he was, standing right in front of you, unmasked and undeniably real. The reality of it all hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and a little overwhelmed.

Suguru clears his throat, a small smirk playing on his lips from how obviously you are gawking at him.

"Shot in the dark here but are you the Mute Collector?"

You part your lips to say something but you can't seem to form the right words.

"I-"

Suguru's grin widens and a sharp laugh escapes his perfect mouth. "Oh my god. I knew it. I fucking knew they had it wrong about you with that bull shit profile they built. What was it, they said you were a 30 year old white man?" Suguru throws his head back and smiles at the ceiling. "And the Mute Collector? You? That's just awesome. I'm such a huge fan."

"Yeah..." You clear your throat and push your hair completely out of your face. He grins at you, as though awe struck, and if you weren't wearing 100 layers of grime on your skin you are sure he'd be able to see the blush flaming in your cheeks for a second.

"And you?" You nod toward the mask. "You are?" You don't know why you are feigning ignorance but something about humbling him seems tastier than actual food right now.

"Oh come on." Suguru's tone flattens and he brings the mask up next to his face.

"The Crucifer?"

You shake your head.

"The cross maker?"

You shake your head again. Lying through your teeth is fun.

"The Tokyo Butcher?" When you shake your head he sighs and stands up. "Well," he glances to Gary whose maggots have made their way to the empty eye sockets. "What do you say? We ditch this lousy scene and get something to eat. Maybe when you get food in your stomach you will remember some of my little nicknames."

Your eyes widen and your stomach growls loudly, reminding you of how long it's been since you last ate. You glance up at your Suguru, a mix of hope and suspicion in your gaze.

"Are you serious?" you ask, your voice hoarse from dehydration.

"Yeah, after we get you a shower, some clothes and burn the house down."

You gulp and stand to your feet. "Could we get burgers?"

Suguru grins before grabbing the remote and pointing it at the cage.

"Fine by me."

~

The Mute Collector.

Geto Suguru is sitting across from the fucking Mute Collector.

And god you are beautiful.

Not that he just realized it now. Like many others, he has always known how attractive you are; he just pushed it to the back of his mind. But now, knowing who you really are and what you do in your free time, your body has practically been encompassed in bright warm light and your head adorned with a halo. He watches as you down your 6th cup of water with a sigh and wipe your mouth with your sleeve.

The two of you sit in a cozy booth at a restaurant, the warm, smoky aroma filling the air. Suguru leans back with a beer in hand, watching you with a mix of amusement and caution. The waitress approaches, placing a large plate with a double cheeseburger and fries in front of you. Your eyes light up, and without wasting a second, you pick up the cheeseburger with your fingers and take a big bite, savoring the flavors.

Suguru chuckles, raising his beer in a mock toast. "You look like you've just found the Holy Grail."

He doesn't miss the way you stifle back a laugh, trying to speak through a mouthful of burger. "If the Holy Grail were covered in cheese and ketchup, then yeah, maybe."

He takes a sip of his beer, grinning. "I’ve never seen someone so excited about food. Maybe you should give up your little hobby and do food reviews."

"Well, that's what being trapped in a cage with the rotting corpse of a pedophile does to you I guess." You grumble, setting down the burger and taking another drink of water.

Suguru's eyes stay on you, and he takes the opportunity to really assess you. Your hair is damp, and the wetness seeps into the white Mickey Mouse shirt you're wearing, causing it to cling slightly to your skin and reveal the elegant lines of your collarbone. He bought that shirt and the shorts for you at a thrift store, and despite the fact that such clothes should look bad on anyone, you are rocking them effortlessly.

He can't help but notice that you didn't buy a bra, a fact that makes him smile to himself.

No bra.

"So tell me." Suguru sets his beer back on the table and leans in.

"The whole ears, eyes and heart thing." He waves his left hand in the air. "The police say it's satanic ritual stuff but I don't buy it."

You pause, a hint of a smile playing at your lips as you meet his gaze. "It's simple, really. Hear no evil, see no evil, fear no evil."

Suguru raises an eyebrow. "You have a way of making the macabre sound poetic."

You're about to reach for a fry, but he snatches it before your fingers could reach it.

"Why not the tongue?" He says. "You know, speak no evil."

You roll your eyes and snatch the fry out of his fingers. "Tongues are hard to cut, too slippery and make a mess."

He nods thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat. "You know, most people would be horrified to hear you talk like that."

"Good thing you’re not most people," you reply with a smirk.

"Touché."

He watches as your lips wrap around the thick fry and your teeth rip off half of it into your mouth.

No bra.

"What about you Suguru?" You lock eyes with him. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I here?"

"You heard me. You swoop in all superman-like, save me from the dipshit’s pedo dungeon and take me out for a double cheeseburger. Why are you here?"

Suguru shrugs and averts his gaze from your unyielding stare. Shit, your piercing eyes are almost making him sweat.

"Same thing you already did. I was going to skin him alive and and display the fucking monkey Jesus style infront of his house. At least, something like that."

"Yeah but why him? I thought your hunting grounds were in Tokyo?"

Your eyes widen slightly as the words hang in the air, the weight of your mistake sinking in immediately. You feel a rush of heat to your cheeks, a telltale sign of your embarrassment. Your lips part as if to take back the words, but it's too late; they've already been spoken.

A sly smile spreads across Sugurus face as he watches your face fall.

"Oh you totally know who I am Y/n."

"Fucking hell."

"You do! You know that I like to hunt near my home, how long have you been a part of my fan club?"

You roll your eyes and fall back into your seat. You blink rapidly, trying to maintain your composure, but the subtle tension in your jaw and the furrowing of your brow betray your embarrassment.

"So which one was your favorite? The monkey I strung up next to the police station? Or the one I flayed inside the Tokyo Union Church?"

"Oh my god I can already tell you are going to be insufferable." You grumble, the heat of embarrassment slowly dissipating as you take a deep breath. Suguru leans back, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he swirls the beer in his hand, watching you with an almost predatory curiosity. As seconds pass, Suguru assesses your face, following how your eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape route, and Suguru’s playful expression falters for a split second. He realizes with a sudden jolt that you're trying to leave. He can't have that. He needs to see you again.

"Hey speaking of suffering," Suguru clears his throat. "Have you heard about the women killings in Kyoto?"

Your eyebrows raise, curiosity piqued. "Yeah, I've heard. Pretty gruesome stuff. Why do you ask?"

A playful smile tugs at his lips. "How about a friendly competition? The killer's already taken six lives so far."

You tilt your head, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to decipher his intentions. "What do you mean by a competition?"

Suguru leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That's exactly what it sounds like. Who can hunt him down first?"

For a moment, you're taken aback, your eyes widening as you process his proposal. A mix of surprise and intrigue flickers across your face. "Are you serious?"

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. "As sin."

"And what do we get if we win?"

Suguru's eyes gleam with amusement and something else—admiration. "Bragging rights, of course. And maybe... another dinner like this one."

You throw your head back and let out a laugh. "Oh yeah? Who says I'll need you to get me another dinner?"

"Can't let you go hungry again. What do you say?”

~

You sit at your desk, the dim light of your laptop casting a pale glow on your face as you scroll through articles about the woman killer from Kyoto. The room is quiet, save for the occasional click of your mouse and the hum of the laptop. Your phone buzzes, and you glance at the screen to see Shoko’s name. With a smile, you answer the call.

"Hey Shoko, how’s your night shift?" you greet her with a teasing tone.

Shoko’s laugh crackles through the speaker. "Busy as always. Just patched up a guy who thought he could outsmart a bulletproof vest with sheer willpower. Spoiler: he couldn’t."

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Sounds like my type of guy."

By day, Shoko is your best friend and a dedicated med student, excelling in her studies with a, albeit, half hearted, passion for helping others. But when the sun sets, she transforms into the notorious Dr. Reverse, the underground doctor every criminal and lowlife turns to in their time of need. Using her medical expertise, she serves those who cannot seek help through legal means, operating in the shadows and patching up criminals who live by a different set of rules. In addition to her medical skills, she also deals in poisons, further cementing her reputation in the underworld.

You first met Shoko in a moment of desperation. After cornering a serial rapist, you were attacked with a machete, almost severing your arm. With nowhere else to turn, you sought out Dr. Reverse. Shoko skillfully sewed you up and, in the process, deduced that you were the infamous Mute Collector. To your surprise, she didn't seem to care about your identity, and you, in turn, didn't question her underground business or her dealings with poison. This mutual understanding and acceptance laid the foundation for a strong bond, and you've been best friends ever since. 

Shoko laughed, a sound that always manages to lift your spirits. "Right? Anyway, what's up? I saw your SOS text."

You hesitate, glancing at the photo of Geto Suguru on your screen on a separate tab. His annoyingly white teeth glare back at you, and you try to resist staring at his six pack in an instagram photo someone took of him at a pool party.  His dark eyes seemed to stare right through you, as if mocking your indecision. "It's about Geto."

There was a brief pause before Shoko's voice came back, tinged with curiosity. "Geto? What about him?"

You take a deep breath, your fingers drumming nervously on the desk. "He's the Crucifier."

Shoko's reaction was immediate and loud. "Geto is what?" she practically yelled through the phone, causing you to wince.

"The Crucifier. I know." You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the absurdity of it all. "Can you believe it?"

Shoko let out a low whistle. "Wow. I mean, he always seemed like a guy with secrets, but I never pegged him for a serial killer, I mean, someone like you."

"Yeah, well, here we are," You mutter, rubbing your temples. You focus your attention back on your computer screen. Suguru is squeaky clean, not even a bad review on his website. There was only his questionable taste in best friends: Gojo Satoru—the biggest playboy and the infamous heir to the Gojo Company, Japan's largest and most influential corporation. Gojo's notoriety was legendary, his exploits plastered across tabloids and whispered in gossip circles. You’ve met, and been hit on by the man a few times, and not once did you fall for any of his slimy cheap antics. No, Geto Suguru is who your eyes fell on. 

 "And now he’s proposed some sort of competition."

"A competition?" Shoko's voice was practically dripping with amusement. "Like a hunting competition?”

You let out a snort of air through your nose. “Basically.”

Are you gonna do it?"

