#through the walls dynamic inspired

[ky-landfill]

“But it makes total sense, right? Sometimes you’re stuck looking for meaning when it’s just staring you in the face the whole time.”

[pivsketch]

special technique

[gojorgeous]

"MINE, MINE, MINE."

pairing: alpha!geto x omega!fem!reader summary: your doctor won’t refill your prescription until you’ve reset your cycle. you’re desperate for that refill, but geto’s not having it. content: MDNI (18+ ONLY), a/b/o dynamics, nsfw, dubcon? (reader doesn’t want a heat but it’s medically necessary (LMAO what)), established relationship, unprotected sex, breeding, praise, pet names, knotting, slight manipulation, dacryphilia, somnophilia, spit, blood, oral (fem!receiving), so much licking and smelling?, geto and reader are just downright feral LMAO, lmk if i missed anything. a/n: have y’all figured out that i have a breeding kink yet… anyway, this is the first a/b/o fic that i’ve ever written but i just read one and was feeling *inspired*. if people want i might do a prequel sort of thing for this that goes more in-depth about how they met and stuff. lmk! also, i have a vampire gojo fic planned hehe get ready bbs. if you want more of my omegaverse fics check out my alpha!gojo fic here! and remember, AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED! divider credit to: @cafekitsune wc: 5.2k

“No.” 

No? You shift in your seat, cold and plastic, sure you must have heard him wrong. 

“I’m sorry?” you ask. You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, an anxious habit.

“I can’t refill the prescription. I’m sorry, but, frankly, it would be completely irresponsible of me to do so. I’m shocked your previous physician prescribed them for so long.” Fingers find yours and twine them together. Your eyes flash to Geto, but he’s only staring at your new doctor, staring with that furrow in his brow he only gets when he’s worried.

Your new, soon-to-be old, doctor sighs again, running a hand through his thinning white hair. “You need to have a heat as soon as possible, allow your body to recalibrate. Indefinite use of suppressants is dangerous and unhealthy. They are meant to manage your cycles, not stop them altogether.” 

Sweat beads on your palms. He can’t be serious. But it’s his first opinion. Surely there’s another option.

��I-I’m sorry, doctor. I don’t think I’m understanding.” 

Another glance at Geto reveals that he’s frowning now. When his eyes find yours you see the decision there, one he’s already made without you. Your stomach drops.

The doctor sighs and suddenly the walls of the office feel small, tight, suffocating. The twinge of alcohol and chemicals in the air makes your nose scrunch. “Let me say this clearly. I will not refill your prescription for suppressants, nor will any other reputable physician. You have been taking them continuously for far too long. You risk permanent damage should you delay a proper cycle any longer.” The doctor glances to Geto, then back to you. “Go home with your alpha and allow nature to take its course. It’s what’s best.” 

Your eyes widen with realization– you are not leaving this office with what you came for. Your heart pounds and your palms sweat. “Th-that can’t happen, doctor. I need my suppressants. My job- I can’t be out that long a-and Geto can’t either, we–” 

“We will go home,” Geto interrupts, and his tone is final. “Thank you, doctor, for the advice.” 

Geto pulls you to your feet, gently but firmly. He leaves no question about the fact that you’re leaving. You can feel the intensity radiating off him in waves. You ignore it. You turn to your new doctor, silently smiting him. Why did your old one have to retire?

“Doctor, you don’t underst–” 

“Thank you again,” Geto interrupts.

Before you can make another sound, another protest, Geto pulls you through the door, out of the office, and back to the car. He opens the door for you, as he always does, except this time you’re not so eager to accept his chivalry. 

“Suguru,” you bite out. His eyes meet yours, but they are surprisingly gentle. So calm. How is he always calm? 

“Just get in, baby. We’ll talk about it in the car.”

You debate saying no, but you can’t bring yourself to start a fight when he’s being so good. You grumble when you climb in, buckling your seatbelt before Geto can do it for you.

The engine revs to life, but you hardly notice. You’re already scrolling your phone, the search bar reading a simple and straightforward “doctors offices near me”. You scroll right past the first ten, for once in your life wanting a doctor that’s a little sketchy. You scroll further– still not sketchy enough. Someone who’ll give you the prescription you need, even if it’s not necessarily… ethical. Or maybe you could get some on the street? Surely there was some kind of dealing ring for that. There was a dealing ring for everything, right?

“What are you doing?” His voice is soft, but his fingers are tight around the steering wheel, skin stretched tight across his knuckles.

You lift your phone to your ear, dialing the first office that looked relatively shitty enough. “Getting a second opinion,” you answer. 

Suguru plucks the phone so swiftly from your fingers that you hardly even notice it’s gone. You see him end the call and slip it into his back pocket, out of your reach. 

“Hey!” You scramble across the center console, hopelessly grabbing at your lost phone, your last hope. 

Suguru grabs your wrist, restraining you far too easily for your liking. “You’re not getting it back,” he says. His eyes never leave the road. 

Your brows pinch and anger boils in your stomach. “This is not for you to decide. It’s my body.”

He glances at you, unconcerned. Still calm. “And you’re not in a headspace to be making a responsible decision about it, so I’m making it for you.”

Your jaw drops and you pry your wrist free of his grasp. You escape, but you know it’s only because he allows it. “I am of perfectly sound mind, thank you.” 

He shakes his head and sighs. “You’re blinded by desperation.” 

“It’s still not for you to decide!” When you don’t notice any change in his expression, you switch tactics– from anger to honesty. You let your face fall, let your true feelings creep through. “You know how much I hate it, Su.” 

Finally, he cracks. It’s instantaneous, the way he melts for you- the way the soft smile finds his lips and his hand finds yours, twining your fingers together. “I know, but you have to, baby. You heard the doctor.” 

You clench your jaw and avoid the sting of tears behind your eyes. You had heard the doctor, but you weren’t ready. Maybe next month, when you’d had more time to mentally prepare. 

Your skin crawled. You hated it, hated this. You hadn’t had a heat in years, avoiding them like the plague. You hated how vulnerable they made you, how they put you at the mercy of another. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Suguru– you did. You trusted him more than anyone, anything, but you still hated the feeling of being so completely helpless, so completely out of control, even if it was Suguru you were submitting to. 

For most of your life, you’d successfully hidden your omega status. With the help of suppressants, you’d passed as a beta until your early twenties. Then you met Geto. 

You’d met at work. He was cute, beautiful even, you’d thought, but he screamed alpha– and alphas could be dangerous, especially for hiding, unclaimed omegas like you. You’d stayed away as long as you could and, for a while, you were quite successful. You avoided him in the halls, sat at the opposite end of the table in meetings, replied to emails succinctly but politely. All was well until you’d been trapped in an elevator with him one morning, biting your lip anxiously as you waited to reach the twelfth floor. He’d smelled so good that day, perhaps due to an oncoming rut. You hadn’t been able to resist inching closer, taking deeper breaths. Suguru would later tell you that he’d suspected your hidden status, but he had no reason to question you. At least, not until he had you up against the elevator wall with his face buried in your neck. One deep whiff was all he’d needed to know exactly what you were, even with suppressants in your system.

You’d dated for a little over a year, until you’d decided he was the one. Your fingers dust over the mate mark on your throat, the one that had not only made you undoubtedly Suguru’s, but also the one that had revealed to the world exactly what you were. There was no hiding your true identity with an alpha’s scarred mark on your neck. 

Suguru had never seen you through a heat– no one had. You’d taken your suppressants daily, ever since you met him and even long before that. He’d claimed you on a day like any other, no heat necessary. He hadn’t had a rut in all these years, either. When he felt one coming on all he had to do was pop a single pill and all was well– apparently with none of the nasty side effects that came along with your suppressants. Another unfair privilege of being an alpha you supposed. 

“Sugu, I can’t do this.” Your lip is raw from how much you’ve been chewing on it by the time you reach home. 

Suguru softly shuts the door behind you, lifting your twined hands to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles. 

“Yes you can. I know you can.” 

You shake your head. He doesn’t understand– doesn’t know what this will do to you, how it will break you. While you hadn’t had a heat in years, you had experienced them before. You loathed them more than anything, loathed the way your mind was a slave to your body and not the other way around, loathed the way your whole body pulsed and throbbed, loathed the way it made you feel so… weak. “I can’t. It’s-it’s-” Your hands come up to cover your face. You sigh and feel the blush crawling beneath your cheeks. “It’s embarrassing. Humiliating.” 

There’s silence for a moment, and then a soft sight. Suguru pries your hands from your face gently. When you meet his eyes, he’s all business.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, baby.” 

You shake your head and pull away, pacing. “I don’t want anyone to see me like that, Sugu. Not even you.” 

Strong hands catch your waist, holding you still. “It’s not a question. It’s happening– for the sake of your health.” 

You scoff and shake your head. “It’s not–” 

His thumb presses to your lips with just enough pressure to demand silence. The omega in you coos to listen, to submit– the other part of you reels with annoyance.

“End of discussion.” 

He’s closer now and you can feel waves of his breath skating across your skin. It’s like a drug, one that the primal side of you can never get enough of. Give in, give in, give in, your omega begs. Listen to your alpha… You try not to focus on the fact that he smells good enough to eat. You know what he’s doing– using his dynamic to persuade you, to make you see his way, playing to the omega you can usually hide so carefully.

“Sugu…” you say. You intend to be angry but you trail off when his eyes catch yours. 

“I got you, baby.”

Your heart melts at the words. He waits. Maybe he knows that the smell of his skin on yours is playing tricks on your mind. You wage a battle within. Every instinct urges you to agree and with every passing second it becomes harder to disagree. Perhaps he’s right, perhaps it's time you give in for once. Let him take care of you, your omega purrs. You’re nodding before you realize what you’ve done.

Suguru kisses you quickly, allowing no time for takebacks. When he pulls away he gets to work. He whips his phone from his pocket and you listen to him talking to his boss, your boss, saying that you’ll both be out of work for a week on “family” leave. Your face heats when you realize that your boss now knows exactly what you two are going to be doing for the foreseeable future. Suguru kisses you one last time before he’s out the door, off to get enough food and supplies to last a week. You won’t be leaving your apartment for some time. You don't fail to notice that he doesn’t return your phone before he’s gone.

~

You don’t notice a difference, even after the sun is gone. It’s not surprising, considering you usually take your suppressants at night– it’ll take a little while longer for them to fully exit your system… you hope. When you’re brushing your teeth you stare at the empty prescription bottle longingly. 

You join Suguru in bed. The moment you crawl onto the mattress he pulls you closer into his bare chest. You savor the way your bodies fit so perfectly- like he was meant for you and you alone. His front curls around your back, a leg slotted between your thighs. 

“Feel anything?” he asks. 

You shake your head to hide your swallow. You almost shiver when Suguru buries himself in your neck, inhaling your scent. You feel him harden against your backside. He must be able to smell your approaching heat even before you can. Part of you expects instinct to take hold of him, for him to make a move, but he only presses a kiss to your jaw and holds you tighter. 

“Sleep, baby.” 

For once, you follow orders without a fight.

–

Hot. Too hot. 

When your eyes flutter open, you feel the pounding of your heart, the labor of your breath, and the growing ache between your legs. 

You sit up so fast you see stars, panic flooding your veins. No, no, no, no, no. This was wrong, you’d made the wrong choice. You couldn’t do this. Already, you could feel control slipping from your grasp, your consciousness giving way to something more primal, more feral. You scramble, preparing to stand, to find your phone, to lock yourself away and suffer through this on your own.

“Deep breaths, baby.” 

Only then do you realize Suguru is already awake. He’s behind you, hands on your shoulders, both a comfort and a restraint. 

“Can’t-” Your breaths are ragged and so are your words. “Can’t do this, Sugu-” 

“Yes, you can.” He whispers. He pulls you closer, tighter against him. “You will.” 

You shake your head frantically, tears pooling on your lashes. When you turn, Suguru is staring at your neck, at the mate mark on your throbbing pulse. His jaw is clenched when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He’s restraining himself, you realize. A glance down reveals he’s already painfully hard in his pants. You wonder how long he’s been sitting there, taking in your scent, waiting for you to wake. No doubt his rut has already been triggered.

His eyes raise to yours and he pauses at the tears that leak down your cheeks. He leans closer, and the scent emanating from his neck makes you groan against your will. His kisses away the tears. Slowly, one at a time. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.” 

Your body pulls him closer, even as your mind pushes back. “My phone, Sugu,” you panic. “Gotta gimme my phone. C-call a new doctor.” 

He shakes his head and when you start to squirm he only holds you tighter, holds you in place. 

“No, baby.” 

You whimper, seeking the scent gland on his neck against your will. The smell makes your clit throb almost painfully. 

“Sugu, please,” you cry. Tears stream from your eyes, staining your lover’s skin. 

“‘S gonna be okay. Just let it happen. Don’t fight it, love.” 

With each passing moment, you feel your fight slipping further and further away. Suguru rubs at the muscles in your back until you’re slumped against him, pitifully moaning like a wounded animal. It’s not long before your body takes the reins, until you start desperately humping at his thigh, your clit throbbing almost painfully. 

“That’s it. Good girl.” 

Your eyes roll back at the praise and when Suguru grips your waist you cry out at the touch. Everywhere his skin meets yours feels electric. You’re burning, burning, burning. It’s not until Suguru lays you down on your back that you see the sopping patch of slick you’ve left on his thigh. You whimper at the sight. 

“‘S okay, baby. ‘Ve got you.”

Suguru is looking nearly as lost to the lust as you are. Only his willpower and intent keep him from shredding away your panties and breeding your cunt full that very second. He’s never been in the presence of a scent so intoxicating. He’s never been with you, or any omega, through a heat. He thought you smelled amazing before, but now… He is lost to you, lost to the heat he feels emanating from every inch of your skin, to the honeyed scent pouring from your neck, to the slick he sees staining through your panties. His dick twitches in his pants. 

“Love you so much, baby. Gonna take such good care of ya,” he whispers. Instinct drives him forward until he’s plastered his lips to your jaw, licking and biting at the skin. You nearly scream at the sensation. You feel his touch everywhere, all at once. With your last coherent thoughts you know that this heat will be unlike any other you’ve ever experienced. It’s already so intense you can hardly think, and you’ve only just begun.

“Sugu,” you plead. 

The sound of his name on your lips breaks him. His hand dips across your stomach, thumbing past the edge of your panties until he’s running his finger through your slit, gathering your slick and rubbing it against your clit. 

You scream and thrash, so sensitive it nearly hurts, but he only moves to pin you beneath him, forcing you to take everything he gives. 

“Gonna make you feel ‘s good, baby.” he hums. He’s lost to you, to your desires, to your needs. Every piece of him screams to please you, to take care of you, in every way possible.

He continues his messy circles on your clit and until you’re gasping, hole clenching around nothing, begging to be filled. 

“S-Sugu…” you whine.

The growl that rips from his throat has you arching your back and bearing your throat in an act of submission. You hear a tear and watch your panties hit the floor. Your shirt follows and then you’re completely bare beneath your alpha. His eyes go black at the sight, pupils blown so wide you can hardly see a smidgen of their usual brown. There’s a deep rumble in his chest that has you keening and reaching for him, needing him. He doesn’t waste time. His tongue finds your neck, laving sloppily at your scent gland and the sensation is so delicious that you writhe beneath him. 

His fingers slide down your stomach, dipping between your thighs and rubbing at your clit. The touch is somehow gentle despite the complete and total hunger in his eyes, but it has you whining nonetheless. Every place he touches you, which is nearly everywhere, stings so delightfully that your eyes are already rolling back.

But you can’t wait. You can’t. Your body is starved, rabid, and you know what you need.

“Ssssugu… please…” your words are hardly above a whisper, barely a breath, but your alpha still hears you, still knows what you want, what you need. 

“I got you, baby… shhhhh…” He gives a final lick to your scent gland before he’s leaning back on his knees, parting your thighs wide, exposing your leaking cunt. You can feel a puddle of slick beneath your ass, your hole clenching desperately around nothing, aching to be filled. 

Warm hands slide up your skin and settle on your hips, tugging you a little further down the bed. You whimper, but don’t have time to say anything before you feel him slipping through your folds. A glance down reveals his weeping tip, achingly flushed, bumping and rubbing against your clit. When did his pants come off? You don’t know, you don’t care, all that matters is that the sight steals your breath away. 

“Gonna knot you good, princess.” 

You nod, wanting nothing more than for him to make good on his promise. You claw and grip at his arms, chanting his name endlessly. His chest rumbles again and your thighs part further on instinct. Finally, he gives you what you want. You feel him pressing in, fat tip stretching you wide. One of his hands moves to press down on your tummy and the combination has tears pooling in your eyes. 

He slides in slowly. With every inch you think he must be done, that you can’t take any more. But you can, and you do. When he’s finally fully in your jaw is hanging open in ecstasy and your eyes are rolled back in your skull. His fingers brush your clit and your hips jerk. 

“That’s it. So good, baby. So fucking good.” 

Your tears flood over, racing down your cheeks. He’s over you again, loose strands of black hair brushing your skin and forcing a whimper from your throat. He licks away your tears, lapping at your cheeks like you’re a fucking lollipop. His hips start thrusting in time with his licks, and it’s more than you can handle. Your thighs tremble and suddenly you’re begging. Pleading, whining, screaming for more. He gives it to you. One hand finds yours, twining your fingers together as he pounds into you so hard he’s rattling your skull. He’s licking at your scent gland again, driving you further and further toward a cliff you’re afraid to fall from. You think this orgasm might shatter you, might break you so thoroughly you’ll never be put back together again. You can feel it tightening at your core with each thrust, each lick, each kiss. 

“Fuck,” you hear him growl and whimper at the sound of his voice so close to your ear. “‘M gonna bite you, princess. Gonna mark you up and knot you so good you’ll see fucking stars.” You pant beneath him, unable to word how excited you are by his words, how deliciously they roll across your skin and seep into your spine. “Tell me you didn’t take your pill, baby. Tell me I can breed this pussy full and it won’t go to waste.” He’s not talking about your suppressants you know, but rather the contraceptives you take in tandem with them. Of course you took it, but suddenly something makes you wish you hadn't. “‘M gonna flush ‘em down the fucking toilet. Never letting you take that shit again.”

The primal part of you surges forward at the idea. It chants deep in your mind. Yes, yes, yes…

“Suguuu… please…” It seems like those are the only words your tongue can form.

His lips press to yours, shushing you. “Shhh, baby. Don’ worry. I got you.” He licks across your cheek and down across your jaw until he finds your scent gland again. His thrusts pick up again and you think you might pass out from how good you feel, from how tight your muscles are coiling. You can feel his knot pulsing inside you, preparing to fill you to the brim. You’ve never felt more ready for anything. 

“Sugu–” 

And it’s at that moment that he makes good on his promise. His teeth sink into your neck and you feel your bond snap taut like a string, pulsing with the closeness of your connection. It’s pure ecstasy. Suguru’s knot swells, notching tightly inside you and when you feel his cum pulsing into your womb it’s all too much. You think you must be screaming from the pleasure but you only hear the ringing in your ears as your orgasm washes over you. Your muscles clench, your toes curl, your back arches, you see those stars Suguru promised. Heat tingles through your limbs and down your spine and you think you’ve probably just melted into the mattress. But you haven’t, and when your vision returns, you’re panting and staring at the ceiling. 

Suguru is above you and you can feel him still cumming, still releasing rope after rope of thick, hot cum into you. The sensation makes you groan and he laps at your neck, cleaning up the blood from the new mark he’s just given you. Your consciousness trickles back in, the primal piece of you partially sated for the time being. You remember the context of your situation, why you’re here and not at work, what you’re doing. You’re puzzled by why you’d been so panicked by the idea of a heat before. How could you have been so reluctant, so scared, when nothing has ever felt this right?

Suguru is peppering you with kisses now, pulling you tight to his chest and rolling you both onto your sides where you’ll stay until his knot softens. 

“Sleep, princess,” he says and he uses that tone that always compels you to listen, to please. You happily do as he says and when your eyes drift shut it’s not long before you’re lost to a world of comfortable darkness. 

~

You wake to the throbbing again. All of the pent up need Suguru had sated has returned with a vengeance. You need him again, but it appears he already knows that. 

You feel him between your legs, his hair fully loose now and tickling the insides of your thighs. He’s eating you out, slurping up the cum that’s leaking down your thighs and spitting it back onto your cunt. It’s filthy, disgusting, and you love it.

“Sugu–” you gasp and your hips buck. His eyes lock with yours and the smile he gives you nearly makes you come on the spot. He holds your gaze as he licks one last long stripe over your folds. You whimper and clench around nothing. Empty, empty, empty…

“Sorry, baby,” he whispers against your skin. He’s kissing his way up your body now, leaving little circles of spit that cool when they touch the air and make you shiver. “‘Y smelled so good…” 

You whine and whimper, clawing at his back and leaving scratches you think might draw blood. You’re too worried about getting him inside of you to check.

You’re gasping like you’ve never had a breath of air in your life, like you’ve drowned and every touch he gives you fills your lungs with much-needed oxygen. His hands rub gently at your waist, but it’s not enough. You want him to wreck you, ruin you. You say as much. 

“M-more…” you beg and when he hums against your neck you squirm desperately. Warm hands dig into your flesh and suddenly you find yourself flipped onto your stomach. You feel Suguru behind you, pushing your thighs apart with his knees. His hands find your hips again and lift, propping you up with your face still pressed to the pillows. When you whimper he runs a soothing hand up and down your spine. 

“‘S okay, baby. Relax. Lemme take care ‘ve you.” 

Yes, yes, yes, you think. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more. His fingers dig into your skin, holding you still when he feeds his dick into you, one inch at a time. You cry out, tearing at the sheets and begging for more, even when you already feel like you’re splitting in half. When he’s finally seated inside you he drapes himself over your back, brushing your hair over one shoulder to expose your neck. He leans in to lick you again, thrusting sharply the moment his tongue brushes your skin. You wail, pressing your face to the sheets and attempting to rock yourself back against him. One of his hands smooths over the flesh of your ass as he sets a pace, one that makes you bite down on a pillow to muffle your screams. 

“No.” Suguru uses that tone that makes you listen, that one that calls instinctively to the omega inside you, that urges you to please. He reaches for your pillow, tossing it aside and letting his hand curl around your throat as he continues to fuck you, letting his fingers feel the vibrations of every noise you make. “Let me hear you, baby. Always let me hear you.” 

You nod, eager to make him happy, eager to do as he says. You don’t dare restrain a single sound, eyes rolling back. The angle he has you at has your thighs trembling. He’s so deep, so close. You feel his heartbeat against your back, feel his tongue on your skin, his hand on your throat, his cock at your cervix.

When he groans, you groan with him, feeling his dick pulse inside you, his knot beginning to swell. You need it, need it so bad you can hardly stand it. 

“P-please, please, please–”

He swells inside you, locking your bodies together as his orgasm hits. It’s all you need to find your own. You wail into the mattress, cunt clenching and legs trembling until you collapse, flattening against the beg. Suguru follows you down, wrapping his arms around your waist and whispering in your ear.

“Take it all, baby. Good girl. Take it all…” 

You nod, not even sure what you’re agreeing to. All you can feel is his cum flooding your insides, pulsing and pumping so deep into you that you swear your tummy is swelling with the sheer amount of it. Still, your body wants more, clenching and milking him for every last drop, just like he asked.

When you both come down from your orgasms he pulls you into his chest once again, whispering promises of protection and love that lull you into a trance-like state of happiness. When you fall asleep again, he’s chanting a word that your omega repeats right back to him. “Mine, mine, mine.”

When you wake again it’s to the sound of Geto staying true to his word and flushing every last birth control pill you have straight down the toilet. Your omega surges at the idea, but one mewl from you and he’s back in your arms, like you’re somehow the one in charge, not him. With every passing moment, you being to think that might be true- that perhaps a heat does not makes you as weak as you thought. Your alpha submits as much to you as you submit to him.

The week is spent in a frenzy. You do not measure by the numbers on the clock or where the sun is in the sky, rather you know time only as how long it’s been since Suguru’s been locked inside you. If it were up to you, you’d never stop, but Geto forces you to sleep, to eat, to bathe. Of course, he’s never far away when you’re following his instructions and you usually get a kiss and his knot as a reward for being such a good girl. 

It’s ten days later when your heat finally starts to wane. It feels as though every inch of you is covered in him. Bites, hickies, kisses, cum… no part of you has been left untouched. Suguru has had you everywhere. The bed, the shower, the bath, the kitchen. Every surface in the whole apartment reeks of sex and slick. He never keeps you too far from the bedroom, though, where you’ve piled up mountains of his shirts and sheets. Anything that smells like him, anything that can keep you tethered in those brief moments when Suguru goes to fetch you food or water or run you a bath. He takes care of you, just like he promised. 

When you wake completely clear-headed for the first time in well over a week, it’s to Suguru’s arms and lips. He’s got you all wrapped up in him, his arms locked around your waist almost like he expects you to bolt. You almost do when everything comes flooding back to you, this time with a completely clear conscience. But then he kisses your neck and whispers a delightful little, “welcome back, baby” against your neck and suddenly you’re realizing how… revitalized you feel, like a part of you has finally been properly satisfied after years of waiting. You’d always hated this, always hated the part of you that begged and cowered, hated heats- but maybe with Suguru… they really weren’t all that bad.

taglist (DM me to be added!): @lacheri, @la-undercover-latina

link: alpha!gojo fic

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[nanamiskentos]

SCORCHED EARTH ✤ (五条 悟, gojo satoru)

── NO GOD, THE ONLY MAN IN THE SKY IS ME. Gojo Satoru is the nation's treasure, and its most dangerous asset. In a world where Supes are lauded as celebrities and heroes, there's only a select few that sees superheroes for what they really are ─ cogs in the propaganda machine, corrupt and lecherous. You're determined to hunt down the golden boy that leads them, to find Gojo Satoru and bring him down. But he's just as obsessed with you, and he gets to you first.

➤ 𝐉𝐉𝐊, gojo satoru & afab!reader, wc ─ 5k

cw ─ MDNI. enemies to lovers, THE BOYS AU, love/hate sex, HOMELANDER GOJO 😁, superhero au, cat & mouse dynamics, vigilante!reader, evil!gojo to some extent, mentions of a plane crash to be safe, kitchen sèx, breaking n' entering but they're into that, súb!gojo if u squint, fíngèring, òral (f), usage of powers, 3x01 homelander/butcher inspired, BIG DÍCK GOJO!!

呪術廻戦 : 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ( author says ) s/o to the evil man who inspired the gojo in this fic. and these scenes: 1/2 ofc (i'd rec watching to understand who reader/gojo is also inspired by). art, gojouify.

A ballpoint cap balances between your teeth as you scribble furiously, blue ink streaking across a spare napkin. The address is way too far out, a shipping container, two hours away and tucked into the skeletal maze of the port.

"This is a long drive for a maybe." You press the phone tighter against your ear, frowning at the scrawled numbers and letters, "You're sure I'll find something?"

On the other end, Nanami exhales sharply, the sound of a clock ticking faintly over the static. He's still in the office, no doubt hunched over a desk lit by the sickly glow of a desk lamp.

"Well," he hedges, ever the careful one, "I wouldn't go alone."

You tip your chair back, gaze drifting to the chaotic sprawl of files pinned to the red-string board by the wall. Photographs, names, offshore accounts that all lead back to the same festering rot. Lawmakers, politicians and billionaires.

The smiling, all-powerful titans who owned the system that was supposed to hold them accountable.

At the centre of it all? Gojo Satoru. The strongest superhero that the world had ever seen, barely held in check by Vought and international courts.

You chew at the soft inside of your cheek, "And you're sure this is the best lead we have?"

"After that shitshow at Congress?" Nanami sounds tired, stretched far too thin, "This is the only lead we have, or the only thing that I can find right now."

Ah, yes. The hearing.

The day you almost had them — Gojo, Vought and every polished, pre-packaged lie they peddled. A smoking gun to set the set the system ablaze.

And then, you could only watch the live television stream as every key witness's head popped like a balloon. Blood spraying against mahagony desks, gray matter splattered across the Capitol.

And not many had managed to escape that room unscathed. Save for a select few politicians and reporters, dealing out breathless, shaken interviews alongside an unshaken Gojo Satoru and Congressmen Geto.

You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the napkin, "Yeah, I'll check it out. See if I can find somethin' to nail that cunt."

"Let me know what you find," Nanami intones, a pause. And then, in a far more cautious tone, like he already knows you won't take heed, "Stay safe. And if you do come across Gojo, do not engage with him. In any way."

The line clicks dead.

You toss the streaky pen aside, reaching instead for the amber bottle on the cluttered table, the burn of whisky that's begging to be made familiar once more.

Regardless, it's far too late now to head out and check the address, for night has fallen and you doubt you'll manage to get far.

Beyond the murky glass of your balcony doors, the city pulses with sleepless energy. Neon signs flickering like dying embers, billboards — no doubt plastered with the airbrushed faces of the Supes who run this nation.

Sirens wail in the distance, and somewhere, far beyond the skyline you swear you see it.

A streak of white and blue, fast as lightning, splitting the sky for a fraction of a second. You blink, gummy and dry, nothing. Just the tired hallucinations of an exhausted, paranoid mind.

Pretending that there isn't a ghost in the sky watching you right back.

Your apartment is dying.

The walls peel like old skin, flaking onto the floors that were never properly finished. The overhead light's flickering, buzzing with a weak and dying hum. And the power outlets sputter like they resent being used. It's not a home, it never really was. Just another hideout, another temporary grave you haven't had to lie down in yet.

You press your knuckles into your eyes, willing the exhaustion away, but it sits heavy in your bones. Haven't you been running long enough? But even now, even here, you know it's not enough.

Because he knows. Gojo Satoru must have caught onto your trail months ago, and you can feel it in the way that the law often seems to let you go, and nation-wide manhunts culminate in no harm done. Like Gojo's toying with you.

Your fingers skim over the mess of papers on the table, stopping beneath a stack of unpaid bills and flyers. A small USB drive, wrapped in blue and silver.

Ah. Flight 37, a transatlantic flight carrying 123 passangers that never managed to land safely. But a goldmine had been fished out the torn wreckage, a shaky video clip that held proof of what Gojo Satoru truly was.

Not a saviour, not a hero. Not the golden boy that was worshipped on screens, talk shows and the international stage of diplomacy.

There's a prickling sensation under your skin, a slow burn that crawls up your arms. Then, it sinks deeper, heat. Your stomach clenches, cramping up as nausea slams into you like a freight train, your head spinning, your vision pulsing black at the edges.

You stumble, dropping the USB on the table as desparate fingers gripping the kitchen counter to stay upright. But you recognise the blisters blooming on the pads of your fingers, slow and ugly welts that bloom like flowers of rot.

This is no wayward sickness, for you would recognise the familiar decay of radioactive exposure. Something that's not quite human, or mortal.

Your blood turns to ice. Hold tightening around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the cheap laminate. Slowly, carefully, you approach the balcony.

The terracotta curtains are coarse under your fingers as you pull them aside. The city beyond is still alive, cars streaking through wet pavements and lights beaming in the smog. But it all feels muted.

Standing on the ledge, hands folded neatly behind his back, Gojo Satoru.

Your breath stutters as you force yourself to inhale, exhale. Slow and steady, through your nose. Whatever sick ploy he's radiating, you know it's simply meant to shake you. A twisted power play on his end.

So you hold your ground, and after a moment, the nausea ebbs. The blisters on your fingertips sealing over, cells stitching the edges of your frayed flesh back together.

You've never seen Gojo out of that deep blue suit, never without the brass eagles that pin the ridiculous cape over his broad back. Most heroes at least pretend to be human, some charade that they cling to for the chance of a secret life, away from the eyes of the press and the authorities. Supes often put on disguises, and casual clothes, something to blend in with the mortals that they claim to protect.

But Gojo?

There's no separation, no mask nor pretense. He doesn't walk among mortal men, he hovers above them. There's no separating him from the brutal power he wields — capable of striking a laser through a man's skull, or razing a city to rubble. Just a god with a PR-approved script, and the power to carve regimes into ribbons.

And yet, aren't you still standing?

If the strongest wanted you dead, he would have made a spectacle of it. Blood and fireworks for the evening news, another death used as collateral propaganda so the masses can thank him. That's the only mercy that Gojo knows.

You school your features, masking the instinct to flee. Or toss a plastic chair at his face. Gojo is akin to a hungry shark, and fear is blood in the water. You know that the safest way to deal with him is sheer indifference. If you give him nothing, he has nothing to bite or feast on.

You tilt your head, resting your weight against the large window as you pry it open. Letting the night air seep in, cold pricking at your skin, but it's nothing compared to the chill that Gojo's already dragged in with him.

He's staring. The blindfold is gone, and those impossible blue eyes fix on you, as though they're trying carve a jagged cut straight your ribcage — his handsome features stilled to stone.

You arch a brow, "If you're here to watch me get off, it'll cost you a tenner."

A beat of silence. And then, the smallest flicker of something that isn't amusement, but not quite irritation. Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, but his brow ticks up. The barest movement, as though he's debating whether or not to indulge you.

Jaw twitching as though Gojo seems to chew his words, slow and measured, "May I come in?"

You stare at him, gaze sweeping up and down, almost against your will. The way his suit hugs his body, emphasising the unfair curve of his chest, the sharp lines of Gojo's muscles, the tensions in the fabric as it stretches taut over skin. Eyes falling to the strand of white hair that flutters across his face, swaying in the night's breeze. Absurdly perfect, as if he's crafted from some celestial ideal.

But you refuse to indulge him, pressing your lips together tightly, not even a flicker of acknowledgement to the fact that he's standing on your balcony like he owns the damn place. Slowly, you step aside from the window, taking the invitation. Gojo doesn't need permission, but you give it anyway.

As Gojo sweeps past, your eyes linger on the sharp strands of his undercut, the delicate sweep of his hair, so pale it almost looks unreal. But you can see his nose wrinkle, disgust painted across his fine features as electric eyes skim the clutter of your apartment. The peeling walls, the cracked appliances, the mess of papers strewn across your table.

Gojo stops at the red string board, his gaze lingering on the photos and notes that have been painstakingly pinned up, and you see his mouth twitch. As though he's amused by your conspiracy, your obsession, your silent war.

"It's really always about me, isn't it?" Gojo's tone carries the faintest edge of mockery, that damn entertained smile curling the corners of his petal-pink lips.

Your jaw tightens, a flash of anger rearing up inside you. You tear your gaze away from him, "Why are you here? Got no-one to fuckin' torture over at Vought?"

Gojo sighs, almost theatrically, and he's puffing his cheeks out. As though he's bored, like this is a mild inconvenience for him, "So, you're going on a trip tomorrow, huh?"

You track his gaze to the napkin still resting on the table, the address scribbled carelessly across its surface, "What's it to you?" Hoping that your voice is level, and as neutral as it can get.

Gojo Satoru doesn't quite answer immediately. Instead, he pulls off those thick blue gloves, one finger at a time. His hands are oddly elegant, but you know just how capable they are of ending a life in a second, how capable they are of tearing a throat out without breaking a sweat. The very same hands now tuck the gloves into the bronze-metal band of his belt with an almost unsettling level of care.

"Well, I'm just hurt you're going somewhere without me," Gojo quips slyly, "We could have had ourselves a little road trip, sweetheart. Thelma and Louise on the open road, eh?"

You don't say anything, although you're dying to mention how Thelma & Louise ends. Gojo just rolls his searing-blue eyes skywards dramatically, as though he's used to your stubborn attitude.

"Y'know, I could jus' pull you apart, limb by limb," Gojo tacks on casually, "Make you tell me where you're going."

You can feel the tension in your gut tighten, but you refuse to let the Supe catch onto it, although you have no doubt that his superhuman senses can hear the beat of your heart pumping, every hitch in your breath.

"Nah," you bite back, "That'd be worthless. Victim always goes into shock. You gotta' start small. Fingers, nails, ears..." Your voice trails off, calling Gojo's bluff, forcing your words out as if the prospect doesn't shake you.

Gojo's vibrant, jewel-tone stare doesn't break, but the amusement in his eyes sharpens like iron against a whetstone. "It could be a matter of national security, you know," he murmurs, "I have a duty to protect his nation, to weed out any enemies of the state."

You huff in weary, mock exasperation, dragging a hand over your chin in faux-contemplation, "Look, uh, I don't mean to be rude, but can we just skip to the part where you laser my fuckin' brains out?"

Gojo just swears under his breath, "Oh, for fuck's sake," he's muttering, side-stepping around your rickety table, stepping closer as an almost fond smile tugs at his lips, "Where's the fun in that? Come on, look at ya'. It'd be like putting down a wounded dog?"

You don't flinch, you refuse the possibility. But there's that pulse of heat, low in your spine, when Gojo leans into your space. An electric storm about to crack wide as he studies you, eyes falling to the table where your cards are laid out blatantly, and you jolt. Remembering the innocuous little thing, that USB. The one that could very well be his undoing.

"What do you have on me, doll?" Gojo drawls, his voice smooth and untempered, towering over you like an impossibly magnetic force. You hold your ground as his eyes widen, "You do have something, I presume?"