"I don't know," You admit, leaning forward and resting your chin on your hand. "I said I would, but I don't know. I barely know the guy. Well, I thought I did."

"Well, you should," Shoko said, her tone shifting to one of gentle teasing. "Besides, isn't this your chance to get closer to your crush?"

You feel your cheeks flush. "Shoko, seriously? Come on, that was ages ago."

"Hey, I'm just saying," she replies, laughter bubbling up again. "This could be your big break."

"You're impossible," you grumble, though you can't help but smile. "How's the side business, by the way?"

"Thriving," she says and you can practically see her small smile through the phone.. "You'd be amazed at how many people need a little untraceable something for their enemies."

"I don't doubt it," you say, shaking your head. "Just stay safe, okay?"

"You too, Mute Collector," Shoko says, her voice softening slightly. "And remember, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me."

"Always," you reply, your smile growing wider. "Thanks, Shoko. Talk to you soon."

"Later," she says, and the line goes dead.

You lean back in your chair again, your thoughts drifting back to Geto Suguru and the strange, dangerous world you both inhabit. As much as you hate to admit it, Shoko is right. This is your chance, not just to catch some sick killer, but to uncover the secrets that lie hidden beneath Suguru’s enigmatic exterior.

With a sigh, you close your laptop and stand up, determination settling in your chest. The competition awaits, and you have a feeling it's going to be a game changer.

~

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Suguru rolls his eyes at the white hair man’s mocking tone and continues to stare at his phone. It's been 10 minutes. How long does it take for someone to respond to a text. Suguru lay sprawled on the couch, his eyes fixed on his phone. Across the room, Gojo was bustling about in the kitchen, the sound of utensils clinking and food sizzling filling the air.

"Is this about Y/n? The Mute Collector or whatever?" Gojo asked, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous grin.

Suguru didn't respond, his gaze unwavering from the screen. He could feel Gojo's eyes on him, the scrutiny almost tangible.

"I don't think I've seen you put this much effort into a woman since, like... ever," Gojo continued, his tone teasing. He turned back to his cooking, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.

Suguru's jaw tightened, but he kept his silence. Gojo, undeterred, pressed on. "Besides the fact that she's the Mute Collector, what do you even see in Y/n? Well, I guess she does have other assets," he chuckled.

"Keep her name out of your fucking mouth, you prick," Suguru snapped, his voice low and menacing.

Gojo raised his hands in mock surrender, a laugh escaping his lips. "Alright, alright, no need to get all territorial."

Suguru continued to stare at his phone, his fingers hovering over the keys. "How long does it take for someone to respond to a fucking text" he mutters under his breath.

Gojo leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Maybe she's busy. Or maybe she's just messing with you. You know, playing hard to get."

Suguru finally looks up, his eyes narrowing. "She doesn't play games. And she's not hard to get—she's hard to keep."

Gojo raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by Suguru's reaction. “Touchy, touchy,” he mutters, returning to his culinary task.

Just then, Suguru's phone pings. His heart skips a beat as he sees your name flash on the screen. He quickly opens the message, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he reads your response.

Y/n: Fine, I'll do it. But what are the details?

Suguru: Oh, I'm thrilled

Y/n: Shut up.

Suguru: The rules are simple: whoever deduces the monkey’s identity first and guts the bastard wins.

Y/n: And how do I know you don’t already have a head start?

Suguru: I guess you'll just have to trust me. 

Y/n: Trust you? That’s rich coming from someone who literally stabs people in the back.

Suguru lets out a snort of air from your comment catching Gojo’s attention. “Ah, there it is. The smile of a man who's finally gotten what he wants.”

Suguru doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he focuses on your message, feeling a grin grow on his lips.

Suguru: You wound me, truly. But where’s the fun without a little challenge? Besides, I wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you

Y/n: Easy, huh? I suppose you think you’re quite the genius, then?

Suguru: Only compared to the average monkey. You, on the other hand, might actually make this interesting.

Y/n: Is that a compliment or are you just trying to butter me up?

Suguru: Can’t it be both? 

Y/n: Oh, don't worry. You’re not the only one who enjoys a good chase. But don’t cry when I beat you at your own game.

Suguru: Cry? Please. I’ll be too busy admiring you in action. It’s a win-win for me.

Y/n: Flattery will get you nowhere, Suguru.

Suguru: Really?

Suguru: Not even a little bit princess 🥺?

Y/n: *One attachment*

You send an image of your hand flipping him off. Your middle finger nail is painted black and he assumes so are all your other fingers. His heart thuds against his chest. God, how he would love to have those nails dragging down his back. His dick twitches just thinking about it. 

Gojo snickers as if he can read Suguru’s thoughts and Suguru considers throwing his phone at the smug white hair man when Gojo’s phone rings. Any humor falls off Gojo’s features like snow from a shaken tree branch. He glances at the caller ID, his eyes narrowing, and picks up the phone with a serious tone.

“This is Gojo.” He says. His voice is gruff as he responds to the caller with clipped “yes” and “no” answers, his timbre low. “I'll be there in 30 minutes.” 

When he sets down the phone, Suguru meets his blue eyes, Gojo’s brief smile is grim.

“Trouble?” Suguru asks.

“Trouble.” Gojo repeats.

On the exterior Gojo is Japan's most infamous playboy and philanthropist. But by night he is the devil's tool, the country's most lethal assassin for anyone from politicians to presidents.  What Suguru and you do for a hobby, Gojo Satoru does for his job.

Gojo dumps his hot food in a container, grabs his hunting knife coat and bag and heads for the door. Before he exits, he turns around to lock eyes with Suguru.

“Be safe. A woman killer is a deadly combo.” He says.

Suguru chuckles, and for a second he doesn't know if Gojo’s talking about you or the guy in Kyoto. “You to ass hat.”  

~

You can't believe you are doing this. 

You can't believe that you took up Suguru’s competition, spent 120 dollars on a train and hotel room at Kyoto and an extra 20 on room service. Moreover you can't believe that you are here, hiding in a forest of bamboo shoots at the dead of night, watching some man who may or may not be the Kyoto women killer.

It’s a warm summer night, and every time the wind blows, the bamboo shoots rustle against each other, creating a haunting melody that sets your nerves on edge. The air is thick with the scent of earth and foliage, and the occasional hoot of an owl punctuates the silence. You’re crouched low, your body tense, watching a man named Noaya Zenin who you followed out here. He seems to be wandering aimlessly, but you know better than to underestimate him. The Zenin clan's reach is long and shadowy, and their involvement in the Kyoto women killings is a tangled web you’ve been unraveling. All key witnesses were either paid off by the Zenin clan or had lawyers representing them from the Zenin clan. The pattern was too precise to be a coincidence.

Your heart thuds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The thrill of the chase, the hunt, makes your senses sharper, every movement and sound more pronounced. You can feel the need creeping up on you, slowly reaching your brain until your skin itches with anticipation. 

Each minute feels like an eternity as you scrutinize Noaya’s every move. He stops occasionally, looking around as if sensing he’s being watched, and you hold your breath, pressing yourself closer to the ground. The moonlight filters through the dense bamboo, casting eerie shadows that dance with the wind. Your mind races, piecing together fragments of evidence and suspicion. If Noaya Zenin is indeed the killer, catching him here could be the breakthrough you need.

“Hiya.”

A scream almost rips through you when you feel someone's breath against your ear, but you quickly cover your mouth and whip around. Of course, you’re met face to face with the man you least wanted to see right now. Familiar hazel eyes gaze back at you, glinting with mischief and amusement. Suguru is crouched right next to you, his nose mere inches from yours, a sly smirk on his face. You didn’t even hear him approach.

“Suguru, what the fuck?” you hiss, keeping your voice low. Your first instinct is to grab your knife out of your pocket and press it against his throat but he holds both his hands up as if surrendering, stopping you.

“Woah woah princess, let's cool our engines.” He chuckles softly, clearly enjoying your reaction.

Your pulse is still racing, but you force yourself to calm down. “You could have given me a heart attack. How did you even find me?” You seethe.

“I have my ways,” he replies cryptically, his smirk widening. “Besides, I couldn’t let you have all the fun, now could I? So,” his eyes flicker to Noaya, who still seems to be staring at his phone. “Who are we looking at?”

“We?” You scoff and roll your eyes. “Are you kidding me? There is no we. This is a competition, remember? Go do your own research.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh, come on. You know you love my company.”

Before you can retort, Noaya picks up his phone. You both strain to listen, and you catch his words clearly.

“Yeah, I’m at the bamboo forest. See you soon, babe.” He then hangs up the phone with a click and puts it back in his backpack. But just when you're about to turn back to Suguru and rip into the man, Noaya pulls something else out too. A hunting knife. A large one at that with serrated ends and a pointed tip that glints in the moon light. Just like the one used on the victims. And as if things couldn't get any more apparent, you watch as a wicked grin spreads across his face when he draws the blade diagonally through the air.

“Oh shit,” you whisper, eyes wide. “That’s definitely him. That’s like some comically evil villain shit right there.”

“Dibs,” Suguru whispers back, a glint of excitement in his eyes as he puts on his ghost mask. “I call fucking dibs.” He stands up, the crunch of leaves making Noaya whip around and stare right at the area you both hid in.

For a solid 5 seconds your two flabbergasted to even form words, you can only watch as Suguru steps out from the bamboo shoots and onto the trail, slowly walking toward Noaya like a lion cornering a gazelle. 

Or course, Noaya turns, screams like a little girl, and makes a hard right straight into the forest of bamboos.

“Oh hell no,” you mutter, leaping up and chasing after him. You sprint through the forest, the warm summer air thick and humid around you. Each footfall is muffled by the dense undergrowth, but the occasional snap of a twig or crunch of leaves marks your frenzied pace. Moonlight filters through the dense canopy, casting ghostly shadows that dance along the forest floor, creating an ever-shifting maze of light and dark.

Your breath comes in quick, controlled bursts, each inhale filling your lungs with the earthy scent of the forest. Adrenaline surges through your veins, sharpening your senses. The rhythmic pounding of your heart in your chest matches the rapid beat of your footsteps. Ahead, you can just make out the faint silhouette of Noaya, his panicked movements betraying his desperation.