With slow precision (and trembling fingers), you lift the USB, dangling it between your nails as Gojo's eyes flicker for a split second. Amused smile slipping just enough to show something that's less calculated. As though he knows what you grasp, what you're capable of.

Gojo's expression hardens for a split moment, blush-pink lips parted as he watches you, drinks in the sight of you gredily. All before cold steels locks into place once more, his demeanour laced with something far more callous, like a man cornered who knows exactly how to strike back.

"Go ahead. Release it," Gojo steps closer, until you can feel his breath against your skin, and you catch the tang of iron and clean, expensive leather. "Let's light this candle, huh? I mean, sure, I'll lose everything, doll. But then, I'll have nothin' to lose." His voice is quiet, but there's unmistakable malice beneath it.

"First, I'll take out the nerve centres. The seat of the government, the High Courts. Then, any domestic defense capabilities. Critical infrastructure, cellular, Internet, all of it. And then?" Gojo pauses, teeth catching onto the plush flesh of his lower lip.

"Then, I'll just wipe this city right off the fuckin' map, for fun," Gojo adds, a dark smile curling at the edges of his lips, "Hell, I'll throw in that little town your friend's from. Kento, right? Nanami, from the office? Because, why not?"

Gojo's lips brush the shell of your ear, and you resist the urge to shiver, locking your eyes with his own defiantly, venomously as he continues, "See, sweetheart, I'd prefer to be loved. Y'know, as the strongest, I really would. But if you take that away from me? Well, being feared is A-one, okey-doke by me."

Gojo wants you to challenge him, to hear you break the silence with something other than terror, "So, doll," he murmurs, practically cooing, "Go ahead. Do it." His lips curl, sharp fangs poking out from his glossy, red mouth, "No? You don't wanna? Well, then, I'd say you have absolutely no fuckin' leverage. Because I am the strongest, and I can really do whatever the fuck I want."

You blink angrily, breath catching as Gojo watches you with an almost affection gleam in his eyes. As though he's enjoying this, this sparring match where he's got you pinned. So you swallow thickly, and deep down, you know he's right.

Gojo Satoru is unstoppable. He could easily turn on the world that worships him, props him up, and there's nothing anyone could do about it. No nuclear treaty, no tank nor fighter jet could stand a chance against Unlimited Void or Hollow Purple.

There's no undoing the seams and stitches that hold Gojo together. None, apart from...

Your eyes flicker downwards, instinctively, to the thick curve that bulges through the tight suit he dons. That mouth-watering, delicious bulge that's packed, and if Gojo steps any closer, it would jostle against your thigh.

You inch closer, smoothly, grasping at the stray strand of ice-white hair to tuck it behind Gojo's ears. His expression widening, raw and open for a split second as he shivers, purrs.

"Say I call your bluff, Gojo," you say coolly, "What are you gonna' do, right here, right now?" Your hand trails away from his ear, brushing the high, stiff collar of his suit. Fingers gently pressing into the warm flesh of his neck. You feel his pulse jump under your touch, staccato beats that hiccup along.

And you could have sworn that Gojo breathes out a gentle sigh, lips parting around the words, "Finally."

But his cerulean eyes are narrowed, jaw still clenched, as though he's trying to figure out your angle. Now, he truly does push closer to you so that packed curve brushes against your thigh. And it's big, larger-than-life, like everything about Gojo Satoru is.

Fuck this, you shake your head, as though you're tossing away your rationality. Reaching up to thread your fingers through soft, white hair. Pulling Gojo closer as he groans, closing the distance. Lips crashing against your own, forceful and desperate.

You can feel Gojo freeze, stutter as he seems to work through his shock. But then, something irrevocably shifts in him. Ocean-blue eyes fluttering close, so white lashes kiss his creamy skin. A large hand gripping at your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

It's rough, and messy — and your tongue lingers on the taste of something like espresso, and sweet, sugar syrup to boot. The creamy taste of Gojo Satoru that lingers on your tongue and makes your mouth water.

"Tch', you –" Gojo murmurs, as though all the air in the world has been stolen from his lungs, "You jus' don't k-know how long I've wanted this. Ever since you, heh, fired that bullet at me when we first met."

His tone is erratic, large hands splayed against the small of your back, pushing you further against the kitchen counter.

"That shit went right through ya' head," you breathe, struggling to stay steady against the hard plane of Gojo's form, the muscles curling into you, "Didn't do a fuckin' thing."

Gojo's giggling, giggling as though he's already drunk on your touch, so utterly dangerous. Tugging at your top, fingers spread wide over the curve of your chest. Flicking at the sharp peaks of your nipples, "Waste of a perfectly good round, eh, doll?"

The tips of Gojo's ears are a searing shade of crimson, as he's pulling and toying with your clothes. You have never, ever in your wildest and most illicit fantasies imagined Gojo Satoru like this.

You've never pictured him so obedient, so desperate to meld into your hold. Bright blue eyes glazed over, filmy and hazy as his cheeks are mottled pink.

The most dangerous man in the entire world (or so you'd wager) has you firm against the cracking plastic of your counter, with his lips finding home on whatever skin he can find. Kissing, bruising, sucking at the tender flesh in a way that you know will leave blooming marks.

"C-can I?" Gojo pleads, as though he hasn't spent a lifetime whispering quiet threats into your ear, but now his large hand is softly pressed against the back of your neck.

Slick-strands falling from his lips as he sips at your taste, sucking gently on your tongue.

He kisses you firmly with such force that it leaves you dizzy, and the way he strokes at your cheek with a bruised knuckle is far too tender for a man who's practically a walking, ticking bomb.

He's roughly cupping your tits, kneading at the soft fat and flesh, "Hah, pretty, aren'tcha?" Strands of snow-white hair tickling at your neck as Gojo leans his head down, wrapping his lips around your nipple, lickin' and sucking wherever he can reach.

You arch your spine, pulling Gojo even closer. Grinding your clothed core right up against the hard length taut in that damned suit. Feeling every inch brush up against you.

"F-fuck," Gojo murmurs, slurring out babble and praise out through his kiss-swollen lips. You're slowly rocking your hips back and forth, unintentionally honestly, but you're desperate for some friction to relieve the ache that's blooming within your searing groin.

The pads of his fingers are tilting your jaw at the perfect angle, swollen lips sticky against yours, "Just like that," Gojo grunts, running his pink tongue over the kiss-bitten flesh of your own mouth, "N-not so mouthy now, are we?"

But then, because you think Gojo Satoru is unable to go even a second without antagonising you, the white-haired man is lifting his head. Glossy eyes tearing over your apartment as he pulls an unimpressed face, "Damn, this place is kinda' a dump. You really live like this?"

Your fingers latch onto the stray strands on his head, bucking your hips into his bulge harsher, "Says the cunt who made me a fugitive."

Gojo shakes his head, making a faint pshh, dismissive sound as he scoops you up, biceps not even curling to strain as he roughly stomps towards your meagre, thin bed. Laying you flat on the flat mattress as he rumples the waistband of your pants, hooking his thumb underneath the fabric.

You don't even realise it at first, but you're admiring those razor-sharp, strikingly handsome features. Watching as Gojo tugs at his cape, rough and coarse until the fabric tears away from his shoulder plates — until the azure stars and stripes end up on the wooden floor discarded.

"So, doll, how exactly do ya' want me? " Gojo titters, gently pulling a finger into the flimsy cotton of your panties. You can see his nose twitch, eyes flutter shut for a split second as he visibly reels from the messy, filthy slick pooling under his nails. You can only groan, arching at the sudden stimulation as he begins to crook his fingers faster against your folds.

You suddenly pull your thighs taut together, clenching the flesh to trap his hand, "Taste me, Gojo." Breath shuddering as Gojo's fingers suddenly still, ice-blue eyes blown wide at your gall to give him a command.

But he's always been an excellent soldier, hasn't he? Because he seems to be moving on autopilot, pulling his dripping fingers away and gently lolling his tongue on your translucent sheen, "Hah, I can't believe you're g-giving me orders." Gojo almost whimpers at your sweet tang, desperate to have your pussy drool into his waiting mouth.

"M-more, can you – oh, fuck," You inhale sharply, feeling Gojo's fingers imprint on your thighs, firmly spreading your legs apart so he can shuffle further back, his breath moist against your wet cunt, "Heh, never thought you'd ever be like this."

Gojo gives you a flat look, the underside of his eyes crinkling as he stares at you, "Don't get used to t-this." He's grumbling, but his eyes are blown wide, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch a stray drop of your precious arousal dribbling down your inner thigh, "It's just 'cause –"

You don't give his smart-alec mouth time to formulate any words, groaning as you pull at the thick, soft and tousled strands of white hair. Letting the tip of his sharp nose nudge against your clit as Gojo suddenly muffles a desparate, thirst-laden whine, "Mhm, mhm, fuck!"

"Yeah, y-yeah," You breathe, sighing in relief as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, laving thickly at the glossy folds that he's desperate to munch at, "That's what I thought."

Stifled sounds prick at your ears, a mantra of words falling from Gojo's mouth, something that sounds suspiciously like "Thank you, t-thank you, thank —." The strongest man in the entire world losing his mind, so grateful to wrap his lips against your swollen bud, your throbbing clit as he sucks. Hard.

Your walls clench suddenly, and you can feel the tip of Gojo's tongue prod at your entrance. That length somehow managing to render you gummy, dazed and speechless as he pushes the wet muscle into your cunt, "Ah, ahh, 'Toru, please."

Nothing prepares you for how Gojo's long, slender fingers come to slap at your pussy. Lengthy digits pistoning right into your tender, sensitive walls as he's eager to curve and search for that sweet spot that will make you scream, "What'dya call me, sweets? 'Toru?"

Gojo's looking up at you, and if you didn't know better, you'd say his expression was almost shy. Those eyes, blue like the core of a searing star, like something inhuman was barely contained and desperate to break free. There's something eerie about how bright they are, how they seem to glow even in the dim, murky light of your apartment.

There's glossy, snapping strands of Gojo's new favourite thirst-quencher falling from his lips as he laps at you. Long lashes fluttering against high cheekbones as there's a slight sheen of exertion beading at his temple, "If, if I had known that all I had to do to shut ya' up was eat you out, then —" Gojo whistles low, the vibrations echoing through your cunt, "Woulda' drank this pussy a longgg time ago."

You buck your hips against his nose, canting against his shapely nose bridge, "Don't get c-cocky." Seems that Gojo's just that desperate for you to boss him around, because he's already turning his attention and bratty mouth back to your cunt, licking you right up until he's certain you're seeing stars.

He's still got his suit on, broad-shoulders snugly wrapped in the textured fabric. Sculpting over his bicep even as he draws you even closer, until he's face to face with his new, second favourite girl. With you being his number #1, of course, Gojo isn't afraid to admit that you plotting to kill him has turned him on immensely over the years.

The idea of you planting your thighs around his head 'til he's devoid of air has had him pulling and jerking at his cock, whimpering until he was shooting blanks.

"Come on," and Gojo's snickering at his own play on words, "Or s-should I say c-cum on." Smacking his lips filthily against your folds, fingers pushing at your clit and rubbing furious circles over and over again until you feel the world go blank, and you're star-struck.

Gojo's whispering sweet nothings, adoring praise into your cunt as you ride out your high against his face, "Pretty girl, s-so good for me, heh. Think 'm fuckin' addicted."

You're already lazily pulling yourself up, propping yourself back on your elbows as you take in the sight of a teary-eyed Gojo Satoru. You watch as he pulls himself up, frame towering over you in the flimsy bed as he tugs and paws at the thick, firm bulge in his suit. Now darkened with a translucent patch of his release.

Gojo's fisting his hand over his cock in some ineffective form of relief, "Wanna' show you, g-gorgeous, wanna' show you how the strongest fucks."

But then, his eyes are looking up, wide and superhuman. Searing blue that lights up the dim room like a torch, and it's only then you notice that the lightbulb that once precariously teetered from your ceiling has shattered, and there's a crack in the large window that you swore you've never seen before.

And clutched within Gojo Satoru's fingers, shards of silver metal and blue chips. Fuck, that hag, that doped-up cunt must have had that USB clenched between his fingers the entire time, swiping it off the table when you pulled him in.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart," Gojo scoffs, pulling out a cock that beams with an angry, red mushroom tip. Thick spurts of cum already clinging to the slit as he hisses, and your thighs clench in anticipation of the delicious split, "I got something b-better for you right here."

[docrobinavitch]

sacraments of healing

dr. robby x f!attending!reader masterlist sacraments masterlist content: 18+ mdni, ANGST, swearing, no real medical stuff in this one besides a single cut and some sutures, family trauma, complicated mother/daughter dynamic, sibling death, grief, childhood trauma, mentions of physical/emotional childhood abuse, age gap (reader is about 34 i had to do the math to get the timeline right as you'll see, robby is probably like 53-54 here) words: 8.7K synopsis: loosely inspired by episode 2x06 of the bear (fishes) so if we have any bear stans here hi how are ya! reader is an attending at the pitt, did her residency under adamson, a fellowship in boston, and now has been back at the pitt for roughly two years. her and robby have been dating for the entirety of those two years, but have been working together since she was a resident (with the exception of her fellowship). robby insists on meeting her family when her mother reaches out to him via facebook and a nightmare ensues!! a/n: hi! thank you for all the love you've given but i stayed anyway, truly means the world to me. i hope you enjoy this one, tho i feel it is a bit niche so no worries if not!! please please note the content warnings and don't read if you think it'll bother you. ok talk soon.

“So,” Robby parked himself next to you at the hub while you looked up at the board, “Christmas Eve, are you picking me up or should I come get you?”

You frowned and turned to him, “What are you talking about?”

“The Feast of the Seven Fishes. At your parents’ place.”

You choked out a laugh and started walking towards a patient room, iPad in hand, “Right. You will not be attending that.”

“Ah, but I will. I already told your mother I’d be there.”

You stopped cold, forcing Robby to walk into you, and then turned to face him, “Since when are you in contact with my mother?”

He shrugged, that mischievous grin on his face, “She friended me on Facebook a few weeks ago.”

Oh, this could not be happening. This was your worst nightmare come to life. “Okay, well. Please block her and I will inform her that you won’t be coming.”

He gently reached out to grab your arm and pulled you to the side before you could walk away again, “Not happening. I want to meet your family. I will be coming. It’s not up for discussion.”

You could feel the panic rising in your chest, “Robby—“

“Baby, we’ve been dating for two years. You’ve met my family, dozens of times now.”

“Yes, well, your family is lovely. And normal.”

He smiled down at you, “And your family raised you. So they can’t be that bad.”

You closed your eyes and shook your head, “You have no idea what you’ve agreed to.”

“I’ve agreed to meet the people who made the woman I’m in love with,” He said tenderly. You were angry and scared out of your mind, but when he said that, you found yourself wanting to give in.

But you knew what would happen the second he met your family. You’d been through it before. Many times. Steeling your face, you walked around him.

“Look,” He said, walking in front of you again, “If you really don’t want me to come, I won’t, but then consider us done.”

Your eyes locked on his. There was no smile, no flush to indicate he was lying or teasing.

“You don’t mean that.”

He nodded, “I do.” He sighed, “I’m sorry, I can’t keep watching you build these walls up around yourself to keep me out and then pretend like everything’s fine.”

You laughed flatly, “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“I did the work,” He said quietly, “For you. It’s your turn now.”

And then he left you like that, alone in the middle of the ER.

***

It was about a year ago when you had gone to Robby to request a day off from work. It was late February, still in the dead of winter. The city couldn’t quite shake off the snow.

“Hey, I wanted to see if I could take next Thursday off?” You asked as casually as you could manage, “I can find another attending to cover if you need—“

“No, it’s fine. I can manage by myself,” Robby looked up from his workstation, perching his glasses on his head, “What’s going on next Thursday?”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, and then sighed, looking down at your hands, “It’s just, it’s the anniversary of my brother’s death so I just have a hard time being in the ER that day.”

“Oh,” Robby said, clearly caught off guard, “Sweetheart, I’m… so sorry I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” You said quickly, uncomfortable with the attention and the sympathy, as you always were, “It was a long time ago.” You cleared your throat, “I have to go check on a patient.” You said and were gone before he could follow.

But you had felt his eyes on you for the rest of the shift. Sure enough, as soon as the two of you were out in the cold winter air, he brought it up.

“You never mentioned your brother died.”

You slowly inhale through your nose, “I don’t like to talk about it. It was over a decade ago.” You shrugged, as if the time had made it hurt less. It hadn’t, not exactly. The hurt was just different now. You had learned to live with it, bargain with it, figure out ways to work around it. But it was always there.

He nodded slowly, “And he died in an ER?”

You weren’t sure how much longer you could indulge this line of questioning before you were likely to snap at him. It was absolutely fair of him to be asking, you had talked him through Adamson and Jake’s girlfriend, Leah, more times than you could count.

But it was true what they said about doctors being terrible patients.

“Congenital heart failure, undiagnosed. He went into cardiac arrest during a half marathon. They got him back for a little bit in the ambulance, but he had been down a while, so.” You shrugged, concentrating on your foot prints through the snow so you wouldn’t see the way he collapsed, still a half mile away from you. You wouldn’t remember the way you had hopped the fence and sprinted to him, knees buckling when you got there. “We were nineteen.”

“Your twin?” He asked, voice soft.

You only nodded, “And before you ask, I’ve been tested. I don’t have it.”

“I bet that felt very unfair.”

No one had ever said that to you before and it nearly stopped you in your tracks. But it was true. You had spent many years, not being sad that your brother had died, but being absolutely furious with him for leaving you here, perfectly healthy, to carry on.

And when every test came back proving that you were healthy, everyone told you how lucky you were. Only it didn’t feel that way. It felt as though he had abandoned you.

The tears burned the back of your eyes, but you had grown very adept at keeping them at bay. You breathed through it until you thought it safe to speak again.

“He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere I couldn’t follow.” Despite your best efforts, your voice wavered and Robby heard it.

He reached for you, you felt his hand on your arm. It was likely he was pulling you in for a hug, but you shrugged him off.

You didn’t look at him, so you weren’t positive, but you could guess he had looked hurt by your dismissal. You kept walking, listening to his boots crunch in the snow next to yours. Reassurance that no matter how you pushed him away, he’d still be there.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, you cleared your throat, “There’s this ramen place a few blocks from your house I’ve been meaning to try. Do you want to order for dinner?”

“Sure.” He said after a few moments of silence.

It was a ceasefire agreement, disguised in take out ramen and letting you pick the movie to watch on his couch that night. He wouldn’t ask again about your brother. Not for a while. But it was only a temporary and tenuous peace, never meant to last.

And the clock was ticking.

***

“I suggest we Uber to my parents’ place.” You said the next day as you looked over a chart, “You’ll want to be drinking, I assure you. And I certainly will not be designated driver as I need to be absolutely smashed to get through the Feast.”

Robby bumped his shoulder into yours, “Ah, so we’re going then?”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

He slipped a finger beneath your chin and tilted gently upwards until you were looking at him, “You always have a choice.”

You forced a smile and looked away. He didn’t understand that it was a false choice. No matter what you chose, you would lose him. You would lose him if you didn’t let him come, you would still lose him if he came.

Robby was smart. Every fault, every break in you, you had carefully glued together, disguised as something else so that he could love you. But there would be no hiding all the ways you were jagged and damaged once he saw your family. Once he understood.

You had seen it so many times before. Partners insisting they wanted to meet your family, despite your warnings. And you would watch as the night went on. They’d get quieter. Their fake laughter less convincing. The way their eyes deadened by the end of the night. They’d kiss you goodnight and roughly a week later, you’d get some bullshit excuse about why it wasn’t working. None of them ever admitted it was because of your family, about the future they saw for you written on the walls, but they didn’t have to.

And now, despite all the careful planning you had done, Robby would follow in their footsteps.

***

You looked up at your childhood home with Robby by your side just as the Uber dropped you off.

“Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette before we go in?” You asked.

Robby looked at you, eyebrows raised, “You don’t smoke.”

“I do when I’m here.” You took out a fresh pack and a lighter and started opening them, “Do you want one?”

He scratched his head, “No. I don’t think you should, either.”

You lit up the cigarette between your lips and took a drag, “Look, you wanted to come here. This is who I am when I’m here.”

“There she is! Our big shot emergency doctor!” Your older brother, Luka, threw his arms around your shoulders from behind, “Hey, what the fuck?” He took the cigarette out of your hands and threw it on the ground, “I thought you quit?”

“Jesus, Luka,” You pulled out another cigarette, “Can’t you mind your own fucking business for once?”

He smirked, “It’s good to see you too, Ace.” He kissed your hair and then looked at Robby, “Oh, and this must be the boyfriend, Robby, is it?” He reached a hand out to Robby, which Robby took, “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“Same here,” Robby smiled.

“What’s Robby short for, Robert?”

“Uh, no, my last name is Robinavitch. I go by Dr. Robby or Robby in the ER. My first name is Michael.”

Luka nodded and then turned his attention back to you, “Just so you know, she’s in rare form today. She’s been drinking wine since noon.”

You bit your lip and nodded, “Oh, you mean like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that—“

“Come on, don’t be a brat about it, okay? Tommy’s got it under control, he’s handling it.”

This time you really did laugh, “Oh, Tommy’s handling it, is he? You mean he’s enabling her?”

“Look, Tommy’s had a tough year with the… broken engagement as you know. Just go easy on him, okay?”

You stared at your second cigarette as if it would transport you to another dimension if you thought hard enough, “Yo, Ace, did you hear me?”

“Yes, I will be super fucking kind to Tommy.” You said, annoyed at the use of your childhood nickname, “Where’s your wife, by the way?”

“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well, she’s at home with the kids.”

You laughed and shook your head at Luka, “Good for her.”

“What? She really is sick.”

“Mhm,” You put out your cigarette, “I bet she is. No, really, I’m happy for her Luka. From the bottom of my heart.”

Luka looked up at the house, “You coming in or what?”

“Yeah,” You sighed, “In a minute.”

Luka walked off toward the house and you sighed heavily before looking at Robby, “Last chance to turn back.”

He smiled at you, “I’m not afraid of your family, baby.”

You cracked your neck to one side and then the other, “Well, that makes one of us.”

And then you led him inside.

***

Immediately, as you enter the house, everyone is shouting rather than talking at normal volume. You can hear the range hood going in the kitchen and your mother shouting over it. The unmistakable sound of the men in the living room, yelling about sports.

You were already regretting not preemptively taking ibuprofen before coming here.

“Look who has decided to grace us with her presence. It’s nice of you to come home and visit us humble folk, huh Ace?” Your mother shouts as soon as you walk through the entryway and you sigh heavily.

“Ma, this is Michael, Michael, this is my mother.”

“Call me Deb, sweetheart it’s so good to meet you.” She engulfed him in her arms, kissing his cheeks, “Oh, you’re so handsome, too.”

Robby reddened under the attention of your mother, “Please, it’s my pleasure. Your daughter is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You felt the flush in your cheeks at Robby’s words and looked around the room with feigned interest, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

Your mother dramatically put her hands to her heart and looked at you, “Did you hear that, Ace? He thinks we did a good job with you.”

You frowned, “Interesting. That’s not what I heard.”

Robby put his hand on your waist and squeezed lightly in warning. You badly wanted to push his hand off you, but held back, knowing it would upset him. And though you thought it a lost cause, you were still going to try to keep him tonight.

Your mother ignores your comment, “How old are you, Michael?”

“Mom.” You admonished immediately.

“What?” She asked, feigning casual, “I think it’s a natural question it’s is no secret he’s older than you.”

Robby smiled and laughed, hanging his head self deprecatingly, “Yes, I am… much older than Y/N.”

You looked at him, apology in your eyes, but he only shook his head slightly.

“Well how much older?” Her smile was strained.

“Ma, please.” You hissed, but she ignored you, continuing to stare at Michael.

“Uh,” Robby also gave a tight smile, clearly uncomfortable, “About twenty years.”

Your mother’s eyebrows flew up, “Well,” She looked back to you, “I guess that’s a no on having kids, then.”

“Oh my God,” You sighed and squeezed your eyes shut.

“What? It’s true, I mean he probably already has kids, right?”

Robby shook his head, “No. I have someone I consider to be like a step son, but no children of my own.”

Your mother stared at him silently for a few moments and then shifted her attention back to you, “Well your father loves you very much, so I’m not sure where this choice came from.”

This couldn’t be happening. They had been in the house all of five minutes and already, you were sure Michael was going to break up with you as soon as you left. Maybe sooner, if it kept going like this.

“Did you just invite him here to insult him?” You asked, voice raising.

“Baby, it’s okay.” Robby whispered in your ear.

“No, it’s not okay.” You said, “If you can’t be nice for one night, then we’ll leave.”

Your mother laughed airily, “Oh relax, Ace, you’re so sensitive! I’m only teasing!” She looked to Michael, “I’m only teasing, sweetheart, you gotta have thick skin if you want to be in this family.”

Robby managed a smile and put a hand over his heart, “No offense taken.”

God, he was so kind and perfect. They were going to fucking ruin him. “I really think we should go,” You whispered so only he could hear.

“Oh, come on. You think I wasn’t prepared for your family to take a jab at my age?” He lowered his head slightly so he could look in your eyes, “I want to be here. With you.”

Your mother turned back to Michael, beckoning you both to the kitchen, “What do you drink, honey, help yourself, there’s beer in the fridge, wine— HEY, WHO TURNED THE HEAT UP ON THE GRAVY? Oh for CHRIST’S SAKE it’s bubbling over everywhere— ACE WOULD YOU GET OVER HERE AND HELP YOUR MOTHER?”

You sighed heavily, “Jesus Christ,” You mumbled and then headed for the fridge, taking out two beers, you used the fridge magnet that doubled as a bottle opener to open them both, letting the caps clatter to the floor and leaving them there. You handed one to Robby, “You should stay away from the kitchen, it’s a war zone in there.”

“And what’ll you do?”

“What I always do,” You took a long swig from the beer, “Fix everyone else’s mess.”

“ACE DID YOU HEAR ME?”

“I’m coming Ma, one sec!”

“What’s with the ‘Ace’ thing?”

You sighed, “It’s a stupid nickname. Our family plays a lot of cards, they’re really superstitious. My grandma once got a full hand of aces while I was helping her play when I was, like, five. So they started calling me Ace. It got so out of hand, they wouldn’t let me sit at the table anymore. Claimed it was cheating to have me within a five foot radius of a game”

He laughed, “That’s cute.”

Just then, the sound of shattering glass came from the kitchen along with the hysterical shrieks of your mother. “Okay,” You said slowly, “I’m gonna go handle that. You’ll be okay out here?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about me, go.” He kissed you then, and even in your hopelessness you felt loved and safe, for just a second, “I love you.” He said, and you nodded, looking down at your beer bottle, “Hey,” He said and you looked up to meet his eyes, “I love you.” He said again slowly.

“Yeah,” You nodded, his words bringing you back down, “Yeah, I love you.”

“ACE, COULD YOU GET YOUR ASS IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN, PLEASE? CHRIST!” That was Tommy’s voice now and you sighed heavily.

“You’re sure you’re not regretting this yet?” You asked softly.

“Not even a little.” Robby said.

You nodded and stepped away from him. The night was still young.

***

Robby made his way to the living room, beer in hand, and was inundated with people he didn’t know and who barely spared him a glance as he entered the room. Not much in the mood yet to begin introducing himself to everyone, he found himself drawn to the mantel and the pictures perched above it.

He smiled a bit to himself as he noted pictures of little you with whom he assumed was Benji. He could tell, even from the pictures, just how close the two of you were. And his heart broke all over again imagining you having to watch him die.

“Are you Ace’s doctor boyfriend?” An older man came to his side, admiring the pictures as well.

Robby smiled, “What gave me away?”

The man shrugged, “You have the same nervous energy as she does. Always looking for a problem to solve. I’m Frank, her father.”

Robby shook the man’s hand, “Michael. It’s great to meet you, sir.”

“So how is she?”

Robby frowned, “She’s just in the kitchen, you could ask her yourself.”

He shook his head, “No, no, she won’t want to talk to me.”

Robby looked back at the photos, “She’s good,” He said, “She’s a fantastic doctor. We’re lucky to have her.”

“I already knew that part,” He smirked, “But outside her work?”

Robby inhaled deeply, “To be honest with you, sir, I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

Her father nodded, “Yeah, me too. I’ve been trying to figure her out ever since Benji died. Just to know if she’s okay. I’m pretty shit at it, though.” He laughed.

Robby looked back at the photos, “I am very sorry for your loss.” He paused, “Could you… tell me more about Benji? She doesn’t talk about him much, but I can tell it still weighs on her.”

The man, Frank, was silent for a moment as he looked at the photos. “Her and Benji were inseparable. They did everything together. They had the same friends, everything. Applied to all the same schools and went to the same one. You never had to worry about them because even if they never came to us, they always had each other.

We were always very busy with four kids. Never a break. And there’s this home video I think about a lot, even now. It’s Christmas morning, they’re about five or six, opening their presents. Their mother and I are helping one or both of the other boys with something. And there’s a good thirty seconds or so where she's holding a gift that she needs help opening, a doll or something, and she repeatedly calls for her mom. Over and over. She never gets upset, she’s very calm, no crying. And nobody turns. I watch it now and I can’t understand how neither of us heard her. But of course, Benji hears her, and he goes over and grabs a pair of scissors and helps her open the package. That’s how it always was with them. They didn’t need us.”

He sighed, “And then when Benji died it was… Well, it was like she went adrift and we had no idea how to even begin to try to anchor her. Benji would have. I remember her crying that day in the hospital, hysterically sobbing by the time we got there. And then never again. I never saw her cry after that. She was the one who made all the funeral arrangements, picked out his casket, picked out a plot at the cemetery. She fundraised so we didn’t have to worry about the medical bills or funeral costs. She put together slide shows and picked out music. She picked the restaurant we went to after the burial. And I don’t think any of it was because she wanted to do that. We didn’t give her much choice. Her mom and I fell apart. Neither of us could get out of bed. And I think she heard Benji calling for us, like he heard her that Christmas morning.”

He shook his head and sniffled, “Her mother doesn’t like to see it that way, but I think out of all our kids, I think we failed her. And I don’t blame her for not coming home.”

Finally, he looks at Robby, “I’m not sure why I told you all that. I guess maybe I’m hoping that you’ll figure out how to anchor her. That she won’t be lost at sea the rest of her life.”

Robby looks down at his beer bottle and sighs before looking back up at the man, “I’m sure as hell trying.”

***

“So, the new boyfriend is also a doctor?” Tommy was perched on the counter, sipping a beer. Their mother was stirring various things on the stove and shoving things in and out of the oven while shouting at people to get out of the kitchen. You were mopping up some sort of sauce from the floor and throwing out shattered pieces of glass.

“Yes.” You said, “He’s not new though, we’ve been dating for two years now.”

“Well he’s new to us because you never come home.” Your mother interjected.

You looked back down at the floor, “God, grant me the serenity,” You murmured as you threw larger pieces of glass into the trash.

“Mom’s right, you know,” Tommy said, “Ever since Benji died you basically abandoned us.”

Your hands stilled for only a moment and then you were moving again, “I was in college, and then medical school, and then residency, Tommy. What the fuck did you want me to do, drop out and wallow in my misery like the rest of you did? Let it fucking eat me alive?”

There was sweet, blissful silence, for just a moment and then— “Maybe you should have instead of acting like a goddamn robot after he died. Might’ve done you some good. Might have bonded you with the rest of your family.” Your mother said.

Oh, you were so tired of all of this. Of the criticism of every little thing you had done since Benji died, down to the way you had grieved. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I had been competing in the grief olympics.”

“Come on, Ace, she didn’t mean it like that—“ Tommy started.

“Yes she did.” You said, “Didn’t you, mom? You don’t think I grieved correctly, isn’t that right? What was it you said to me just fucking weeks after he died? ‘Do you even miss him?’”

She continued stirring, “I don’t remember it that way.”

You scoffed and returned to picked up glass, “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Ace…” Tommy said in warning.

“It’s fine, Tommy. I’m fine.” You said.

“Yes, your sister is always fine.” Your mother said, “The picture of composure, unlike her nuthouse of a family that she can’t stand to be around.”

You threw the last piece of glass into the trash harder than was necessary, “I need some air.” You murmured and then left before anyone else could say anything.

You ran into aunts and uncles and cousins on your way outside, forcing smiles and quick hugs until you hit the cold December air. You breathed in shakily as you pulled out your pack of cigarettes, lighting another.

As if he had been summoned, Robby appeared next to you, “You doing okay, Ace?”

You made a face at him, “Please don’t call me that.”

He smiled and put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to him, “I saw some pictures of you and Benji when you were little. You were adorable, as expected.”

You hummed, cracking a small smile, “The only reason those are still up are because Benji’s in them. You’ll notice there’s no pictures up of me by myself. There’s barely any of Tommy or Luka either. It’s hard to compete for the favorite child when one of them is dead.”

Robby was quiet for a few moments and you thought you could actually hear the gears in his head turning. He took the cigarette from your hand and took a drag before handing it back to you, “I was talking to your dad, he’s very proud of you.”

“He said that?”

Robby nodded, "More or less."

You scoffed, “Well, nice of him to say it to you.”

“He’s never told you?”

You shook your head, “We’ve barely spoken since Benji. He looks at me and all he sees is the son he lost.”

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly.

You took a step away from him, “Why are you sorry? This is what you wanted, right? Why you wanted to come? So you could see up close and personal why I’m so fucked up?”

He shook his head, “Come on, don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Lash out at me after you were just vulnerable. You do this all the time. It’s fucking exhausting.”

You scoffed, “What’s exhausting is you bringing us here when I fucking told you it would be a disaster. And now, on top of everything else,” You gestured wildly to the house, “I have to walk on glass around you too in a surely doomed attempt at making you want to stay.”

He shook his head sadly, “Baby, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You want to argue, but you feel the burning in your eyes and you can’t cry right now. So you turn away from him, breathing slowly, and finish your cigarette.

The front door opens, and with it, the sound of the stereo playing Christmas music and the competing of a dozen voices to be heard over it. The sound quickly vanishes when the door closes.

“Hey, Ace, mom’s looking for you, said she needs your help with the lasagna.” It’s Luka’s voice.

You sigh, “Why the fuck is she making lasagna for a feast of fishes?”

“You know no one eats the other shit,” He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, “You okay?”

You sigh heavily, frustrated that this check in from your older brother had increased the wetness in your eyes that you were actively fighting. You shrugged off his hand, “I’m fine.”

He nodded, but you knew he wasn’t convinced, “It is really good to have you home, Ace.”

You barked a laugh that sounded almost like a sob, “Don’t know why, all I do is piss off mom more than she already is.”

“She loves you,” He said quietly, “You know that.”

“Oh, fuck off, Luka.”

“What? I love you. We all love you. Hey, fuckin’ look at me, would you?” He grabbed you by the shoulders forcefully turned you, but his eyes darted to your hand and he frowned, “Are you bleeding?”

You looked at your hand that was holding the cigarette and found that you were, in fact, bleeding from a cut in your palm. You must have cut it on the glass in the kitchen when you were cleaning up.

“Ah, shit.” You sighed and put out your cigarette.

“Let me see?” Robby said instantly and reached for your hand.

You allowed it, him taking care of you even though you were capable of evaluating the wound yourself. It calmed you almost immediately, his touch as he focused on your injury.

“Do you guys have a first aid kit inside?” He asked.

Luka sighed, “Probably some bandages and rubbing alcohol, but I don’t know that you’ll find much else.”

“Robby, it’s fine, it can’t be that deep I didn’t even feel it.”

“I can’t tell with all the blood and it’s too dark out here,” He started leading you back to the house, “Come on, we’ll rinse it off and take a look.”

You rolled your eyes in Luka’s direction, who smirked and followed you both back inside.

With all the cooking going on, reentering the house felt akin to walking into a sauna. Combined with the noise level from all the shouting and music, you were instantly overwhelmed again. You allowed yourself to be led, Robby’s hand gently tugging on the wrist of your injured hand.

“I’ll go find those bandages,” Luka called out before disappearing upstairs.

Robby tugged you into the kitchen, which was the last place you wanted to be.

“Oh, finally, we’ve been looking for you—“ Your mother stopped when she saw your hand, “Well how the hell did you manage that?”

“Excuse me, Deb,” Robby said politely, “Could we use your sink?”

“Oh, of course,” She stepped out of the way and let Robby by. He turned the water on and started temperature checking it with his free hand, waiting for it to warm, “Must be nice having an emergency doctor as a boyfriend, especially for Ace, she’s such a clutz.”

You closed your eyes, “I’m an emergency medicine doctor, too, Ma.”

“Oh, but you’re just a student! You’re in your, what do they call that, when you’re practicing after med school, but not really—“

“A resident?” Robby offered.

“Yes!” Your mother snapped her fingers, “That’s it, you’re in your residency, dear.”

It was taking everything you had not to sigh. Robby pulled your hand under the water and you winced at the sting to your cut, “I finished my residency four years ago. I’m an attending now. Just like Robby.”

She was quiet for a moment, “No, that… That can’t be right. You were doing your residency at PTMC—“

“Yes, and then I did a fellowship in Boston and then I came back to PTMC. As an attending.”

She frowned, “You were in Boston? You never told me that.”

Robby pulled your hand out of the water and you felt his fingers near the wound again.

“Yes, I did. You just don’t listen to me unless it’s something that pertains to you.”

The room got quiet. Robby turned off the water.

Your mother laughed, breaking the silence, and poured herself another glass of wine, “Well, anywho, it must be nice to have someone to look after you. You were so clumsy as a kid!”

“Was she?” Robby asked, still laser focused on your wound, he was applying pressure with some paper towels. Luka had returned with supplies.

“Oh, yes! One time, I remember, she was helping set the table. She picked up this beautiful eggplant parmesan I had made, fresh out of the oven with her bare hands! And immediately dropped it, of course. Burned her hands. Whole dish shattered and cut her up. She has the cutest little scar on her leg.”

You almost laughed and you found the silence of your brothers very telling. Robby was wrapping gauze around your palm now, having cleaned out the wound, “You’ll need stitches, but I can do them later tonight. I have a suture kit at home.” He said quietly.

But you barely heard him over the roaring in your ears.

“That’s not how I remember it.” You said, deathly quiet and calm.

“What?” Your mother said, smile still on her face.

“The cut on my leg, that’s not how it happened.”

“Ace…” You heard Luka behind you, the warning clear in his voice.

“Oh, fuck you, Luka. I know you know it too you were there.”

Your mother laughed, “Well, what happened then, hm? Enlighten us.”

Tommy was shaking his head at you from behind your mother. Please, don’t. It said.

But you were so fucking tired of it all. The disappointment, the subtle jabs disguised as teasing, the rewriting of history.

You picked up Robby’s beer from the counter behind him and took a long drink, “What I remember is that you and dad were fighting and I said something that pissed you off, similar to most things I’ve said tonight, and as I was walking away, you flung the eggplant parmesan in my direction. When it shattered, the glass ricocheted off the floor and cut me, which is why the scar is on the back of my leg. Not the front.”

Tommy hung his head behind your mom. Nobody else moved, but you thought you could feel the tension radiating off Luka just behind you.

But after a few moments, your mother laughed, loudly. The sound was grating and you nearly winced. “You always did have such a wild imagination, you and Benji both.”

“I didn’t imagine it, that’s how it happened.”

“What was it that Benji used to say? Oh, that kid was so clever. He used to joke that if you weren’t so good at science you’d be a New York Times Bestseller with all the crazy stories you came up with!”

Your mother laughed more loudly this time, but everyone else in the room was quiet.

“Well, it’s too bad Benji’s not here.” You said coolly.

Your mother’s laugh died out. The only sound was of the range hood and the Christmas carols that were still blasting from the living room.

“And whose fault is that?” She said viciously.

In a way, it felt like a relief to hear her say it. All these years, you knew she blamed you. Probably resented that it was you who was with him when he went. She almost definitely wished it was you who was dead and not him. Well, she could get in line.

But mostly, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. Your brothers were yelling around you, but you had no idea what they were saying. Robby had carefully placed himself in front of you. You thought maybe he was trying to break up the yelling. In another lifetime, perhaps, you would have found it funny that he was trying to break up a fight in your childhood home the same way he would break one up in the ER.

Quietly, you slipped away, passing your father in the hallway who called after you. Likely to ask you what the fuck was going on in the kitchen.

But you passed without a word and headed up the stairs.

Second door on the left, you could have found it with your eyes closed. The door creaked when you opened it, as it always had.

Closing it behind you, you reveled in the quiet first. The rest of the house was muffled from up here.

You trailed your fingers over the dusty sports trophies on their shelves, the CDs in a pile by the stereo.

You laid down on the navy blue bed that still, impossibly, smelt like him and stared at the popcorn ceiling. Glow in the dark stars stuck there. He had tried to pry many of them off when they became teenagers, but he could never get them all. Remnants of glue still stuck to the ceiling.

“I don’t understand why you have to fight with her so much.” Benji’s voice echoed in your head, “It’s easier to just placate her. We’ll be out of here soon anyway.”

“You don’t understand,” You had said through tears, “I’m the only girl. She has astronomically higher standards for me than she does for you. Or Luka or Tommy.”

“What does it matter?” He said, “Look, you’re way smarter than any of the rest of us. You’re going to get everything you’ve ever wanted, not because of her, but despite her.”

You shook your head, “And what if all I’ve ever wanted is for her to be proud of me? To be enough, just once?”

Benji had sighed and rested his head on yours, “Then I’ll be so stupid proud of you that you won’t even notice she’s not.”

Silent tears rolled down your face into your ears as you recalled the memory. You took his pillow and pressed it over your face.

***

Robby was beginning to understand it, now. Why you had been so afraid of bringing him here, of letting him in. He had thought all of it had been wrapped up in the grief of losing your brother, your twin, but this was clearly heaps and bounds more complicated than that.

He had expected maybe some tension and small tiffs, he had not expected learning that you were likely emotionally neglected as a child at best and physically abused at worst. He hadn’t expected to hear your mother outright blame you for your brother’s death. And he hadn’t expected to have to physically insert himself between you and your family for fear of a fight breaking out.

“Hey, that’s enough!” Robby shouted over the yelling, and they all turned to look at him in shock. But they were quiet, “What the fuck?” He said breathlessly, and looked straight at your mother.

“She’s fucking impossible, sometimes.” Your mother said bitterly, “I’m sure you know.”

He looked behind him and noticed that you were gone. Likely you had slipped outside for some air. He turned back to your mother, “Your son had congenital heart disease, as I understand it. There was nothing anyone could have done to save him. Especially not a nineteen year old girl.”

Deb was shaking her head, “She didn’t call us until he was already gone. We didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to him because of her.”

Robby sighed and shook his head. This was a resentment that was more than a decade old. There was nothing he could say to make this better or make her see that you weren’t culpable for what happened to Benji. And it broke his heart that you had carried this for years, silently and alone. Never talking about Benji, likely because you didn’t feel you deserved to. If your own mother blamed you for the death of your twin, it was unlikely you didn’t blame yourself too.

While he was talking to your mother, Luka had swiftly left the room. He heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and then Luka was back.

“She’s not outside.” Luka said to Robby.

“Where else would she go?”

Tommy and Luka shared a look, Robby looked to and from both of them, “What?” He asked, impatiently.

“Benji’s room.” Luka said, quietly, “She’s probably with Benji. Upstairs, second door on the left.”

Robby nodded, “Thank you.” And headed up the stairs.

***

There was a knock at the door and you removed the pillow from your face. You weren’t sure you wanted anyone else to know you were in here, but judging by the quiet knock and the absence of someone yelling at you, you suspected it was Robby. Still, you hesitated.

“It’s me,” He said finally, “Can I come in, please?”

You sat up and put Benji’s pillow in your lap, “It’s open.”

You watched Robby enter the room, looking around first, before looking to you. You looked a bit like a vulnerable child in here, sitting on the tiny twin bed and legs crossed in front of you. Your eyes were bloodshot and your cheeks glistened wet with tears.

And when your eyes locked onto his, your face crumpled.

He pulled you into his arms immediately and was shocked when you didn’t push him away, but pulled him closer. He didn’t say anything, but rocked you gently and kissed your hair until you quieted.

“I would hope this would go without saying, but your mother was way fucking out of line.” He tightened his arms around you slightly, “But I know you and your tendency to blame yourself. I’ve watched you do it since you were just an intern. And so I wonder if all these years you had thought it was your fault and your mother repeating it back to you almost felt affirming.”

You didn’t say anything for a few moments, focusing on getting your breathing under control. You knew you had to have this conversation with Robby, there was no way to get out of it without losing him. He had seen everything you were so afraid of him seeing, and still he had come up here and held you. He hadn’t shied away from any of it.

“I know that rationally, there was nothing I could have done. But it doesn’t really make a difference. What if I had run a little faster? What if I had been CPR certified when he collapsed? What if—?”

“You’ll kill yourself thinking like that. You were nineteen. You were just a kid.”

“So was he. And every fucking birthday I’m reminded of how much he was shorted.”

Robby’s quiet for a moment, running a hand through your hair and gently wiping the tears from your cheeks, “How do you think Benji would feel if he knew you’d been carrying this around for fifteen years? That you never celebrate your shared birthday because you’re too busy playing the what if game?”

You looked around his room and sniffled, “He’d probably tell me I sound like our mom making everything about me and to get a fucking grip.”

Robby chuckled, “I think I would’ve liked your brother.”

You hiccuped and looked up at Robby, a sad smile on your face, “He would’ve liked you, too.”

He cupped your face in his hands and gently kissed you. The taste and smell of him was so familiar and comforting to you, you were sure your heart rate must have slowed back to normal rhythm while he kissed you.

When he pulled away, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I think we can get out of here now, what do you say?”

You balked, “Seriously?”

He nodded, “Yeah, is Chili’s open on Christmas Eve? I think you’ve earned a five dollar margarita.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s Happy Hour anymore, but it’s the thought that counts.” You laughed, “You’re sure? You were really adamant about coming here.”

“Yes,” He nodded, “and it resulted in you smoking, slicing your hand open, shotgunning at least four beers, and hysterically crying all in under two hours. Not to mention, I’m not going to force you to be polite to your mother after she blamed you for Benji in front of everyone.” He sighed, “I wanted you to let me in and you have. I’m sorry that I pushed so hard, I didn’t think—“

“No, it’s okay. You were right. I would’ve just kept pushing you away and then I would’ve lost you. So thank you, for pushing.” You took a deep shaky breath, “I’ve never spoken to anyone about Benji dying, what it felt like. Not even my brothers. I was always afraid it would be… too much.”

Robby shook his head and pressed more kisses to the side of your face, “Not too much. Never too much. I’m honored to know you, every piece.”

You inhaled shakily, “Well, you ready to go tell them we’re leaving?”

He allowed you to climb out of his arms and rise to standing, “I have no issue telling them exactly why we’re leaving. I don’t think it’ll come as much of a surprise.”

You huffed a laugh, “Yeah, well, you underestimate my mother’s ability to gaslight and manipulate, then.”

Sure enough, as they went downstairs to gather their coats and things, your mother waxed poetic about all the food she had made that would go to waste and how she never got to see you and how could you leave so early?

You had warned him, but Robby was still shocked at the way your mother pretended to have no idea why you could be leaving. To position herself as the victim in this scenario. She hadn’t even tried to apologize since you had padded back down the stairs.

“Thank you for inviting us, Deb, but it’s pretty clear that there’s a lot of open hostility between the two of you that is not conducive to the holiday spirit.” He grabbed your coat and helped you into it, rubbing down your arms soothingly once it was on, “I’d rather not see a physical fight break out between my girlfriend and her mother on Christmas Eve.”

Your mother looked at him incredulously, “Are you talking about earlier?” She laughed and playfully patted your arm, “Oh, that was nothing. We have little tiffs like that all the time. Or we used to, when she made time for us. Isn’t that right, Ace?”

You were staring silently at a spot on the wall and Robby noted that it seemed like you were dissociating. The more minutes that passed, the worse he felt for forcing you to come here, “If that was ‘nothing’ to you, then that just affirms my decision to remove us from the circus,” Robby said, forcing a smile and reaching behind the two of you to open the front door, “I would say it was lovely meeting you, but I’m not a very good liar.”

Once outside in the frigid night air, you immediately fished out your pack of cigarettes. Robby decided once you were home, he would toss them in the trash. Maybe buy the both of you a pack of nicotine gum for the foreseeable future. Just that one drag earlier coupled with the hectic nature of your childhood home had him craving a smoke.

“Hey, Robby!” It was one of your brothers who ran out of the house after the two of you. The older one, Luka, if his memory served him correctly.

He looked over Robby’s shoulder at you, lighting a cigarette, before focusing his attention back on Robby, “I just, um, wanted to say thank you for having Ace’s back in there.” He said softly, “I wish it was me who had the backbone to stand up for her.” Luka’s eyes shone with unshed tears in the moonlight, “Benji always took care of her and I think all the time how disappointed he would be that I don’t. It’s hard, with how our mother is to… to stand up to her sometimes. It’s stupid, I’m an adult now, but. She’s still my mom.”

He sighed heavily, “Anyway, sorry, I’m rambling, I just… Ace has brought a lot of men home over the years. Never more than once. They tend to disappear after seeing what a mess we all are. None of them ever had her back like that so I hope you stick around.” Luka smiled then and clapped Robby on the back, “Take care of my baby sister, please?”

Robby nodded and gave Luka a small smile, “Of course.”

Luka nodded back and then walked towards you, still smoking a cigarette a healthy distance away, “Hey.” He said softly.

“Hi,” You said as you exhaled cloud of smoke.

“I’m sorry about what mom said. She didn’t mean it, she’s drunk—“

“Don’t defend her.”

“I’m not.” Luka sighed and scratched his head, “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe I am. Whatever. The point is, it’s not fuckin’ true. Any of it. You did your best when Benji died, we all did. You were just a fuckin’ kid who took on way more than you should have. And I’m sorry that I never helped lessen the burden. I should have. As your older brother, I should have protected you.”

At this, you looked up at him and gave him a watery smile, “Thanks, Luka. But just so you know, I never blamed you or Tommy. For any of it.”

“I know.” He said, and pulled you into a one armed hug, kissing the top of your head, “Let him take care of you. Robby. You deserve to be taken care of for once.”

A tear slid onto your cheek, “Okay.”

He released you and started backing away from both you and Robby, “See you next year?”

At that, you laughed, “Only if you’re paying for my therapy bills.”

He laughed and then waved before turning back towards the house, hands in his pockets.

***

Back at Robby’s house, full of too many Southwestern Eggrolls and margaritas, you sat at his kitchen counter with your wounded hand unwrapped and cradled in both of Robby’s hands. You watched as he carefully sutured you, filled with so much tenderness for him after the night you’d had, you thought you might burst with it.

“Luka mentioned that the boyfriends you've brought home tended to leave after meeting your family.” Robby said as he worked, “Was that why you were so afraid to bring me?”

“Yeah, that was a big part of it. I also just didn’t think I was ready for you to see all of me, like that.”

He finished up the last suture and cut the excess. Then began wrapping your hand again. “You know, when you first started your residency, I used to talk with Adamson about how you were the only resident I ever met who never, ever seemed phased by anything that happened in the ER. You never had that adjustment period everyone else has, of figuring out how to adapt to the chaos. You operated like the chaos was all you’d ever known. I wish I could tell him that I finally figured out why.”

You chuckled at that, “I think he knew, actually.”

Robby looked up at you, “Really?”

You nodded slowly, “Well, I had to tell him about Benji when the anniversary came up so that I wouldn’t be scheduled that day. But, early in my residency, there was one day I kept getting repeated calls from my mother. He overheard when I picked it up. I don’t even remember what she was upset about, just that I had to spend a few minutes talking her down from the ledge. The way a parent would to a child. And when I hung up, he said he didn’t know I had kids.” You laughed now, recalling the memory, “Anyway, when I explained, humiliated, that it was actually my mom calling, he didn’t really say anything. But he had that look on his face, you know the one, when he’s finally solved a puzzle he’s been working on for weeks.”

Robby smiled fondly. It was lovely to see him reminisce about Adamson in a joyful way. He had had to work really hard for that, you knew. You hoped you’d get there one day yourself.

He gently patted your hand after a moment, “Well, wound is taken care of. You ready for bed?”

You yawned, “Yes, please.”

You crawled into sheets that smelt like Robby and curled up into his side. You felt a bit silly now that you had ever been afraid of him meeting your family. You had watched him manage an emergency room for years, near flawlessly. To him, your mother was just another irritable patient. And he was really, really good at managing irritable patients.

“Thank you,” You said softly into the dark, “For taking care of me.”

He hummed and lightly scratched at your scalp, “Of course. I’ve got you,” He murmured, “Always.”

[navybrat817]

Hit to the Head

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Nurse!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn't think he needs medical attention after a hit to the head, but he's glad he met you.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Meet cute (of sorts?), possible concussion, mention of HYRDA, team dynamic, humor, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: A new AU (as if I need more) inspired by this wonderful nonnie. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the assurance on the medical discussion), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn't need medical attention. That was what he told himself, and he said the same thing to the team after he took a hard hit to the head. But he made the mistake of telling Bob that he admittedly felt a little dizzy, who then told Yelena, who then demanded that he go to the hospital. Not only did she demand that he go, they all went and were currently hanging out in the lobby to make sure he was okay. 

It was a sweet gesture, if not a wasted one. 

He took a hit to the head. So what? He experienced much worse when it came to his head and he was a super soldier for God's sake, so he’d heal just fine. It was a bit cocky to think like that but others needed help more than he did and he wasn't in the mood for anyone to inspect him or ask questions. 

At least he wasn't until he saw your face. 

“Hi,” you smiled, pulling back the curtain to give him some privacy. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He opened his mouth to say he hadn't waited long at all, but no sound came out. Thank God he wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor because it would've picked up on the accelerated rate when you smiled at him again. He almost forgot to breathe before his body reminded him that he needed oxygen. No one should look as beautiful as you in medical scrubs or under the harsh hospital lighting. He wondered if he looked okay despite the blood and dirt on his clothes. 

Wait, why did it matter what he looked like? He wasn't there to flirt with or impress you. There was no reason for him to sit up straighter or flex his right arm. There sure as hell wasn't any reason to run his fingers through his hair to get the tangles out. It was a hospital visit, not a date. 

You wore a name tag, but introduced yourself before taking a look at his chart. “I understand you took a pretty hard hit to the head, Mr. Barnes.”

His voice came out huskier than he anticipated when he said, “Call me Bucky.” Clearing his throat he added, “If you consider a slab of concrete to the head hard, then yeah, but at least my head didn't split open.”

He felt the need to assure you he was fine when concern crossed your beautiful features. “I’m very thankful your head didn't split open, Bucky.” He liked the way you said his name. “But a concrete slab to the head is no joke.”

“You should see the other guy,” he joked, making you giggle. Was he funny or were you only laughing for his benefit? “But seeing the other guy wouldn't matter anyway since you won't let me leave without an exam,” he guessed. Even if he didn't believe he needed one. 

It wasn't just his belief that he was fine. Most didn't know it, but every now and then hospitals made him feel like he was back at HYDRA, ready to be strapped to a chair to await his next form of torture or to be experimented on. He wouldn't say he was afraid, but there was discomfort. Enough to make it feel like the walls were slowly closing in. 

With a deep breath he thought instead of his wonderful treatment in Wakanda and reminded himself that he was safe, free. It helped the next breath come easier. He then looked at your face where he only saw concern and compassion. You weren't going to hurt him. You were there to help. 

“Well, I wouldn't be a very good nurse if I just let you walk out, would I?” you gently smiled. 

He managed a smile for you because you weren't just doing your job. You also seemed kind. “I guess not.”

He could get through a simple exam. 

Bucky inhaled, detecting a hint of something sweet under the sterile surroundings as you checked his heart beat. It was so subtle that he wouldn't have been able to pick up on it if it weren't for his heightened senses. He almost leaned into you before you pulled away, and thank God for that. Would he have been able to blame it on his head if he did?

“I don't have a concussion,” he blurted out. 

“Is that right?” He swore there was amusement in your tone when you shone a light in each of his eyes. “I imagine you're somewhat familiar with them in your line of work.”

“You can say that,” he said. He had his fair share of hits to the head, and helped his teammates get through injuries. “No nausea, no stiffness or imbalance.”

He didn't mention the dizziness since he didn't want to stay longer than he needed to. 

“Any issues with your memory?” you asked. 

He smirked a little. “That's a bit of a loaded question.”

“Can you tell me what day it is and what hospital you're at?” you asked. 

He answered the questions with ease. He also spelled “world” backwards when you asked him to. “See? I’m fine,” he said. 

“Your vitals are normal. Pupils reactive. But-”

“Look, I appreciate you checking me out,” he cut you off, keeping the bite out of his voice because he refused to snap at you. “But I don't want to waste your time.”

Bucky hated that he was trying to rush out when you were only trying to help, but he could hear people in the other rooms even as he tried to block it out. They were in pain, struggling. They needed you more than he did. 

“And I appreciate that you're thinking of my time, but it’s my job and I wouldn't feel comfortable with you leaving without completing my exam,” you said, taking a closer look at him. It wasn't concern he saw in your eyes now, but understanding. “You're not exactly a fan of hospitals, are you?”

The question took him by surprise. How did you guess? “Not exactly,” he replied, choosing not to elaborate on that and you were thoughtful enough not to push. Just a sympathetic nod, which he appreciated. “But the work you and everyone else in the medical field does? It's incredible. Thank you.”

In his eyes, people like you were the real heroes. You didn't just face battles, you faced pandemics and life changing events. You risked your lives, saw the best and worst of people, and how many thanked you in return? And from the little time he knew you he could sense the love and dedication to your job and patients. He respected that. 

“Thank you. And thank you for all that you do, too,” you said sincerely. The compliment had the corner of his lip tugging in a smile. “I know you want to get out of here, but I am here to help. If you're fine, great. If not, please, let me help you.”

He tried to look anywhere but at you. It unnerved him that you got under his skin with so few words and he wondered for a second if that hit to the head did more damage than he thought. “I feel a little dizzy, but that’s all,” he admitted, and he felt better by doing so. 

You put a hand over his, little currents of electricity shooting up his arm. “Thank you for telling me,” you whispered, like it was your little secret. “Since you are feeling dizzy, I would like you to stay for observation.”

Bucky sighed. “How long do I have to stay?”

“As long as everything is stable and there are no new or worsening conditions, you’ll likely be discharged within an hour or two,” you replied. He almost argued that he healed from injuries faster thanks to the serum, but that wasn't too long. Better safe than sorry. At least it wasn't a headscan. “Would you like some water? I can get you a snack, too.”

The snack and drink were likely to make sure he could keep them down. “Sure, thanks,” he whispered. 

“Sorry that you’re stuck with me checking on you for the next hour or so,” you said. 

Bucky’s smile grew before he chuckled. “You won't hear me complaining,” he promised. 

Hell, he'd probably fake an injury just to see you again, or at least ask for you if he ever had to come back to the hospital for any reason. He wondered if you were single. You weren't wearing a wedding band or an engagement ring. That didn't necessarily mean-

“I’m single,” you said quickly.

He glanced at you before his eyes went wide. Shit, he said some of that out loud? “Oh, well, that’s…” He wasn't sure what to say. Should he apologize? “Nice.”

He grimaced. Nice? What was wrong with him? Maybe he had a concussion after all. 

You looked at him, your smile soft and easy. He either wasn't the first patient to make a fool out of himself like that or you were being nice. “I’ll be back shortly, but buzz if you need anything.”

“I will,” he said, his finger itching to push the remote the second you left him alone.

He leaned back in the bed and tried to make himself comfortable while he slowly looked around. How was it that the room seemed darker, as if you took a bit of the light and warmth with you? He shook his head slowly and carefully. It was a ridiculous thought. 

“Observation for an hour or two. You okay sticking around so you can drive me back?” he messaged Yelena. 

Yelena messaged back almost immediately. “Everyone is staying. Even Walker.”

He scoffed, but there was a smile behind it. “Not that you need my permission, but you can punch him if he steps out of line.” Yeah, John was still an asshole, but they did work together and he was trying. Some days. 

He perked up when you came back with a cup of water and a snack. “You doing okay?” you asked. 

“Since you left a minute or two ago, yeah,” he teased. 

“Were you a sarcastic guy before the hit to the head, or is this a new side to you?” you teased back. 

“Oh, the sass has always been there,” he said, taking a sip once you handed the drink over. “Better to be smart-ass than a dumbass, right?”

Why was he talking so much?

“So much better,” you smiled, going to the small computer to type something in. He tried not to stare as your fingers flew across the keyboard. He could always blame it on his head if you caught him. “I’ll be back in just a bit, but-”

“Buzz if I need you. I know,” he smiled. 

“At least there isn't too much sass in your tone,” you joked before you left him alone once again. 

If he didn't know any better he would think you were flirting with him, but you were just being a friendly nurse. 

He also tried not to eavesdrop when he heard you assisting others, but your voice drew his attention and he hung on your every word. You were professional, yet personal, showing each patient expert care. You lightly scolded an older gentleman who hadn't listened to you, which brought a smile to Bucky’s face when the man apologized and didn't give you any trouble after that. It was a delicate balance to be kind and assertive and you did it well. 

“You are something,” he said to himself. 

For the next hour or so Bucky didn't say much when you checked on him, but you had his undivided attention, his eyes following you wherever you went. He wanted to find excuses to keep you there and possibly make small talk, but it felt wrong when there were other patients who needed your attention. He caught that sweet scent again whenever you were close to him. Alluring, captivating. He tried to figure out if it was a body wash or just you. 

Something he noticed and tried not to was that your heart raced faster when you were near him. Maybe there was a slight chance that you were attracted to him? Beyond being a friendly nurse, maybe the possible attraction was why you kept smiling at him. He wanted to believe so. He wanted to feel your hand on his hand again. The brief touch had him wanting more, which was crazy. 

And before Bucky knew it, it was time to leave. 

“Vitals still look good. No change in symptoms,” you confirmed after he said the dizziness had subsided and he didn't feel at all nauseous after the snack. “Do you have someone to drive you home?” you asked. 

“Yeah, I have some friends here,” he answered. Even if he wasn't dizzy there was no way they'd let him drive after that. 

“Try to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours. If there are new symptoms or if the dizziness gets worse, you should return to the hospital,” you told him. “Other than that, I think you're good to go,” you smiled, but it didn't look as bright as before. 

Were you disappointed that he had to leave? Bucky was disappointed, but what could he do? He had no excuse to stay. Ironic how he was itching to leave when he got there when he now wanted a reason to stick around. 

“Thanks.” He grabbed his jacket after slowly getting to his feet, your gaze lingering on him when he slipped it on. 

“Why don't I walk you back to the lobby?” you offered. 

“Oh, you don't have to do that,” he said, regretting it since it sounded like a brush off and that wasn't his intention. “But if you wouldn't mind?”

Your face lit up, at least he thought it did. “I don't mind at all.”

Keeping a respectful distance, but not too much of a gap as you walked together, he stole a couple of glances at you. The quiet confidence in which you carried yourself was beautiful and you turned a few heads from nearby patients. He wondered if you noticed. 

He smiled to himself when he spotted his teammates sitting in the waiting area. None of them looked particularly comfortable, but they stuck it out for him. It meant a lot. 

“That group right there is my ride,” he said, not wanting you to go any closer. If they got the slightest hint that he enjoyed your company for a short time, they’d pounce. “Thanks again.”

“I’m glad I could help," you said, gazing at him. “Havd a good night. And don't forget to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours, hero.”

Hero. The nickname almost made him smile. “You have a good night, too.”

You lingered for just a moment, almost as if you expected him to say something else. When he didn't, you offered him one last smile and scanned your card to get back through the double doors. His shoulders dropped once you were out of sight. He should've said something. 

“Hello?” Yelena asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked a few times. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, I think he was staring at that pretty nurse,” Ava answered. 

Bucky shot the entire group a glare, his cheeks hot. “No, I wasn't,” he grumbled. Except he was. He stared at you. And by the amused looks on their faces, they all saw it. 

Yelena exchanged a look with Ava before they both smirked. “Yes, you were. Do you like the nurse?”

Bucky’s fists curled. He was not having this conversation after a hit to the head. “Can we leave?”

“It’s okay to stare or have a crush. She’s a beautiful woman.” Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She would be lucky to date the Winter Soldier.”

A growl escaped before Bucky could stop it. Yes, you were beautiful. Did he need Alexei to point that out? And he didn't have a crush. How could he? 

“When was the last time you went on a date?” Ava asked. 

Bucky took a deep breath. He really didn't want to talk about this. “Does it matter?” he asked. 

“Ask her out! I drive you for your date!” Alexei offered, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll set the mood. You see.”

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “Dad, stop.”

Bucky shook his head and shut his eyes, wishing he could teleport himself out of there. “Yes, please, stop.”

“Is your head okay?” Bob asked, making him open his eyes. Of course he was concerned with his pain, and Bucky was glad for the change of topic. 

“I’m fine,” Bucky assured him. There was nothing for him to worry about. “I just need to take it easy for the next day or so.”

John stretched his back once he stood up. “If you really want to see that nurse again I can make sure you get another hit to the head.”

Bucky’s eyes turned cold. “I’m not a killer anymore, but I may make an exception if you try anything.”

John held his hands up, but still had a smirk on his face before Yelena shot him a look. “A small injury could bring you back here.”

“No one is injuring me to bring me back here,” he announced. Everyone looked disappointed except for Bob. “What, you all want me to get hurt?”

Why did he decide to join this team again?

“No, we just want you to see the nurse again,” Ava said.

“Let’s go,” he ordered. 

As the group left, Bucky snuck one last look over his shoulder. You were a good nurse, and you made his night better. A small part of him hoped he made your night a little better, too. And while he certainly didn't want more injuries, a part of him did if only to bring him back to you.

So, what injury is Bucky getting so he can see you again? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[beargyu313]

Desire unleash

⋆˚𝜗 Summary: a weekend getaway turns into a mental game of who can push the limit the furthers – it’s a game with no winners. Very loosely inspired by cruel intentions (1999), but it’s more campy.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪Word count: 12k of smut, no pure moment is in this lol

CONTENT WARNINGS (!): erotic manipulation, blurred consent dynamics (but still consensual), power games, control, and knowing you're being bad but not caring.

⋆˚࿔ Tags: smut, foursome, tension so thick you could choke on it, power play / control dynamics, voyeurism, jealousy kink (but consensual), possessive!jake (but lowkey), (un)knowing teasing, dirty talk, overstimulation, eye contact kink, subtle dom/sub, group sex (some boy on boy kissing), finger in the booty, slight exhibitionism, kissing someone else while your boyfriend watches, they think they’re sneaky but your man knows, creampie, some choking and spanking but nothing too crazy, aftercare cuddles but it’s four people in a heap

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚a/n: thank you so much to the anon for req, writing this was really fun  :D<33 on a more somber note I start a new job tomorrow and I don’t know how often I’ll be able to write so I really pushed myself to finish this one and hope I can work on something fun soon !

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ mdni smut ahead, masterlist ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Jake watches you pack. You toss in bikinis without realizing how small they are. You ask if he packed snacks; he packed condoms. “Do you think they’ll come?” you ask. He shrugs, but he already knows they will. Sunghoon said yes first with lightning speed. Niki followed a minute later with a thumbs-up and a smirk. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t need to.

Jake's seen the way they look at you. You looking back.

It’s not about trust. It’s about curiosity. About pressure. About what happens when people get what they want.

He’s not worried. He knows you’ll come back to him. But he wants to know who’ll touch you first.

Which is why you’re currently spending your weekend in the middle of nowhere. Your boyfriend invited you to a private-pool weekend getaway, to which you of course agreed to go. And it would be romantic – if only his two hot friends weren’t also here.

Why they’re here too was beyond you. But the house held two bedrooms, separated not by a wall, but by huge double doors. It allowed for some privacy but not much, since the doors couldn’t be locked and could be opened from either side. Anytime.

You’re rummaging through your bag, trying to decide which bikini set to wear to the pool. Jake is just watching you, sitting on the bed. He was already in swim trunks, paired with a gray t-shirt and a snapback hat that he was wearing backwards.

After a beat he goes “just wear the peach one.”

You glance at him, surprise showing on your face.

“Are you for real? It’s basically just strings…” you continue unsure.

“Yeah, I know you don’t like big tan lines, it’s fine.”

“That’s true, but I thought– you wouldn’t mind?” you ask, but the set is already in your hands, “cause of the boys, I mean?”

Jake plops down on the bed, relaxed. He blows a raspberry, “Nah, bro code.”

And that’s how you end up spread on the beach chair in thongs and a tiny stringy top. You’re laying down on your stomach. The thong is digging into your hips, and Jake’s hands massage sunscreen into your skin. His hands are warm and slow, thumbs stroking over your ribs, his touch more affectionate than sexual—until it isn’t.

The screen door creaks open.

You don’t lift your head, but the air shifts. The sound of voices—low and easy, almost laughing. Footsteps. The scent of someone’s cologne.

You glance back over your shoulder.

Sunghoon and Niki.

Shirtless. Damp hair. Swim trunks slung low. You take in a breath, hold it.

Sunghoon’s trunks are electric blue, contrasting nicely with his complexion and black fluffy hair. His eyes flicker once over your ass, once over Jake’s hand still on your back, and then settle on your shoulders like a weight.

You feel Niki look too. You don’t look but can feel his eyes on you. Lingering. His hair was curling slightly from the heat, cheeks tinged red. His trunks were black with a white waistband and a text written right over his crotch. You don’t attempt to read it.

Jake hasn’t said a word.

You arch your back slightly, stretching. It’s innocent enough, but you know what it looks like—what it feels like. Your ass lifting up, the thong curving securely around your core. Jake’s thumb dips lower, grazing just under the string of your bottoms.

“Jakey,” you say sweetly, not opening your eyes, “they didn’t slip, right?”

“All good,” he murmurs, smoothing over your ass under the guise of fixing over the fabric.

That’s when Niki walks past. His tone is too casual to be harmless, “Want a second coat? You know... just in case he missed a spot.”

Your laugh escapes you before you can stop it. You don’t even lift your head, just let it roll out of you, cheek pressed to the towel as you smile into the terrycloth.

You hear Sunghoon awkwardly cough and glance toward Jake, expecting him to shut it down, to say something. But he doesn’t. He’s already watching you. A slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Knowing.

“You missed a spot?” you ask Jake, a teasing lilt in your voice that you pretend not to notice. “How careless.”

Jake’s hand resumes its path down your thigh, deceptively gentle.

“My bad,” he says. “Guess I was distracted.”

You hum like it means nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what he means.

But to Niki you’re a fucking painting. Laid out. Glowing. Practically melting under Jake’s hands. And he can’t look away.

Niki hadn’t meant to say it out loud, it just came out. But then you laughed. And Jake didn’t bite his head off. Your voice had that easy, girly playfulness he’d never really gotten from you before. The way you tilted your hips slightly, still face-down, like it was just comfortable to do that. Like you didn’t care what they saw.

Or worse maybe you did.

Niki's throat feels dry. He rubs the back of his neck and wanders off to the cooler like that’s what he’d meant to do all along.

You glance after him for just a second, but it’s long enough. Long enough for Jake to notice.

“He’s looking at you,” he says casually, voice low near your ear. “He thinks he’s being slick.”

“Who?” you murmur, letting your eyes fall closed again, feigning innocence.

“Take a wild guess.”

There’s a pause. Your lips twitch. Jake presses another kiss between your shoulder blades, lips hot against sunscreen and skin.

“You’re not worried?” you ask him, soft. A little breathier than intended.

Jake smiles against your back. He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t stop touching you either. You’re practically purring under his wandering hands. His fingers ghost over your cunt and just as you spread your legs apart he’s gone, running into the pool.

The force of his jump, splashes droplets on you.

The water is warm. And Jake hasn’t stopped smiling all afternoon.

Sunghoon watches him out of the corner of his eye as Niki throws water at him like a kid, laughing. Jake laughs too, swiping water from his face with a slick hand, but there’s something too relaxed about the way he floats through it all.

Sunghoon doesn’t trust it.

He keeps glancing back at the lounge chair. At you. You're still lying there, bare legs stretched out, that peach bikini like a soft warning. This isn’t for you, it says. But watch anyway.

Jake had to have picked it. There’s no way you packed that set on accident. And the way Jake keeps touching you like he wants them to notice…

Sunghoon dips lower into the pool, jaw tight. “She’s gonna burn like that,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“She won’t,” Jake replies, suddenly next to him. “I was thorough.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Jake just grins.

“Hey,” Jake calls to you, lifting his hand from the water. “You coming in?”

You sit up slowly, stretch your arms overhead, a little catlike yawn escaping. Niki coughs behind him. Jake flicks water at him with a smirk.

But it’s Sunghoon who speaks.

“Here—” He moves toward the edge of the pool and holds out a hand. “I’ll help.”

You smile at him, like it’s a joke, like you don’t need help. But you take his hand anyway. And the second your fingers brush his, he knows he’s in trouble.

“You’re such a gentleman,” you tease, stepping down toward the ledge as you hold his bigger palm. His whole hand swallowing yours.

Sunghoon pretends to look away but doesn’t let go. You laugh, slipping one foot into the water.

But just then your other foot catches, maybe on purpose, maybe not. You squeak, stumble slightly.

Your chest collides softly into his, hands on his shoulders. The water laps up around you both. It should be clumsy. It should be nothing. But before Sunghoon even thinks about what he’s doing his hands are steadying you. Wrapped lowly around your waist. His fingers dangerously close to your ass. His middle digits would slip under the stupidly small string if he moved them just a centimeter lower.

It is not nothing. You’re smiling. He can’t stop looking at your lips.

“Oops,” you murmur, barely above the water.

“You okay?” he asks, voice a little too tight.

“Yeah.” You don’t move away.

Neither does he.

Behind you, Niki cannonballs into the deep end like a distraction, water spraying everywhere.

Sunghoon finally steps back, pulling away as though electrocuted. He laughs, but it’s forced, low. Jake watches it all from across the pool. His head tilted. His mouth unreadable. And when you paddle away, he doesn’t follow.