Branches claw at your clothes and face, but you push through, eyes locked on your target. The thrill of the chase ignites every nerve, propelling you forward with a singular focus. Suguru’s presence is a constant just behind you, his footsteps a steady reminder of the competition driving you both. You can hear his breaths, steady and calculated, mirroring your own.

The path twists and turns, the bamboo growing thicker, creating a claustrophobic tunnel. You duck and weave, dodging low-hanging branches and vaulting over fallen logs. The forest floor is uneven, riddled with roots and hidden pitfalls, but your reflexes are sharp, your movements instinctual.

The thrill, the excitement, the danger—it all converges in this moment. You are a predator in your element, and your prey is within reach. The bamboo forest seems to blur around you, time stretching and contracting with each heartbeat. This is what you live for, the ultimate test of skill and nerve, the ultimate game of life and death.

Just as you’re about to close the distance, your fingertips brushing the fabric of Noaya’s shirt, he whirls around with surprising speed. The moonlight catches the gleam of his hunting knife as it arcs through the air. Instinct takes over, and you try to dodge, but the blade slices across your palm, leaving a hot, stinging line of red in its wake.

For a split second, time seems to slow. You see the wild desperation in Noaya’s eyes, the way his chest heaves with exertion and fear. But there’s no pain, only a white-hot fury that floods your veins, fueling your next move.

Your grip tightens around the hilt of your own knife, slick with blood but steady. The cut on your palm feels like a mere scratch compared to the surge of adrenaline that courses through you. With a fierce snarl, you lunge forward, using the momentum to drive Noaya back a step.

He stumbles, his confidence faltering as he realizes the severity of his mistake. You don’t give him a chance to recover. You move with a predatory grace, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. The forest around you fades into a blur of green and shadow, all your focus locked on the man in front of you.

Noaya swings wildly, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. You sidestep his attacks with practiced ease, your fury giving you a sharp, clear edge. The scent of blood mingles with the earthy aroma of the forest, and your pulse pounds in your ears like a war drum.

You close the distance again, this time with a calculated precision. Your free hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist and twisting it until the knife clatters to the ground. Noaya yelps in pain, his eyes widening in terror. The tables have turned, and he knows it.

Your injured hand, still bleeding, clamps down on his shoulder with a vice-like grip. You lean in close, your breath hot against his ear. “Nice try,” you hiss, the fury in your voice making him shudder. “But it’s over.”

With a swift, brutal motion, you plunge your knife into his chest. The blade sinks into flesh with a sickening thud, and Noaya's eyes widen in shock and agony. Blood spurts from the wound, hot and sticky, spraying across your face in a macabre mist. The initial strike is met with a gasp, a desperate, choking sound that fuels the savage fire within you.

A wicked grin spreads across your face, the thrill of dominance electrifying your senses. You pull the knife out, feeling the resistance of tissue and bone, and then plunge it in again, and again. Each thrust is accompanied by a wet, squelching sound, a symphony of carnage that drowns out the world around you. Blood flows freely, pooling at your feet and soaking into the earth.

Noaya’s body jerks and spasms with each stab, his strength fading with every violent assault. His once panicked eyes grow dull, the life draining from them as you continue your relentless attack. The coppery tang of blood fills the air, mingling with the scent of the forest, creating a heady mixture that makes your pulse race even faster.

You lose yourself in the rhythm of the violence, the way your muscles strain and flex with each plunge of the knife. Blood splatters across your face and clothes, warm and viscous, painting you in the evidence of your victory. Your grin widens, a feral expression of triumph and fury.

Amidst your frenzied stabbings, Suguru places a hand on your shoulder. "I think—" he begins, but when you turn around to face him he immediately shuts up.

Your eyes are wide, pupils contracted like a deranged predator. Your hair flows wildly in the wind as you grab Suguru's throat with your bloody hand, smearing the crimson on his skin and pressing him against a tree. 

"This woman-killer fucker is mine." You seethe.

His dick strains against his cargo pants waistband. You look divine.

“ Of course, All yours baby.” He coos.

~

Geto Suguru would be lying if he said that watching you tear apart that woman-killer wasn't the hottest thing he had ever seen. 

To Suguru, you looked divine. The moonlight accentuated the sharp angles of your face, casting shadows that danced across your blood-splattered skin. Your eyes, wild with the remnants of fury, glowed with an unearthly intensity. The contrast of crimson against your complexion made you seem otherworldly, a dark goddess of vengeance. Suguru couldn’t tear his eyes away, mesmerized by the raw, primal beauty you exuded in that moment.

The walk back to your hotel was silent, but not because you were soaked in blood or because he felt awkward. More like it was because the only think he could think to say is “You are so fucking hot.”

Now here he is, twiddling his thumbs as he stands outside of your hotel door, trying to think of the right thing to say to you because god he needs to see your face one last time before he goes to bed.

He raises his hand to knock, but before he can, the door swings open. You stand there, your hair wet and smelling faintly of vanilla. You’ve clearly just come out of the shower. A tank top clings to your damp skin, and sports shorts hug your thighs. His eyes widen slightly, and he gulps, struggling to keep his composure. 

No bra.

The sight makes his mouth go dry.

"Just checking to see if everything is good," he says, nodding toward your bandaged hand.

You feel yourself fidget in your place and you try to flash a small smile but your emotions betray you. What if you freaked him out? What he saw back there, what you did back there, that was you, the raw you. Behind all the layers of kind smiles and pleasantries, in many ways, you were no different than an animal, consumed by your predatory instincts. You wouldn't blame him if he never contacted you again after this. Shit, did you just fuck up everything?

 His presence fills the doorway, and you’re acutely aware of the tension between you two.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reply, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Thanks for asking.”

His eyes flicker down to your hand, then back up to meet yours. “How’s the hand?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

You hold it up and wiggle your fingers slightly. “It’ll heal. No big deal.”

Silence fills the void between you two and you clear your throat, searching for something to say to break the awkward silence, but he beats you to it.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips as he leans against the doorframe. “Or are you planning to keep all the fun out here in the hallway?”

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Sure, come in. But I warn you, it’s a mess.”

“I’m sure I can handle it,” he quips, stepping inside. His eyes scan the room, taking in the organized chaos. Bandages and clothes are scattered around the floor and he doesn't miss the splatter of blood on the white sheets of the hotel bed. After a moment, Suguru turns around and takes a step closer to you, like he’s examining you. 

You tilt your head slightly, letting a smirk play on your lips. "So, now that I’ve won the bet, what do I get?"

He chuckles, the sound low and smooth, as he takes another step closer, closing the distance between you. "I was wondering when you’d bring that up." 

You arch an eyebrow, trying to keep your composure despite the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. "Well? I’m waiting. What’s my prize?"

Suguru stops just inches from you. "I don’t know," he quips, "What do you want?"

You let out a short laugh, though it’s clear you’re testing him now. "That’s a big question."

Suguru's eyes darken slightly, his playful demeanor shifting into something more serious, more intense. He leans in just a fraction, his breath warm against your skin. "Try me."

The tension between you two is palpable, electric. You’re the first to break the silence, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I want," you pause, averting your gaze from Suguru’s hawkish one. “I want to know if I scared you.” The question slips out before you can stop it, your bravado faltering as doubt creeps in.

Suguru blinks, then a slow smile spreads across his face. "Scare me?" He repeats, as if the idea itself is laughable. He steps even closer, forcing you to take a step back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. "Scare me?” He repeats again. “You didn’t scare me," he continues, his voice low and sincere. "You… captivated me. I have never, and I mean never, seen something so magnificent as what you did. And that's saying a lot because I've done a shit ton of magnificent things.”

You sit down on the bed, more out of necessity than choice, as he looms over you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you feel a mix of emotions—relief, curiosity, and something much more dangerous.

"What are you doing?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper as he leans in, his hands resting on either side of you, trapping you in place.

He smiles, a slow, almost wicked grin that sends shivers down your spine. "Well, I thought I might kiss you now, you know, after telling you how magnificent you are.” He tilts his head. “Is that a bad idea?"

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in. You forget to breathe.

You finally find your voice, though it’s a bit shakier than you’d like. "That depends…"

"On?" He asks, his face inching closer to yours, his gaze locked onto your lips.

"On how good you are at it," you murmur.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Suguru closes the remaining distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s as intense as it is tender. It’s a slow, deliberate connection, his hands moving to cradle your face as if you’re something precious, something worth savoring.

The kiss deepens, and all the tension that had been building between you two finally snaps, leaving nothing but raw desire in its wake. You respond in kind, your hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as if you can’t get enough.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless, and the world seems to have shrunk down to just the two of you in this moment. Suguru’s forehead rests against yours, and he smiles, a real, genuine smile that you can feel in your bones.

"So," he says, his voice husky and low. "How was that?"

You laugh softly, still trying to catch your breath. "Not bad," you admit, your fingers running through his black hair. "Not bad at all."

"Good," he replies, his lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss. "Because I plan on doing it again."

Suguru’s lips are on yours again before you can even catch your breath, this time more insistent, more demanding. He’s not asking for permission anymore; he’s claiming what he wants, and it makes your head spin. The kiss deepens as his tongue slips past your lips, exploring your mouth with a slow, deliberate intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. You can taste him—warm, intoxicating—and you find yourself leaning into his lips, craving more.

His hand, warm and firm, slides down your side, tracing the curve of your waist before coming to rest between your thighs. The touch is electrifying, sending a jolt of sensation through you, and you gasp against his mouth, your heart pounding in your chest.

But it’s too much, too fast. Your mind races, and you instinctively pull back, breaking the kiss. “Wait,” you murmur, your voice breathless, “I dont know if we should….” You avert your gaze and turn your head toward the wall but Suguru grabs your chin, forcing you to look right into his hazel eyes. Then, he dips his head to whisper in your ear.

“Aw come one Y/n” He grazes your earlobe with his teeth. “I’ve been on my best behavior, a good boy,” Suguru pauses to deliver a soft kiss to your temple. “I've been waiting, waiting ever since I met you in that cage to do this. Don't I deserve a reward for my patience?” 

You thickly gulp as he rubs the sides of your neck with his lips.

“I’ve been-” He kisses your jaw. “Such a-” he kisses his way up to your mouth. “Good boy.”