As the sun hides away behind trees and night falls the four of you gather in the living room. Someone pushed the couch against the wall, coffee table moved to the side.

At the center of the room now lays only a decorative rug. Slightly licked pale from the sunlight. Sitting in circle are you, then to the right of you Niki, to his right and across from you sits your boyfriend, and next to him is Sunghoon. You’re squished between two taller boys.

You’re a bit sad to see them with their shirts back on. But Niki is manspreading next to you. His bigger frame is leaning towards you. His knee is resting over your thigh and you don’t move away from the touch.

Across from you is Jake, his eyes half-lidded, watching everything. He’s got a red cup in one hand and his other arm stretched behind Sunghoon, casual. But you notice how his fingers tap against the rug when Niki leans toward you.

And beside him is Sunghoon, freshly showered, hair falling in soft waves over his eyes, skin still pink from the pool. You can’t tell if he’s tired or tense.

“Truth or dare?” Niki asks suddenly, lips curved up into a smirk. His voice is low, playful. He spins the bottle.

It lands on you.

You smile. Tilt your head.

“Truth.”

“Lame,” Sunghoon mutters. But he’s smiling too.

“Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Dare, then.”

Niki leans in. “Let someone in this room feed you something. Eye contact only.”

Jake hums under his breath, but it’s not disapproving. More amused. Like this was part of the plan.

You arch a brow. “Who’s feeding me, then?”

There’s a beat of silence. No one volunteers.

“I’ll do it,” Niki says eventually, reaching behind for the gummy bears someone left on the counter.

He kneels in front of you, holding out a single red one, his hand slightly shaking. You wrap your hand around his wrist, effectively stilling him. You look up at him through your lashes.

You smirk when you see him gulp. Then you part your lips, leaning in. Keeping your eyes on his you let your tongue ghost over his fingers before sucking the candy out of his grasp.

Niki’s smirk falters for half a second when you suck it off his finger without breaking eye contact.

Across from you, Jake sips his drink slowly.

“Next,” he says, voice low.

The bottle spins again.

It lands on Sunghoon.

“Truth,” he says flatly.

Jake raises a brow. “Where’s the craziest place you’ve thought about… doing it?”

You almost choke on your drink. Niki grins. Sunghoon looks you dead in the eye before answering.

“This rug,” he says.

The air goes still. Jake laughs first — just a low, quiet sound from his chest. And then he speaks, voice velvet-soft.

“Good to know.”

The bottle spins again. It lands on Niki.

Jake leans forward lazily. “Alright, hotshot. Dare.”

Niki smirks. He’s already tipsy, a little flush creeping up his neck. His eyes are half-lidded and he looks so fucked out.

“Whisper something you want to do to someone in this room.”

There’s a pause. A ripple of awareness.

Niki doesn't hesitate. He turns to you, crawls just a bit closer, and leans in like he’s about to kiss your ear. He drunkenly bumps into you, but doesn’t apologize. Instead he grabs your shoulder – almost your neck – to still himself.  His lips hover near the shell of your ear. You feel his breath before you hear the words.

“I want to you on all fours, my dick in your ass, while Jake watches.”

Your lips part, breath hitching. But you don’t pull away.

You hear Sunghoon shift beside Jake, and glance up just in time to catch his jaw flex. But he says nothing. Jake… Jake is just watching, that soft smirk still there — approving, like a conductor letting the orchestra warm up before the real crescendo.

The game moves on. The bottle lands on you.

“Dare,” you say, braver now. Or maybe just tipsy enough.

Sunghoon speaks first this time. “Sit in someone’s lap for the next round.”

You cock your head. “Whose?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Niki grins.

You pause for effect, scan the circle, and then on all fours you slowly, while playfully swaying your hips, crawl over to Jake.

His legs part just slightly to let you fit, and he rests a hand on your thigh, grounding. Possessive. You feel the way Sunghoon’s eyes track the movement. Niki doesn’t even pretend not to look.

The next bottle spin lands on Jake.

Niki leans in, mischievous. “Tell us the freakiest thing you’ve done with her.”

Jake’s grip on your thigh tightens. He’s quiet for a second, the kind of quiet that makes your mind wander… balcony, middle of the dance floor once, public bath house...

His answer surprises you.

“Her in the mirror,” he says. “My hand on her throat,” his hand softly grasps your neck as he retells the story, “Her mouth open the whole time but not a single sound. I didn’t let her.”

You freeze slightly in his lap. Niki whistles, low. Sunghoon just swallows.

You move back to your spot between Niki and Sunghoon. The later refusing to meet your gaze.

The bottle spins again.

It lands on Sunghoon this time. You don’t know who suggests it — it could’ve been Niki, drunk and fearless, or you, drunk and reckless — but suddenly,

“Jake. Sunghoon. Kiss.”

The room holds its breath.

Jake raises his brows, amused. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Sunghoon shrugs, cool as ever. “It’s just a kiss.”

“Then do it,” Niki says, eyes gleaming.

Jake shifts his chest towards Sunghoon, tilting his head in a quiet invitation.

Sunghoon leans in first. Their mouths meet and you feel yourself holding your breath. They’re both stiff at first. Lips tightly pressed against each other.

But then something snaps in both. Your mouth drops as Jake grabs Sunghoon by the nape, pulling him closer in a clear display of dominance. But Sunghoon mirrors his actions. They’re in a violent embrace and you can feel the splotching sound of their tongues meeting and against yourself you slip a hand down to your panties.

You roughly press on your clit a few times before you catch yourself and stop. Sunghoon’s free hand travels to Jake’s throat and just as he squeezes him Jake growls, pulling away.

They break apart like something snapped — breathless, jaws tight. Niki’s eyes are wide. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.

Jake leans back like nothing happened, licking his bottom lip once, slow.

“Now that’s a dare,” he says.

After that the dares and laughter dies down, the warmth of tequila and the warm living room turns cozy, the type that’s heavy, sleepy.

Blankets are laid out. Jake throws one over you, then another across the floor. Niki mutters, “I’m not moving.”

No one does.

You're lying with your back against Jake’s chest. He’s half-sitting, leaning against the couch, his arm is slung around your waist, relaxed. His breath is steady. He doesn’t speak, but his fingers occasionally brush slow circles into your hipbone.

Niki lies on your side, his head on Jake’s thighs, his hair brushing against your side. You feel the heat radiating off of him, hair tickling your skin. At one point, his hand lazily and casually falls across your stomach. It stays there. He doesn’t move it. Jake doesn’t make him.

Sunghoon is last to settle in. Sitting down next to Jake. Jake’s head falls onto his shoulder. Your hand somehow finds his knee. And when Sunghoon doesn’t brush you off you give him a gentle squeeze. Your hand travels up his thigh, but Jake’s hand interlocking with yours, still on Sunghoon’s knee, stop you.

“Let’s just go to sleep,” you mumble moving to get up.

The boys watch you rise and stretch your arms above your head. And then you’re disappearing up the stairs.

The bed is pleasantly cool when you slip in. Jake’s follows you a moment later, sprawling out shirtless on the bed, one arm behind his head, contemplating on whether on not he should say what’s on his mind.

“You’re not the only one who’s been catching looks, you know.”

Your pulse picks up. You shuffle to his side, arms wrapping around his naked torso.

“...You saw that?”

Jake’s smile is soft. Dangerous.

“I see everything.”

You chew your lip.

“And…?”

He caresses your arm comfortingly, “If it happens,” he says, low, intimate, “I wouldn’t mind.”

You blink. The air goes still again.

“I trust you,” he adds.

You swallow hard. “So you want me to… what, play into it?”

Jake cups your jaw gently. His thumb traces your bottom lip. He smiles, but not kindly.

“Let them think they’re getting away with something.”

You exhale a laugh — breathless. “They really think they’re slick,” you murmur.

“So do you,” he replies.

You bite back a grin.

On the other side of the door Niki kicks the door shut behind him and flops face-first onto one of the twin bed.

“That rug is going to haunt my spine for the rest of my life.”

Sunghoon sits on the edge of the second bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. His shoulders are stiff. His neck tense.

After a beat, Niki peeks over, voice muffled in the pillow. “You good?”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away.

“You haven’t said more than like five words since that pool stunt,” Niki adds. “What’s going on in that head?”

“I touched her,” Sunghoon says. Quiet. Flat.

Niki lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, man. Everyone saw.”

Sunghoon lets out a breath. “I wasn’t trying to. It just… happened.”

Niki flips over, now lying on his back, arms folded under his head. “She didn’t exactly swim away.”

That earns him a look. But Niki holds it.

“You saw how she was with you,” Sunghoon says. “With that stupid gummy worm.”

Niki smirks. “I didn’t shove my fingers in her mouth. She did that.”

“She sucked on them.”

A pause.

Niki exhales. “Yeah.”

Neither of them speak for a moment.

Sunghoon leans back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling. “She’s with Jake.”

“You think Jake cares?” Niki mutters. “You saw the way he was watching us. He wants this.”

Sunghoon shakes his head. “That’s the part I don’t get. He’s either completely confident or completely insane.”

“Maybe both.” Niki stretches, his shirt riding up just slightly. “He’s not the only one playing the long game.”

Sunghoon turns his head, looks at him. “You think this is a game?”

Niki lifts a shoulder. “Feels like one.”

Sunghoon studies him for a moment. “You serious about her?”

Niki’s jaw tenses. “No.”

Sunghoon arches a brow.

“…I don’t know,” Niki admits. “I just know I keep thinking about her mouth.”

Sunghoon looks away, eyes dark. “Yeah.”

Another long silence.

Then, Niki who’s quieter now adds, “You gonna stop?”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer for a long time, then he says “…I don’t think I can.”

Niki, turning onto his side, half-joking but not really, “Wanna rock-paper-scissors for who gets to fuck her first?”

Sunghoon snorts. “She’ll pick.”

Niki smirks. “Yeah. She already did.”

The sheets are soft. Warm from skin and sleep. Jake is beside you, one arm tossed casually over your waist. You don’t move. You just breathe.

Last night wasn’t too cray. No one really touched you. But something shifted. You could feel it in the way Niki looked at you too long. In the way Sunghoon’s fingers hovered near your hip during a game dare but didn’t quite land.

Jake stirs behind you, nose brushing your neck. He makes a soft noise, then speaks, voice low from sleep.

“You awake?”

You hum. He tightens his hold slightly, “Still thinking about last night?”

You don’t answer, but he chuckles anyway, like he knows. His fingers brush the inside of your wrist, slow. Deliberate.

“It’s okay, I know I am too” he adds, eyes glinting.

“Wait,” you say, turning your head just enough to catch his eye. “You were serious?”

Jake’s smile is unreadable, almost mischievous. He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “We all want to have our fun. You’re not the only one who wants a piece.”

You arch an eyebrow, testing, “And you want to watch?”

He leans closer, voice dropping even lower, “Watching’s just part of the fun. But you? You get to play.”

You’re quiet for a moment as his words sink in. Lightly shifting in bed, you rub your thighs rub together, Jake’s hands slips to your navel, “You want me to… seduce them?”

You pause, heart pounding a little faster.

Jake kisses the shell of your ear, then kisses your neck, moving lower with his lips. You lean back against him, his hand slips into your panties.

You’re breathing a little louder, small whines escaping as Jake expertly teases over your clit. His lips press against your neck, and he kisses you wetly before sucking on your skin.

When he deems the bruise deep enough, his teeth lightly ghost over the pink skin. You moan, reaching behind you to pull on his hair.

Jake is rocking his hips into you, and you just lay there and take whatever he’s willing to give you.

“Let’s have some fun today,” he says, fondling your ass and then he gets up. He doesn’t hide his erection as he rummages through his bag and heads to the bathroom.

You head downstairs.

The kitchen smells like pancakes and too much body spray. Niki’s leaning against the fridge, pouring himself cereal like he owns the place. You watch the muscles in his back, his tight white shirt clinging onto him.  

Sunghoon’s barefoot on the deck outside, hoodie half-zipped with no shirt under, coffee in one hand, scrolling his phone. He glances inside when he sees you — eyes flick down your frame, then back up, blank-faced.

But you knew Sunghoon would be harder to crack. But he will. You know he will. You adjust Jake’s shirt that you slept in, pulling it down when it hikes up your butt.

You say nothing.

Jake walks in last, hair still wet from the shower, eyes landing on you first. He kisses your temple and takes his place behind you like it’s nothing. But you feel the ripple across the room.

They all notice that. They’re all watching each other, too.

Niki has just fixed himself a bowl of cereal and joins Sunghoon out on the deck. He flops into the chair beside him with all the grace of a controlled explosion. Sweatpants sit low on his hips, white tank stretched over his shoulders, sunglasses pushing his hair back.

“So…” Niki starts, leaning back in the deck chair. “What’s the score? I feel like I’m in the lead.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “You spilled beer on her.”

“She laughed,” Niki says, smug.

Sunghoon shakes his head. “Pity points.”

They’re bickering. But it’s not about drinks or dares anymore, it’s about you. And they’re done pretending to play fair.

“She touched my leg under the table.”

“She touched my leg too.”

“You sure? Pretty sure she was aiming for mine.”

That makes Sunghoon pause. He glances at Niki now — and for a second, they both just hold the eye contact. It’s not angry. It’s not even serious.

But it’s definitely a challenge.

You step onto the deck just in time to see it.

Both boys straighten, just a little. Niki sits up taller in his seat, tossing one ankle over his knee like a flex. Sunghoon casually unzips his hoodie despite the breeze, and your eyes automatically glue to his chest. He notices, smirks as he flexes his muscles, subtly.

Neither of them say a word to you, but suddenly they’re both very aware of where you are.

“Morning,” you offer, biting back a smile.

Sunghoon nods, neutral. “You sleep okay?”

You tilt your head, letting your gaze flick between him and Niki, “Not really. Kept wondering how you two were doing...”

Niki chuckles into his coffee. “You jealous?”

You lift a shoulder. “Just curious. Thought maybe I’d hear something through the walls.”

Sunghoon raises a brow. “Did you?”

You step around to the railing, leaning against it like it’s nothing, “Unfortunately not. Kind of a shame, isn’t it?”

Niki stretches with a little groan, hands above his head, muscles cut in the sunlight. “Dunno. I dreamt about you though.”

You blink. Sunghoon actually snorts into his coffee.

“Subtle,” he mutters more to himself than anyone else.

They’re both doing it now — the lean, the gaze, the lazy-boy confidence. Like this is some performance review and you’re the one grading them.

You raise a brow, leaning on the railing, you feel their eyes like pressure — like they’re waiting for something. You stretch a little where you stand by the railing, pretending not to notice the way both boys track your every move. Your shirt lifts just slightly, and that’s all it takes.

Niki leans forward, elbow on his knee, smirking.

“If you stretch like that again, I’m not responsible for what happens.”

You glance over your shoulder, biting back a smile.

Sunghoon, more composed but no less obvious, lifts his cup to his lips, “Some people work out all week to look like that on a trip.”

“She just wakes up and ruins lives.”

Niki grins. “That’s what I’m saying. Unfair advantage.”

“You boys always this dramatic in the morning?” you laugh at them.

But Niki doesn’t let that deter him, smirking, “Only when there’s something worth losing our minds over.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick down your legs and back up again, gaze lazy, unhurried.

“And she knows it, too.”

That’s when the sliding door opens behind you.

Jake steps out, damp curls sticking to his forehead, sunglasses on, coffee in hand. He takes them in. Niki is talking too much, Sunghoon looking too long. You playing innocent in the sun.

He doesn’t smile.

“You two flirting or auditioning for something? Because it’s starting to feel like a try-hard campaign out here.”

They go quiet.

Jake sets down his mug, shrugs, eyes still hidden behind his lenses.

“Keep begging, though. She eats that shit up.”

You turn to look at him — and this time, you don’t hide your smile.

Jake lifts his sunglasses, just an inch, and winks. The four of you continue to laze around on the deck, sipping on your coffee.

The peace momentarily gets disturbed when the four of you can’t agree on what to do today. Niki wants to swim, while Jake wants to go on a hike. You and Sunghoon both don’t really care what you do, but Sunghoon’s eyes sparkle when you suggest a game of cards.

The sun keeps burning hotter and hotter, which makes convincing Jake and Niki to just stay inside much easier. You’re gathered around the low coffee table, cards neatly spread. Jake shuffles them. Sunghoon lounges too easily. Niki keeps adjusting his position, either to be close to you or to throw someone off.

Jake smiles like a villain with a secret, “Let’s play something with stakes.”

You play into it, innocently asking (as if you don’t know where this is going), “What kind of stakes?”

Jake’s eyes are sparkling as he looks at you, he cocks his head to the side in mock contemplation, “Clothes? Confessions? A round of truths you can’t lie through?”

That catches Niki’s attention, “Or dares you actually have to do.”

The game starts tame — remove an accessory, share a fantasy — but it ramps up quickly. Niki dares you to whisper in Sunghoon’s ear about what you thought the first time you saw him shirtless.

You gulp as you think back on the memory. It was at a party, and at first he was wearing a t-shirt. But as the night when on you kept seeing him with a different girl. Until he just reappeared again. No shirt and red scratches over his chest.

You shift on your butt, just watching him at first with your lip caught between your teeth. He doesn’t waver, watching you back.

This was your chance. You would make him break.

You move on your knees, Jake’s hand patting on your butt. He lets it rest on your body, slipping down your thigh as you crawl over on all fours, taking your time. You don’t break eye contact until the last second — and when you do, it’s to lean in close to Sunghoon’s ear, lips brushing just enough to count as contact.

You whisper, low and breathless, voice in a slight whine, “I remember thinking… that those scratches on your chest weren’t from just one girl.”

You pause, voice soft but laced with heat...

“And I couldn’t stop wondering how big you had to be for someone to leave marks like that.”

He doesn’t say anything not at first. But you feel it. His sharp inhale, the slight twitch of his fingers where they rest against his thigh.

You were so close to breaking him. You rest your hand on his thigh, right next to his fingers. You squeeze his thigh as you continue, “And I kept thinking…” you tilt your head, whispering slower now, your breath tickling his neck, “What would I sound like… if it was your hands instead?”

You lean back just enough to look him in the eye. Innocent, waiting. But he’s not breathing normally anymore.

Jake, watching this unfold like a scene in a play, laughs softly under his breath. Niki looks impressed. Maybe even turned on.

And Sunghoon?

He swallows. Hard. His voice is tight when he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, “Fuck.”

He glances at you, his eyes dark and intense, “Didn’t know we were doing psychological warfare.”

Then, he turns to Jake, “Tell your girl to stop whispering shit she doesn’t mean.” He pauses for a moment, “Wouldn’t repeat it. But I’m not forgetting it.”

Jake tilts his head slightly, smile curling slow, “Who said she didn’t mean it?”

He pauses, letting the tension further build, then he provokes “Maybe you just don’t know what to do with the truth.”

Sunghoon doesn’t reply but his jaw is locked tight and gaze lowered in recalibration. You fight the smile from appearing on your face, eating up the drama.

Niki cuts in, his voice low, “So that’s how we’re playing now.”

He leans back, tongue running over the inside of his cheek. His leg bounces once, slow and deliberate. Then he glances at you, like he’s reconsidering everything he thought he knew about how to get under your skin.

“I should’ve gone for the whisper dare.”

He’s not upset — he’s hungry now, “Bet I could’ve made her blush harder than that.”

Jake laughs, not cruel but proud.

“Careful,” he says, still lazily reclined, hand now trailing along your spine. “She likes when you talk like that.”

Niki cocks an eyebrow, “Then dare me.”

The deck is reshuffled. The heat in the room is impossible to ignore. Niki draws the next dare and smirks when he reads it, “Jake.”

Jake lifts his brows, half-bored, “Hit me.”

Niki reads it slowly, savoring every word, “Describe, in detail, your favorite way to make her come.”

Silence.

You feel Jake’s fingers still against your back. Then he smiles. Not a grin. Not a smirk. A slow, knowing curve of the mouth that says game on.

His voice is low and steady, like he’s reading something sacred.

“She gets so loud and needy when I take my time.”

“I like to tease her with my fingers first — two, deep and slow. Not for her, at first. For me. Just to watch her lose it. Just to watch her whine and feel her pussy sucking me in, feel how wet she’s getting for me.”

“Then when she starts making a mess, I use my mouth. But I don’t like to rush. She likes getting me messy, so I let her. Just enough to make her beg for more than she thinks she can take.”

He doesn’t look at you once. His eyes are locked on Sunghoon in silent provocation.

“Sometimes I edge her just to hear her say please, oh man, she sounds like such a slut when she does. And her eyes cross, she get’s so stupid when I use my mouth.”

The room is silent as Jake continues, Sunghoon is holding Jake’s gaze. But Niki’s eyes are sweeping over you, noting every curve, every dip. You perk your chest when you notice his stare, but he just smirks. Licking over his lips.

Jake continues, “Sometimes I keep her stuffed full and tell her she’s not allowed to come yet, just to feel her clench around me, her pussy begging me to cum inside of her. She get’s so impatient once she’s stuffed, begging me to let her cum.”

“But she always does. Eventually. And when she does…” Jake leans forward, just slightly — enough to tip the power dynamic even further, “…she grabs my hair and screams like a pornstar.”

Sunghoon’s jaw flexes.

Niki lets out a low breath — half laugh, half curse.

Jake leans back again, smug, “Your turn,” he says to Niki.

The air is thick now. Everyone’s flushed. Breathing a little uneven. Niki draws a card and raises his brows.

“Oh?” He grins, flashing the card to Jake like it’s a challenge, “I’m supposed to give her a taste of how I’d fuck her — with my mouth only.”

Jake just tilts his head, slow, “Better make it count, but no kissing on the lips.”

Niki turns to you, “Come here, princess.”

There’s no hesitation now. You crawl into his lap and he meets you halfway, his hands possessively grabbing onto your hips. He makes you straddle him, hands still grabbing your ass. You moan at his roughness and impatience. You slightly adjust your position on his lap. Now you’re sitting directly on his hard cock, back arched in anticipation.

Niki’s lips brush over yours and you feel completely caged in his arms. He continues, kissing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. His mouth is hot, teasing but not gentle. Your hands find solace in his hair as he’s letting you feel how hard he is beneath you.

“I wouldn’t be sweet about it,” he murmurs just for you. “You’d cry before I let you come.”

His teeth scrape your shoulder. Your hands grip his shirt like you’ll fall without it. You whimper, grinding down on him.

Jake watches with something unreadable in his eyes — not quite possessiveness, not quite permission. Something worse.

Sunghoon's knuckles are white on the armrest, jaw tight.

Eventually, Niki let’s you go. Your neck is red, his back robably littered in small scratches. It’s Sunghoon’s turn again. He draws a card. A slow blink.

“You okay?” you ask, mock-sweet.

He flips the card to show, “Loser of last round sits between the winner’s legs.”

You watch him. He’s not flustered now and yet also unreadable. He walks over to Jake without a word. Jake spreads his knees, casual as ever. Sunghoon lowers himself between them. Jake’s hands find his hips automatically, anchoring him there.

No one breathes.

Jake leans in, brushing his lips near Sunghoon’s ear, “Comfortable?”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, “This feels rigged.”

Jake smiles against his neck, lips brushing over his ear, “That’s because it is.”

You watch the two of them — your boyfriend and the boy you’ve been trying to break — fall into some secret current between them. It's magnetic. Dangerous.

Niki whistles, dragging his palm up your thigh, “You guys gonna kiss again, or what?”

Jake just smirks.

At some point the cards are forgotten. Left scattered like the tension. Your legs are over Niki’s lap. Sunghoon is still between Jake’s. Everyone’s breathing harder, now.

You, half laugh and ask, “We’re really bad at pretending, huh?”

Niki is grinning, but his voice is deep, hoarse when he says, “Babe, no one here is pretending anymore.”

The game doesn’t really end it just fizzles. You’re all half-drunk on the moment, but no one touches anyone else for a minute. It’s like all the wires short-circuited at once.

Jake stands first, cracking his neck, “I’m starving.”

It breaks the spell. The others slowly follow, like they’ve just returned from some collective dream.

You rummage throught the kitchen, it’s a mess. No one planned dinner. There’s half a bag of chips, leftover takeout, and someone finds brownie mix at the back of the cabinet like it’s buried treasure.

You’re in someone else’s hoodie — you can’t remember whose — and sitting on the counter with your legs swinging as Niki tries to flip something in the pan and fails.

Sunghoon ends up slicing vegetables too perfectly. Jake leans against the fridge, nursing a beer, watching it all with a low hum of amusement.

It feels weirdly domestic. Real.

Jake taps your knee gently, “Help me make that weird ramen you like.”

You do. He lets your hand brush his more than necessary. But that’s it — just skin, just glances, just tension coiled under domestic noise.

As you all sit around with plates in your laps — half-fed, half-touching — the silence is comfortable for once.

Sunghoon speaks first, “We should play something stupid after this. Like charades.”

“Charades with this group is a sex game waiting to happen,” Niki calls him out

But Jake smirks, “Maybe we want that.”

“Maybe you do,” you grin at him, shoulder bumping into his. It lingers in the air. The joke that might not be a joke. Everyone’s smiling. But no one’s laughing.

After dinner, no one moves right away.

Plates are empty, save for a rogue noodle or two. The TV hums low, flickering across everyone’s faces. Niki stretches across the couch with his head tipped back like he’s waiting for a reason not to fall asleep. Sunghoon nurses the end of a beer, watching nothing in particular. His leg is close to yours—closer than it needs to be—but he doesn’t look at you.

Jake, seated next to you, drums his fingers once against his thigh, then stands, “Alright,” he announces casually, like this isn't the start of something, “We should get changed. Let’s hang out properly.”

He tosses that suggestion into the air like it’s nothing. But it lands heavy. Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. Niki looks suddenly more awake.

You stretch your arms above your head, intentionally slow, “Changed into what?” you ask, playful.

Jake’s smirk is lazy as he walks past the couch, gaze flicking down to your bare legs, “Whatever makes things interesting.”

He doesn’t look back as he heads toward the bedroom. But he doesn’t have to. You’re already following.

Behind you, one of the boys lets out a low whistle. No one says it, but everyone knows the night has officially turned.

It’s just you and Jake in your bedroom. Door half-shut. Jake is behind you, watching you pull clothes from your overnight bag. You’re not dressed yet, not fully. The lamplight is soft, golden on your bare skin.

You’re standing half-dressed by the bed, holding up two options. The red one’s safer. Short, but not suggestive. The black one is something else entirely… thin straps, clinging fabric, backless, and the kind of hemline that flirts with trouble.

Jake’s still leaning against the dresser, watching.

He doesn’t hesitate, “Wear the black.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Why am I not surprised.”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting, “Because it’s the one I bought. For this.”

You pause, letting the words settle, “…This?”

He just watches you, still leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, “Yes, it’s for playing, you know how you look in it.”

Your stomach flips.

You pull it on slowly. it has no zipper, just stretch. The dress clings to you like a secret. Your back bare, the hem skimming indecently high. When you straighten and turn, Jake’s gaze is all over you. Controlled. Hot. His jaw ticks once.

For a second, your bravado flickers. You speak before you mean to, “What if I mess it up?”

You stare at your reflection, at the way the dress clings, the slight tremble in your fingers, “I’ve never done anything like this before,” you admit. “Not really. Not with… multiple guys. I don’t want to overstep or…”

You trail off, biting your cheek, “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Jake doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps in closer until his chest is flush against your back. His arms slide around you, slow and warm — the kind of hold that’s meant to be felt, not just seen.

He presses a kiss behind your ear, gentle, “Hey.”

Another kiss at your jaw, “You’re not fucking anything up.”

One hand trails lightly down your arm. Grounding, “I’ve got you tonight.”

You shiver, the words hitting lower than they should.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Jake’s voice lowers further, warm and sure, “I’ll be there the whole time. Making sure everyone behaves.”

A slight smirk in his voice now, “If anyone steps out of line, they’ll answer to me.”

You exhale and something unknots in your chest. His confidence in you is stabilizing. Hot. Reassuring.

He shifts so you can see both of you in the mirror. His hand smooths along your waist, fingers brushing the curve of your hip where the slit of the dress begins.

Then Jake’s lips brush your shoulder again, a little slower this time. His voice dips, teasing but deliberate, “And I know how badly they want you, you know.”

A kiss, “Sunghoon’s barely keeping it together,” another to your shoulder, “Niki’s already lost.”

You make a quiet, startled sound — caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath.

Jake grins against your skin, “And you?”

His arms tighten just slightly, “You want them too.” He doesn’t ask it like a question. It’s a knowing. A truth you’ve both been circling around.

Your heart kicks, heat blooming in your cheeks, your neck.

Jake’s mouth is at your ear now, low and velvet, “So tell me…”

His hand coasts down your stomach, slow, just enough pressure to make you squirm, “Which one do you want to play with first?”

You swallow. He watches you in the mirror, expression unreadable but eyes alight, “Or is there something filthier in that pretty head of yours?” he murmurs, lips ghosting your jawline.

“You want them at the same time?”

You freeze, breath caught, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Jake chuckles softly — pleased, “You don’t have to say it. I can see it all over you.”

And then, gentler now, grounding you again, “No shame, baby. You’re allowed to want it.” He kisses your cheekbone.

“I want it too. I want you to have it.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror and this time, there’s no doubt behind yours. Jake smiles, soft and sure, “So? How far do you want to take it tonight?”

You glance back at him, lips parting, “How far can I take it?”

Jake’s eyes are all fire and moonlight, “As far as you want.”

You blink up at him, “But what if I go too far?”

Jake’s voice is velvet over steel, “Then they’ll be lucky. I want them begging. But they don’t get to keep you.”

He tucks your hair behind your ear, “Push them. Play with them. Make them fall apart if you feel like it.”

His thumb brushes your cheekbone in a quiet warning, “Just remember who you come back to.”

You smile. Slow. Dangerous.

Jake presses one more kiss to your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, “Ready to play?”

You nod, “Let’s.”

You descend down the stairs, the black dress clinging like a promise, every curve catching the light. Jake’s not with you, giving you the space to seduce them on your own — and his absence sharpens something inside you. A boldness that tastes like mischief.

Your gaze flicks to Niki first. You trail a finger slowly along his forearm as you pass, watching his eyes darken, a low smirk pulling at his lips.

Then, almost as an afterthought, your hand brushes Sunghoon’s knee — deliberate, light, electric. His breath catches. His fingers twitch against the couch fabric but don’t pull away.

You watch him closely, the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of loyalty and restraint battling beneath his calm mask. His eyes dart briefly toward the door, then back to you.

“Jake’s not here,” you softly tell him, leaning over him from where he’s sitting on the couch. Your knees on either side of his legs, “right now, it’s just us.”

You pause, kissing just below his ear and feel him shiver, “You don’t have to hold back.”

Sunghoon’s fingers curl around the edge of the couch, knuckles whitening. He looks conflicted, like he wants to lean into the moment but is being pulled back by something invisible but heavy.

You in faux-innocence remark, “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

“That dress is going to get you in trouble,” he finally, almost reluctantly tells you.

“You gonna do something about it?” you ask, straddling his thigh.

You look over at Niki, next to you two on the couch. You drag your cunt over Sunghoon’s thigh looking directly into his eyes. He’s already watching you, manspreading. One hand unashamedly palming his hard dick through his sweats.

“But what to do?” you mockl-contemplate, “I think I want both of you.”

You reach out too Niki, still rocking your hips over Sunghoon’s thigh and move Niki’s palm right on your tits.

He grabs you hard, squeezing you until you loudly moan.

He pinches your nipple as you continue rubbing yourself, Sunghoon finally wakes up from his daze and starts subtly moving his knee. Pushing it directly over your clit.

Your back is arched and you’re breathless as you tell both, “Come upstairs with me.”

Niki, catching your meaning, stands, cracking his neck, grinning wide like he’s in on a delicious secret.

“Your move, pretty boy,” he tells Sunghoon.

But Sunghoon hesitates, gaze flicking upstairs like he’s imagining Jake watching. Then slowly, reluctantly, he nods. He pushes you by your hips backwards so you stand up. Niki’s hands are on your ass as soon you stand. Smacking it, squeezing it, fondling,  playing with it.

You take Sunghoon’s hand firmly, squeezing it once, then reach for Niki’s, “Let’s have some fun.”

You lead them to your and Jake’s room – where you know he’s waiting. Sunghoon is stiff next to you, nervous. But Niki… Niki is almost devouring you as you reach for the door handle. His hands on your ribcage and mouth on your neck. He has to bend down quite a lot to be able to reach you, even though you try to match his height by stepping on your tippy toes.

Before you open the door, Sunghoon stops. You turn to him and he’s quiet. Conflicted, “I… don’t want to disrespect Jake.”

You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, “Don’t be silly, Jake wants this. Let yourself want it. Let me want you.”

His guard falters. His hand finally slides to your waist, tentative but sure.

You lean in, voice low, promising ,“No regrets. Only play.”

Behind you, Niki watches, amused and hungry. His hands are glued onto you, like he can’t help himself.

And somewhere beneath it all, Jake’s absence hums like a secret current — thrilling, forbidden. The moment you open the door, Sunghoon’s restraint begins to crack. His breaths are shallow, fingers flexing at his sides.

Jake is in all black. Sitting cross legged on the bed like he owns the place, leaning back on his hands. His eyes unreadable.

He smirks theatrically when you three step in, “Well, look at that. My girl’s the main event.”

You flash a lazy smile. Niki leans back. Sunghoon watches Jake carefully. Jake walks forward, slow.

He stops in front of you, one hand sliding up your thigh, other possessively sneaking behind your waist. Kisses you deep, slow, in front of them, showing them who you belong to.

You’re not shy as you kiss him back. Moaning into his mouth and jutting your ass out when Jake fondles it. He’s not being shy either, bunching the stupidly tight fabric in his fingers, putting your bare ass on display for the two boys to look at. When he pulls away, you’re breathless.

Then he turns to Sunghoon, “Still pretending you don’t want this?”

Sunghoon exhales slowly. Tension buzzing. He doesn’t move.

“Oh god. This again,” Niki complains.

But Jake just turns to him now, almost scolding him, “You can watch. Or join. Or back off.”

Jake stands. He’s facing Sunghoon now. It’s quiet.

“What, you want another kiss?” Sunghoon mocks him, but you can see his fingers twitch by his side. As if he wants to reach out towards him.

Jake is cocky when he tells him, “Only if you make it count this time.”

And Sunghoon grabs Jake’s jaw and kisses him again — rougher, harder, but it’s still not romantic. It’s almost as if you’re witnessing a fight. Hands grip Jake’s hair, Jake fists Sunghoon’s shirt. Sunghoon bites his lip. Jake shoves him against the wall.

You and Niki are watching like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. You move to him, and Niki’s eyes get that special glint in them. As if he’s finally getting something he wanted for a long time.

“I think we need to show them how it’s done,” you smile widely, hands touching his chest.

Niki’s grinning down at you, his hands on your biceps already pulling your smaller stature into him, “Oh yeah, I’m definitely not backing off.”

He’s urgent, hungry. Not polite. Hands all over. He lifts and wraps your legs around his waist without asking. His legs cage you in. He’s grinning into the kiss like he’s winning something. You’re melting under his aggression, completely relaxed as you let Niki show you just how badly he wants this. Wants you.

Sunghoon’s behind you now too. His fingers trail along your bare back, down your arms, ghosting your thighs. He moves to the side when Jake joins you all.

Jake is beside you, just watching. Like a king watching his kingdom burn.

“Remember what I said?” he tells you.

You break away from Niki’s fierce kiss, but he continues kissing your neck instead. Sunghoon is playing with your ass, his fingers ghosting over your hole.

You’re barely coherent when you turn to Jake, “About…?”

“You’ll come back to me,” he tells you. And there’s something almost obsessive in his gaze. You don’t respond instead pulling him in for a kiss.

Niki untangles your legs from his waist as he kicks off his sweats and shirt. Now only in boxers.

You kiss Jake slowly, like it’s punctuation to what’s about to come. He doesn’t even look away when Sunghoon steps forward.

And Sunghoon does. He walks across the rug, gaze locked on yours, crouches in front of you — a question unspoken.

You reach for him.

The first kiss between you and Sunghoon is careful, almost reverent. But he’s not soft. His fingers go to your jaw, your waist, your hips like he’s mapping out everywhere he’s thought about touching you since yesterday.

Jake watches it. Still behind you. Still present. You hear him shuffling out of his pants, the belt clinking down on the ground.

You don’t hear him and Niki settling down on the bed, but when you glance you see both of them sitting down. Watching you and Sunghoon.

Sunghoon finally relaxed a bit. His hands on your waist, guiding you to lay down on the rug. In perfect view of Jake and Niki. You lay down, still in your dress – but it doesn’t matter. You’re exposed, the thin material bunched at your waist, straps falling down.

Sunghoon watches you for a moment pupils blown, as if he cant believe this is really happening.

“Where are the condoms?” he so quietly asks, turning to Jake. Jake only lens over to his nightstand and throws him two.

Sunghoon’s hand shake slightly as he kneels over you, his cockhead flushed and leaking.

You whine when you see him hesitate, and that snaps him out of it. He tears open the condom packet, rolling the plastic onto his hard length. But his eyes don’t leave yours. His gaze is intense and you’ve never seen him this focused before.

Your eyes are wide, almost doe-like as you tease over your clit with your hand. You move to close your legs together, but Sunghoon is holding onto your inner thighs – spreading you open for Niki and Jake to see.

You’re soaked, that much obvious by Sunghoon slipping his fat dick into you and the squelching sound that follows.

You moan, chest pushing out and Sunghoon burrows his head between the two peaks. He bites one of your tits and you cry out in pain, hand gripping his hair in a silent warning.

But Sunghoon just smirks. He pulls slightly back and watches your face as he stuffs you full with his dick.

You’re breathless under him.

He notices, a boyish smirk covering his face, “thought Jake said you get whiny when you’re stuffed full?” he mocks, eyes moving over to watch Jake’s reaction.

Jake is manspreading on the bed, just watching the two of you. Your hand moves onto your nipples, playfully pinching yourself.

You hear Niki curse. Then a spitting sound. And you can only assume he’s already jacking off.

“She’s already cock-drunk,” Jake spats, “look at her Sunghoon, you could probably fuck her ass and she wouldn’t know any better.”

Your pussy clenches around Sunghoon when you hear that, but you don’t confirm or deny anything.

Sunghoon flops onto you, almost laying on you and then he’s slowly and harshly pistoning his dick into your wanting cunt.

In. Out. In. Out.

Until he’s going so slow you can’t help but whine, the noises escaping you before you can stop them.

And suddenly you can’t stop. the room filled with your gasps and cries.

“That’s a good girl,” Sunghoon murmurs in your ear, “yeah, stay still and take it, pretty.”

You wrap yourself around him when you hear that. Holding onto him so tightly that you momentarily still his movements. His hips are sheathed in you so deeply that the only way he can move them is to just hump into you.

You both come like that, Sunghoon’s head nuzzled between your neck and shoulders, and you – holding onto him as if he’s your lifeline.

He rests on you for a beat, just catching his breath. Jake helps him get up. Then you. All four of you are now sitting on the bed, almost cozily squeezed together.

Excepts Niki has his dick out. And Jake isn’t much better, you can feel his hard dick pressing into you as he sits you down on his lap, smoothing over your hair and kissing your cheek, “you okay?” Jake gently asks you.

You nod your head yes and then your gaze flickers to Niki. Jake sees, smirking.

“Oh, already? Okay,” he pats your thigh excitedly and gently, and you get up, “where do you want to play with our Niki?” he coos at you as if you were a kid about to play with your favorite toy.

You can’t help yourself, as you giddly rock on your heels, “I want him to bend me over the vanity table.”

Jake’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he only nods to Niki, “You heard her.”

And that’s all Niki needs to hear. He pushes himself off the bed, walking toward you with that slow, predatory swagger. It makes you feel tiny under this gaze. Your pussy flutters as you look into his eyes. Thye’re are already darker, pupils blown, tongue pressed behind his teeth.

“Knew you’d pick something filthy,” he murmurs against your lips, his huge hand engulfing your throat under his warm but gentle hold.

He caresses up, reaching your jaw as he kisses you — not hard, just enough to tip your face up, to claim your mouth before you can say another word.

And from there it’s chaos.

You moan, as Niki doesn’t hold back. His mouth crashes onto yours with zero hesitation, like he’s been holding himself back all night and now the leash is off. His lips are firm, hungry. They part yours easily, tongue sliding in with a groan that vibrates against your teeth. He kisses like he wants to ruin your lipstick. Like he wants to taste every sound you haven’t made yet.

His hand moves to your throat again, tilting your face exactly how he wants it, his fingers flexing as he deepens the kiss, forcing your mouth open wider. He bites your bottom lip—not hard, but with enough pressure to make your knees buckle just a little. He feels it, too. Smirks against your mouth.

You try to match him, to push back, to kiss him just as hard. But Niki doesn’t allow it.

He growls low in his throat and pins you back a step, until your spine bumps into the vanity table. His thigh wedges between yours without warning, lifting, parting them. You gasp against his lips, and that’s when he really takes over. Kissing you impossibly deeper, wetter, one hand tangled in your hair now, tugging just enough to make your head fall back.

“You started this,” he mutters, lips brushing yours, hot and breathless. “Now finish it.”

Then he kisses you again. Even rougher. Like he means to make you forget everyone else is in the house.

He roughly manhandles you, turning your body around. You gasp from the whiplash, gripping the table. You don’t notice the warning look Jake shoots him.

But Niki isn’t too bothered by it. His hands are on your ass cheeks, squeezing them together and then apart, playing with your body.

You can feel your pussy move with his movement, the sensation oddly pleasurable.

“Look at this perfect ass,” he says to no one in particular, and then. He bends down and lightly bites you. Just enough to hear your whine.

He’s already lining his dick with your entrance, impatient.

“You’re already this worked up? Haven’t even touched you properly,” he mocks you when you push back against his dick, equally as impatient as he is.

He pulls your arms behind your back, so much bigger than you that he can hold them together with just one hand.

You hear him suck in a breath as he bullies his dick into you.

“Sunghoon stretched you good,” he smirks, “but you’re still struggling to take me.”

You moan, trashing under his hold. The pleasurable stretch too much for your small pussy. He punches his dick into you, not caring enough to let you adjust to his huge dick.

But your balance falters, and you slip an arm under his grasp to steady yourself.

Niki tsks, gripping your hips, “Be a good girl and keep your hands where I put them.”

Is what he tells you, but doesn’t make a move to put them behind your back again. As if he knows you’ll listen.

And you do. That’s when he angles your hips, his dick in you fitting into you so much tighter. You don’t see, but Niki’s gaze is on your asshole as he fucks into you. A finger ghost over you back hole and you moan.

Niki teases your asshole as he continues fucking you, and then he’s slipping a digit into it.

You gasp, legs spreading and you feel Niki spit onto your asshole. Wetting the hole so he can push his finger into it.

You’re overwhelmed with pleasure, both holes stuffed, and you just stay bent over the table, letting Niki fuck you as if he’s being paid to do it.

His strokes are sensual, in an unpredictable rhythm and that’s what makes you burst.

He’s groaning behind you, hand tangled in your hair – pulling you up, into his chest, finger leaving your butt.

And he’s so strong he jerks your whole body up when he thrusts into you.

You hold your breath as your climax crashes into you, putty in Niki’s hands. And Niki’s fucks you through your orgasm, you feel his balls twitching and then he’s pulling out.

He cums on your ass, cum spurting out in short but huge streaks.  

No one speaks for a beat.

You’re still bent forward slightly, catching your breath. Your thighs tremble. Niki exhales like he’s been holding it in for too long.

Jake steps forward.

Quiet. Measured.

His hand grazes the small of your back, smoothing up your spine with a feather-light touch. He crouches beside you — the world narrowing to his voice, soft but serious.

“You good, baby?”

You nod. Barely. Still floating.

Jake’s hand cups your jaw, gently turning your face to look at him, “Too much?”

You shake your head no but it’s fragile, unconvincing.

“You could’ve slowed down,” he turns to Niki, a tinge of anger in his voice.

Niki raises his hands, eyes wide, not defensive, just catching his breath too, “She kept asking for it. I mean… she took it.”

Jake’s gaze flickers back to you. He thumbs gently at your lower lip.

“You agree with that?” he lowly, gently asks you.

You finally find your voice — wrecked, but teasing.

“Told you I wanted to play,” you softly reply.

Jake huffs a soft laugh. But his other hand drifts to your thigh, where marks are already blooming. His thumb traces over them carefully.

“You’re lucky I like seeing you ruined.”

He glances up at Sunghoon, who’s still watching. Still quiet. His jaw clenched.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jake turns to Sunghoon.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer at first. Then his gaze drops to your still-shaking legs.

“She’s not done,” Sunghoon easily agrees.

Jake stands. Scoops you up easily, carrying you toward the bed like you weigh nothing.

“My turn to take care of you,” he murmurs into your ear.

He sets you down. Kisses your knee. Then your hip. Then your wrist, “We’re gonna slow it down now. Let you feel everything.”

His hand is on your chest — not possessive, but grounding, “You’re mine right now. You ready for that?”

You nod, exhale. Something in you unclenches.

Behind Jake, you glimpse Niki slipping his sweats back on. Sunghoon watching silently, cock still half-hard, eyes unreadable.

Jake doesn’t rush. Doesn’t even look away from you, “Let them watch, baby. This is you and me.”

One hands traces over your navel, Jake’s easy flick over to Niki and Sunghoon as he kneels in front of you, still on the bed.

“You gave them a show,” he softly starts, kissing up your thigh, “But now you’re mine again. Got it?”

You mewl in agreement, and Jake’s eyes are soft on you as he licks a stripe over your wet cunt.

Your eyes are glassy as you watch him

“You let him cum all over this pretty ass. Let him ruin you,” he murmurs against your lower lips, “but now it’s my turn.”

He spits on your wet cunt — slow, deliberate, filthy but reverent — and uses his fingers to press it into your folds, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

You twitch. Whimpering as he rolls his finger over your clit. You’re shaking under overstimulation, but Jake is taking his time.

He’s loud as he sucks onto your fold, fingers in your pussy and he watches in satisfaction as your thighs shake around his head.

His jaw moves with his fingers and it’s to much. You squeeze your eyes shut, crying out as Jake coaxes out a very weak orgasm out of you.

You lay, opening your eyes and watching Jake entering you.

He’s slow, gentle. His dick thick and reaching deep inside of you. One hand grabs your chin, tilts your face toward his.

“Look at me. Want you to remember who owns this,” he whispers to you, lovingly kissing your check. Then a softer peck against your lips.

He starts fucking you deep, slow, possessive strokes. You’re already writhing—too sensitive, too full—but he holds you in place.

“You feel that, baby? That’s mine now. Gonna keep it messy just for me.”

His breathing’s getting heavier, “Might even put a baby in you tonight. Just so they know who you belong to.”

Niki sits nearby, watching, eyes hungry again. Sunghoon’s at the head of the bed, arms folded—trying not to look, but failing. Jake glances at them over your shoulder.

“She’s quiet now. Wonder who’s fucking her better,” he mocks them.

Niki smirks. Sunghoon licks his lips.

Jake pulls out briefly, fingers you lazily, it’s just enough to keep you twitching.

“You want a taste before she breaks again?” Jake asks Sunghoon.

Sunghoon approaches. Kneels. Kisses you softly—tongue tracing Jake’s taste off your lips. Jake watches you two kiss.

Sunghoon is softer this time, gently pressing his lips to you and letting you take lead. You nibble softly on his lower lip, starting to pull him down to you.

“Not bad,” Jake murmurs to Sunghoon, effectively breaking your kiss.

“But keep your mouth off her neck. That’s mine.”

Jake pulls you back onto him, you straddle his hips. You’re too fucked out to ride him, and Jake knows. He grips your waist, spreading his knees and then he pistoning his hips into you.

He’s faster now, dirtier. And you know he’s close to cumming. You look to your left and see Niki is jacking off again, tugging onto his dick furiously as he watches you and Jake.

Sunghoon isn’t doing much better.

“Who makes you feel better, huh?”

“Answer me,” he gruffs, spanking your ass once. Sharply.

You gasp. Can’t say it. Won’t say it.

“She’s playing dumb,” Niki instigates.

“Then let’s make her tell the truth,” Jake decides.

He keeps fucking you, slow then fast. Gentle, then harsh, he keeps going until you cry out his name.

“There she is,” he growls out possessively. He cums as you cry out his name, but you’re too spent.

Cunt spasming as Jake fills you up, and yet your orgasm is running away from you.

Everyone slows down. You’re exhausted, trembling. Jake gathers you into his lap, wiping you down gently with a warm cloth.

He kisses your temple, hums against your shoulder, he softly speaks, “You did so good for me, baby.”

You nod, tears in your eyes, overwhelmed.

Jake watches the way your breath evens out against his chest. You’re boneless, warm, marked. His hand rests low on your waist — not tight, but firm. Like a tether. Like a promise.

The room still smells like sex and lavender soap. Your voice lingers in his head. Wrecked, sweet, his name falling off your tongue like confession. Jake should feel jealous that he watched two other men fuck you. He doesn’t.

He feels full. You chose him. To lead. To hold. To gather your pieces after they’d all taken their turn. And he did. Jake presses a kiss to your temple. Whispers it more to himself than to you.

Niki’s the first to move after you and Jake settle in the middle of the bed. He crawls in from the side of the bed, draping one arm lazily across your legs and resting his chin there like a puppy who just misbehaved but knows he’s still loved.

“You good, pretty girl?” he asks, lips brushing your thigh, “Wasn’t too much, right?”

There’s mischief still in his voice, but concern peeks through, folded into cocky bravado.

You reach down and run your fingers through his damp hair. “I’m good,” you whisper, “You were good.”

He grins, genuine now. And nuzzles in closer.

Sunghoon hangs back, quiet, watching. He doesn’t say much, but his eyes hold depth—something protective, something reverent. You beckon him closer with your hand, and he hesitates before climbing in. You’re squashed between Sunghoon and Jake. Niki between your legs, sprawled out. Sunghoon’s hand settles on your waist, grounding. Steady. Present.

“She needs rest,” he murmurs to Jake, almost like he’s reminding himself.

Jake hums. “That’s why we’re here.”

They shift with practiced intimacy—Jake cradling your upper body, Sunghoon warming your back, Niki curved against your legs like a living blanket.

Someone pulls the sheets up. Someone turns off the lamp. It’s warm. Safe. Your pulse slows.

Jake’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your arm. “Told you I’d look after you.”

“You did,” you whisper.

Niki mutters something about needing snacks later. Sunghoon shoos him quiet with a soft sigh. Jake smiles against your skin.

Three hearts beat around you. And you let yourself melt into the middle of it—held, adored, claimed.

You close your eyes. They don’t let go.

Sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, golden stripes. It’s late—too late for anyone to pretend they planned to leave early. You’re the first to blink awake, stretched between three very warm bodies, all breathing in sync. For a moment, it’s quiet. Gentle. Weightless.

Then Niki stirs.

“We’re all still alive?” he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Barely,” Jake croaks from somewhere near your collarbone.

You giggle and squirm a little, trying to get untangled from the limbs draped over you. Sunghoon lets out the softest groan and tightens his arm around your waist.

“Five more minutes,” he mutters, eyes still shut. “Or forever. I vote forever.”

“Forever smells like your armpit,” Niki grunts, pushing Sunghoon off of him with a half-hearted shove. “Get off me, sauna boy.”

There’s a shuffle of laughter, bare skin brushing against sheets, and Jake eventually rolls to the edge of the bed and groans like a dad with back pain.

“Everyone hydrate. We’re re-entering society soon,” he says, grabbing water bottles off the floor. “And by society, you mean… coffee,” you say, sitting up and stretching.

“And by coffee, I mean something iced and strong,” Jake smirks. “Let’s go.”

It takes a while to get moving. Clothes are half-lost, socks shared, and Jake insists on stealing Niki’s hoodie despite it being four sizes too big. Breakfast is a mix of cold toast, leftover chips, and Jake spooning peanut butter straight from the jar.

The car ride back to the city is chaotic in the best way.

Niki’s in the backseat, legs sprawled across both yours and Sunghoon’s laps like a spoiled cat. Sunghoon’s scrolling through his phone with one hand and holding Niki’s ankle hostage with the other.

“I’m sore,” Niki announces dramatically.

“You’re welcome,” you say sweetly.

Jake laughs from the driver’s seat, shooting you a knowing glance in the mirror.

“Someone’s got a new attitude,” he teases. “Sexually awakened much?”

“You made me wear that dress,” you shoot back. “You lit the fuse.”

“Yeah, and you detonated it all over the vanity,” Niki smirks.

Sunghoon sighs without looking up, “That table was antique.”

“So’s your attitude,” Niki retorts, kicking him lightly.

Jake flicks on the radio, rolling down the windows. The city skyline appears in the distance. You lean back in your seat, eyes closed, letting the wind tangle your hair. Jake reaches over the console and finds your hand, squeezing once.

No one says it aloud, but it hangs there—unspoken and understood.

Something changed. In the way Sunghoon keeps glancing at you when you laugh. In how Niki hums under his breath while his fingers graze your knee. In how Jake watches all of it, calm and collected—but never distant.

The tension’s gone.

But something better took its place.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Gladiator! Ghost

Warnings: 18+, Dub-Con, Breeding Kink, Implied Forced Pregnancy, Dominant! Ghost, Unprotected Sex, Rough Sex, Master/Servant Dynamics, Voyeurism, Public Humiliation, Sexual Coercion, Scene Inspired by ‘Spartacus’, Based on Spartacus’ In-Universe History, Profanity, Implied Fem! Reader, Images Used aren't Mine.

Gladiator! Ghost abuses his power over you every chance he gets. No exceptions.

And all because you had to go and show him voluntary kindness, tending to his post-battle wounds and praising him for his efforts, all while touching him as delicately and as gently as you could. More so than anyone ever has.

It’s not long after this interaction that you find yourself stationed as Gladiator! Ghost's personal handmaiden; the perfect servant to see that his every desire is satiated.

And, unfortunately for you, that often includes him coercing you into compromising positions.

Even when he’s been training all day, his muscles bulging, skin glistening with sweat, eyes ablaze with bloodlust, he finds time to seek you out and take you someplace isolated and quiet – where nobody else can see or save you – and pumps his fury into you.

He’s never gentle with it, either. He isn’t trained to be.

He’s panting, chest heaving and broad at your back as he presses you into the stone wall of the cellar, your legs forcefully parted by a thick, toned thigh – the skin of which is covered in your dripping essence – as he pounds into you with all his might.

He calls you his maid – only his. Tells you that no-one else can have you, that they’d have to kill him if they wanted to possess you as he does.

And you take it because that’s all you can do. All you’re allowed to do.

You let him make your body feel like this is right, that the cracks of euphoria splintering between your legs justifies the way he grabs your hair and pulls you back to face him, only to force his eager tongue into your mouth.

You clench around him – unwillingly so. Encourage him.

You hear him groan, feel his voice heavy on your tongue before he pulls away, slipping a hand beneath the fabric of your tunic and squeezing your clit between his fingers. You cry out, pressing back into him, taking him deeper.

“You’re mine,” he tells you. He punctuates his point with a quick, harsh slap to your clit – one that leaves you whining. “I’ll give you my babe – give you the privilege of bringing my son into this world.”

Amidst the reluctant pleasure electrifying your every sense, you know he’s close. His tip – pressing into the deepest part of you, a place you didn’t even know existed before he found it – bulbous and aching, pulses in time with his heartbeat. You close your eyes and brace for it – the warmth, the wet. The inevitable.

And, sure as rain after thunder, Ghost growls, pressing as deep into you as your body will allow and then some, as he cums, hot and heavy. You can physically feel his semen pumping through his shaft as he empties every ounce of his seed into your wanting womb – filled beyond full – leaving you whining and trying your best to pull away from his cock.

He holds you still and glowers, a vein across his bicep twitching – almost winking at you – as he slams his hand beside your head, caging you . As if to remind you that he’s the one in charge here.

So you still, panting, sweating and almost crying, as his seed nestles inside you, knowing there’s nothing you can do until he’s ready to let you go – until he’s sure his efforts have taken. And all you can focus on is how heavy he feels inside you, the feeling of his chest almost crushing you against the wall as he breathes deeply. The gradual softening of his tip at your cervix as he grows flaccid.

The hand between your thighs – coated translucent and white – comes to rest upon your stomach. You can feel him looking down at the phantom bump from over your shoulder. His voice is obsidian.

“If I haven’t imparted him upon you already.”

In Ghost’s head, he’s justified in his actions. Even though he can feel you trying to peel away from him, your heart racing to the rhythm of fear and not of lust. Even though he knows you will likely retreat to your shared chambers and weep into your pillow. He knows, deep down, that you want as he does. A family.

It’s all he can think about aside from the bloodshed and the fight for survival. You are all he can think about. The only thing that can placate his rage.

It’s his reason. His only reason to continue.

In his own way, this is his manufacturing of a family. Turning you from a servant into the mother of his children, and transforming him – a beast – into a father.

Not that you’d know this, but he has more influence within the Master’s residence than most – especially as his most prized gladiator. 

Whenever the Master throws parties, he convinces him to put the maids – you – on display, to show the other houses that his gladiators are not just fighters, but incessant lovers, too.

More often than not, you’ve had to strip bare and bear the weight of the stares of party-goers as Ghost, assigned to be the night’s show pony, makes sure everyone knows who you belong to.

It’s an exercise of power. Of ownership.

He makes no effort to hide his endurance, his speed, often finishing at a rate that leaves you terrified knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it, to hide away and prevent your seemingly inevitable pregnancy at the hands of the man you call Master.

Truth be told, you’d be ashamed of enjoying the weight of him inside you – the familiar feeling of his tip hitting a note within you that leaves you whining a wanton tune – if it weren’t for the fact that your situation could be worse – that it could be another of the Master’s loyal fighters pounding you, holding you and bruising your waist. Degrading you from a maid to a whore for all to see.

Ghost can see, during times like these, the women who wish to be you and the men who crave to be him. And he hides his smile beneath learned stoicism, even as he’s overcome with the euphoria of emptying himself inside you, lifting you by the hips so nothing of his making is wasted.

And you can do nothing to fight against it.

And, when he’s asked by some curious voyeur, he’ll do it all again. And again. And again.

This is the only way he can guarantee his seed takes – the only way he can make sure you won’t go off running trying to cleanse yourself of his semen rolling down your thighs, of his efforts taking form and bearing fruit inside you.

He knows it’s just a matter of time until he can afford both your and his freedom, until he can take you away from this place and raise your family together – someplace far from this spectacle of murder.

Until then, he’ll convince his Master to fund these social affairs, to allow you to remain as his maid.

His.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist Gladiator Ghost AI

AO3 Wattpad X

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Head Canons: Now You See Me, Now You Don’t

Yandere Conman x Rich Married Fem Reader x Yandere ‘Neglectful Tycoon’ Husband

TW: Yandere themes, a man trying to get you to cheat, manipulation, neglectful husband, dark themes, and unhealthy relationship dynamics that should not be romanticized

Glen Magenta had always been a conniving individual since childhood. A natural born flirt who always got his way. Hell, he hardly ever heard the word no.

He was charismatic and romantic so it was easy for him to scam rich, lonely women trapped in loveless marriages. All he had to do was say pretty words and keep them company and he was able to drink the sweet nectar of their riches…

This time, he set his sights on the wife of a wealthy business tycoon named (your name). A delicate young woman with such sad eyes. She would be such easy prey… or so he thought

He introduced himself to her as Magnus Markley, a starving artist who has been utterly bewitched by her… but rather than fall instantaneously for his charms, she simply glanced at him like he was nothing. Was she not flattered by his good looks? By his sweet words and charming smile? How? She was known to be neglected by her husband in social circles.

(Your name) was the beautiful wife of Salvatore Urso. The wife Sal hardly gave any time to and yet she had no interest in an affair.

“I’m flattered, but I’m married.” Her soft voice replied to him as she showed that expensive ring that bordered on being gaudy. Magnus thought it was hideous… he never understood why the upper class had such awful taste, but at least Mister Urso had decent taste in his woman. (Your name) was going to be more difficult to catch than he thought… but he’d make the effort. After all, he enjoyed the hunt.

Glen truly committed to the character of Magnus Markley he created. He was a romantic and easily charmed (your name)’s closest friends in her social group. They were far easier to charm like his many conquests before (your name) yet she was the big fish he wanted… she would be the richest of any woman he’s seduced over the years. If Glen was able to capture her heart, he’d be set for life! He’d never have to work again… plus her husband was never around!

All Glen needed to do was work his way into her heart… even if he had to go through other women in order to do it. His greed had no bounds

Magnus was now often in the same circles (your name) ran with. She now saw him at every social gathering as he slowly wormed his way past her defenses by getting into her friend group to find out her hobbies. She enjoyed book club? He just joined to try to find inspiration for his art! She adored bird watching with the girls? Well, he was there to find an idea to paint!

Months went by into his plan. Hours of work went into his attempts to chip away at the walls around her heart and he finally made a crack… it seemed (your name) enjoyed having a genuine friend. Not that he was truly genuine.

(Your name) sat with him as they discussed books and music. Her sad face lit up warmly as she’d shyly talk of her interests. He’s never met a victim of his that was so cute.

He could see himself genuinely being with her. She was so sweet! How could someone be so sweet? Her husband was a fool for not being with her all the time!

The more he learned about her the more he began to falter with his goal. She was once a waitress at a restaurant before Sal married her? He never knew that… he had always thought she came from money since she was so prim and proper. Sal often bought her extravagant gifts? He had assumed her husband didn’t care much for her… but it seemed he did care. Sal cared far too much for his wife to the point it was terrifying.

(Your name) shared how most of her friends went missing after a while and that it was lonely, but her husband always cheered her up. That he’d take her to the best Italian restaurants each time and then he’d take her out on their balcony and make her limoncello to sip with him as they watched fireworks together.

It seemed he stumbled across a rabbit hole he should have never went down the more he learned. This young woman wasn’t a simple business tycoon’s wife… her husband was a part of the mob.

Glen couldn’t help but want to save her. She had no idea she was associated with the mob… that she was in danger!

For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be selfish. He had enough to be able to relocate them to another country, he just had to convince her to flee… but he didn’t cover his tracks fast enough. Sal already caught wind of him.

Before he knew it, he was gagged and bound in a metal chair on the back of a ship on the sea. Cinder blocks were tied around each of his legs with heavy metal chains. Sal stood above him with a cigar in hand.

“I looked into you, Magnus or should I say… Glen.” Sal told the conman as he exhaled his cigar smoke. “Real piece of work, you are. Did you think I would let you try to take my wife?”

Glen gulped as Sal held up a pistol to him.

“I-I had no idea you cared so much for your wife-“

“Care for her?” Sal chuckled as his heavy accent dripped with venom, “I’m obsessed with her. She’s my darling wife and I’ll be damned if I let some schmuck get his greasy little fingers on her.”

Glen felt tears well up in his eyes. “Please, Sal. I’ll skip town, I’ll never talk to her again-“

“Yeah right, I found your little diary filled with love notes and your plan to convince her to run away with you.” Sal stood up with the gun still pointed. “Like hell I’d let you live. Rats like you need to be exterminated early.”

Glen felt tears roll down his face as Sal shoved the barrel into his mouth.

“Such a shame I have to get rid of another one of her friends, but she’ll be okay. I’m all amore mio needs.”

A gunshot rang out in the empty sea before a loud splash followed.

[princesssmars]

so...we can all agree vi is an ass girl, right?

modern!au. 18+ content ahead. post contains lesbian sex and dry humping. inspired by this video from love and deepspace. i didnt know they got down like that. wc : 3.081.

she didn't show it often before, but lately violet could quickly become so achingly desperate for you.

she didn't show it often, but violet could become so achingly desperate.

at the start of your relationship, she tried to play off her need for you in a casual way, brushing it off as just being a very attentive girlfriend. you never had a problem with, always open and accepting of whatever little bits of attention she would give to you.

but then one day she slips, and she can feel your dynamic shift as soon as it happens.

she was away visiting her family for the holidays, body snugly tucked under the covers in her childhood bed as she held her phone above her face. the house was quiet, the air was cold, and she was having an internal battle with the reasonable part of her that told her to call it a night and drift off to sleep already...

and then there was the other side. the one that suddenly brings to her attention the steady heat that’s been building beneath her stomach after you sent the prettiest photo of you all dolled up in your parent’s guest bathroom. the one that made her bite her lip as she observed every inch of you through the screen before instantly liking the photo and sending back a flirty message. the one that now gravitated her fingers to calling your phone in the middle of the night and hoping and praying you’d pick up, nearly breathing a sigh of relief when you did.

"vi? are you alright?"

loaded question, she thinks to herself. in perfect health? of course. of sound mind? debatable, but for the most part yes. alright? no, definitely not at the moment.

"yeah, yeah, i’m alright princess. just wanted to talk to you."

"aww, you're such a sweetie. how'd i get so lucky, huh?"

and yes, she does appreciate and silently adore the sweet sentiment. but the sound of you cooing at her with just the tiniest hint of a rasp in your voice from tiredness only cements her fate, having to use all of the rational energy she has left to stop whimpering.

"tell me how your trips been. wanna hear your voice for a little longer."

"no problem. well im fine, everyone here is good. besides my aunt nat, she's still moody because no one allowed her in the kitchen again-"

you go on about your family and their shenanigans, and she cant help but quietly laugh along when you giggle about some of the stories and memories you've made. but the 'conversation' takes a turn when you start to talk about her.

"you know i miss you, right?"

she feels a subtle pang in her chest, half longing and half desire. "oh yeah?"

"yeah. rolled over in bed this morning and kept trying to find you till i realized where i was. it's weird not waking up with you."

she hums, hoping you cant hear her stuttered breaths through the receiver. she doesn't know why hearing about you subconsciously looking for her embrace is what does it for her, but she can only give a short response as one of her hands trails down into boxers.

"wish i could've been there with you, baby."

"mmm, me too. missed your warmth, swear you're like my own personal heater. wish you could be here with me now."

her breathing stops and her eyebrows raise. "oh yeah?"

"yeah. missed your hands, too."

fuck, fuck fuck fuck. she's taken off guard, mind racing at your words and tone and before she knows it she has two fingers stuffed inside of herself while she quietly whimpers for you to keep talking to her.

"fuck, just a little more baby, please, 'm so close-"

"aww, you're such a good girl for me, aren't you violet?"

she swears she bites her lip so hard it nearly bleeds when she cums, walls clenching around her fingers and eyes rolling back into her head as she reaches her peak while you talk her through it.

the next week when she picks you up from the airport she can see it, a glimmer in your eye and quick in your smile that wasn't there before. she tries to ignore it when she pulls you in for a long-awaited embrace but then she just gets so enveloped in your warmth, your smell, the feeling of your body pressed hers. she's only yanked out of her lovestruck stupor when you whisper a sly little comment in her ear about how long and tight she's been holding you.

"call me crazy but if i didnt know any better i'd say you're feeling a little desperate for me."

so the cats out of the bag. she's super attached to you, so what? it's not like you ever complained about it, instead constantly using her neediness to your advantage to get what you want from her. you'll likely never have to beg and convince her to get up from bed to change the thermostat again, only needing to graze your hand across her chest and press a lingering kiss to the space beneath her chin before she's leaping out of bed and speedwalking down the hall.

and don't even get her started on her libido. the both of you had an amazing sex life already, able to almost instinctually tell what brought the other the most mindblowing pleasure possible. but ever since that night, it's like her desire for you only increased tenfold, barely able to go a day without getting her hands on you or vice versa.

it only reached a head when you decided to truly test her limits.

she had taken up a later shift to help out loris who had a date, which meant by the time she returned home she was too tuckered out to have her way with you. but during times like these, she could always count on the early morning sun waking her up just in the rich window of time for morning sex. but when the light rays peek through her bedroom window and she uses her arm to pull you closer she finds you absent, your side of the bed cold.

after a brief search through the house, she opened her text messages just to find your sent a sweet text only an hour before she’d woken up to tell her your friends had invited you on a last minute girls day around the city the night before, and you didn’t want to wake her from her sleep since she seemed exhausted when she got home.

vi groans and falls back into the pillows, lousily texting you back a short message to tell you she loves you and hopes you have fun with your friends. she’ll be alright, she can go a few more hours without you near.

but only an hour later after she’s showered and eaten a quick breakfast she feels the ache start to build in her chest, eyes darting up to the clock on the wall and groaning when realizes just how long this day is going to feel.

everything she tries to do to keep her mind off of you fails miserably. doing chores? she's thinking back on the time when the both of you first split up household duties when you moved in together, feeling giddy at sharing something so menial with the girl she was enamored with. making herself a protein shake for the gym? now she's stuck in a daydream about all the times you've been in this kitchen together, sharing sweet baked goods and sweeter kisses as you settle into domestic bliss.

she has got to get out of the house.

jayce understood her problem as soon as she called inviting her down to the gym for a few hours to work off any ‘pent-up energy’ she’s currently... unable to get out in her preferred method.

it works for a while, the familiar smell of sweat and the slight ache in her muscles grounding her back into reality as she makes casual gym talk with jayce. she's just starting to feel like the absence of you is off of her mind when she hears your text notification on her phone, accidentally leaving her place as jayces spotter to open up her phone.

as soon as her brain registers that you’ve sent her pictures she makes up some lame excuse to get to the bathroom, tuning out her friend's groan of disapproval as she speed walks to the restrooms and locks herself in one of the stalls.

the first few messages are sweet, little selfies of you and your friends as you enjoy your day together as you get some sweet treats together at one of the malls concession stands. a lovesick smile involuntarily grows on her face, always happy to see you smiling and enjoying yourself with the people who care about you. but her eyes start to squint when you start to send pictures of you trying on various outfits from some of the outlet stores, posing demurely in front of the trying room mirrors.

but then her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when suddenly shes getting photos of you in her vagina's favorite enemy - lingerie.

even before vi started acting so eager about your body, it wasn't hard for you to catch on to the fact that the woman was so clearly an ass girl. even on five hands, you wouldn't be able to count the number of times you’d caught her staring or sneaking small glances at your behind, not to mention how she thought she was being discreet about her affection for it with the numerous times she’d slap it when walking by you. she tried to laugh it off when you brought it up in conversation, assuring you that she loved each and every part of you and could never pick a favorite.

but now you were determined to really see how much she wanted you, using every dirty trick in the book you could think of. she feels her face get hot as she looks down at her phone, the image of you in lacy lingerie, back facing the mirror as the magenta fabric (nearly the same shade as her hair, jesus christ,) stretches across the swell of your ass and crisis crosses across your back.

her brain short circuits. before she can think about it she’s saving the pictures to her phone and calling you at the speed of light.

“hey, violet. how’s your day?”

“you are so… evil. amazing and beautiful and evil.”

your giggle rings through the receiver, melodic and teasing. “what's the problem? you don't like the set?”

“don’t even joke. when are you getting home?”

“mmm not till late, the girls wanted to go to a club tonight.”

“oh you’ve got to be kidding me-”

“do you want me to send you the address?”

vi hasn't been to a nightclub in months, at first harshly avoiding the hard party scene in favor of her sobriety before feeling no need to indulge in the party scene once her life became more stable, especially after she met you. but she never stopped you from going out and having fun with your friends, tagging along once in a blue moon to sip on a mocktail while she chatted up the bartender and stared at your ass while you danced.

tonight was an extremely necessary blue moon.

the air is hot, and the feel of her drink burns her throat as vi waits at the bar, blue eyes wide and aware as she stares at the club’s crowded entrance like it owes her money. the bartender asks if she’s alright, scared she’s waiting for someone to arrive to jump them before she assures them she’s fine. they slowly nod and get back to making drinks, nearly dropping a glass out of fright when she slams her glass on the bar and quickly makes her way over to you.

if she wasn't so laser-focused on finally getting her hands on you she might've been a little cocky at the fact that you look like you were about to salivate at the sight of her, knowing she made the right decision to wear the tight pants she knew you loved on her. in only a second she’s got her hands settled on your waist, not caring that your friends are laughing at her clear excitement over seeing you in your club outfit, a tiny dress so she can see the wide expanse of your legs, your arms, your shoulder - fuck, the straps of the pink bra aren’t even hidden by the strapless dress-

“wanna dance with me?” your voice is nothing short of flirtatious, and you already know your answer by the way you start to walk past her to the dance floor, already predicting how she follows you like she’s on a leash.

as the both of you grind and dance in the middle of the club every thought racing through vi’s head is centered on you, physically and mentally unable to focus on anything else when she finally has you so close again after what felt like years. she feels a familiar sense of euphoria when her palms glide up and down your waist, smirking to herself when she feels you shudder when her hands reach up to cup and discreetly squeeze your breasts. she’s feeling happy about finally starting to turn the tables back on you before you arch your back into her, your ass pressing into her as your hand reaches up to her head, nails dusting along her cheek before reaching into her hair and pulling.

it’s only to be expected that that’s her breaking point, dragging you through the dancing bodies and into the back of the building until she can find anywhere to get you alone, thanking any god that exists above that she finds an open storage closet and drags you inside, pressing you face first towards the door. a little voice in her head reminds her not to be too rough with you, but it’s quickly silenced when she sees just how much you crave it, how your back is yet again arching and your hands are clenching into fists from their places on the wooden door.

it's nice, to remember that you want her as much as she wants you.

in only a few seconds she’s given into it, pressing you further into the door by pressing her body against yours and grinding her crotch into the fat of your ass, eyes lidded and head dropping to rest on your shoulder from the rush of pleasure she feels below.

“vi, oh my god-” your voice is light and airy, every word almost choked out as you struggle to prevent yourself from moaning out and alerting every person in the bar about what the two of you were up to.

“i know, fuck, I know, baby. i just-” she cuts herself off with a groan when she lets her hand travel down your front and under your dress to your panties, face running hot when she feels just how wet you’ve gotten. she’s all but rushing to ruche up your dress, mind going fuzzy yet again at seeing the pink fabric covering your ass and how it feels under her when she begins humping you yet again.

“nngh, knew it. knew you were an ass girl.” you giggle.