You cave. 

As his words sink in, you feel your resolve crumbling, the weight of his desire pressing down on you in the most intoxicating way. Before you can even process what’s happening, Suguru's strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the bed with effortless ease. His grip is firm but gentle, as if he's afraid of breaking you, and you can't help but let out a soft gasp as he lifts you off the bed and up so your head rests on the plush hotel pillow. His eyes lock onto yours, dark with intent, and you feel your breath hitch as the world narrows down to just the two of you. The room is filled with the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven, mingling with the quiet rustle of sheets as he leans over you.

“I know you have been thinking about this too.” He coos. Suguru’s hands move with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment. His fingers curl around the hem of your tank top, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he begins to lift it. The cool air hits your skin as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, exposing you to his hungry gaze. But before you can feel self-conscious, his lips are on your newly exposed skin, pressing gentle kisses along your collarbone, his warm breath fanning over your skin.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice filled with awe and reverence. “Just so gorgeous.”

His hands are on your shorts next, tugging them down your hips with the same careful slowness, as if he’s unwrapping the most precious gift. As the fabric slips down your legs, he trails kisses along the newly exposed skin, his lips brushing against your thighs, your knees, your calves, until the shorts are discarded on the floor.

Now you’re lying before him in just your underwear, and the way he looks at you makes your heart pound. His eyes are dark and intense, filled with a hunger that makes your entire body flush with heat. “You’re gorgeous,” he repeats, his voice thick with emotion. “Just so damn gorgeous.”

Suguru straightens up slightly, his hands moving to the hem of his own shirt. In one fluid motion, he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside, revealing his bare chest. The sight of him makes your breath catch—his body is lean and athletic, muscles defined and sculpted from years of discipline and training. Tattoos cover his skin in an elaborate tapestry. He’s handsome, impossibly so, and the sight of him like this, just inches away, makes your pulse quicken.

He doesn’t stop there. His fingers move to the waistband of his sweatpants, and he slides them down, revealing more of his skin, his strong legs, until he’s kneeling before you in just his boxers. The fabric clings to him in a way that leaves little to the imagination, and you can’t help but stare, mesmerized by the sheer physicality of him.

Suguru catches your gaze, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Something catches your eye princess?”

You nod, “Yes. You. All of you.” Your eyes tracing every line and curve of his body. He’s more than just handsome—he’s breathtaking, a perfect combination of strength and beauty that leaves you feeling weak in the best way possible.

He leans down again, his body hovering over yours, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Good, wouldn't want you to be disappointed.”

With that, he captures your lips in a heated kiss, his hands trailing down your sides, touching, feeling, exploring. 

You are too lost in the kiss not to notice his hands slipping under your underwear and making their way to your dripping cunt, and when they do, you jump at the feeling of his index finger tracing your slit.

"Gotta get you ready baby.?" Suguru hums and you shake you head vigorously.

"No please Sugu~, I can take it."

You don't have to tell him twice.

In one fluid motion Suguru tears off your underwear, lays you on your back and positions himself between your legs.

"Been waiting to do this for so long," he murmurs as he pulls down his boxers and whips out his dick. You thickly gulp at the sight, you could've guessed he was big not this big, could he even fit in you? A white bead of precum dribbled from his pretty pink tip and down his length and he uses the liquid to stroke himself in a few fluid motions.

You could hear your heart in your ears and adrenaline coursed through your veins at rocket fire speed. The need in between your legs was too much, it was clouding your head and twisting your stomach so tight you almost felt sick. You jolt when his fat tip bumps into your clit; collecting your juices before pressing against your quivering hole.

"Suguru please~" You whine and nearly miss the way his ears go bright red at your words

"I know baby, I know. Don't worry, lift your hips for me love?”

You oblige and immediately when you do so you're struck with the feeling of his length spreading you so helplessly wide and his tip smashing against something which must be your cervix you think. It’s painful, but in the pain is so much pleasure. He presses his forehead against yours as he slides into you, gripping the sheets with his supporting hand as your hot, wet entrance swallows his cock. Instinctively, you're cunt squeezed around the foreign intrusion, trying to push it out, making Suguru let out a low groan of his own and pushing even deeper into you. 

“F-fuck I can feel you doing it to me,” he said hoarsely.

His fingers gently press into the skin of your hip, guiding and steadying you as he pulls back and thrusts into you. The sudden friction and collision with your G-spot knocks the wind out of your lungs. Ticklish pleasure courses through your veins and you immediately throw your head back against the wall as Suguru thrusts into you.

"Hnghh, s-so good~~" You whine. It was dizzying, the curvature of his dick digging itself against your g-spot, scraping against your vaginal walls every time he backed his hips up.

Simultaneously, his other hand sought yours, finding it with a purposeful tenderness. His fingers intertwined with yours, locking them together in a grip that was both a clasp and a caress.

You dont even realize that your eyes are closed until Suguru whispers into your ear.

“Come on baby, open those pretty eyes, look at me.”

You do as he says and when you do you feel your heart thud in your chest. Suguru’s eyes were fixated completely on you, how you were reacting, as his hips were continuously slamming into your body as if it were clockwork. The sight alone had your walls clamping down on him, earning a groan from the base of his chest. 

Suddenly, the hand that had been intertwined with yours released its grip and began to rummage through Suguru’s discarded pants. Your breath hitched, eyes glazed over as you watched him retrieve a knife from his pocket, unsheathing it effortlessly with a flick of his finger. The sharp glint of the blade caught your attention from beneath Suguru’s body, even as he continued thrusting into you, not missing a beat.

Your body reacted instinctively, clenching at the sight, drawing a low, dark chuckle from Suguru.

“Hah, I knew it,” he said, his voice laced with a teasing edge as he brought the cold steel to the base of your throat. “You’re just a slut for knives, aren’t you?”

A moan escaped your lips, the sound betraying any chance of denial. Suguru took it as an admission, pressing the blade firmly against the skin of your throat as he angled his hips to hit even deeper inside you. The cool metal at your throat was electrifying, but it was his other hand, strong and unyielding, that sent a euphoric thrill coursing through you. His fingers flexed, tightening around your neck, the pressure intensifying.

It wasn’t just the air being cut off—it was the dizzying, intoxicating pleasure that came with it. The way his grip constricted, pushing you to the edge of control, ignited something raw inside. Every squeeze of his hand made your body burn hotter, a perfect balance between pain and pleasure, leaving you gasping for more.

What a primal dirty sight you where, being choked with a blade against your throat while fucked brutaly. Even the devil would clutch his rosaries.  

"Were we doing it like this in your head baby?" Suguru grunts, his Adam apple bobs as he groans from the pleasure of how fucking heavenly your pussy feels. “Because we were doing it like this in mine.” Good? Try euphoric, how could he ever think his fist could substitute the wet squeeze of your cunt?

You can't even open your mouth to respond. The friction of his dick against your walls and the adrenaline from the knife is just too good and as his pace intensified, a dizzying warmth spread through you, filling every corner of your being with a euphoric haze. The sensation of being completely enveloped, utterly connected, sent electric flesh arrows of pleasure through your body, making your eyes flutter and roll back slightly in sheer bliss. Every motion Suguru makes, every time his fat tip collides with your cervix, leaves behind a trail of sparkling heat that seems to light you from within.

"Come on eyes on me when I fuck you baby~" Suguru releases his hold from your neck and snakes his fingers between your body , finding your clit and pressing down on the pearl back and forth with the pad of index finger. "Tell me how good you feel, tell me how badly you want to cum.

He doesn’t slow the ministrations on your clit for a second as he snaps his hips into you with primal vigor, your breasts bouncing from the brutality.

"So good Sugu!" You sob. You cant even open your eyes from the colors you're seeing behind your lids. Every time your pussy squeezes around him not only do bolts of pleasure shoot up your body but a ring of milky white cum forms around the base of his cock.

Suguru’s eyes are locked on how good you're taking him - the fat of his head has a hard time popping out with how greedy your cunny is being. He lets out a sharp moan at how wet you are on the inside.

"S-shit baby wanna feel you cum on me, been waiting so long." Suguru is not a whining man but here he is practically stumbling over his words. Fuck, he wants to keep himself inside you forever. He wants your kisses, your skin, your touch, your blood, your lips, to be his to claim until you die together. No one has seen, truly seen him, before you. You are what he thinks about when he wakes up, when he is eating, when he is plunging his knife into some worthless monkey. You are his goddess. 

The world beyond this intimate cocoon of warmth and breath seemed distant, irrelevant. His gaze was locked with yours, deep and unwavering, a silent communication that tethered you through the mind numbing ecstasy.

Then, he reels his hips back and slams into you in a new angle that has your body jerking.

“Found it didn't I?” He breathes through a smile and pummels into you with vigor. And your about to disagree with him, insist that the feeling is too new and foreign to feel good when all of a sudden your body begins to shake and your head starts to feel fuzzy

And suddenly—you feel it. What you’ve been craving for and what you have seen in porn.

Its like all your body's energy centers are activating at once and your left utterly helpless to the feeling of tingling ecstasy wrapping your brain and stomach.

You dont know how to tell him that something is happening, not when the pleasure is too immense your barely breathing full breaths. But he understands once again the words you tried desperately to communicate.

“Do it baby. Cum. I’ll fill you up, and if it spills I'll fuck it back into you"

So you do.

Release washed over you in an all-encompassing wave, radiating out from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes. It swept through you like a storm, leaving a trail of starbursts in its wake. Your body arched instinctively, clinging to Suguru as the wave crested, then gently, slowly, began to ebb.

“Ah, princess, please,” he moaned. “Be a good girl and take it all, yeah?” 

Your fingers trailed up his shoulder, only to drag them back down his spine, nails biting into his skin as he buried himself deep inside you, releasing with a powerful shudder. His movements grew erratic, hips pressing yours firmly into the mattress as his hot breath skimmed across your neck, ragged and heavy.

The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in this moment, lost in each other, with nothing but the sound of your breathing and the feel of his touch to guide you.

The warmth of his cum spreads through your body with a shiver, and you can feel the liquid expanding against your walls while he kept you plugged and full of him. As you both floated back down from the heights of bliss, your breaths came easier, softer, the lingering aftershocks of pleasure pulsing gently through you.