“god, please stop talking-”

whatever snarky little comment you were going to make dies in your throat when her arm comes up and around your neck to hold your jaw, turning your head around and smashing her lips onto yours. you whimper and moan into her mouth, violet greedily eating the noises of your pleasure as she takes you up against the door.

you pull back for a few seconds to catch your breath, both of your eyes drifting to the thin trail of saliva connecting your lips together.

she can feel it, then. an almost electric charge that runs form her body into yours. you lean into her touch, arch into her further like you’re trying ot merge your bodies into one. when her other hand tightens around the pushed-up fabric of your dress and she gets that absolutely adorable scrunch between her eyebrows you know what she’s asking, and you gently nod your head.

and so she presses her lips back to yours, her crotch further into your ass, and rides you in the cramped nightclub storage closet. she's grateful that you seem to be enjoying it just as much as she is, her mind completely focused on getting closer and closer to her peak. she can feel it building quickly, a growing heat below her stomach reach to burst at any moment. all it takes is you, sucking on her tongue before mumbling muffled words into her mouth begging for her to finish against you. she cums with a stifled moan into your mouth, only amplified when she feels you shudder and go loose in the legs beneath her.

you’re both panting, sweaty, and tired as you stare at each other. it’s a comfortable silence as you help each other adjust - vi fixing your dress and you attempting to put her hair back in her signature style.

“so,” your voice lilts up as vi’s busy fixing her jacket, debating if she wants to take it off to cool down or not, knwoing she’ll probably just wrap it around your arms outside anyway. “you gonna admit it yet?”

she rolls her eyes, looking at you with an exasperated but fond look in her eyes that makes your stomach flip. “you just love being proven right, don’t you?”

“absolutely.”

“fine, you were right. are you happy?”

“very. now, let’s go home annnd maybe,” your fingers hook into the loops of her pants and tug her closer,”you can show me a little more just how much you need me, yeah?”

maybe, vi would show her neediness for you more often. just a little.

[nataliaphantomhivesblog]

It means so much when you realize that Soma is o!Ciel’s first real friend.

When our earl was a little kid, he was sheltered due to his asthma, which prevented him to make genuine social connections beyond his familial ones.

Even with his brother by his side, there was still a sense of isolation, like the world around him, intentionally or not, kept pushing him to the side. He was present, but never quite part of things.

And then, after the tragedy, when he returns under his brother’s name, things become even more complicated. Elizabeth still loves him deeply and tends to him with all the care in the world, but she doesn’t realize he isn’t truly Ciel. That unspoken truth becomes an invisible barrier between them.

Even in her affection, he’s alone, carrying a secret that keeps him at a distance from the only people left who still care for him.

Then there are the servants, utterly loyal, unwavering in their devotion. Their respect for our earl goes above and beyond, but it isn’t friendship. Their bond is bound by the roles they play. They serve him not out of companionship, but because they feel indebted to him—because they owe him their lives. That sense of duty creates another kind of distance.

But Prince Soma is a different case, he was a wildcard in o!Ciel's life. He didn’t tiptoe around the earl’s walls; he barged right through them. Uninvited and unstoppable, Soma didn’t just enter o!Ciel’s home, he settled in, pulling him into a rhythm that felt disarmingly normal.

He annoyed his way into o!Ciel's life, treating him like the kid he was, falling into playfull rythms and a routine that contrasted o!Ciel's usual darkness.

In a life shaped by shadows, Soma became a burst of color the earl never saw coming.

Soma doesn't owe o!Ciel his life, he didn't stick by because of his title or name either. He simply befriended the earl because o!Ciel challenged him, inspired him, gave him a different lens through which to see the world.

Through their clashes and contrasts, Soma grew, not because he was forced to, but because their dynamic naturally pushed him to mature.

The prince is probably the first person in o!Ciel's entire life that considered him a friend, a best friend. Our earl, once a quiet, sheltered boy, so unsure of his own worth that he felt the need to live behind someone else’s name, somehow gained a friend simply by being himself.

No masks, no manipulation, just the reluctant honesty that came from being seen and chosen anyway.

o!Ciel could be harsh, distant, even cruel: pushing people away again and again. But Soma didn’t give up. He kept showing up, kept breaking through the walls, because he saw who o!Ciel truly was beneath it all, and he genuinely cared.

And what makes this so soft is how the earl grew so accustomed to the prince's antics.

He got used to playing games with him the way friends do: competitive, yet always teasing and playful.

He got used to getting embraced (even though he despises physical touch, he slowly accepted and allowed this affection from the prince.)

It's so important to highlight the safety he feels around Soma, even when he's all over his personal space. The prince isn't just anybody anymore, he became someone the earl grew familiar and comfortable around.

That kind of vulnerability isn’t in his nature. But beneath the pride and distance, there’s a quiet care that runs deep. It’s subtle and unspoken, born from a platonic bond that means more than words can express.

Before Soma, o!Ciel had never truly known what it meant to have a friend of his own.

And that’s why the fact that r!Ciel deliberately jeopardized that friendship, by killing Agni and making Soma believe it was our earl’s doing, showing us how this act was made to knock o!Ciel off his feet and shake the fragile bonds he’d built.

r!Ciel’s possessiveness over our earl runs deeper than mere jealousy, it’s rooted in an intense, almost pathological need for control. It’s as if he can’t tolerate the idea of o!Ciel forming bonds outside of himself, because those connections threaten his fragile sense of identity and power.

But I’m sure that if Soma could weather o!Ciel’s calculated, harsh, and sometimes manipulative moments, he’ll still find a way to come around, and stand by his best friend.

For true friendship is not the absence of flaws, but the quiet courage to remain, even when shadows fall.

[kitysugar]

jealousy ~ park sunghoon x reader

౨ৎ inspired by this request !! ♡ ଓ ⋆˙⊹ [ 성훈 ] ☆ in which sunghoon brings you to a brand event - but due to the public eye and your secret relationship , he can't be all over you the way he wants to - but when he sees multiple men try and put their grabby hands all over his woman shamelessly , he patiently waits until the two of you get home to show you who you belong to.

word count ; 5.8k

dom! mean! sunghoon x sub! reader . jealousy , smacking , gentle head lock , possessiveness , heavy degrading , praise , orgasm denial , heavy overstimulation , manhandling , face fucking , cnc , choking, spit kink , power dynamic , rough play , restraints , impact play , nicknames (slave , slut , cum slut , cock whore , daddy , literally all the names u can even think of), sunghoon is absolutely ruthless im SORRY. not proof read

"you look absolutely gorgeous, my love" sunghoon's voice breaks you out of your trance , his figure coming into view through the reflection in the mirror. you taper with your lipgloss , perfecting the pink tint on your lips.

sunghoon's arms wrap around your waist , bringing your frame into a hug from behind. you blush at his actions , leaning into his touch. you pop your lips , finishing with your makeup. his thumbs rub gentle circles on your waist through the little black dress you found yourself wearing.

your hands reach for the jewelry box on the counter, grabbing a beautiful Vivienne Westwood three stringed pearl necklace with her signature logo in the middle. the thick piece of jewelry compliments your collarbones and breasts that sit nicely in your dress. you then reach over to grab your Dior perfume, spraying your wrists before rubbing them together, followed by sprays behind each ear, the center of your neck, and chest.

the way you look is driving sunghoon up the wall and he begins thinking to himself how this prada event isn't really that important - he would much rather stay in your shared apartment with your clothes on the floor with your throat stuffed.

"are you ready baby?" you turn and ask him , putting on your ysl heels as a finishing touch before grabbing your little purse that holds nothing besides a couple tampons , advil , a condom , and a small travel tube of your favorite perfume . sunghoon swears you look like the most perfect doll , especially with your curled hair and big eyelashes that make your eyes even bigger than usual.

"im so excited, I haven't been to a brand event, let alone a party before" you borderline squeal , making sunghoon chuckle at your enthusiasm.

"I would much rather be here with you though , do we really have to go" he wraps his arms around your smaller frame completely , dipping his head into the crevasse of your neck before trailing kisses down your skin. your face heats up at the feeling of his wet , full lips on your skin. the heat pooling in your panties from your boyfriends hands gently caressing your body really does make you want to stay at home with him tangled in the sheets for just a moment.

you turn around in his hold , looking up at him through your eyelashes.

"I've never been to one of these and you go all the time" you pout before finishing your sentence

"I really wanna go , im so excited" you smile up at him . sunghoon almost swears he fell in love with you all over again; you're so fucking cute. he presses one last kiss on your forehead before detangling his arms from your body in order to grab your hand , leading you out of the bathroom and towards the front door.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

sunghoon kisses the tips of your fingers before getting out of the car , mumbling a quick "I love you" before he steps out into the cold air surrounded by a crowd of fans. the private driver circles around the block before dropping you off in the same spot , making sure no suspicions arise in the media.

sunghoon and you have been dating for a couple years , so you know all about his life as a famous Kpop group.

with your boyfriend being a famous musician, comes the demand of the company. you constantly have to make sure you aren't being followed , and you aren't allowed to be seen with sunghoon in public, so that means the two of you aren't allowed to go into public together unless it was to a private establishment.

you have your own way of living and line of work - a fashion line filled with jewelry , clothing , wallets , purses , you name it.

you worked unbelievably hard to get where you were now , so your presence being at a party like this wasn't weird at all , you just never accepted any invitations until your beloved boyfriend convinced you to go with him.

you walk into the building , head high and a walk full of confidence. you dont see him , but he sees you and oh god the way you hold yourself makes him want to strip you of all confidence and bend you over the nearest table and fuck you absolutely stupid.

you feel sunghoons eyes on you , but you can't find him.

you're not exactly complaining , you like feeling as if you were being watched. so when you go over to the bar and ask the tender to get you your favorite drink , the heat pooling in your panties deepens.

you turn around in your bar stool, one of your legs crossed over the other as you sip on your drink. your eyes instantly lock with his from across the room , your pearly necklace shining in the dim lighting.

there you are

he's standing next to sunoo and jay , the two of them talking about whatever as sunghoon's eyes stare into yours. your cheeks heat up at the attention he's giving you as you turn your head to look for other people you know

you see quite a few celebrities , all of the enhypen members , and other people you don't know. you wish you had a girl friend to hang out with at these events; that was one of the main reasons you never went... you didn't know anybody. you weren't a celebrity , a music artist... you were a fashion designer who never showed her face- the press was too much for you. the only events you go to being fashion shows that your masterpieces were in.

you sigh to yourself, watching the clock above the bar click to the second hour you've been here. you go to take your phone out of your purse , only to be met with a stranger on the left side of you , and another on the right. they're both men... maybe in their mid 30's. you sigh to yourself , throwing your head back as you down the shot in your hand.

"can I help you?" you ask them, unamusement laced in your tone. the man on your left smiles at you fondly, and the familiar feeling of a certain set of eyes burns the back of your head , making your lower abdomen tighten and your thighs to slowly clamp together .

you fakingly smile back at him , deciding to play one dangerous game.

"you're a stunner , you here alone beautiful?" he was a decently attractive man , but nothing compared to the one who stands across the room burning holes into the back of your head. you smile at his compliment , fidgeting with the ring on your left hand- your promise ring.

"and if I wasn't?" you play your card , the two of you staring at each other .

"It was a rhetorical question , I don't care if you're here alone or not" he smirks at you , making you feel uneasy.

unbeknownst to you , sunghoon has moved closer to the bar , now able to hear your entire conversation that plays out as heeseung talks with him about something that doesn't really matter.

he hears you when you thank the random man for buying you a drink, he also hears your fake ass giggle when he says something 'funny'.

he conceals his growing anger , continuing to chat with heeseung and another random ambassador, his ears still perked up to your conversation- a split attention that sunghoon has learned to master.

you can feel him grow closer - but you can't see him yet as he's moved places. you know he can hear you - you can feel it. so when the random men begin to shamelessly flirt with you , you can't help but pay right into their pawn.

"y/n l/n is you?" one of the men ask in excitement , making you smile fondly. you nod your head yes at his words , taking another sip of your now non-alcoholic drink.

"god your clothing line is absolutely beautiful, especially when you're the model..."

"but it would look much better off of you" you almost choke at his words, now feeling completely uncomfortable around these two men. you shift in your seat , eyes shakingly trying to find your lover.

you shouldn't have toyed with them , you really shouldn't have. sunghoon is watching you , perched in a dark corner of the room as you desperately search for him.

he smirks at your frantic behavior - maybe you shouldn't have started talking with them. play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

"I should really get going , I have another-" you try to make your exit , but are rudely cut short.

"stay a while pretty , we've still got so much to talk about" your skin crawls when one of them grabs your thigh , and sunghoon immediately sees your face drop.

you can flirt with whoever you like, sunghoon has no problem with it because the both of you know that you belong to him. his name is the one you'll be screaming at the end of the night.

but when someone puts their slimy hands on his woman , that's where he draws the line.

"get your hands off of me. I'm engaged and I swear to god-" you feel an arm wrap around your shoulder , cutting your words short as you look up and see your boyfriend making direct eye contact with the man who has his hand on your thigh.

"let go of her, now." he demands , and the man obeys shakingly. he smiles down at you before continuing , rubbing gentle circles on your shoulder with his thumb.

"as my fiance was saying before you rudely interrupted her; we should really be going now" he says before dragging you out of the building and towards his private escort , not really caring who sees the two of you.

"h-hoon im sorry I didn't-" he leans down to whisper in your ear , making sure nobody else but you can hear him as he speaks

"careful baby , you don't wanna say anything that'll make your punishment worse now do you?" he leans down to bite your ear lobe , a shiver running down your spine as he does so. you look down , your panties beginning to feel damp between your legs at the threat he makes hanging over your head.

the two of you get into the backseat of the car , and during the car ride home he's completely silent, it scares you. you're scared for what's about to happen as soon as you enter through the doors of your home.

you know sunghoon is ruthless in bed... especially when he's jealous because how dare someone try and take what's his.

he loves it when you're a brat because then he has the ability to use you in any way he pleases. you wanna act like a toy? he'll treat you like one.

the house is cold and dark when you enter it. you set your purse down on the couch and begin to walk into the house before you're stopped by a pair of hands that has you weak at the knees.

sunghoon tsk's before circling around you , taking in your appearance. your eyes follow his figure as he moves around you like a god damn vulture stalking its next target. your heart rate increases as his fingertips barely graze your thigh , the same one that the man had put his hands on.

he rakes his eyes up and down your trembling figure before looking back up at you through his eyebrows as his head is tilted down. he tongues his cheek before speaking.

"you have no fucking idea what im going to do to you, huh doll?" you shyly look up at him , shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

"answer me." his demand is short , his words cutting through you swiftly.

"n-no.." you answer , making sunghoon softly smile at you

"no what" he responds , making your heart beat faster in your ribs .

"no sir" you answer under your breath, looking up at him through your eye lashes. sunghoon makes his way over to the couch , sitting down on it. he spreads his legs apart , pressing his forearms down onto his knees in a manspread.

"strip." is all he says , his words making you feel even wetter. you start with your necklace , taking it off and placing it down on the coffee table with a clank. next is your shoes and socks, which you kick off and over towards the coffee table to be forgotten. your little black dress follows, which you slip over your head and drop it down onto the floor next to you.

finally , you're left in just a flimsy pair of underwear and bra , covering you from your lovers eyes.

you feel pathetic under his gaze, goosebumps arising on your skin as he watches you intently. you gulp down saliva before shakingly take off your bra , your breasts bouncing free.

then you shimmy out of your underwear , kicking them to the side as you bare yourself completely to sunghoon. his face is completely expressionless, which makes you shift nervously in place.

you feel helpless in the palm of his hand , and he hasnt even touched you. like meek prey being observed by its hunter just before he pounces on you.

"you dont deserve my cock. you should be thankful I fuck such a worthless slut like you" you shift away from his mean words , but the feeling of your wetness slowly drip down your legs makes sunghoon hiss.

"god , you're so fucking filthy. look at the mess you're making." you feel embarrassment pool in your cheeks , fidgeting with your hands as a whine exits your mouth.

"s-sung-"

"get on your knees" with widening eyes , you bring your cheek between your teeth and chew,

"sunghoon-"

"dont you dare question me, slut. I said get on your knees, or are you too stupid to do just that?" he humiliates you , making your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

you listen to him , getting down on your knees a few feet in front of him. he leans back onto the couch , his eyes never leaving your figure.

"now crawl to me" if his last command wasn't bad enough , this one was even worse. you feel yourself grow even hotter as you begin to shift on the ground , crawling over to sunghoon on your knees . you stop right before him , your body placed inbetween his spread legs while your eye level with his clothed dick.

"undress me" he says , so you comply , stripping him of his clothes and letting his hard cock spring free, slapping his abdomen as pearly drops of precum drip out of his tip and down his shaft.

sunghoon then leans down , forcefully grabbing your face and squeezing your cheeks. he coos at your pinched eyebrows and teary eyes.

"do you know what happens when you misbehave?" you shake your head in his grasp , desperately wanting to know.

"this." he harshly lets go of your cheek in order to grab a fistful of your hair , pushing your face towards his cock. you instinctually open your mouth as he bullies his way into your face , pressing you down onto his shaft and forcing you to deep throat his length instantly. you choke around him , your hands coming to latch onto his thighs.

you gag as saliva quickly begins to drool out of the sides of your mouth and down your chin. sunghoon throws his head back , pushing your head to bob up and down around his length.

"this is the only thing you're good for. taking my dick like the worthless slave you are." you moan at his words , the tip of his dick hitting beyond the back of your throat. he begins to thrust his hips up into your face, your nose hitting his pelvis bone with every rut into your throat.

your eyes begin to water , the taste of his salty precum clouding your senses as you try to breathe in through your nose. he's ruthless , his cock bruising your throat , making it sting.

you hollow your cheeks , sucking harder in order to make him finish quicker. sunghoons moans pick up volume above you, his hips beginning to thrust more sloppily into you.

your tongue attempts to swirl around his length , but its difficult due to the fast pace your lover has set.

"you're gonna take my cum like the filthy little cock whore you are, isn't that right babydoll?" you attempt to nod your head, looking up at sunghoon as he fucks your face. hot tears spill down your cheeks , stretching passed your saliva coated chin and towards your neck. sunghoon's grip in your hair is unbelievably tight, making your scalp sting and your head hurt.

you swallow around his cock, and with one final thrust up into your face, he holds your head down so your nose presses against his pelvis, cutting off your entire air supply - he cums down your throat, shooting his load into your mouth.

he holds you down until you start squirming, silently begging for air. he groans before yanking your head off of his cock.

your cheeks are full of his seed while he leans down and squeezes your cheeks- resulting in a little bit of his cum spilling out of the sides of your mouth.

"swallow." and so you do, taking all of the cum he gifted you. it stings on the way down, your throat hurts as more tears spill from your eyes.

"god I love it when you cry for me" he says, the dirty words echoing in your mind. before you can say anything, he stands up and grabs your body, flinging you into the air and over his shoulder. you weigh just about nothing to sunghoon as he walks down the halllway and into your shared room, throwing you down onto the bed.

oh you're absolutely in for it- and you can tell just by the look on his face -hes angry. he crawls over your smaller frame, harshly gripping one of your wrists before tugging it up and over your head, towards the bed post where the restraint lays. your eyes widen in realization, instantly trying to get away from the demon above you.

he only uses the restraint when you absolutely fuck up - and tonight is one of those nights where you definitely fucked up.

"no, no please please no-" you struggle, but your wrist ends up restrained despite your protests and fighting. your free hand instantly goes to try and help you out- but sunghoon has the key.

"oh yes. you're the one who put yourself in this position. did you really forget who owns you doll?" he leans down and grips your throat in his hands, forcing you to look at him as his thumb presses down on the spot that determines your air supply , the threat hanging above your head.

"now, you're going to shut up and take whatever I give you like the good little girl you are, yeah?" you nod your head with a whimper, listening to every word your boyfriend says.

"good." he moves his hand up to your face, squeezing your cheeks as you open your mouth. he looks into your teary eyes as he spits directly into your mouth to which you instantly swallow. he coo's at you before letting you go, pushing your body back down onto the bed before quickly restraining your arms and legs to the bed post, stretching you out in order to bare yourself completely helpless.

sunghoon smirks, his fangs on full display.

"you're not going to cum until I give you permission, do you understand?" you nod your head desperately.

sunghoon chuckles as he reaches out to turn the lights off and you can swear the atmosphere shifts drastically, his laugh echoing off the walls of the room. the only thought ringing through your head is how fucked you truly are.

you can hear him shuffle around, but you can't see him at all, the room is completely dark. your eyes frantically search around in the dark, attempting to make out any sort of figure, and just before you gain any confidence- you feel one of your thighs sting after being smacked.

you let out a desperate squeal at the impact, your legs shaking and your cunt dripping. you hear a chuckle come from the dark void you call your room before another harsh smack lands on your other thigh, this time its on the inside of your leg and not the outside.

another squeal is ripped from your throat, and you could almost bet that there was a fat red handprint left on your skin.

you tug at the restraints, feeling completely helpless as another smack lands on the opposite inner thigh. a sob echos through the room and you feel your arousal drip down your ass to pool onto the bed below you.

hes fast, making sure you don't see him in the dark room as another slap lands on your body- only this time its on your puffy clit.

a moan replaces your screams, your hips bucking into the air as your cunt begins to pulsate.

"s-sung please... need you d-daddy please" you beg, but your pleas go straight through his ear and out the other as another harsh slap lands on your clit. this one vibrates throughout your entire body and you feel yourself getting hotter and hotter, a thin layer of sweat glistening on your helpless body.

your wish comes true as his cold fingers make contact with your wet folds, slipping through them with ease in order to gather your juices before rubbing your clit harshly.

your body thrashes against the restraints that bound you to the bed. your hips buck into the air, but sunghoons free hand comes down onto your abdomen and pushes your body back down onto the mattress - pinning you down onto the sheets below you.

your high pitched begs and moans fill the chambers of sunghoons mind, fueling his ego further as he begins to tip you over the edge. your pussy flutters around nothing, making sunghoon hiss at the sight.

"d-da-ddy please m-more wan' mo-re" you sob, fat tears running down your warm cheeks. he detaches from your clit before landing another body-shaking slap against it

"you," slap

"are going-" slap

"to take-" slap

"whatever-" slap

"I-" slap

"give you." slap

just before you can object, white hot pleasure rips through you like a sharp knife, your orgasm tipping over and spilling in the most messiest way possible; you're squirting all over the mattress and sunghoons arm, a scream dripping off your lips as you do so.

the wetness soaks the bed below you, sunghoons eyes widening as his anger begins to further deepen. you blink away the heavy, pleasure-filled clouded daze, the realization of what just happened hitting you like a brick.

"did you just-" he cuts himself off, the utter disbelief laced in his tone. you gasp, trying to catch your breath as you speak. you tug at the restraints once more, fear beginning to overrun the pleasure you just experienced

"'m, 'm sorry da-ddy 'm so sorry I-i didn't mean to.." your voice trembles as you speak. sunghoon scoffs in disbelief, pulling his hands away from your puffy pussy and stepping away from the bed to observe you.

"you didn't mean to? you didn't fucking mean to?" he scoffs again "you deliberately disobeyed me-" you hear one of the restraints unhooking, but you can't get your god damn body to move.

"and you came without my permission-" another restraint unlocking.

"you know what's gonna happen now, sweetheart?" another one, followed by silence as you gently tug at the last restraint- your breathing heavy and your fear prominent at the tears you cry.

you dont even feel sunghoons hands as he unlocks the last restraint, but your hand drops onto the bed right after.

you feel him behind you, but you're too scared to move. his breath fans your ear and shoulder as he whispers into it

"im going to grab your stupid fucking throat and zone you out while I use you like the pathetic little toy you are"

he moves to your other ear, his hands coming up to your shoulders to gently caress them

"and the only way you'll be able to know what's happening is when you feel my cum is dripping out of your tight little pussy when im finished with you." he pushes you down onto the bed, your front pressing down onto the mattress below you as sunghoon crawls over your body. he uses one of his hands to spread your legs apart, the other grips his cock and pushes it up against your sopping hole.

he moves his tip up and down your slit, gathering your juices before bullying his way inside your walls, thrusting up inside you.

your back arches , your ass in the air. sunghoon then moves his one hands to grab your wrists, pinning them up above your head while your face presses into the mattress below you.

his hips begin to snap against the plush of your ass, setting a ruthless pace while he fucks you deep into the sheets below you. muffled sobs vibrate the bed, traveling into sunghoons ears.

a pool of saliva soaks the cum-stained bedding, his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust. you thrash underneath him, your pussy fluttering around his dick as you moan incoherent sentences to your lover.

"fuck- so god damn tight.. so perfect.. filthy fucking slut just desperate for cock is what you are, huh baby?" his free hand that's not holding your wrists comes down to slap your ass, making you jolt in his hold. you whimper at the sting and his words, squeezing his dick as he speaks.

"just a pretty little fucktoy made just for me" he slaps your ass again, his dick twitching inside you as his orgasm approaches, fast.

"here for my pleasure and my pleasure only, got that you useless fucking whore?" you turn your head to the side, your half-lidded , fucked out eyes meeting sunghoons behind you.

"y-yes sir, 'm you're useless f-fuck toy" he pouts at your words, shifting his position so his chest presses flush against your back, pinning you to the mattress with is body. his hand lets go of your wrists, but you dont move as he wraps his arm around your throat, putting you into a head lock from behind with one of his arms. he makes sure he doesn't squeeze his arm so his muscles dont suffocate you. your eyes widen and you look back at him, genuine fear laced in the pupils of your eyes.

"green or red?" he asks, his mean demeanor shifting slightly, your chest heaving underneath him. you know he would never intentionally hurt you or push you to say the safe word- this was just new to the two of you... and 'new' isn't necessarily bad.. just a little scary

but you operate on fear.

so when your cunt squeezes sunghoons length, he already has his answer, but asks again anyways

"answer me."

"green" you answer immediately

sunghoon chuckles above you, his thrusts picking up the previous pace as his tip licks the sweet spot deep inside your pussy.

his arm squeezes around your throat barely, but still enough to threaten you.

as he does so, your pussy flutters around his cock, a loud moan erupting from the back of your throat. you push your ass up to meet his every thrust, his hips snapping a ruthless rhythm. skin slapping and disgusting moans fill the room, sunghoon groaning from above you. his free hand snakes down under your body, his cold fingers finding your clit in order to rub quick circles on your bundle of muscle.

you instantly fall apart, drool escaping your mouth to drip down your chin, your whines falling into desperate mewls.

"c-cum" is all you can manage to say, and sunghoon instantly picks up the hint. his pace not letting up as he speaks

"cum for me baby, make a mess all over daddy's cock, yeah?" and so you do, your pussy squeezing him as you cream all over his length, your arousal dripping down to coat his balls as a white ring of your guys' mixed fluids form on the base of his dick.

you cum, hard.

but its not enough, sunghoons thrusts aren't enough.

so he pulls his dick out of you in the middle of your orgasm and flips you onto your back, harshly gripping your ankles as he drags your body underneath his.

sunghoon grips your legs, lifting them in order to fold you completely in half as your knees settle right next to either side of your face.

and he pushes his dick inside you once more as you finish around him.

"o-oh my god" you squeal at the deeper angle, struggling in his grasp.

"'s, 's too much s-slow daddy p-please" you beg, but he doesn't listen.

"you can take it pretty, you have before, just- just let daddy use your body a little longer" he throws his head back, your breasts bouncing with every thrust inside your fucked out pussy.

your head hits the pillows behind you, your sight beginning to blur as you're left seeing stars. your mind begins to float away from your body. the assault on your fuck hole leaves you completely stupid and awe-struck.

"p-please... 's too.,, much.." you whisper, the last coherent sentence slipping from your lips.

"shhh baby, it'll be over soon, daddy promises sweet girl" he promises you. his orgasm is approaching fast, his balls tightening and his dick twitches.

"such a perfect little fuck doll, love it when daddy abuses your tiny little cunt, don't you little one" tears slip from your eyes as you nod your head.

"oh fuck-" he throws his head back at the sight of your tears, his balls contracting as he shoots his cum deep in your tummy with one final thrust. you orgasm for the third time that night without knowing, your pussy's walls clenching down on him as you squirt once more.

sunghoon thought he was done... he really did.

until he saw you squirting all around his length as more tears shoot from your eyes.

he instantly grabs your throat, sitting up as his still-hard cock fucks inside you.

the terrified scream that exits your throat only feeds into sunghoons actions, his hand squeezes around your throat- cutting off all air supply.

"gonna fuck my cum into you, breed this pathetic pussy. make you a god damn cum slut, you'd like that huh precious?" you nod your head, arching your back in order to curl into your boyfriends body.

"y-yes, ta-ke daddy's cum, please" your eyes squeeze shut, your mouth parting into the perfect 'o' shape. sunghoon grunts , sweat dripping down his hair line , falling right onto his toned body and the sight drives you absolutely insane.

"filthy. god damn. slut." he says between thrusts as he fucks his cum deep inside you.

you're definitely going to have to take a plan b despite being on birth control.

"take it baby, make a mess all over me" the two of you finish in unison, your guys' mixed bodily fluids soak the mattress and wetten each others skin.

sunghoon leans down and unwraps his hand from your throat, snaking behind the small of your back in order to pick you up slightly and press your guys' bodies together.

you whimper at the warm feeling inside your lower abdomen that spreads throughout your body as sunghoon holds you close to him, coaxing each other down from your highs.

after a moment, sunghoon collapses right next to, his chest heaving up and down in order to catch his breath. he turns to look at you, his fingers caressing the skin of your cheek before tucking a stray, sweaty piece of hair behind your ear.

"did I hurt you, my love?" his eyes search for any signs of injury, you shake your head no and move next to his body, wrapping your arms around your frame to bring him into a hug.

"no" you whisper, sighing against his chest after kissing his hot skin as the two of you lay and bask in each others presence.

after a couple minutes, he excuses himself out of the room, only to come back with an ice pack, a glass of water, advil, and a towel.

he proceeds to clean you up, wiping up the cum from your legs and pussy.

"you did such a good job for me sweetheart, such a good girl" you blush at his words while he leans down to kiss the red marks on your thighs, pressing the icepack up against your skin right after.

he then hands you the glass of water and Advil, forcing you to take it so a headache doesn't form. he leans down and presses a chaste kiss against your forehead.

"I love you so much my darling" he kisses your nose

"you're so beyond perfect" he kisses your lips gently, his hands massaging the sides of your thighs to soothe any pain you might have.

"I wasn't too rough, was I?" you shake your head no, wrapping your arms around his neck and bringing him into you.

"it was a lot... but perfect... I love you hoonie.." you whisper, kissing his cheek.

"you were amazing for me, my perfect little angel. you could do no wrong sweetheart" you nod, but sunghoon grabs your cheeks and forces you to look him in the eyes.

"no baby, you are actually perfect. you did such a good job for me tonight, i'm so proud of you.. you're so much more than just a toy, you understand? you're my perfect girl" you giggle and kiss his lips softly

"yes, I understand"

"good.. because you're everything to me my love. I would do everything in my power to protect and love you. my perfect baby" he kisses every inch of your face, making you giggle in the process.

"my perfect, beautiful, smart, sexy, amazing fiance" he puts emphasis on the word 'fiancee', although the two of you aren't even engaged, that word makes your stomach turn in excitement. you giggle at his words, but squeal as soon as he picks you up in the air bridal style.

"sunghoon! where on earth are you taking me" you laugh, making him smile at you. you swear your heart bursts in your chest just by the way he smiles.

"im gonna run you a bubble bath and change the sheets, my princess only deserves the best" you smack his chest, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"I love you so much, hoonie" you say

"I love you so much more"

tag list ; .⋆。⊹

౨ৎ @honeybelleee

[lowrisemiller]

a one - shot inspired by sabrina carpenter’s songs “busy woman” & “15 minutes”

harry castillo x younger!associate!fem reader

you’re busy. driven, polished, and far too focused to fall for a flirt like harry castillo—older, smug, and always one floor too close. but when a risky little challenge is whispered between meetings, you agree to play along… fifteen minutes on the clock, and he swears he can make you unravel.

masterlist | 2k words | I just watched masterlists and tbh plot was mid but harry was a whole snack & I wish he was in the film more so here ya go<33 | the pics don’t depict what reader looks like | desk/office sex , oral (f receiving) , dirty talk , light dom/sub vibe , age gap , unprotected piv sex , power dynamic

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You work on the twenty-third floor, executive communications, damage control, all the places where rookies go to die. Your office is tucked near the east windows, a strategic location that means you can look busy and in control while still seeing every move that happens on the floor below.

The twenty-second floor is legal strategy, crisis mitigation. Where the real sharks live.

That’s where Harry Castillo sits. Older, charming, always a little rumpled in that expensive-on-purpose kind of way. He talks like he’s too tired for games but plays them better than anyone. The man can dismantle a PR landmine with a half-sighed “let’s not be dramatic,” and somehow, the whole room listens.

You’re not dramatic. You’re busy.

Too busy for men who wear their shirt sleeves rolled halfway up their forearms like they know what that does. Too busy for the curve of a smirk that’s always half a second from being something more. Too busy for Harry Castillo.

Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You’re one of the youngest women to be promoted to associate director before thirty. A New York transfer, reputation sharpened by fire and caffeine and the kind of quiet ambition that doesn’t ask for praise. You have a master’s degree, a full calendar, and five different alerts going off in your brain at all times.

You don’t date. You don’t fuck in the office. You don’t entertain men who flirt like they’ve already undressed you.

Harry Castillo is nine years older. He’s been with the firm for over a decade. He’s good—frustratingly so. When you moved floors temporarily during a restructuring, he made one joke about your color-coded planner and you didn’t look him in the eye for three weeks. Not because you were offended. Because he noticed.

He always notices.

Today’s meeting is about the Devlin account: big-name celebrity, bigger-name scandal. You’re both on the call list for the 4:30.

It’s 4:14 when you hear the knock. Three quick raps on the glass door before it swings open, uninvited. That’s the kind of man he is.

“You’re not still rewriting that press draft, are you?”

You don’t look up from your laptop.

“Only the parts that read like a hostage letter.”

He grins. Saunters in, no tie, button-down sleeves rolled and collar open just enough to make your brain short-circuit for a second.

“Brutal,” he says. “Are you always this rude to your elders?”

You finally glance up, just long enough to let him see the faint smirk tugging at your mouth.

“Only the ones who act like they have something to prove.”

That makes him laugh. He leans against the edge of your desk like he owns the air between you. Like he can feel how it tightens.

“Fifteen minutes until Devlin,” he says. “You know what I could do in fifteen minutes?”

“Take a nap?”

“Make you come. More than once.”

You blink.

Then scoff.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re smiling.”

You bite your bottom lip before it curls up too much.

“I’m busy, Castillo.”

“I know. That’s what makes it fun.”

He glances at the clock on your wall. 4:16.

“I’ll make it interesting. If I win, you let me take you out. If I lose, I’ll file those awful transcripts you keep forgetting.”

You close your laptop slowly. Look up at him through thick lashes. There’s something dangerous behind your eyes, and he knows it. But he also knows you’re thinking about it.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“You have fifteen minutes. If you make me late to this meeting looking like I’ve been fucked, I will destroy you in front of the board.”

“Fifteen minutes? Set a timer.”

You don’t move when he says it.

You just hold his gaze, daring him to break the tension first. He doesn’t.

Instead, Harry steps forward and pulls your chair away from your desk with one hand. You’re still sitting when he kneels in front of you, his tie long since discarded, sleeves cuffed to his elbows. His eyes flick up, dark and unreadable.

“You’re gonna be late to your own meeting,” you murmur.

“Then I better get started.”

You expect teasing. Slowness. A warm-up that never quite pays off. That’s what men like him do, isn’t it? Stretch it out. Make you beg.

But Harry Castillo is not like other men.

He pushes your knees apart, drags you to the edge of the seat, and kisses the inside of your thigh like it’s a fucking promise. By the time his mouth reaches your panties, you’re already wet and already irritated that he knows you are.

“Cute,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “Lace?”

“Shut up and—”

But you don’t get to finish. He’s already pulling them aside and licking up your slit, slow and deep like he’s starving. You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as your hips jerk up on instinct.

“Still busy?” he asks against your cunt.

You try to snap something back, something cutting, but his mouth closes over your clit and all that comes out is a broken gasp.

It’s unfair how good he is. How focused. There’s nothing gentle in the way he eats you out he devours. Tongue pressing hard against you, then flicking fast, then sucking as two fingers slide into you with practiced ease.

Your head falls back, one hand fisting in his thick hair.

“Oh my—fuck—Harry—”

He hums. The vibration shoots straight through your spine. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, but it doesn’t help. Your thighs are already shaking.

You try to pull away—pride, stubbornness, you don’t know—but he grips your hips and growls:

“You’re gonna come, sweetheart. Don’t fight it.”

And fuck if you don’t. It builds fast, blinding. Your thighs clamped around his head, back arching as you moan his name like it’s been stuck on your tongue all month.

He doesn’t let up. Even when you come, even when your hips are twitching and you’re panting, he licks you through it—drags it out until you’re squirming and glassy-eyed.

“One,” he says with a smirk, rising to his feet.

You should be embarrassed. You should shove him away and demand he leave. But you just stare up at him, flushed and fucked-out, breathing hard.

He leans down. He kisses your jaw, the corner of your mouth. You taste yourself on his lips.

“Desk,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Now. Bend over.”

You hesitate—half pride, half nerves.

He doesn’t repeat himself.

You stand on shaky legs, turn around, and brace your hands against the cool wood. You expect him to flip your skirt up and fuck you immediately, but instead he takes a second. Runs his hands over your ass. Whistles low.

“You know how long I’ve wanted you like this?”

“You talk too much,” you mutter, but it comes out breathless.

Harry chuckles. Then you feel the hard press of his cock against your bare ass as he leans over and whispers:

“You’re gonna be the one begging though.”

Then he pushes in.

No warning. No teasing.

Just thick, hard, deep. You gasp—almost choke—because it’s so much. Your hands scramble across the desk for something to grip.

“Jesus—Harry—”

“That’s right. Say it again.”

He pulls back and drives in harder. Your eyes roll. The desk creaks. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize the meeting is about to start, but you don’t care.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because he’s fucking you like a man possessed—one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he’s never letting go. Your nails dig into the wood. You feel him everywhere.

“You feel how tight you are?” he groans. “So fucking wet. Knew you’d be like this.”

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Every snap of his hips sends lightning through your core. You feel another orgasm barreling toward you, and so does he.

He reaches around, finds your clit again, and rubs fast and filthy.

“Come on, baby. Give me one more. I know you can.”

And you do. It rips through you with no warning, no buildup—just white-hot bliss that leaves your legs trembling and your vision swimming. You come hard, mouth open in a silent scream, clenching around him until he growls something low and ragged.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls out just in time, spills hot across your lower back with a sharp groan, hands braced on your hips.

Silence.

Just the sound of your breathing. Of your pulse. Of your pride, curled and wrecked beneath your ribs.

You hear him grab something—napkins from your drawer, probably—and gently wipe you off. He presses a kiss to your spine, right at the base of your neck.

“You okay?”

You nod, dazed.

He helps you up. He adjusts your skirt. He also fixes your hair for you in the reflection of the darkened window.

You glance at the clock.

4:29.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

“Again?” he smirks.

You push past him and grab your laptop.

“If I’m late, I’m blaming you.”

“You’re glowing,” he says. “No one’s gonna believe you weren’t getting laid.”

You shoot him a look as you open the door.

“That was two, right?” he calls after you.

You don’t answer.

But your smile gives you away.

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🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlejoels @inbred-eater @grayandthyme @millersdoll

[vibelladonna]

𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝓂𝑒 𝜗𝜚 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒿𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You are a medical student at the top of your class—brilliant, disciplined, and utterly numb. Burnout has hollowed you out, leaving behind a ghost in a white coat who moves through life on autopilot. The worst part?

You can't feel anything anymore.

Not joy, not pain, and certainly not pleasure. Then you meet him. A mysterious practitioner operating out of a butcher-shop backroom, known only as Jack. His methods are unorthodox, his hands unsettlingly precise, and his eyes—black as a starless night—seem to see straight through the cracks in your composure. 

He offers a solution: sensate therapy.

And the thing that stirs under his touch isn’t just arousal.

It’s hunger.

Also, huge shoutout to @noctiva—your art genuinely inspired me and gave me the push I needed to return to my roots. Thank you for reigniting that spark.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: soft dom!eyeless jack x fem!reader · doctor/patient dynamic, touch-starved · possessive but gentle · gothic erotica · slow burn, sensual horror · sensation play · sensory deprivation/overload · medical kink (clinical but intimate) · consent and safe words · touch-starved to overstimulated.

𝓌𝒸: 16.1k

Teach me how to scream.

That’s all you think about. 

Not in the way a normal person might—in some moment of panic or ecstasy, laughter or fear—no, you think about it clinically, with the same cold curiosity you apply to everything else in your life. You wonder what it takes to break a person.

 To tear down the wall of composure and discipline and professionalism until all that’s left is something raw and visceral—a sound dragged from the deepest part of the chest. Screaming seems... liberating. 

You’ve forgotten what it feels like.

Your apartment is a minimalist tomb, quiet and sterile. The walls are a tired white, barely catching any of the moonlight that slips between the blinds like skeletal fingers. 

Textbooks line your desk in tall, uneven stacks, some with cracked spines from overuse, others still pristine, untouched. Highlighters bleed neon colors into pages already carved with notes in your tight, mechanical handwriting. 

It smells like tea and ink and the exhaustion of someone who doesn’t even know they’re lonely anymore.

You’re a medical student. Top of your class. On a full scholarship, too—the kind of golden ticket people envy you for. 

Smart, capable, diligent. 

You’ve heard all the praise, the admiration. But it doesn’t change the fact that your nights are hollow, your days are repetitive, and your sense of wonder—that spark that once made you dream of saving lives—has slowly been reduced to a clinical grind. 

Autopilot. Wake, study, eat something microwaved, maybe sleep. Repeat.

Everyone thinks you have it easy because you’re not drowning in debt. However, you are drowning—just in a quieter way. No one sees it. No one asks. You’re the kind of person people assume will be fine. Always fine. 

You’ve become a ghost in your own life, watching your twenties dissolve beneath the harsh fluorescence of hospital lights and the dry rustle of textbook pages. 

You are a phantom that drifts from lecture hall to lab, stethoscope in hand, caffeine in veins, and nothing behind the eyes but tired calculation. It’s a life of purpose on paper—of accolades, scholarships, and prestige—but beneath it all, you are starving. 

Hollow. And you know it.

The worst part?

It killed your sex drive.

Not just dulled it. Not just reduced it to some manageable inconvenience like a missed meal or a skipped nap. It erased it—surgically, completely, like a tumor you didn’t realize had been excised until you tried to reach for it and found only scar tissue. 

There’s even a phrase your over-medicalized brain can’t help but conjure: lateralized sexual arousal suppression—a clinical concept you read once in a study, the theory that arousal, that raw hormonal ache, can be selectively deadened by stress or imbalance, sometimes even felt more intensely on one side of the body than the other. 

You chuckled at the time, because God, that’s such a pathetic thing to be academic about—your own inability to get off.

You were reading some obscure psych journal at 3 a.m., probably during a breakdown disguised as “studying,” and there it was: an article on how chronic stress can suppress arousal, kill libido, even change how your brain registers pleasure. Real clinical stuff. 

They called it “situational anorgasmia” and “arousal fatigue”—fancy words for why you, a perfectly functional adult with a pulse, haven’t been able to cum since your first anatomy midterm.

You’ve tried. Of course, you’ve tried. 

You brought toys—not just the cheap, pastel-colored ones from those random Amazon hauls, either. No, you went full send. Bought the ones your roommate back in undergrad swore by. 

She was the type who talked about orgasms like she had a PhD in them—complete with charts, reviews, and the occasional TED Talk. If anyone knew how to chase the Big O in times of crisis, it was her. You thought maybe she'd unlocked the secret. 

Maybe it was you who was broken. 

Well… Turns out it was you. 

Because even the expensive, silicone-coated sorcery with six vibration settings and a glowing LED couldn’t do it. Nothing worked. It was like flipping switches in an abandoned building—the power was out, the lights were dead, and everything inside was covered in a spiritual layer of dust and depression. 

Your hands don’t even feel like yours anymore. Just more tools. Instruments. Like forceps. No pleasure, no spark, no warm shiver of release. Just... effort. Awkward, humiliating, mechanical effort.

You used to call it self-care. Now it just feels like CPR on a corpse.

So you gave up.

You told yourself you didn’t want it anyway. What’s the point of craving something you can’t feel? You’ve got a million flashcards to memorize, patients to shadow, vitals to record, and whatever grim flavor of instant noodles waiting for you in your pantry. Sexual frustration doesn’t even rank on the priority list anymore. 

It’s been outpaced by exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and your mysterious recurring knee pain. You are one bad week away from becoming a cryptid.

But the silence? The silence is getting heavier.

It presses into you at night like a second set of lungs, breathing damp and slow against your ribs. There’s something waking up inside you—an ache, not sexual exactly, not yet, but primal. Hungry. Cold. 

You try to outwork it. 

You pile on more studying, more mock exams, more hospital shifts. But it’s still there. Whispering under the fluorescent lights. Nestled beneath your white coat and pressed dress shirts, buried under clinical detachment and years of overachievement.

And lately, that whisper has evolved into a gnawing.

You don’t know when it started. Just that it has. It lingers in the corners of your thoughts like a rotting tooth. It’s no longer about pleasure, about getting off, about orgasms or release. It’s deeper than that. Darker. It’s about being provoked. Violated. Broken open. 

Something inside you is begging for rupture—not affection, not safety, but something raw. Violent. Real.

You want to be dismantled. Undone. Taken apart in ways that anatomy textbooks don’t cover. Not by gentle hands. By something sharp. Something relentless. You need to be reminded that you’re not just flesh wrapped around ambition. That your blood still runs hot. That you are more than a breathing corpse in scrubs.

You need to get off. Badly.

Again, not in the playful, flirty, "teehee I need a good dicking" kind of way—no. You were about three nights of sleep deprivation away from putting "Unable to orgasm due to academic rigor" on your medical records. 

If only you trusted your university’s counseling office not to slap it on your permanent file next to “burnout risk” and “excessive caffeine consumption.”

So you did something you hadn’t done in... what, months? You left your apartment. Took the train across town with a tote bag and the grim, resigned energy of someone preparing for emotional exposure.

You went go see Z—your old roommate from undergrad.

The one person you could talk to about this without getting put on some kind of watchlist.

Her apartment hadn’t changed—not even a little. It was still giving teenage dirtbag chic, as if Z had stolen the entire emotional atmosphere of a 2007 Tumblr blog and made it livable.

A lovechild between Hot Topic clearance racks and thrifted furniture from someone's cool aunt’s garage sale. You were greeted by the scent of jasmine incense, old vinyl, and something vaguely burnt—maybe toast??

The walls were still a shrine to Z’s unapologetic chaos—plastered in band posters that had definitely survived multiple apartment moves and at least one questionable phase involving safety pins and eyeliner as a personality trait.

A twisted line of mismatched fairy lights looped across the ceiling, dangling lazily like drunk neurons on their last spark of function, simply blinking intermittently in faint hues of dying neon green, casting soft, ghostly shapes that danced along the cluttered walls.

The blinds were obnoxiously open—wide, tauntingly so. Sunlight poured in with a kind of aggression, spilling across the hardwood floors and highlighting every fleck of dust, every stray sock, every single reminder that someone actually lived here. 

You squinted at it like it had personally insulted you. 

Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you saw real daylight that wasn’t filtered through hospital-tinted windows or the flicker of your laptop at 3 a.m. Your body recoiled from it instinctively, as if your med school-induced vampirism couldn’t withstand such unfiltered natural cheer.

Your tea—which Z handed you with that smug little curve of her lips —tasted faintly of lemon and betrayal. Warm, sharp, slightly too sweet. You suspected she put honey in it just to mock your bitterness. 

She sipped her own casually, lounging in what could only be described as her throne of chaos: a nest of cushions, blankets, and plushies that looked. Her legs were draped dramatically over the armrest, her socks were chicken legs?

You, by contrast, sat rigidly on the couch like it might bite you if you leaned too far back. Your shoulders were hunched slightly, as if trying to fold into yourself, to shrink down and disappear into the muted fabric. 

Z raised an eyebrow, already halfway to a grin, her lips twitching like the punchline was burning a hole in her mouth. You could almost hear it loading—the way her brain clicked into gear when she had a roast lined up and ready to go. 

You didn’t need to see her eyes to know she was aiming.

And God, you already regretted bringing it up.

“You actually came,” she started with a shit-eating grin. “You? Miss White Coat? Miss I-Diagnose-Myself-With-Insomnia-Not-Feelings? This is serious.”

You glared. “Z, for the love of God, stop laughing. You know this is an ongoing issue.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would get worse.” She snorted, barely containing her laughter. “Girl, you probably need medical help.”

“I am medical help.”

She cackled, clutching her chest. “Oh my God, you’re a walking irony.”

You sank further into the couch, drawing your knees up like a sulking cat. “Do you know how embarrassing it is for a med student to need a clinical intervention because she can’t orgasm? It’s humiliating. I'm supposed to be helping people, not... lying awake at 2 a.m. wondering if I died inside during second-year pathology.”

“Honestly?” she leaned forward, stirring her tea lazily. “Maybe you did. Maybe med school killed your libido and buried it under a pile of medical flashcards.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m a disgrace to the human reproductive system.”

Z sipped her tea, watching you with that predator’s smirk she always wore when she knew something you didn’t. “Or maybe...” she said slowly, “what you really need... is for something else to do it for you.”

You paused. Lowered your hands. Narrowed your eyes at her like a suspicious cat. “Well, obviously not you.”

“Please.” She scoffed. “I’m flattered but not deranged.”

“Right,” you muttered, sipping your tea just to avoid eye contact. “Totally. Of course.”

The conversation fizzled into one of those awkwardly familiar silences — not the comfortable kind where two people just exist, but the kind where something unspoken hangs in the air, unacknowledged but dense. 

Z picked up her phone and started scrolling absently, her fingers flicking across the screen with the kind of speed that said she was pretending to be disinterested.

You followed suit, sipping your tea like it didn’t feel like your skin was trying to crawl off your bones. The clink of your spoon against the inside of your cup was the only sound besides the occasional buzz of her phone.

Her eyes kept drifting back to you, though. Subtle, but you noticed. A glance too long. A flicker of something behind her lashes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. Or something sharper.

You glanced up, caught her staring. “What?”

Z didn’t answer right away. She leaned back into the pillow throne like a queen about to issue a decree, her phone now forgotten on the coffee table. The soft lights above flickered green, briefly bathing her in something eerie, ethereal.

Then she said, too casually, like she wasn’t about to ruin your whole evening: “There are things out there, you know. Stuff that could probably wake you up.”

You raised a brow, deadpan. “What, like... therapy?”

She grinned over the rim of her mug like the devil sipping tea. “Possibly, babe. If it's been this long, it might be time to admit you need more than a bubble bath and a vibrator with a college degree.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thank you for that incredibly professional medical insight, Dr. Z.”

“Anytime,” she said sweetly, already scrolling on her phone like she hadn’t just diagnosed you with ‘clinical dicklessness.’ “But for real. I found this ad a while back. Weird little flyer. Some guy left it on the bathroom sink at the club—”

You blinked. “Wait. You still go to ‘the club’?” You added dramatic finger quotes like you were talking about some ancient cryptid.

Z didn’t even flinch. Gave you a flat look, her eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Uh, yes? What do you think I do for stress relief? Knit?”

You groaned and collapsed further into the couch cushions. “God, you are still the same chaotic goblin I met in college.”

She grinned, smug as sin. “And yet here you are, begging the goblin for help because you can’t even get your engine to rev. Who’s the tragic one now?”

You look away and took another sip of your lemon-betrayal tea and muttered, “Me. It’s me. I’m the tragic one.”

“That’s right.” She sighed,  “Anyway. This flyer. It was handwritten, almost cryptic. Said something about off-the-record consultations. No names. No appointments. Just... results. Kind of urban legend-y, honestly. But people talk. Especially at clubs. And from what I’ve heard, this... doctor... isn’t your typical back-alley quack.”

You stared at her. “Z. Did you seriously consider going to some random off-the-grid sex doctor?”

Z shrugged, grinning wickedly. “I considered it. Haven’t done it yet. Thought I’d let you be the brave one, since, y’know... you’re the actual med student.”

You scoffed, pulling the most odd-looking facial expression, setting your mug down a little too loudly on the table. “Why me? What made you think of me when you saw some creep’s sex clinic ad?”

Her smirk faltered just a little. “Because I know you. And I know when you’ve gone full medical-grade emotionally constipated. Babe, it’s like watching a Roomba try to find joy. You need something that’ll slap the soul back into you.”

You went quiet. Embarrassed. Maybe a little pissed. 

You weren’t used to people seeing through the cracks—not the ones you spent so much time spackling over with caffeine and credentials. But she wasn’t wrong.

“And no,” she added quickly, “I’d never throw you into something shady without at least vetting it first. You know that. I’m not an idiot.”

You looked down at your lap. Your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s just... weird, you know? I’m a med student. I should be able to fix myself. Not—go off seeking weird underground therapy from club bathroom flyers like I’m in a Netflix special.”

Z snorted, nearly choking on her tea. “Yeah, well. Sometimes it takes weird to fix weird. And unless you’re ready to walk into your clinical psych rotation and say, ‘Hey, I can’t cum and I think my soul’s in a coma,’ this might be your last option that doesn’t come with a straightjacket and a mandatory 72-hour hold.”

You made a face, but… yeah. She had a point. 

A mortifying, scarily accurate point.

You didn’t like the idea—some strange, off-market “doctor” discovered via bathroom flyer in a club known for bad decisions and worse lighting. But God help you, you were actually considering it. Really considering it.

Because the thought of another week—hell, another month—of being this empty husk of a human, this walking flesh-printer spewing out diagnoses and memorizing mortality rates with all the excitement of a houseplant?

No. You couldn’t keep doing this.

So you made the appointment.

After classes—after trudging through another mind-numbing lecture on autoimmune disorders and scribbling down notes with a highlighter you’d long since stopped seeing color in—you sat down and filled out the form.

The website had looked… normal.?? Professional, even.

A minimalist black/dark blue-and-white layout, vague clinical language, and a discreet little logo that looked almost like a mask. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

The questionnaire started like every other patient intake form—name, birthdate, gender. But then there was something else. A line that didn’t make sense. Not in this context.

“Do you fear what watches you when you sleep?”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. Weird question. Probably one of those psych-eval icebreakers. You ticked off another box and kept going, ignoring the pressure that had begun to build in your throat. This was probably nothing. Some edgy branding tactic. Experimental therapy, maybe. Trauma work in a spooky coat of paint. 

That’s all it was.

You submitted the form. 

Ten minutes later, your phone buzzed with a confirmation and a location that didn’t show up on Google Maps.

Of course it didn’t.

That night, sleep came reluctantly, like a reluctant houseguest knocking on your door well past midnight, and you only let it in because you had nothing better to do.

After a fresh shower, you dress in t-shit with shorts, collapse onto your bed with all the grace of a corpse being dropped into its grave. The air in your apartment felt stagnant—thick and unmoving—like it hadn’t been touched by breath or sound in days. Maybe weeks.

The only light was the faint, glitched glow of your laptop in sleep mode, pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Your limbs felt heavy. Weighted. Your thoughts, even heavier. Again, you’d submitted the form hours ago. 

And now you can’t stop thinking about that line. 

“Fear? What watches me when I sleep?” 

You swallowed and rolled onto your side, burying your face into the pillow that still smelled vaguely of antiseptic hand cream and stress. For a while, nothing came. No dreams. No darkness. Just silence. But eventually, slowly, the world began to slip sideways.

At first, it felt like floating—like your bones had been scooped out of you and replaced with warm fog. The room was no longer your room. Not quite. The shadows were wrong—longer than they should be, bending around corners that didn’t exist. Your bed felt deeper, like a divot in the earth, and the air was… comforting. 

Invasive, somehow, but soft. Almost maternal.

You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to move.

And then came the touch.

It wasn’t hands. Not really. Not at first. More like heat. Pressure. A sensation that ghosted over your skin, just enough to make you shiver.

Something brushed your ankle. Light. Curious. Your breath hitched.

Another drifted along the curve of your calf. Up. Higher. Not aggressive. Not rough. Just… deliberate. As though the air itself had grown fingers and was now reading you like braille. Like it knew you. Had always known you.

Your hips twitched, and you felt it—just beneath the surface of your skin—a dull, yawning ache that had been locked away for too long. That absence. That void. You hadn’t even realized how deeply you’d buried your hunger. Your need.

The touch glided higher, a whisper along the meat of your thigh, a reverent sweep that left goosebumps in its wake. It wasn’t sexual. Not entirely. Not yet. But it was intimate. Intrusive in a way that felt oddly safe, like the firm hand of something old guiding you through a ritual you’d forgotten the words to.

You should have been terrified.

But you weren’t.

Your breath came shallower. Your heart picked up. And for the first time in months—years—you felt something: warmth. Thrum. Longing. 

The phantom touch curved under the hem of your hoodie, feathering up your stomach. It pressed gently against the cage of your ribs like it was searching for a way inside. You arched instinctively, needing more. 

Needing anything.

There was a whisper. A sound. You couldn’t tell if it was in your ear or your bones. Soft, smooth—masculine, maybe—but in that ageless, unsettling way that made it impossible to pin down.

“Let me ruin you.” 

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The words dripped like honey laced with venom—intimate, feral, promising. They bypassed your ears and curled straight into your gut, igniting something molten at your core. Your thighs pressed together on instinct. Your fingers curled into the sheets like you could anchor yourself against a flood.

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation. A threat. A vow.

Your body bucked as heat flashed through you like a short-circuit, static and dizzying and almost holy. It wasn't released. Not yet. But it was the promise of it. The threat. And something inside you whispered back—without words, without thought—yes.

You gasped.

And then—you woke up.

Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Skin slick with sweat, sticking to your sheets in places you didn’t even know could sweat. Your thighs were clenched like you’d just braced through an earthquake—or maybe something far more intimate. The sheets coiled around your legs, your waist, one arm — as if you’d been grasping in your sleep. Or writhing.

You lay there, dazed. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide as the fragmented edges of some half-dream shimmered just out of reach, teasing your thoughts with phantom touches and shapes you couldn’t quite pin down. But your body remembered.

Oh, it remembered.

The morning light creeping in through the blinds was soft and gray, casting everything in shades of faded silver. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind of light that followed unsettling dreams — like the lingering taste of ash and honey on your tongue.

You sat up slowly. Each movement felt like an echo.

Something had changed.

A circuit, somewhere inside you, had quietly reconnected. A wire long-burnt out had sparked again. You didn’t know how, or why, but your whole body pulsed with a strange awareness. Your skin buzzed. The air felt too sharp, like the molecules themselves were brushing too close against you. You ran your palm along your own arm—it felt like someone else’s skin. 

Someone new. Something not quite… human.

You weren’t sure whether to be thrilled or terrified.

A sharp laugh escaped you—short, stunned, breathless. You wiped a shaky hand down your face, your skin still tingling like it had been touched by something you couldn’t name. "What the hell…" you muttered to no one, voice hushed in the muted blue-gray light filtering through the blinds.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, your body wasn’t numb.

It ached. It buzzed.

You were horny. And maybe—just maybe—haunted.

Not the jump-scare, crawling-out-of-your-TV kind. No. This was subtler. Seductive. Like something ghostlike had struck a match down your spine and whispered promises to your bones.

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

Then your eyes flicked to your phone screen. Shit.

You jolted upright, the weight of time slamming into your chest. Adrenaline took the wheel. The sheets slipped off your legs as you stumbled toward your dresser, still half-lost in the fog of sleep—or whatever strange thing had wrapped itself around your dreams.

You moved on instinct, grabbing whatever felt softest, lightest, least constraining. You slipped into an asymmetric maxi skirt that flowed around your legs like smoke, streaked in midnight blue and obsidian black. It cinched at your waist with a simple circle leather belt, the buckle cool against your stomach. A cropped top followed—loose, gauzy, a whisper of fabric more than a shirt. Air moved through it easily, kissing your skin.

You looked… casual? A little lost, maybe.

The kind of outfit that felt like something you could disappear in without a sound. Your fingers fumbling, you pushed your hair back, unlocked your phone, and typed with sharp, quick taps:

You: Location shared. Dropped off at that creepy butcher shop you told me about. If I’m not out in an hour, call the cops. Seriously.

The reply came almost instantly:

Z: "Roger that, orgasm-crisis queen 💋"

“Bitch,” you muttered, rolling your eyes with a reluctant smirk. You didn’t text back. You didn’t need to.

You were quick to reach the building was everything your gut told you to avoid. Normal. Painfully, strategically normal. It sat like a tumor on the edge of the block—red-brick exterior faded from years of sun and smog, windows that reflected nothing, and a crooked sign over the door that read “Balkan Meats & Cold Cuts” in peeling paint.

 A rusted awning flapped listlessly in the breeze, and somewhere inside, the thick metallic scent of iron and brine curled into your sinuses. It smelled like blood that had soaked too deep into tile.

You didn’t see a sign for a clinic. You didn’t expect one.

Your eyes scanned the side of the building until you spotted the narrow stairwell half-hidden beside a dumpster. You hesitated only once before climbing, hand gliding over the sticky, warm metal of the rail. Above, a flickering bulb buzzed like a trapped wasp, casting shadows that moved just a little too much.

When you reached the landing, everything went quiet.

Unnaturally quiet.

The hallway was narrow and sterile—painted beige so aggressively dull it made your teeth itch. No music. No voices. Just the electric hum of fluorescent lighting and your own pulse, thudding loud in your ears.

You found the door at the end. Plain metal. No placard. No name. Just a tarnished silver handle. You stared at it for a moment, fingers hovering near the knob, chest tight. Every inch of your rational brain screamed to leave. But you were tired of being rational. Rational hadn’t helped. 

So you opened the door.

The room inside was quiet. Still. Too still.

There were three mismatched chairs—one metal, one wood, one soft and threadbare like it came from someone’s grandmother’s house. A water dispenser stood lonely in the corner, full but with no cups, like a trick. A desk stood at the far wall—paper neatly stacked, everything aligned with almost religious care—but there was no monitor, no receptionist, no phone.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

You took a cautious step inside. Your shoes made the faintest sound against the polished floor. You moved around the desk, squinting for some kind of bell, clipboard, sign of life.

And that’s when you felt it.

The breath, soft and warm against the nape of your neck. The presence, solid and sudden behind you—too close. A chest. Firm. Immovable. Pressed just a whisper from your back. 

You froze. Every muscle in your body pulled taut.

“You have appointment?”

The voice was low, deep, and smooth, and somehow casually clinical. But what rattled you most was how he’d arrived—soundless, like he’d stepped out of the air itself. You spun around, heart in your throat.

And there he was.

Moving toward you with the kind of quiet purpose that didn’t demand attention—it consumed it.

Dressed in layered blacks so matte they seemed to drink in the light, he walked like the air parted for him out of habit, each step slow, deliberate, respectful in a way that somehow felt more unsettling than if he’d stormed in. His presence didn’t crash—it settled, like dusk creeping in unnoticed.

He was tall. Towering, almost. But not in a way that screamed dominance—it was more architectural. Like he belonged in old cathedrals or under moonlight, not in this oddly quiet waiting room above a butcher shop. His build was lean but sharp-edged, tailored by something too precise to be simply "fit."

His hair was a mess of deep brown waves, slightly tousled like he’d forgotten he had it. Strands fell across the top edge of his black surgical mask, softening the austere lines of his outfit.

And then—his eyes. His. eyes.

No whites. No pupils. No clear edges or irises. Just obsidian pools so deep they looked like if you stared too long, they’d start staring back. They weren’t dead or hollow—they shimmered faintly in the overhead fluorescents, alive with something too exact, too alert. It was like he wasn’t looking at you, he was measuring you.

Then the ears. It took a second glance to really process them—subtly pointed, the kind of detail your mind initially dismissed as a trick of the light. Delicate but wrong in the way that made fairy tales dangerous. Piercings traced their way up the cartilage, tiny silver hoops and bars arranged not for fashion, but like some strange celestial map. 

His skin was smooth, cool-toned—grayish, yes, but in a way that reminded you of marble, not illness. Preserved. Not decayed. A color that made your brain second-guess itself.

He stopped a careful distance from you, his height folding slightly as he inclined his head. Not deferential, not patronizing—just polite. Attuned. Like a creature who’d spent centuries perfecting human etiquette without ever being human himself.

Instinct made you step back. Your breath caught.

“Holy shit,” you blurted. “Do you have… Argyria?”

He tilted his head, a frown ghosting across his face like he was trying to compute the question. “No,” he said after a moment, voice low, textured. Almost soothing. “I do not.”

Then his eyes roamed you—slow, thoughtful, clinical. Not with desire, not with threat—like he was unpacking a file only he could read. His gaze wasn’t the kind that undressed you. It unspooled you.

He made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “You’re a medical student, yes?”

You froze. “How do you—?”

He walked past you, each step soft and unnervingly quiet, rounding the desk with a smooth turn of his shoulder. His fingers brushed the desk surface like he was orienting himself with muscle memory.

“You carry yourself like someone who’s trained their exhaustion into structure,” he said, more to the desk than to you. “Your posture is clinical. Your eyes never stop scanning. Slight tremor in the left hand suggests chronic overextension. Pair that with the guarded breathing, the subtle shift in weight when approached from behind—textbook hypervigilance.”

He turned back to face you. His eyes locked with yours again.

“Your libido is comatose, yes?”

You blinked. “What—”

“And you smell faintly of herbs,” he added, softly, “something floral beneath the surface. Artificial, like a cheap perfume meant to disguise the real scent. Something sweet, desperate. Useful.”

You stood, stunned into silence.

Every nerve in your body was ringing like it had been plucked. What the actual hell had you just walked into? And why, despite all logic, did it feel like... exactly where you were supposed to be?

The man moved without a word, extending one long arm past the threshold to open a nondescript door tucked into the hallway’s end. The hinges didn’t creak—they glided, soundlessly. The room inside was dimly lit but strangely warm, nothing like the cold sterility of the corridor. 

At first glance, it looked like a therapist’s office—or some vague approximation of one. Two chairs sat opposite each other: high-backed, dark fabric, a bit too clean, a bit too deliberate in their placement. 

Potted plants softened the corners—large-leafed, thriving, well-watered. The air held a faint scent of petrichor and sage. It was subtle, like the room had been exhaling while no one was there. The walls held a few certificates, two diplomas, and a clock.

You noticed that immediately. 

Again, everything was too clean. Not clinical—but manicured. Controlled. As though someone had designed this space not for comfort, but for ease of disarmament. You stepped closer, the doorway framing you. But your feet hesitated. Something primal, buried, and clawed screamed softly inside your chest. A warning. That if you stepped into that room, if your foot crossed that threshold… it wouldn’t be just your body walking in.

You swallowed. Hard.

The man leaned against the doorframe now, arms crossed, his presence still and observant. Watching, not pushing. He didn’t coax you. Didn’t rush you. His voice came soft, measured:

“It’s professional. I assure you.”

You met his gaze—those endless black eyes—and didn’t see a lie. But you didn’t see the truth either. Just… depth. He glanced away, absently brushing a loose curl from his temple. “When did you find my card?”

Your lips twitched. “Friend gave it to me,” you said, fingers quoting air. “Claim they found it at the ‘club’ they frequent.” 

That’s when his eyes widened slightly, his face lifting in something that looked like genuine amusement. He let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound curling through the quiet like smoke.

“Ah. That place.”

“You go there often?” you asked, curiosity sharpening to a point.

He straightened slowly, still smiling. “Now and then. Good for getting the word out. Not many people in your situation ask for help in… traditional places.”

You tilted your head, one brow raising. “And what exactly do you do?”

He seemed to pause—not for hesitation, but for precision. Like he was combing through a thousand possible answers and measuring which one wouldn’t make you walk away. Finally, he said: “I work with... bodily systems. Unblock pathways. Redirect energy. Reset patterns. Most of it is touch-based. Topical. Very specific. Not mainstream. But it’s effective.”

You frowned. That was vague enough to mean anything from chiropractic therapy to illicit back-alley sorcery.

“You’re a medical student too?” you asked, more defensively than intended.

He hummed. “Was. For a time.” A pause. “Now I work to pay off the debts.”

Then he gave a slow tilt of his head. “And before we begin, I should mention—my sessions aren’t exactly cheap.”

His eyes glinted faintly.

“Still willing to go through with this?”

You stood, heart somewhere between your throat and your spine. Your body still thrummed from the dream, from the walk, from him. This wasn’t sane. This wasn’t rational. But then again, neither was what was happening to you.

You sighed—the long, tired kind of sigh that sounded like it had aged a decade on its way out. Truth be told, you really didn’t want to leave without getting something resolved. Not after dragging yourself through the iron-scented meat shop, past the flickering stairwell light, and into this strange little time vacuum of a room.

“If I come out dead, I come out dead,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, as you finally stepped forward. “It’s not like I’m missing brunch with a life coach.”

This was, in some weird, macabre way, the most interesting thing to happen to you in months. Hell, maybe years. If you were going to spiral, might as well do it with a little flair and mystery. You squared your shoulders, glanced back at the man, and with the enthusiasm of someone marching into a mild haunting, said: “Alright.”

He hummed—soft, approving, almost like a cat that had just seen you pick up its favorite toy—and stepped aside to let you pass. As you entered, the smell of the room shifted again, warmer now, like bergamot and dry cedar, grounded and oddly calming.

The door clicked shut behind you. A little too gently. 

He gestured toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

You chose the one that didn’t face the door—a risk, but also felt like a test—and he slid into the opposite chair with ease. Just fluid motion, like gravity, took him differently than it took everyone else. From a side drawer built into the table, he pulled out a clipboard and a pen. The scratch of it echoed a little too loudly in the stillness.

He looked up at you, eyes glittering darkly. “Before we begin, let’s do a quick intake.”

You blinked. “Didn’t I already fill that out online?”

“Yes,” he replied without looking up. “But this is more for me. A… recap.”

You raised a brow. “So you’re giving me a pop quiz on my own trauma?”

“I find it helps to speak it aloud,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Clarifies intent. Filters out exaggeration. Or embellishment.”

You exhaled slowly. “Alright then.” You tapped your fingers against your knee, pausing before letting the words tumble out. “My issue is… weird.”

He didn’t blink. Just nodded, as if “weird” was his mother tongue.

You hesitated again. “Like, I don’t know if it’s physical or psychological. But I wake up… not exactly aroused, but like my body thinks it is. Except there’s no—” You made a vague, circular gesture. “No stimulation. No dreams I can recall. Just this… residue. Like my nervous system got love-bombed by a ghost.”

He blinked once. Still quiet.

“And I can’t concentrate. Nor get off as I want to for stress relief. Everything’s wired wrong. I feel like a haunted, but emotionally detached.”

The corner of his eye twitched. 

You swore—swore—that might’ve been a smirk.

He scribbled something down. “Interesting.”

You exhaled through your nose, slowly, one eyebrow arching with muted skepticism. Of course. Still, you weren’t here to play games. Not too many, at least. “So?” you said, his name careful on your tongue. You looked away for a second, then met his eyes again, sharper this time. “How do I fix my issue? What is it exactly? What do you think’s going on?”

He nodded once, slow and deliberate, and set the clipboard aside with a soft clatter against the side table. “Anorgasmia,” The man said, as if the word wasn’t something that could make you want to melt into the floor. 

He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands folded—long fingers, clean nails, veins just barely visible under that unnervingly smooth, pale skin. “Specifically, it sounds like you’re experiencing Female Orgasmic Disorder. Acquired, generalized. Based on what you put in your intake and your… reaction, I’d guess it’s been ongoing for more than six months, right?”

You blinked, hard, then nodded. That clinical delivery should’ve felt sterile, cold. It didn’t. His voice was low, textured. Intimate without trying to be. And God help you, it was kind of hot. You couldn’t tell if it was his confidence or his complete lack of awkwardness when talking about something that made you want to crawl out of your skin—but it worked. 

You were listening, hanging off each word. 

Your eyes narrowed slightly, involuntarily tracing the line of his throat to where his collar rested—loose black, matte fabric, something tactical and breathable. His posture was perfect: relaxed but with intention. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t blink too often. There was a heaviness to him, a quiet focus that made you feel pinned, studied… and not in a way that made you want to leave. Damn it.

“So basically,” you said dryly, forcing your gaze back up to his face, “my vagina’s in a coma.”

He cracked a brief, silent laugh through his nose—lips curling just slightly beneath the mask. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And you’re telling me the solution is…” You hesitated, bracing. “To build sensations back up?”

“Yes.” He said it simply, without any waver. 

“That’s the starting point, at least. If you were hoping for a prescription or an easy out, I’m afraid there isn’t one. There’s no single medication that resolves this. At best, there are supplements that might help increase blood flow or sensitivity, but they’re not proven. What you need is guided stimulation therapy—Sensate Focus, gradual reintroduction of arousal, maybe eventually partnered techniques—”

You cut him off, “You sound like you’re assigning more homework than I already have to deal with on a daily basis,” you muttered, cheeks heating. “Just with more nudity.”

That earned another small smirk. “Only if you’re an overachiever.”

Oof. You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He continued, not unkindly. “You’re not broken. This is more common than most people think. Stress, medical trauma, interpersonal issues… and in your case, high-functioning academic burnout. You’ve been so focused on achieving, suppressing, managing everything, that your nervous system no longer registers pleasure as safe or worth prioritizing.”

You blinked, stunned. “I—I didn’t even say—how do you—”

The man tilted his head slightly. “Again, you carry exhaustion like armor. And guilt. You intellectualize your body instead of inhabiting it.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your throat felt tight.

“And…” he added, tone dipping lower as his eyes flicked over your face, “you haven’t had the time. Or the space. Or the kind of partner who asks you to stay in the moment.”

You swallowed thickly. “…So what now?”

“Now?” he said, gently. “We start small. Sessions like this. Focused touch. Retraining your response system. Making your body feel safe again.”