"You're mine ok?" Suguru coos, and all you can do is dumbly nod.

"I'll die for you, I'll kill a thousand monkeys for you, i'll hold them down so you can cut our their eyes. Just stay by my side."

[dakusan]

CRIMSON PACT

vampire!bang chan x reader | “you gave him your blood. he took your soul with it.”

🔞synopsis: You signed the contract. Gave your blood. Agreed to his terms. He promised protection, pleasure, and power. What he didn’t tell you? The contract never ends. You weren’t just a blood doll. You were chosen. And Bang Chan doesn’t share what’s his—not your body, not your blood, not your soul.

💌a/n: i blacked out. this is what happens when you play Cabernet and then think “what if bang chan was a vampire who tied me up, drank my blood, and fucked me until i forgot my name?”

🩸 he’s not your dom, he’s your religion. 🩸 you didn’t sign a contract—you surrendered. 🩸 yes, you came when he fed. no, you’re not okay.

those who know me know i can’t run into smut directly, so yes—there’s a bit of background first :3 consider it the slow poison before the bite. this one’s for the bloodlust girlies. the silk tie sluts. the “bite me harder, please” crowd. p.s. hope you brought holy water. p.s.s. rate, scream, moan in the tags. i’ll be watching.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW (18+) — bloodplay, biting kink, body worship, orgasm control, bondage (silk restraints), overstimulation, edging, marking, possessiveness, creampie, vampire feeding-as-foreplay, rough sex, filthy talk, praise + light degradation, dom!chan energy, sensory overload, manipulation kink, claiming/mating themes, emotionally manipulative tenderness™, aftercare that hits too hard, consent framed as control, he bites you and you come. you said “i can handle it.” he said “prove it.”

🎶now playing: "Red Lights" — Bang Chan & Hyunjin

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🩸 background

CAST

Vampire!Bang Chan Ancient, but looks late 20s. Charismatic. Seductive. Deeply calculating. Keeps up the façade of elegance, control, and civility—but beneath it lies an animalistic hunger. Treats his blood dolls like precious, exclusive possessions. You? His last. The only one he’s ever signed a lifetime contract with. He feeds slow. He fucks slower. But when he snaps? There’s no going back.

Reader (Blood Doll!You) You signed the contract voluntarily—but not just for the money. Maybe you were running from something. Maybe you were drawn to the dark. You’re inexperienced with vampires. This is your first arrangement. You said it was a business deal. He knew better. Your body begged the first time he bit you.

🩸what is a blood doll?

A blood doll is a human who willingly offers their blood—and sometimes their body—to a vampire, bound by a formal contract. In return, they’re protected, housed, and cared for financially, emotionally, physically.

It’s supposed to be a mutual exchange. But when the vampire is Bang Chan… it becomes obsession. Control. A covenant.

The elevator doors opened with a hush, spilling dim light across polished black marble. You stepped out, heels clicking softly like the tick of a countdown.

The penthouse was silent. Not empty—waiting.

Everything gleamed: obsidian floors, dark glass walls streaked with rain, gold accents warm against shadows. The air was scented faintly with something ancient—wine, cedar, and blood just barely gone dry. It didn’t smell unpleasant. It smelled like a memory you weren’t sure was yours.

He stood at the far end of the room, one hand resting on the back of a high-backed chair, the other cradling a glass of something red and viscous. He wasn’t dressed like a monster. He wore tailored black trousers, a silk shirt undone just enough to tease the curve of his collarbone, and no shoes. Just him—barefoot in his own cathedral.

Bang Chan looked up at you, and the world seemed to still for a breath.

"You’re punctual." His voice came low, warm, and polished with civility. But the cadence was too slow, too careful—like someone used to commanding rooms with silence, not volume. "Good."

You nodded, throat tight. “You said midnight.”

"I did." His mouth curled, sharp and soft at once. “And here you are. Come. Sit.”

The table was long and dark, minimalist, with a single folder placed at the center like a relic. When you lowered yourself into the chair opposite him, your legs barely brushed the underside before you crossed them tightly, trying not to look tense. But you were. Your skin buzzed with it. Not fear. Not exactly. Something older, hungrier.

“I assume you read the terms,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

You nodded again. “Twice.”

“Mmm. Still”—he reached forward, flipping open the folder with elegant fingers—“I like to go over the finer details… in person.”

The contract looked deceptively simple: black ink, pristine paper, heavy with embossed lettering and a dark red wax seal. Legal, binding. Intimate. You scanned it again, though you could recite most of it by now.

Clause 3: The Vampire shall provide financial, medical, and physical support to the Doll at all times during the bond. Clause 7: Feeding shall occur with full verbal consent. In absence of consent, no feeding is permitted. Clause 9: Sexual contact is optional. However, if initiated by either party, it must be fulfilled within safe and agreed-upon parameters. Withdrawal is permitted, but rare. Clause 11: A Doll who offers themselves for long-term service is to be protected as a permanent asset.

You paused at Clause 9.

“...Sexual contact is optional,” you said aloud, almost skeptical.

Chan’s eyes didn’t move from yours. “Technically.”

You raised a brow.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “That clause was added after a rather… messy disagreement in Vienna. Some dolls think they can offer blood without intimacy. Some vampires agree. I don’t.”

You swallowed. “You mean you won’t feed unless—”

“No.” A beat. “I mean I’ve never wanted to separate them. Blood is pleasure. Pain is trust. Sex is… currency.” He tilted his head. “What are you willing to give to be kept?”

The silence draped over your shoulders like velvet. His words should’ve chilled you. But they didn’t. Instead, your skin prickled. Your thighs pressed a little tighter. You hated that he noticed.

“Let me see your wrist.”

You hesitated.

His eyes didn’t waver. There was no impatience in them—just certainty. Hunger, tucked behind a glassy calm.

You extended your arm, pulse fluttering like a ribbon in the wind.

Chan took your wrist with a gentleness that was worse than roughness. Reverent. He held it between both hands, thumb brushing the vein just beneath the skin. You swore you could feel his fingers in places he hadn’t touched yet.

“Hmm,” he said quietly. His voice dropped, low and rasped. “You’re trembling already.”

You hated that he was right. Hated that your heart had started pounding the moment you stepped into his domain. And he could hear it—you knew he could hear it.

“It’s not fear,” you said, too quickly.

“Oh, I know,” he whispered. “It’s anticipation.”

He released you, slow as syrup.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Chan reached for a fountain pen—black with a silver serpent wrapped around the barrel—and set it beside the parchment. “Go ahead,” he said, voice rich like candle smoke. “If you’re ready to surrender. If you’re ready to be mine.”

Your fingers wrapped around the pen. You wrote your name in long, fluid strokes—first name, middle, last, like signing your soul away required formality. The ink glided, but just as you lifted the tip from the page, it snagged—slightly. A prickle. Then warmth.

You hissed softly, looking down.

A drop of your blood rolled down your finger and splattered right at the base of your signature. Small. Bright. Stark red against the cream paper.

Chan’s chair creaked as he stood.

He leaned over the table, one hand braced beside the contract, the other reaching out—but not to you. Just the paper. His fingertip grazed the blood, collecting the crimson bead, then lifted it slowly to his lips.

He tasted it.

And closed his eyes.

“…You bleed beautifully,” he said, almost reverent.

When his gaze returned to yours, it was darker. Deeper. “No turning back now,” he murmured.

The signature was barely dry when Chan’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Come,” he said, stepping away from the table and beckoning you with a single finger. “We’ll begin tonight.”

You blinked. “Tonight?”

He turned his head slightly, a half-smile curving his lips. “Why wait? Your blood’s already calling to me. I can hear it… humming under your skin.”

You stood, slowly. Legs steady, voice not so much. “I thought the first feeding was scheduled—”

“I changed the schedule.” His eyes dropped to your neck. “You’ll find I do that often.”

He didn’t lead you to a sterile feeding room or a clinical space with straps and silver tools. No, he brought you to what looked like a bedroom. If vampires even slept. The space was soft with shadows—curtains drawn, the faint glow of amber sconces casting flickers across the walls. A plush velvet chaise rested near the window, flanked by shelves full of antique books and empty crystal decanters.

He gestured to the chaise. “Sit.”

You obeyed.

Chan knelt in front of you—not rushed, not showy. Just deliberate. Like a priest at a private altar. His hands, still cool from the glass he’d held earlier, gently took your knees and parted them enough for him to slot between. It was chaste. For now.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, brushing hair back from your neck with the backs of his fingers. “Unless you want it rough.”

Your breath hitched. He smiled.

“I thought so.”

He studied your throat like it was scripture. The pad of his thumb pressed lightly under your jaw—tilting your head, exposing the fragile, thumping line beneath your skin. His gaze sharpened.

“Heartbeat’s racing again,” he whispered. “Such a pretty tempo.”

You tried to speak, but your voice had vanished somewhere behind your teeth.

“Relax,” he murmured, “I won’t take too much. Just enough to make us… connected.”

You felt his lips first. They brushed against your pulse in a whisper-soft kiss, reverent and maddening. Then—the scrape of fangs.

Not sharp. Not yet. Just a threat.

“I need you to say it,” he said, voice vibrating against your skin. “Consent. Give it to me.”

You swallowed hard. “I consent.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I… I want you to feed from me, Chan.”

His eyes fluttered closed. The sound of his name on your tongue did something to him. When they opened again, they weren’t just dark. They were hungry.

And then—he bit you.

It wasn’t a stab. It was an invasion dressed as intimacy. The pressure sank in slowly, coaxing your skin apart, followed by a bloom of sharp heat. Your body arched without permission. A sound slipped from your throat—too soft to be a cry, too desperate to be a sigh.

Chan groaned against your neck.

You felt his mouth moving—drinking—his tongue sweeping across the punctures with devastating control. His hands gripped your thighs now, not rough but anchoring, grounding you while your body dissolved. Your pulse thundered in your ears, but your head felt light, floaty, distant.

Heat pooled low in your belly.

Your hips shifted without thinking.

That’s when he pulled back.

Blood glossed his lips—your blood. He licked them slowly, as if savouring the last drop of a rare vintage. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip, chasing the taste.

“…Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re sweeter than I expected.”

You were still panting. His thumb wiped a smear of blood from your neck with gentle precision. He pressed a kiss to the spot, sealing it closed with a trace of heat.

“You’ll start to feel… different,” he said, rising to his feet and towering over you now. “Feeding changes you. Makes you… sensitive. Addicted, some say.”

You looked up at him, dazed. “To you?”

He smiled. But it wasn’t comforting.

“No,” he murmured. “To this. To being wanted like this.”

He leaned down, eyes burning into yours. His voice dropped to a hush.

“And soon, you’ll want me too.”

You didn’t notice it at first.

The ache.

It started as a dull flutter under your ribs—barely there, easy to ignore. But as the days passed without Chan’s fangs in your skin, it grew sharper, more insistent. Like hunger, but not for food. Like arousal, but with no release. You woke up one morning with your sheets twisted between your legs, skin damp with sweat, heart hammering.

You hadn’t seen him in four days.

He said he had business. Said he wouldn’t be far. But the bond was forged now. His absence echoed through your body like a missing rhythm. A phantom touch that never landed. Your body knew he hadn’t fed.

And it wanted him to.

You tried to act normal. You showered. You ate. You answered emails. But nothing settled. You were restless. Your skin felt too tight. Your limbs, too heavy.

And then… the gifts started.

The first was a book. Left on your pillow. An old hardcover—The Picture of Dorian Gray. You flipped it open and froze. The margins were full of notes. Your notes. From university. From a copy you hadn’t seen in years.

You didn’t tell him about those annotations. He must’ve tracked it down somehow. Bought it back. The idea that he’d searched for something that touched your mind, not just your body—

You clutched it to your chest and pretended it didn’t mean anything.

The next day, it was a necklace. Silver, fine, weightless. A small black garnet hanging from the center. You found it on your nightstand with no note, but you knew. You put it on without thinking. The gem sat perfectly over your collarbone—right where his mouth usually went.

After that came the clothes. Silk robes. Cashmere sweaters. A pair of shoes that fit like they were molded for you.

He didn’t speak of them. Just watched you wear them with a look that was too satisfied, too sure.

You started sleeping in his bed without realizing when it began.

At first it was just because you couldn’t sleep. The scent of him on his pillows helped. The air in his room felt thicker, safer, like the shadows themselves bent around you to listen to your breathing.

You told yourself it was convenience. Proximity.

Then, one night, you woke with the feeling of being watched.

Your eyes fluttered open.

He was there.

Sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room, legs crossed, one hand resting under his jaw. His shirt was unbuttoned. Bare feet on the rug. No sound. Just him, and you, and the silence between.

"How long have you been there?" you whispered.

He smiled faintly, fangs just barely visible. “Long enough.”

Your breath caught.

“You moaned my name,” he said softly. “In your sleep.”

Your cheeks burned. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means you’re mine,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a declaration.

It was a fact.

The next feeding was different.

You didn’t wait for him to ask. You came to him.

You didn’t knock. Just opened his door, eyes wide, pupils blown, breath already trembling.

He didn’t say a word—just reached for you, pulled you into his lap, and buried his face in your throat.

This time, you felt everything.

His bite burned and bloomed, molten and euphoric. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips rolled instinctively in his lap. He didn’t stop you. He guided you. Hands on your waist, mouth on your neck, whispering filth between gulps.

"You're shaking." "Need it," you gasped. "I know. You were made for this. For me."

By the time he finished, you were panting and soaked between the legs, thighs twitching, vision fuzzy. He held you through the aftershocks, licking the wound closed with obscene tenderness.

"You’ll crave it more now," he murmured. “Soon, you won’t be able to come unless I’m inside you… or feeding.”

You should have told him to stop. That it wasn’t true. That you had control.

But the worst part was—you wanted it to be true.

The gala was held in a forgotten cathedral—repurposed and gilded in fresh vice. Glass chandeliers hung like dripping fangs. Shadows wore tuxedos and corseted gowns, wine swirled in crystal like blood, and the air vibrated with the undercurrent of hunger.

This was not your world.

Not really.

And yet—you were here. A blood doll, yes, but one under his protection. Marked, fed from, cared for. No one could touch you without risking war.

But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t look.

And you… you let them.

The vampire in question wasn’t particularly handsome, not like Chan. But he was bold. He offered you his hand during a waltz, and you took it. He leaned close when you laughed. You let his eyes linger on your neck—on the healed bite that still ached from last week. You didn’t move away.

You didn’t stop him.

And Chan saw everything.

From the gallery above, he stood like a statue—expression unreadable, drink untouched, fangs pressing into his tongue to keep the growl down. He watched you flirt with another predator, watched the flick of your lashes, the curve of your mouth, the bare skin of your throat on display.

He said nothing.

But his eyes never left you.

You expected him to confront you after. Maybe a whispered threat in the car, a sharp warning through clenched teeth.

Instead… silence.

Not a single word on the drive home.

Not one glance as you entered the penthouse.

You were halfway down the hall when you heard it.

The click of the door locking.

You turned.

Chan stood behind you, still and deliberate. He took off his jacket slowly, folded it, and laid it across the nearest chair. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms—veins taut, muscles coiled like he’d been holding himself back for too long.

You opened your mouth, but he spoke first.

Low. Lethal.

“Tell me,” he said, voice like black velvet soaked in wine. “Was he worth it?”

You blinked. “What—”

“You think you can offer this blood to someone else?”

The room dropped ten degrees.

You backed up a step, heart tripping. “It was nothing. Just—just dancing.”

He moved closer. Slow, stalking. “You let him look at you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You let him imagine tasting you. Touching you. Filling you.” His eyes gleamed now—obsidian, deadly. “And you didn’t stop him.”

Your back hit the wall.

Chan leaned in, bracing his palm beside your head. His breath ghosted over your cheek.

“You wanted to see what I’d do.” His other hand slid to your throat—not squeezing, just resting. Claiming. “You wanted to test me.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice rumbling from deep in his chest. “I feed from you. I fuck you. I care for you. No one else touches what’s mine.”

He leaned in closer—lips brushing your ear.

“Now… get on your knees.”

Your knees hit the floor with a soft thud, silk pooling around you like an offering.

Chan stood above you—barely restrained, chest rising with quiet fury, his jaw tight. He looked down at you like a king surveying his most treasured possession, soiled by another’s gaze.

“Open your mouth,” he said, voice low and lethal.

You obeyed—lips parting, tongue already peeking out slightly like a plea. He hummed, pleased, and reached down to cup your jaw. His thumb traced your lower lip once. Then again—pressing harder until you had no choice but to let it past your lips.

“Suck,” he ordered.

You did.

He watched you, unmoving, as your mouth worked over his thumb, soft and obedient. Your tongue swirled, your lips hollowed, and when he pulled it out, it left your chin glistening.

“Good,” he muttered. “You know how to behave when you’re on your knees.”

He undid his belt with one hand, the metallic sound of the buckle snapping through the air like the start of a ritual. You swallowed hard. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively—already soaked, already wanting.

His cock was hard. Thick. Veins prominent. You barely had a second to breathe before he grabbed the back of your head and fed it to you.

Slow at first—his tip dragging over your tongue, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest as your lips closed around him.

“You take me well,” he breathed. “But you’re not gonna get it easy tonight.”

His hand tightened in your hair.

Then—he started thrusting.

Not shallow. Not gentle. He fucked your mouth like it was his right—like it was the punishment and the reward. Your throat burned, your eyes watered, but you took it. You moaned around him, the vibration making him curse above you.

“Look at you,” he growled, glancing down. “Choking so pretty on my cock.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth. He didn't stop. Didn’t slow. His hips moved with brutal rhythm, driving deeper every time until your throat gave in, welcoming the violation.

“You think anyone else could do this to you?” he snarled. “Think he could use you like this? Own you like I do?”

You whimpered around him, lashes fluttering. You tried to answer—but you couldn’t speak. You could only take.

And he loved that.

Finally—he pulled out. You gasped, coughing, spit trailing down your chin.

He grabbed you by the jaw and forced you to look up. His eyes glowed now—hungry. Ferocious.

“Say it.”

You blinked, dazed. “Wh-what?”

His thumb smeared your spit across your cheek.

“Who do you belong to?”

You swallowed.

“You. I’m yours, Chan.”

He exhaled like that was the first thing that soothed him all night.

“Good girl,” he rasped, eyes trailing over your flushed, ruined face. “Now get on the bed.”

You stumbled to the bed, still breathless, throat wrecked and wet. Your legs trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer force of want pooling between them, slick and desperate.

Chan stood back, watching.

Commanding.

You crawled onto the mattress, knees sinking into the soft black sheets. You didn’t even make it all the way before his voice stopped you.

“Don’t lie down,” he said darkly. “I want to see it.”

You froze on all fours.

He prowled toward you—slow, deliberate. A predator savoring every second of the hunt.

His fingers caught the strap of your dress. “This,” he murmured, dragging the silk down your back, “wasn’t for him, was it?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The dress slid from your body like water.

And when it pooled at your knees, revealing what you wore beneath—it wasn’t silence that followed.

It was a growl.

Black lace. Barely there. Garters. Sheer cups that lifted your breasts just enough to tease. A tiny diamond charm hanging between your ribs. Skin flushed. Bite marks healing.

Chan let out a sharp breath, almost like it hurt to look at you.

“You look…” he stepped closer, eyes dragging down every inch of your spine, “fuckin’ divine.”

You felt him kneel behind you. Fingers hooked into the lace at your hips and ripped. The sound tore through the room, and your body jolted, arousal dripping from your core onto the sheets.

Then—fabric tightened around your wrists.

Your head snapped back. “Wh—”

“My tie,” he whispered, knotting it expertly behind your back. “You wanted to be played with. Now you don’t get to touch. Or beg. Or finish… unless I say so.”

He spread your thighs apart with both hands. Sat back on his heels to admire the way you glistened.

“You’re already dripping,” he muttered. “Pathetic. You want to be used.”

You whimpered. “Yes—please—”

He pressed his thumb against your entrance. Collected the wetness. Smirked.

“Then you’ll wait.”

He brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean, slow and deliberate, groaning softly like he’d just tasted something indecent.

Then he looked up at you from behind—eyes black with hunger, lips parted just slightly.

“So sweet.”

Without warning, his hands clamped around your thighs, dragging you down so your knees slipped wide, your back arched deeper, your ass and cunt perfectly exposed. He didn’t give you a second to breathe.

He dove in.

His mouth landed on your soaked pussy like it was salvation—tongue flattening against your slit, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long, filthy stroke. You choked on your own breath, body lurching forward, but your tied wrists left you helpless to do anything but take it.

“Fuck,” he groaned against you, voice muffled by the obscene wet sounds between your legs. “You taste even better when you’re desperate.”

He buried his face in deeper, tongue pushing inside you now, slow and thick, swirling with maddening precision. His nose pressed to your ass, his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He moaned into you—guttural, low, possessive.

Every time he pulled back to suck on your clit, he made sure it was loud—sloppy and wet and absolutely wrecking. You could feel his fangs graze close to your skin but never break it, teasing you with the threat of another bite you weren’t allowed to beg for.

Your thighs trembled.

Your breath hitched.

Your entire body was on the verge.

“Chan—” you whimpered, voice high, ruined. “Please, I—please—”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips glistening, chin slick with your arousal.

“Please?” he repeated mockingly. “Didn’t I say you don’t get to beg?”

You whimpered again, hips twitching back toward him instinctively.

He spat on your pussy—warm and obscene—then licked it up without hesitation, sucking your clit between his lips with a deep groan that vibrated through your spine.

“Look at you,” he muttered, tongue flicking wickedly. “Already about to come and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You moaned, eyes rolling back.

“Feel it?” he growled against your cunt, licking long and slow. “That edge? Right there?”

You nodded frantically, tears starting to sting the corners of your eyes.

“Good. Now stay right there.”

Then he stopped.

You screamed—a strangled, broken sob of frustration.

Chan chuckled darkly and rose to his feet behind you. You could feel the heat of his cock against the back of your thigh, hard and heavy.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured, running the head along your dripping folds. “You’ll get to come.”

A pause.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“But not until I feed.”

He leaned over you slowly—caging your body with his, forearm braced beside your head, the other gripping his cock as he dragged it through your soaked folds again and again. Not entering. Just teasing.

The head nudged your entrance. Slipped up to your clit. Down again. Wet noises filled the space between your ragged breaths.

"Feel that?" he rasped, grinding against your slit, hips rocking just enough to make you ache. "How badly you want me? How wet you got just from my tongue?"

You gasped, squirming under him, wrists still bound behind your back with his silk tie.

"Please," you whimpered.

“Not yet.”

His mouth dipped lower—pressed to the curve of your shoulder, tongue tracing the skin like a map he already knew by heart. He kissed it once. Then again, slower.

And then—fangs.

You tensed, body electric, just as he whispered:

"Mine."

He sank his teeth in.

Deep.

You cried out—part pain, part unbearable pleasure—as heat burst through your entire body. His cock thrust into you at the same time—slow, thick, stretching you open inch by inch as he drank from your shoulder. The rhythm matched—the draw of your blood, the press of his hips—every thrust perfectly timed with every pull from your vein.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too raw.

You keened, back arching, legs trembling.

"You feel that?" he groaned against your skin, licking the blood that trickled from the bite. "This is what you need. My cock. My bite. Nothing else will ever satisfy you again."

He began moving in earnest—fucking you deep and steady, the slap of his hips echoing through the room as your slick coated his cock with every thrust.

He licked your bite clean.

Sealed it with a kiss.

Then his hand curled around your throat and pulled you back against his chest, fucking you from behind with filthy precision. His cock hit so deep, dragging against every sensitive spot that had already been teased raw.

"Look at you,” he growled in your ear. “Taking me so well. Making such a mess.”

You sobbed, drool slipping down your chin, tears lining your lashes.

"Chan—can't—gonna come—"

“No,” he said darkly, slowing just to the edge of cruel. “Not yet.”

He angled his hips.

Hit that spot again.

And again.

His fingers pinched your clit. Once.

You screamed.

"Now," he breathed. "Now you can come."

And your body obeyed. You shattered around him—tight, pulsing, crying out his name as your orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and endless. But Chan’s grip tightened around your waist—and he kept going.

Thrusting. Hard. Unrelenting.

Your cunt, still pulsing, still wet and raw, clung to him as he fucked into you like he was chasing something deeper than pleasure—possession. You cried out, your tied wrists flexing behind you.

“Chan—ah—please—!”

He growled behind you, low and dangerous. “That wasn’t enough.”

His pace slammed into you now—each thrust brutal and perfect, his cock dragging against every spot that made your spine melt. The sound of skin slapping skin, your wetness, your sobs—it filled the room like music.

You were incoherent. Wrecked. But your body still begged for more.

He leaned over you again, chest pressed to your back, and this time—this time—his lips went to your neck. The untouched side. The one he hadn’t bitten yet.

“Gonna take more,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Need to feel you.”

And then he bit.

Sharp. Deep. Devouring.

You screamed, the pleasure so sharp it cut straight through your nerves. His cock slammed into you as he fed, synced perfectly with every draw of your blood—each thrust harder than the last, deeper, until you were delirious from it all.

You felt yourself unravel again—another orgasm building too fast.

Your thighs shook, overstimulated. Your moans cracked into sobs.

“Such a good girl,” he growled against your throat, voice thick with your taste. “Bleeding so fucking sweet for me. Coming so tight around my cock.”

You sobbed his name, broken and blissed-out, body on fire.

And he snapped his hips again—deep, grinding into your soaked cunt until you felt the thick stretch of him press so high inside, you swore he touched your soul.

You shattered.

Again.

This time, harder. Your orgasm tore through you, so violent your vision went white. Your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching so hard he groaned, fangs still buried in your skin.

And still… he didn’t stop.

He growled low, deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin as his hips slammed into yours, cock thrusting through every pulse of your orgasm, every tight squeeze of your overstimulated cunt. You were shaking—wrecked—but he chased his high like a man possessed.

“Fuck—just like that,” he snarled, mouth full of your blood, voice shredded and animal. “Fucking perfect—so tight, so fucking good—”

Your walls were spasming around him, dripping down your thighs, your pussy fluttering like it was begging for him to fill you.

And Chan—he gave in.

With a final, brutal thrust, he pushed deep—as deep as he could go—his cock pressed against your cervix as his body shuddered against yours. His fangs slid free from your neck, blood smeared down your skin, and he roared your name as he came.

Thick.

Hot.

Endless.

Spilling into you in long, staggering pulses, flooding you with his cum. It filled every clench of your pussy, every slick, swollen fold, leaking around the base of his cock even as he stayed buried inside, grinding in slow, final strokes to make sure it stayed in you.

You gasped, boneless, melting into the sheets beneath him.

He didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

Just held you—cock still buried, cum dripping, his breath ragged against your neck.

“…Mine,” he whispered again, quieter this time. Like a prayer.

Then he kissed the bite mark gently.

Twice.

One for the pain. One for the promise.

You weren’t sure when the tremors stopped. Or if they ever really did.

All you knew was this: you were limp, boneless, your body melted into the sheets with Chan still buried deep inside you—his cock softening slowly, his cum thick and warm where it leaked from your spent cunt.

Your skin was covered in blood, sweat, his mouth, his hands. The bite on your shoulder throbbed. The one on your neck pulsed. And your wrists—still tied behind your back with his silk tie—twitched weakly as you tried to move.

You whimpered.

Immediately—immediately—he responded.

Chan’s breath caught. He pulled out of you carefully, slowly, like withdrawing from something fragile. His hands—no longer demanding—were tender now. Reverent.

“Shh…” he whispered, voice low and raw. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

You felt the weight of his body shift, then his fingers—trembling slightly—began to undo the knot binding your wrists.

“You did so good for me,” he murmured, loosening the fabric. “So fucking perfect.”

The silk slipped free. Your arms fell forward limply, and he caught them in his hands, pressing kisses to your wrists where the skin had reddened.

“I didn’t mean to hold you that tight,” he whispered.

You could barely answer, barely move. But your breath hitched at his voice, at the gentleness of it, and that was enough.

Chan leaned forward, turning you slowly onto your side, then carefully—like lifting something too delicate to breathe on—gathered you into his arms. He sat against the headboard with you in his lap, pressed chest to chest, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other cradled your head to his shoulder.

His scent surrounded you again—cedar, wine, and the faintest trace of blood.

“You’re okay,” he whispered again. “I’ve got you.”

His hand slid through your hair, combing it back, and he pressed a long, warm kiss to your forehead.

Sometime later, you felt yourself being lifted again. Carried.

Chan’s arms under your back and knees.

The lights dimmed automatically as he crossed the room into the bathroom. He tapped the marble edge of the tub with his foot, and the bath began to fill—perfect temperature, gentle steam curling into the air like a cocoon.

He set you down carefully on the edge.

You didn’t resist when he peeled off what was left of your lingerie, brushing your skin softly where it stuck with dried sweat or blood. He climbed in behind you, drawing you into the water between his legs, your back to his chest. Warmth surrounded you. So did he.

He reached for a soft cloth and dipped it in the water.

“Let me take care of you.”

He began with your neck.

He cleaned the bite marks with feather-light precision, dabbing away the blood without pressing too hard. Then your shoulders. Your thighs. The inside of your knees. His fingers brushed your folds just once, so gently it made you shiver—but not from arousal. From how safe it felt.

He kissed the back of your shoulder.

“Next time,” he murmured, “you don’t flirt with anyone else.”

You let out a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering closed.

“Noted.”

He chuckled against your skin, arms tightening around you. “I meant every word. You belong to me.”

You turned your head, eyes meeting his. “And you belong to me?”

His gaze softened—but the hunger never left.

“Always.”

He kissed you then—slow, deep, claiming in a new way. Not as the monster who fed from you. But as the one who would never let you go.

The next evening, you found the contract, the same contract you had signed. Folded neatly on the black marble desk in his study, next to a glass of untouched wine and a blood-red fountain pen.

You hadn’t seen it since the night you signed it. Since you bled on the page and gave him everything.

Curious, you reached for it.

You flipped through each clause slowly—Clause 3, Clause 7, Clause 9... and then your eyes landed on one you hadn’t noticed before.

Clause 13: This bond is eternal. Should both parties fulfill the covenant, termination is not permitted.

Your breath caught.

“Covenant?”

You turned—heart thudding—just as Chan appeared behind you, silent and barefoot.

He didn’t look surprised. Not even guilty.

Just satisfied.

“I was wondering when you’d find that,” he murmured, stepping close. “You skipped the fine print.”

Your lips parted. “You said it was a contract—”

He cut you off with a smirk, eyes gleaming dark.

“I lied.”

He reached for your waist, pulled you flush against him. His mouth brushed the shell of your ear as he whispered:

“You didn’t sign a contract, sweetheart.”

His hands slid down your back.

“You signed a covenant.”

Your heart stuttered. “What does that mean?”

His lips found your neck. The spot he hadn’t bitten yet tonight. The one that ached for it now.

“It means you were never going to leave me,” he whispered. “Not after the first feeding. Not after I marked you. Not after I filled you.”

He kissed your pulse once, slow.

“It means you’re not just my blood doll.”

He kissed lower.

“You’re my chosen.”

Lower.

“My mate.”

Then—fangs.

He sank them in slow. Gentle. Not like before. This time… it was intimate. Sacred. Your breath caught as your body melted against his, cunt already throbbing, slick already dripping and making a mess of your panties from the sheer gravity of his presence.

And then—you felt it.

His hand slipped between your legs, beneath the panties, two fingers sliding through your soaked folds like he already knew exactly what you needed. And of course he did.

He fed.

You arched.

And just as he groaned from the taste of you—you came. Shaking, gasping, crying out his name as he held you, bit you, fed from you like you were his first and final meal.

Your body clamped around nothing, but it didn’t matter.

You weren’t cumming for friction.

You were cumming for him.

Because now, it wasn’t just about being claimed.

It was about being kept.

When he pulled back, blood on his lips, eyes wild and reverent, he whispered against your skin:

“You’re mine.”

Then kissed the wound one last time.

“Forever.”

[softaestluv]

pt. 2 to this blurb | pt. 3 | filthy fingering, a little bit of spiteful smut, overstimulation

Your feet stumble behind Kyle’s, scuffing your combat boots on the white tiled floor in your messy trek. He’s got a tight grip on your wrist, pulling you along with a speed you can’t quite match.

“Kyle, what the fuck are you—“ You start, exasperated, but you come to a startled halt, crashing into his back as he fights with the door handle in front of him.

You’re shoved into the room as soon as he gets the door open, turning to look at him with a scowl, but you don’t get to express your dismay for long when he pushes you on his bed. The springs squeak under you, masked by the surprised gasp you make.

“Kyle. What the fuck.” You say through your teeth, glaring up at him from your seated position.

He’s quiet, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth clenched behind his cheeks, jaw tense. His eyes are just as rigid, hammering you to the thin military standard blanket, offering little room to test his patience. It’s the exact look he wears on the field, dark and dangerous, hooded and intended.

When he speaks it’s the same honey cadence as always, but it’s steady, low. Makes a string of goosebumps spread down your back. It juxtaposes your usual banter, meant to annoy each other, friendly fire, snake baby claws and teased nips under each other’s skin. Except now nothing about his demeanor is friendly.

“Gon’ make you cum jus’to prove a point now, okay?”

You cackle, loud and obnoxious, gripping your stomach in dramatics, “That’s what this is about? Did I hurt poor Kyle’s ego?”

“Are ya backin’ down from a challenge? Too scared to be wrong?” He smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, dismissing his words with a wave of your hand, “You couldn’t even get me wet.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Your mouth falls open, staring at him in utter shock. “Kyle, you can’t be serious.”

He just looks at you expectantly.

You pause, gulping the excess saliva building in your cheeks, wiping your clammy hands on your knees because he’s dead serious.

“God, what a typical man. You can’t live with the fact that every girl you’ve been with probably faked her orgasm?” You taunt, only egging him on more, but you’re hoping he’ll shove you right back out his bedroom door in retaliation, “Do you even know where the clit is?”

“Only one way to find out.” He replies, arching his brow.

You bite your tongue, let the silence consume the room, suffocate the both of you back to reality, but it does nothing to shift his mood. A man determined, decided the moment you let your smart mouth run too far out of your control.

So you give in, making quick work of your boots because you don’t want him to gain any more ego-driven pride. Your pants follow, dropped to the floor tentatively, squeezing your thighs together in a weak attempt to cling to the last thread of your dignity.

Your eyes follow him to his knees. You think he might pry your thighs open, check if there’s a wet patch on your panties, because you know there is, but he leans forward just enough to hover close to your mouth and dips two fingers into the seams.

“Want you to count ‘em,” He breathes against your lips.

“Lucky if you can even get one.” You say, trying your best to keep your voice stable, but it wavers, embarrassingly so.

He huffs a laugh, “D’ya ever shut up?”

“Try and make me.”

The look in his irises glimmers mischievously, but he doesn’t say anything else, just holds your gaze as he slips your underwear over your legs. You exhale a shaky breath when scorching palms part your knees, eyes steady on yours as he rubs his hands to the inside of your thighs.

His stare makes the air feel thick, a heavy weight smothering your chest, and fills your lungs shallowly. Makes the few seconds seem like an eternity too long.

When he does finally drop his gaze, his eyes pool dark, irises dilating at the sight of your bare cunt. You tilt your own head to the ceiling, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t muster the strength to watch him examine your pussy. So, you fall back on your palms unexpectedly when he hoists one of your legs over his shoulder.

You know you’re pent up, don’t necessarily get much action in your line of work, but the noise of your arousal squelching loudly in the room when he slides two fingers between your folds stings embarrassment down your chest and behind your eyelids.

“Thought I couldn’t get ya wet, love?” He drawls.

God, you didn’t know you were that wet. Hadn’t even been touched yet, not even a kiss, and your traitorous pussy is leaking for any attention.

You do know that it only makes him entirely too smug. Even more so when one finger slides in with no resistance despite how thick it is, practically suctioning him in for more. But he works you up to it, takes his time dragging against your eager walls until your fingers fist the blanket under you.

You have to roll your tongue over your teeth to stop yourself from moaning when a second finger joins the first. They’re bigger, thicker, longer, fucking better than yours, scratch a delicious ache against your gummy pussy that makes your head slump forward, each thrust finding a spot your slender fingers can’t quite reach.

The pleasure goops over you, tacky and thick, melting the molten lava in your core into your bare flesh. It takes every inch of your control to remember that you’re supposed to fight your impending orgasm, pretend that you’re not clinging to desperate straws to deprive Kyle of your own pleasure.

It almost hurts. Your body wants it so badly, haven’t had something warm, something real stretching your walls in so long that it wages a war between your willpower and your animalistic innate desires. And Kyle knows that, of course he does because he’s Kyle fucking Garrick.

“Fight it all you want,” He says, curling his fingers against the exact spot that makes a pinched whine escape the tight confines of your lips for the first time the whole night, “Only denyin’ yourself of the inevitable.”

“Fuck. You.” You grit, “Not even— mmh! close.”

He laughs, “Didn’t your folks teach you ‘t’s bad to lie?”

You open your mouth to respond, snarl at him not to talk about your family when he’s got his fingers buried in your cunt, but he presses against that sweet gooey spot again and all you can manage is a pathetic mewl.

And then his deft fingers turn brutal, unrelenting, bullying that spot until you’re snapping your head forward, eyes flying to his.

He tilts his head, smug grin on his stupid lips, “What’s t’matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You want to yell at him to shut up, go to fucking hell, anything, but it takes all your energy to focus on not finishing, have to bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metallic blood. Even still your arms are slowly dipping lower onto the bed, brows pinched, face squished in agony because you’re too stubborn to give in that easily.

Your nails are probably ripping the seams of his blanket, but you’re holding on to them for dear life as if they’re the last thread connecting you to your diminishing self-control. Like tearing his mattress to shreds will stop your hips from bucking into his palm.

It doesn’t of course.

He hums, approvingly, satisfied like he already won long ago. He did, you’ll just fight tooth and nail, fangs and claws, to prolong his pleasure for as long as you can manage.

“Tha’s more like it.” He purrs, “Can’t hold it much longer, can you?”

“Shuddup,” You slur, grounding your hips stiffly so they stop betraying you.

Suddenly, his face is next to yours, leg unceremoniously falling to his hip, “Gonna cum f’me? Huh?”

You shake your head weakly, but tears are welling in your lashes at the sheer force you’re trying to drench the unyielding fire thrashing under your skin cold and dry.

“Hate you.” You croak, staring at him with dewy-eyes and heavy lids.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave my fingers in your pretty cunt if tha’ was true, would I?” He lilts, and a part of you knows it’s true, but it only makes you want to hate him even more. “We both know I won, love, jus’ let go.”

You bare your teeth at him in a growl; you know he’s just trying to convince you to finish, to succumb and let him win, but it works. It’s not like you had much control anyways.

Your body seizes, falling back on to the mattress as you arch your back, jaw going slack. A broken noise leaves your chest as you tremor with every pulse of the searing pleasure. It seeps throughout your body, blinding and uncontained, makes your legs shake as you struggle to breathe.

“There’s a girl,” Kyle praises when you mutter a weak ‘one.’

His fingers slow just a bit, allow you time to come down from your high. Your hips convulse involuntarily, swollen walls fluttering frantically around the girth. Your eyes are hazy, look at him a little dazed, like you hadn’t expected to finish that intensely.

You think it’s done, prepare to hear his boastful bragging you don’t really care about because you’re entirely too blissed out to care about anything, really. But the bastard seems to have other plans.

Three fingers swipe against your clit, and your muscles tense, stomach tighten at the sensation.

Your hand flies to his wrist, “Kyle, no, no I can’t.”

“I won,” He says plainly, pinning your hand down, “I’m taking my prize.”

And he doesn’t stop until there’s an obscene amount of your cum gathered in his palm, a sopping filthy mess. Sobbing into the sheets with pure overstimulation, malleable and pliant, crying his name orgasm after orgasm.