You felt your fingers twitch in your lap, not sure whether to bolt or laugh or just melt into the chair. Then, because you needed to feel like you had some control, you leaned back, folded your arms, and asked, “And before we go further… are you gonna tell me your name? Or am I just supposed to keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Mildly Threatening?”

That finally cracked something. His smirk deepened, the smallest glint of teeth visible behind the mask.

“You can call me Jack.”

You raised a brow. “…Just Jack?”

He tilted his head, eyes glittering like obsidian in the low light. “For now.”

“…So, Jack,” you said, dragging his name out with a hint of sarcasm, “you do this often? Therapize poor souls out of their orgasmless despair?”

Jack leaned forward, just slightly. “Only the .” He said as he stood smoothly, setting the clipboard aside with practiced ease, and gestured for you to follow him. 

You did—hesitantly at first—rising from the stiff chair and trailing after him as he crossed the hall and unlocked another door with a soft click. When he pushed it open, the first thing to hit you was the warmth.

The lighting was low and amber, diffused through soft bulbs hidden behind velvet-draped sconces. The space smelled faintly of cedarwood and something sweet you couldn’t quite place—almost like jasmine. 

It was… not what you expected. At all. You’d prepared yourself for a clinical space, something sterile or weirdly kinky, but this room?

It was intimate. Luxurious, almost. 

Rich textures blanketed every surface: soft velvets, high-thread count cotton, brushed suede. The walls were painted a deep, dusky blue that made the shadows look heavier, closer.

A plush bed with dark sheets dominated one side of the room, framed by heavy curtains and stacked pillows in earthy tones. There were other touches too—soft rugs layered beneath your feet, a tray of water and mints, tissues neatly folded. A single mirror, gold-framed and slightly fogged, leaned in the corner.

And then there was the chair.

It looked like something halfway between a modern art sculpture and a spaceship seat—sleek, curved, contoured like it had been made to cradle someone. It was upholstered in black leather with subtle seams and built-in supports.  Strange as it was, it didn’t feel perverse. Not cheesy or tacky.

It was… functional. Designed. Like everything else in this room.

Jack gestured toward it casually, like it wasn’t anything to raise an eyebrow over. “That,” he said, “is a sensual lounge chair. Enhanced positioning. For alignment, breath regulation, deeper physical feedback.”

Your stomach flipped again. Christ.

He turned toward a cabinet and pulled out another clipboard, this one thicker than the first, and handed it to you. “Before we go further,” he said, “you’ll need to sign this waiver. Standard practice. And—” he paused, meeting your eyes with that intense calm—“we’ll need a safe word.”

You blinked. “A safe word?”

Jack nodded, leaning back against the counter, hands folded loosely in front of him. “Yes. My sessions—whatever form they take—require that the patient always feels in control. If, at any moment, you feel unsafe or overwhelmed, you use it. No questions asked. Everything stops.”

That… wasn’t what you expected. For someone who looked like the personification of a Victorian ghost with resting murder face, he was oddly considerate. Thorough.

“And,” he continued, “you should also indicate if there are any areas of your body you don’t want touched—or if touch in general is an issue.”

You hesitated. Jack watched your silence carefully.

“I’m… not exactly comfortable being touched,” you admitted, voice lower now, unsure. “Not really.”

He tilted his head, brow faintly furrowed. “As in, discomfort from trauma or—?”

You shook your head. “I’ve never… been touched. At least by someone that’s not me. I’ve tried. It just—never worked. Nothing felt… real. Or good. I don’t think I’ve ever had an actual orgasm. And it’s not like I even want sex, really. I just—” You exhaled, rubbing your temple. “—use it to sleep. For stress relief. However there’s never been feeling.”

Jack didn’t speak right away. His gaze didn’t shift, but it softened—just slightly. He stepped forward, retrieving the clipboard gently from your hands and flipping through your answers with quiet focus.

“I see,” he murmured eventually. “That’s… unusual. Not unheard of, but rare. You’re likely dealing with a variant of the Disorder. Possibly psychogenic anorgasmia, possibly neurochemical. But your phrasing—never felt real, never wanted—it’s more complex.”

You nodded, arms crossed tightly. You felt vaguely ridiculous standing in a velvet sex room, discussing the void that lived between your thighs with someone who looked like a cursed Renaissance painting. But oddly enough… you didn’t feel judged.

Jack reached for a pen, jotting something down. Then, after a moment of consideration, he looked up. “I’m registering you as a special case,” he said simply. “Again, we’ll go slow. No expectations. No pressure. Just sensation. Understanding. Rebuilding the pathway.”

Your breath caught. Despite yourself, your eyes drifted over him again—his posture, the quiet precision of his movements, the way his sleeves had pushed up just slightly at the forearms. 

Even the way he held the pen. God, even that was hot.

You cleared your throat. “And you’re… trained for this?”

That smirk again—barely there, but you caught it. “Let’s just say I’m highly practiced.”

You looked at the waiver. Then at him. Then, slowly, you picked up the pen.

“…What’s the safe word?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Your choice.”

You glanced around the room, then muttered, “Velvet.”

Jack nodded once, like it was sacred. “Velvet it is.”

Jack's hand lingered at the back of the chair, fingers grazing the leather as he gestured for you to sit. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice deep but even, “relax back, let it support you. It’s built for comfort.”

You eyed the chair, skeptical but curious. The leather was cool against the backs of your thighs as you slowly settled into it. Jack crouched beside you without a word and gently slid your bag from your shoulder, placing it neatly beside the chair like it deserved a designated resting place of its own.

He looked at you with quiet concentration, one hand resting on the edge of the seat. “May I touch you?” he asked.

There was something respectful in the way he said it—not hesitant, but patient. You gave a small nod, and he murmured, “Say it.”

“Yes,” you said, just above a whisper. “You can.”

He nodded in return, then reached up… and touched your ears? Your expression must have said ‘what the hell are you doing’, because Jack actually gave a soft huff of amusement under his breath. “There are over a dozen zones in the female body that can stimulate a neurological arousal response,” he said smoothly, his thumbs brushing gently around the outer edge of your ears. “Ears are one of the most overlooked.”

You blinked at him. There was no reaction. Nothing flared in your stomach or between your legs. You weren’t even sure it tickled. You just stared at him, flatly. Jack pulled his hands back, nodding to himself like he was taking mental notes.

“Alright. Not the ears.”

Next, he moved to your scalp, his fingers spreading through your hair with practiced ease. You expected it to feel awkward, maybe even clinical, but instead it was… gentle. Thoughtful. His fingertips pressed down just enough to release tension, circling at the base of your skull, following invisible patterns across your scalp.

Your eyes softened. Your breath evened. It didn’t arouse you—not in the way you feared or expected—but it felt good. Normal. Like something you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

Jack noticed, clearly. “Noted,” he murmured, withdrawing again. “Some feedback, not enough to trigger arousal. Good to know.”

He stepped around the chair, “The neck, then.”

When his fingers touched the back of your neck, it was subtle—almost like he was testing the current in a live wire. He barely pressed at all, and yet your entire body tensed beneath the surface like a ripple across still water. Your breath hitched.

Jack froze.

“…Interesting,” he muttered. “Odd tingle, but not necessarily pleasant?”

“It’s—” you started, but hesitated. “It’s something. I don’t know what.”

He gave a faint frown, filing that away. “Alright. Moving down.”

Then his fingers gently circled your inner wrists. You watched him as he focused—his brows slightly drawn, touch featherlight, like he was reading braille in your skin. “These are usually extremely responsive,” he said quietly. “Especially in individuals with dulled primary zones. The nerves are close to the surface here.”

You just stared at him. Nothing.

He looked up at you and raised an eyebrow. “Still nothing?” he asked.

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He gave a quiet exhale through his nose, but not out of frustration. Just… reassessment. “Okay,” he said. “Lower back next. The muscular network there is directly tied to your abdomen and pelvic floor. Sometimes, tension here bottlenecks sensation.”

His hand slid to your waist, firm but not invasive, and pressed into your lower back. The motion was a slow knead, thumbs working just beside your spine. A small breath escaped you—not from pleasure, exactly, but from release. It felt like something began to melt from your muscles. Like heat unfurling.

Jack stilled again. 

“Better,” he said. “Still not there. But… warming.”

You let out a low sound of agreement, your body leaning back more deeply into the curve of the chair. Your muscles weren’t buzzing, but they weren’t frozen either.

Jack stood upright, arms crossed loosely as he studied your posture, your breathing, every inch of your subdued response. “Shit… definitely a complex case,” he said, half to himself. “You have all the parts—just not the ignition.”

You quirked a brow up at him. “Are you calling me broken?”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he said. “I’m calling you… locked. That’s different.”

You watched him. Even his frown was attractive—concentrated, thoughtful, not overdramatic. He wasn’t rattled. He was just… intrigued. Motivated. Somehow, that made the heat in the room just a little thicker.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. 

He watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. There was something unsettling in his stillness—something restrained. Like he was holding back more than just words. You sat on the edge of the chair, shoulders tense, knuckles pale as you clutched the armrests like they might anchor you in reality.

He crouched in front of you slowly, making sure not to invade your space too suddenly. Then, in that same low voice he always used when speaking seriously, he asked, “Would you feel safer if I guided you through the rest? Or would you prefer to take the lead?”

Your throat was dry, your thoughts in knots. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted softly, hating the vulnerability in your voice.

He nodded, taking your words without judgment. “That’s alright. I’ll take care of the pacing,” he said. Then he stood and gently reached out a hand. 

“May I?”

The question hung between you, soft as a pulse. You glanced down at his outstretched hand—palm upturned, fingers slightly curled—then back to his face. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes held yours with a quiet intensity. Not hunger, not impatience. Just waiting.

You swallowed, then placed your hand in his.

His grip was warm. Not the dry, clinical touch of a doctor, but something living—calluses you hadn’t noticed before brushed against your knuckles, subtle proof of hands that worked, that knew their own strength.

He guided you up carefully, his other hand lifting the clipboard from your lap with a precision that bordered on reverence. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Would you be comfortable sitting on my lap?"

His voice was low, barely more than breath against your ear. The question shouldn’t have felt so intimate—not here, not like this—but something about the way he asked it, the way his thumb traced a slow arc over your wrist as he waited for your answer, made your stomach tighten.

You hesitated. 

Not from fear, but from the sheer strangeness of it. 

When was the last time someone had held you? Not for sex, not for comfort, but just—held you? The thought was almost embarrassing in its simplicity.

Yet you nodded.

Jack stepped back, settling onto the chair first. His posture was relaxed but controlled, thighs slightly parted to make space for you. He didn’t pull you down, didn’t rush. Just lifted his chin, watching you with those endless black eyes, and let you come to him.

You lowered yourself slowly, every nerve alight. The first brush of your back against his chest was electric—not from arousal, but from the sheer warmth of him. He was solid, real in a way that made your breath stutter. His arms came around your waist, not trapping, not demanding, just there. 

A steady weight. An anchor.

And then—his breath.

You hadn’t expected that. The slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your spine, the heat of his exhale skimming the nape of your neck. It was too much. Too close. Your own breathing was shallow, uneven, a frantic counterpoint to his calm.

"You’re safe."

His voice rumbled through you, deeper now that you were pressed against him. One hand rested lightly above your ribs, his palm a brand even through the fabric of your shirt. The other stayed at your side, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip. Not teasing. Not yet. Just… measuring.

"We’re going slow. All you have to do is exist here."

The words sank into your skin like a balm. Your shoulders dropped, your lungs expanding fully for what felt like the first time in months. 

The room came into focus around you—the faint scent of lavender and something darker, earthier, clinging to his clothes. The muted hum of a ceiling fan you hadn’t noticed before. The plush give of velvet beneath your fingertips where you’d gripped the armrest. And beneath it all, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time in too long, you felt something.

"Just follow my hands." 

His voice was a murmur, barely louder than the brush of his thumbs along the slope of your neck. You shivered—not from the cold, but from the sheer attention of it. His hands were warm, palms broad enough to cradle the base of your skull as he worked slow circles into the tense cords of muscle there.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

His touch trailed downward, following the curve of your spine, pausing at the dip between your shoulder blades. There was no hesitation in his movements, no fumbling—just the smooth, deliberate drag of skin against skin. When his fingers reached the hem of your shirt, he didn’t push. Didn’t assume. Just splayed his hands over your ribs and waited.

“You okay, there?”

You nodded, your "yes" escaping as a shaky exhale. 

His palms slid beneath the fabric, warm against the bare skin of your stomach. You tensed instinctively, but his grip tightened—not restraining, just steadying. "Easy," he soothed. "This isn’t about getting you off. It’s about learning how you react."

His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, so light it was almost teasing. You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he traced the outer curves, mapping you with a patience that bordered on maddening.

Then—his fingers curled, lifting the fabric higher. Cool air kissed your skin as your shirt rucked up beneath your arms. You glanced down, watching as his hands dwarfed you, his fingers spanning the width of your ribcage.

"Jack—"

He stilled. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you grabbed his wrists, guiding his palms back to your chest. His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Let you press his hands flush against the soft swell of your breasts through your lace black bra, your nipples pebbling under the rough heat of his touch.

Your voice was thin, frayed at the edges. "Pinch them. Like I do when I—when I try to hurry."

A few seconds of silence. Then—

Jack laughed.

Not mocking, not cruel. A soft, breathless sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "That’s your problem, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumbs already circling your nipples with agonizing slowness. "You’re always in a rush."

You whined, hips shifting restlessly.

He ignored it. Just kept his touch featherlight, maddeningly gentle, even as you squirmed. "You don’t need to chase it," he chided, his voice dipping into something darker. "Let it come to you."

Then—finally—he gave you what you asked for. 

His fingers tightened, just shy of pain, and your back arched off his chest with a gasp. "There," he murmured, satisfied. "Now you’re listening." He simply grinned.

“Also, you came prepared."

His voice was low, amused, as his thumbs brushed the hem of your maxi skirt—dark fabric pooling around your hips where you sat straddling his lap. You stiffened slightly at the words, fingers twitching against his hands.

"What do you mean?" you asked, though the heat creeping up your neck already betrayed your understanding.

Jack didn’t answer right away. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the notches of your ribs through your thin top before his thumbs found the peaks of your nipples. He pinched—just so—not harsh, but enough to make your breath hitch. A slow, circular rub followed, the friction deliberate, studying the way your body tensed and released beneath his touch.

“Black lace bra, matching black lace panties,” he observed, voice rough with something that wasn’t quite approval. "Skirt easy to remove. You knew what this session would require."

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hands were already moving down, palms skating over the flare of your hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt.

The leather belt came undone with a quiet snick, the circle buckle cool where it grazed your stomach before he set it aside. His knuckles brushed your navel as he pushed the fabric down, letting it slide to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

His hands settled on your bare thighs now, just shy of the lace edge of your underwear. You could feel your own dampness—faint, but there—and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

Jack noticed. Of course he did.

"Show me," he said, fingers flexing against your skin.

"How you usually touch yourself."

Your pulse thudded in your ears. For a moment, you just stared at him—his gaze unwavering, those black eyes absorbing every twitch of your expression. Then, hesitantly, you crossed your legs, pressing your thighs together in a slow, practiced grind.

Jack’s brows lifted. "What are you doing?"

"I don’t… use my fingers," you admitted, voice barely audible. "They don’t— It doesn’t feel like enough."

A few seconds of silence. Then, a low, incredulous laugh rumbled in his chest. "You get off like this?" His grip tightened slightly on your thighs, as if to emphasize the absurdity. "No wonder you’ve numbed yourself. This much pressure—crossing your legs would dull anyone’s nerves."

You flinched, but his hands gentled instantly, one sliding up to cradle your jaw. "I’m not mocking you," he murmured. "But if you’ll let me—" His thumb brushed your lower lip. "—I’d like to teach you how to do it properly."

Your mouth went dry. "Okay," you whispered.

Jack’s smile was sharp. "Good."

Then his hands were on your hips, lifting you effortlessly to reposition you—knees bracketing his thighs, lace-clad cunt hovering just above the hard line of his own arousal. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but now it was impossible to ignore: the heat of him, the way his breath shallowed when your inner thighs brushed against him.

"First lesson," he said, fingers tracing the soaked seam of your underwear. "You don’t need to crush the sensation to feel it. You need to tease it."

And then—slow, torturous—he dragged the lace aside.

"You’re wet."

His voice was low, matter-of-fact, as his thumb brushed over the soft, puffy lips of your cunt. Not probing, not demanding—just noticing. The contact was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you anyway. Your hips twitched, a reflexive flinch, but his other hand anchored your thigh, keeping you still.

"Probably from me touching your breasts earlier," he mused, more to himself than to you. His fingers retreated, glistening faintly in the dim light. He studied them for a moment, then met your eyes. "You don’t even realize it, do you? Your body reacts before your mind catches up."

You swallowed. You hadn’t realized. The slow, methodical way he’d palmed your breasts—thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric of the lace bra, his breath hot on your neck—had felt clinical at the time. Like an assessment. But now, with his fingers hovering just above your clit, the evidence was undeniable.

Jack tilted his head. "One last chance," he murmured. "Is there anywhere—anywhere at all—that makes you feel good? Even just a little?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. 

Your mind was blank, your nerves alight but directionless. You’d spent so long numb that the mere possibility of pleasure felt like a foreign language.

He sighed. Not frustrated. Resigned.

"Then I need you wetter."

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly. "Stand up."

The command was quiet but absolute. You obeyed on shaky legs, and you rose. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for you to tense—

Slap.

The sound was sharp, sudden. His palm connected with the curve of your ass, not hard enough to sting, but enough to make you gasp. Your muscles clenched, a startled noise catching in your throat, but he was already lifting you, effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. Your underwear peeled away, the fabric dragging against your thighs before pooling at your ankles.

"Step out."

You did. The air was cool against your bare skin, a contrast to the heat building low in your stomach. When you turned to face him, Jack was still seated, his gaze dark and unwavering. He held your discarded underwear between two fingers, studying the damp spot with detached interest before setting them aside.

"Good," he said, as if you’d passed some unspoken test. His hands returned to your hips, guiding you forward until you stood between his spread knees. 

"Now. Let’s try something simple."

One broad palm settled on the inside of your thigh, pressing in—not teasing, not stroking, just pressure. The heel of his hand ground against your muscles, slow and firm, and your breath hitched.

"There it is," he murmured, watching your face. "You don’t need finesse. You just need to be felt." His other hand mirrored the motion on your opposite thigh, fingers digging into the tense flesh. You swayed, your knees threatening to buckle, but his grip held you upright.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his thumbs creeping higher. "Just breathe. I want to test something."

Jack’s voice was low, a rumble against your spine. You felt his hands shift on your hips, his grip firm but not demanding—just enough to steer. His thumb brushed the jut of your hipbone, a silent question.

You tilted your head, frowning. His thigh?

Before you could voice the confusion, he was already moving you. His palms pressed into the softness above your waist, guiding you forward until your bare cunt settled against the hard muscle of his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the heat building beneath.

"Slowly," he murmured, his breath warm on your shoulder.

His hands moved you first, a deliberate rock of your hips against him, letting you feel the drag of friction. It was clinical at first—an experiment, an assessment—but then your body reacted. A spark, faint but undeniable, flickered low in your stomach.

Your breath hitched.

Jack stilled, his fingers flexing against your hips. "You felt that." It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, your throat tight.

"Good." His voice was dark with satisfaction. "Now, do it yourself."

He released you, his palms sliding away until only the ghost of his touch remained. For a moment, you hesitated, hovering above him, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. Then, tentatively, you rolled your hips.

The sensation was sharper this time—less controlled, more yours. A quiet sound escaped you, barely more than a sigh. Jack’s exhale was ragged against your neck, his own restraint fraying at the edges as he watched you.

"Again."

You obeyed, rocking forward with more confidence this time. The pressure was perfect—just enough to tease, not enough to overwhelm. Your fingers dug into his knees for balance as you moved, your pace quickening without thought.

"Look at you," Jack murmured, his voice thick. "Finally feeling something." His hands returned, not to guide you, but to feel you—his thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist, his fingers spanning the curve of your ass, tracing the way your body moved against him. Every touch was possessive, reverent. Like he was memorizing the way you came undone.

Your breath came faster, your hips grinding down in desperate little circles now. The coil in your stomach tightened, your nerves alight with something raw and new. You weren’t just touching yourself—you were using him, his strength, his stillness, the unyielding muscle of his thigh giving you exactly what you needed.

"Slow down." His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet—smooth, but with an edge that made your breath hitch. His fingers curled around your wrist, halting the frantic rhythm of your own touch. You hadn’t even realized you’d started moving against him, hips stuttering with restless need. His grip tightened just enough to emphasize the point, his thumb pressing into your pulse like he was counting every erratic beat.

“Be careful, don’t rush your lesson now.”

Before you could protest, his hands were on your hips, turning you in his lap until you were straddling him backward—your spine pressed flush to his chest, his thighs bracketing yours. The shift was effortless, his strength unsettling in its ease. One arm banded around your waist, holding you in place. The other—

Slap.

A sharp, stinging bite against your bare cunt, just hard enough to make you gasp. The sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by the slick, obscene proof of how wet you were.

"Look at that," Jack murmured, his voice a dark hum against your ear. His fingers glided through your folds with clinical precision, spreading you open like a specimen he couldn’t wait to study.

"Dripping. And we’ve barely started."

His touch was cold. Not unpleasantly so, but enough to make you flinch—a stark contrast to the heat between your legs. You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of his control, but now it was all you could focus on. The chill of his skin as he dragged a single finger up your slit, circling your clit with agonizing slowness.

"Good girl," he praised, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Look how far you’ve gotten. All tense and desperate, just for me."

You could hear the smirk in his voice. Could feel it in the way his fingers worked you—teasing, taunting, never giving you enough. Just slow, maddening circles that had your thighs trembling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, holding you steady as your hips jerked, seeking more friction.

"Ah-ah." A warning nip at your earlobe. "I decide when you come. Not you."

His sharp smile pressed against your throat as you whined, fingers clawing at his thighs. "Patience. There you go," Jack murmured, his voice a dark velvet rasp against your ear. "Just like that."

You didn’t remember when you’d gotten fully naked. 

One moment, you were perched on his lap, his hands mapping the tension in your hips—the next, your clothes were gone, discarded somewhere in the hazy periphery of your awareness. Jack’s cool skin was against your bare skin, but your body was warm, more like a furnace against him. 

His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, slow and methodical, pausing just shy of where you ached. "Tell me what you feel," he said, his breath hot on your shoulder.

"I—" Your voice cracked. 

You were wet. So fucking wet it almost embarrassed you—a slick, shameful heat that had no business pooling this fast under the touch of a man who spoke like a surgeon and held you like a sacrament.

Jack hummed, low and approving. "Good. That’s exactly how you should be." His free hand slid up your stomach, palming your breast with a possessiveness that made your back arch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles. "So responsive. So eager to learn."

You whimpered.

His chuckle was a dark, honeyed thing. "Ah, there’s the sound I’ve been waiting for." He pinched your nipple just so—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your hips jerk—and you gasped, your thighs trembling around his.

"You’re perfect like this," he continued, his voice dipping into something rougher. "All soft curves and pretty, desperate noises. I adore the ones with meat on their bones—something to hold, to savor." His teeth grazed your shoulder, blunt and teasing.

"You’re exactly my type."

Your breath came in shallow pants. 

It was too much. Not enough. His words coiled hot in your belly, his touch everywhere—one hand still working your nipple, the other now dragging through your slick folds with agonizing patience. "Jack—"

"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. "Let me teach you." His fingers parted you gently, his middle finger circling your clit with just the barest pressure. "This is where you start," he murmured. "Slow. Gentle. Let the ache build."

You bit your lip, hips twitching.

"No, no—look." He caught your wrist, guiding your hand down between your legs, his fingers overlaying yours. "Feel that? The way your body pulses when you touch here?" His voice was a sinful whisper, his breath damp against your neck. "That’s your hunger. Don’t rush it. Feed it."

You shuddered, his words searing into your skin. His fingers moved yours in slow, slick strokes—showing you the rhythm, the pressure, the filthy, perfect angle that made your vision blur. 

"You’re so quiet."

Jack’s voice was a low murmur against your ear, his breath warm where his lips nearly brushed your skin. His fingers, still curled gently around your waist, flexed once—a silent prompt.

You hadn’t realized how little sound you’d made until he pointed it out. No moans, no hitched breaths. Just the soft, steady rhythm of your lungs fighting to stay even.

His head tilted, those black eyes scanning your face, again like a surgeon assessing an incision. "Not even a sigh," he mused. "Care to explain?"

You swallowed. "There’s no point," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack went very still behind you. Then, slowly, his hand slid up your torso, his palm skimming the curve of your ribs before settling just beneath your breast. His thumb pressed there, not quite teasing, not quite cruel—just present.

"Are you sure?"

The question hung in the air for half a heartbeat before his other hand dipped between your thighs.

You gasped.

His fingers were bigger than yours—wider, rougher in a way that shouldn’t have been as intoxicating as it was. A single digit pressed inside without warning, stretching you in a single, smooth motion. 

Your back arched instinctively, your nails digging into the arm still wrapped around your waist. "Breathe," Jack reminded you, his voice dark with amusement. "And explain."

You tried. God, you tried. But your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm as he began to move—slow, deliberate drags in and out, his knuckles brushing sensitive flesh with every retreat. 

Your hips jerked, chasing the sensation, but his grip on your waist held firm, keeping you pinned against his chest. "I—" You choked on the word as his thumb circled your clit, feather-light. "I never—needed—to moan."

Jack tsked, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast, fingers plucking at your nipple just hard enough to make you jolt. "Try again."

"It was just—quick," you panted, your thighs trembling around his wrist. "Just to—to relax. Never—ah!—never like this."

He hummed, considering. His finger curled inside you, pressing up in a way that made your vision blur. "Can you handle another?"

You nodded frantically.

Jack’s grip on your breast tightened in warning. "Words, sweetheart."

"Y-yes—"

The second finger breached you before you could finish, stretching you impossibly wider. Your legs spasmed, a broken sound tearing from your throat as your body clenched around him. It was too much—the stretch, the heat, the way your own slick coated his fingers with every thrust. You could hear it, wet and obscene, and the sound alone sent a fresh wave of heat flooding between your thighs.

Jack’s lips grazed your shoulder. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something like pride. "Dripping all over my fingers and you’ve barely made a sound."

You sighed softly, your hips rocking helplessly against his hand.

Then Jack stops.

You don’t realize he’s moved until his hands leave your waist, the sudden absence of his touch like a cold draft against your skin. You start to turn your head, confused—

And then he lifts you.

Effortlessly. As if your weight is nothing. One arm hooks under your knees, the other cradles your back, and in a single motion, he stands, taking you with him. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling for purchase against his shoulders as the world tilts.

"Wha—?"

No warning. No explanation. Just the dizzying shift of gravity as he carries you the few steps to the bed and drops you—softly, deliberately—into the nest of pillows. Your head sinks into the downy embrace, hair fanning out around you.

And then he’s over you. 

Knees bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head, his shadow swallowing you whole.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Up close, the sheer size of him is startling. You knew he was tall, but like this—his torso blocking the light, his thighs pressing yours wider—he’s overwhelming. Lean, yes, but corded with a strength that makes your stomach flip. His shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining with the faintest shift of muscle as he leans down.

"I’m offering you an experience," he murmurs, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. "A real one."

Your pulse stutters. "W-why?"

His lips curl—just slightly. "Because I’ve touched you everywhere. Played with your breasts. Slapped your pretty cunt. Even fingered you." A pause, deliberate. "And you didn’t come. Not once."

The words shouldn’t burn. Not when he says them like he’s reciting lab results. But they do. Your face flames, thighs pressing together instinctively—only for his knee to nudge them back apart. "You got wet," he continues, thumb brushing your lower lip. "But wetness isn’t your goal. You want you to come. Hard. And I’m willing to make that happen."

Your breath is coming too fast now. "H-how?"

Jack’s smile is all teeth. "By eating you out."

Your entire body locks up. Eating you out. The phrase rattles in your skull like a stone in a tin can. You’ve never—no one’s ever—God, you don’t even know what it’s supposed to feel like. Just the thought of his mouth there, his tongue—

No. No no no.

You jerk your head to the side, one hand slapping over your eyes like a child hiding from a nightmare. It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. A medical student, for Christ’s sake. But the heat in your cheeks is volcanic, your chest so tight it aches.

A chuckle—amused—vibrates through the mattress. "Tiny thing," Jack muses, "and yet so scared." Then his fingers wrap around your wrist, prying your hand away from your face. "Look at me."

You don’t want to. You do. 

And—oh. 

The face mask is gone.

His face is—Handsome isn’t the right word. It’s too… non-human, too soft. Jack is all edges: sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, lips just a shade too red against the cool gray of his skin. His brown hair is a mess of waves, half-tamed, like he’s been running his hands through it. And his ears—those damn pointed ears—twitch faintly as he studies your reaction.

But—with his full face, his eyes that steal your breath. 

Pitch black. No whites, no pupils, just endless depth—like staring into a well at midnight. And beneath them, those faint, inky tear lines, as if he’s been crying shadows. 

You should be terrified. This isn’t a man. This is something other. Something that shouldn’t exist outside of folklore or fever dreams.

But he’s also hot. Professionally, clinically hot.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the fascinating one.

Your throat bobs. "I—"

Jack doesn’t let you finish. He lifts your captured hand to his mouth—and bites your palm. Not hard. Not enough to break skin. Just a slow, deliberate press of teeth, his tongue flicking against the fleshy base of your thumb. A shiver rockets down your spine.

"It’s okay to be scared," he murmurs against your skin. "I’ll be gentle." A pause. "Unless you want me to be rough."

The option hangs between you, ripe as fruit. You groan, rolling your eyes like you’re not already arching into him. "Just—just fucking do it, Jack."

His grin is wicked. "Good girl." His lips pressed against yours without warning, but not without permission—the kind you’d given with your breath hitching, with your fingers curling into the sheets of the bed. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming, a hot, deliberate slide of his mouth over yours, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Open," he murmured against you, voice dark as spilled ink.

You hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before parting your lips.

He didn’t wait. His tongue swept in, hot and relentless, tangling with yours in a way that felt less like an invitation and more like a taking. Your mouth felt full, overwhelmed, every flick and twist of his tongue dragging a muffled sound from your throat. He kissed you like he was mapping you, like he could taste the years of numbness on your tongue and was determined to burn it away.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were wet, swollen. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching a thread of saliva, and his eyes locked onto yours. "Good," he said, low and rough. 

"So good for me already."

Then he was moving down.

He didn’t rush. Every inch of you was a ritual. His lips traced the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse, the hollow of your throat—each touch a brand. His hands followed, sliding down your sides, fingertips pressing just hard enough to make you arch.

When he reached your breasts, he paused. His breath was hot against your skin as he looked up at you, those black eyes glinting. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said—but it wasn’t a question. It was a reminder. That you were still in control. That he wouldn’t take what you didn’t give.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue circling slow and wet before his teeth grazed the peak. Your back bowed off the chair, a broken noise tearing from your lips. He hummed, pleased, his free hand cupping your other breast, thumb rolling over the neglected nipple until it ached.

"Jack—" you gasped.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. "You sound pretty when you say my name." Then he switched sides, lavishing the same torment on your other breast, his fingers pinching the first just enough to make your thighs jerk together.

He didn’t let you. His knee slid between yours, forcing them apart. "None of that," he chided, voice dripping with amusement. "I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet."

His lips trailed lower—over the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, the trembling plane of your stomach. Every kiss was a brand, every nip of his teeth a spark, then glancing up at you. "Last chance to say no."

You didn’t.

His hands slid up your bare legs, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider. The first breath he took against your cunt was audible—a slow, deliberate inhale. His groan vibrated through you. "Fuck. You smell perfect."

You shuddered, hips lifting instinctively, but his grip tightened, holding you down. "Ah-ah. I’ll take care of you. Just let me." His hands slid beneath you, palms broad and warm against the curve of your ass, lifting you just enough to adjust your weight. 

The grip was firm—not demanding, but certain, like he knew exactly how to hold you without letting you strain. Your thighs fell open wider, almost embarrassingly so, the cool air of the room brushing against skin that had never felt so exposed.

Then his mouth.

Cold at first—a shock of contrast where you were already throbbing—his lips pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. Not where you wanted him, not yet. He was savoring this, tracing the delicate crease where leg met hip with the tip of his nose, inhaling like you were something sacred. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, then found his face, cupping his jaw as if to steady yourself. His stubble scraped lightly against your palm, rough and real.

When his tongue finally dragged a long, flat stroke up your center, your back arched off the chair. A gasp tore from your throat, your hand fisting in his hair before you could think to stop yourself. Brown strands wrapped around your fingers, silky and thick, and you pulled—just enough to hear him groan against you.

The vibration rolled through your nerves like a shockwave.

"Fuck—" you choked out, hips jerking.

Jack’s breath hitched, his nose bumping your clit as he glanced up. "Sorry," he murmured, voice already wrecked. But you didn’t let him retreat. 

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back, holding him in place with a desperation that should’ve embarrassed you.

"Don’t you dare stop."

A huff of laughter warmed your skin before he obeyed, diving back in with a focus that made your toes curl. His tongue was relentless now—flicking, circling, then pressing inside with a twist that had you seeing stars. One of his hands slid up your body, palming your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple in time with every lick. 

You whimpered, the dual sensation short-circuiting your thoughts.

And the sounds—your moans pitched higher, breathier, tumbling from your lips like prayers. His ears twitched at each one, the pointed tips flicking forward as if to catch every broken sigh. You could feel how much it pleased him, the way his fingers flexed against your ribs, the way his hips shifted restlessly between your legs like he was holding himself back from grinding into the chair.

Then his free hand gripped your thigh, pushing it wider, deeper, as he sucked your clit between his lips.

Your vision whited out.

"Jack—" you sobbed, thighs trembling around him.

He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and you ground against his face, chasing the pleasure like you’d die without it. His fingers pinched your nipple just shy of pain, and you came with a cry so loud it echoed off the velvet walls.

Jack didn’t let up. Not until you were squirming, oversensitive, your hands fluttering weakly against his shoulders in protest. Only then did he lean back, lips glistening, chin damp, his breathing as ragged as yours.

"Good?" he asked, though the smirk in his voice said he already knew.

You could only stare at him, dazed, your chest heaving.

Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips.

"Let’s try that again."

Your breath hitched. Again? You’d already come once—shaking, gasping, your thighs clamped around his head like a vice. But Jack wasn’t satisfied. No, the way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his lips glistened with you as he pulled back to smirk up at you—he wanted more.

"You didn’t scream," he murmured, dragging his tongue—tongues?—slowly up your inner thigh. "You didn’t even beg. And from the way your body locked up just now?" A chuckle, dark and knowing. 

"You wanted to come hard."

Damn him. Damn him for reading you like a medical chart, for seeing the truth in the way your back arched, the way your fingers twisted in the sheets. You had wanted it rough. Needed it. Months of numbness, of dull, mechanical friction, and here he was—ruining you with just his mouth.

And then—

His lips sealed over you again, and this time, there was no teasing.

One thick, slick stroke of his tongue from entrance to clit, and your back bowed off the chair. A whimper tore from your throat as he flicked—sharp, merciless—against your oversensitive bundle of nerves. The noise you made was pathetic, broken, and Jack growled against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.

"There it is," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face as his tongues—what the fuck—pressed against your entrance. "That little gasp. That’s the sound of you feeling something."

Then he pushed in.

One out of his three tongues. Your vision whited out.

The middle one was thick, ridged, fucking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts while the other two coiled around your clit, lapping and squeezing in tandem. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. 

Your hips jerked, desperate, but Jack’s grip on your thighs was iron, holding you open, forcing you to take it. "You wanna take a closer look?" he teased, pulling back just enough to let you see.

Your stomach dropped.

Three tongues. Long, sinuous, glistening with your arousal. The middle one tapered to a wicked point, the other two slightly shorter but no less skilled, curling lazily in the air like they were tasting you already.

"Wha—" you choked out, but Jack just grinned, all sharp teeth and dark amusement.

"Special case, special treatment," he purred, lowering his mouth again. "And you, sweet thing? You’re very special."

The middle tongue speared into you, deeper this time, fucking in and out with a rhythm that had your toes curling. The other two twisted around your clit, one applying steady pressure while the other flicked rapidly, brutally, over the swollen bud.

You sobbed. "Jack—fuck—!"

He hummed, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "That’s it. Let go." You couldn’t. You were too busy unraveling, your orgasm crashing into you like a tidal wave, your thighs trembling, your nails clawing in his brown hair beneath you. It was too much, the overstimulation bordering on pain, but Jack didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Just kept working you, dragging out every last shudder, every broken gasp.

And then—

"Teach me how to scream," you begged, voice raw.

Jack’s eyes gleamed. "Gladly." He quickly stops. 

The shift is sudden, but not rushed. One moment, you’re cradled against the bed, lulled by the rhythm of his tongue was just deep inside you; the next, his hands are guiding you up, turning you with a quiet certainty that leaves no room for hesitation.

He leans back onto the bed, creaking softly. His movements are fluid, almost predatory in their precision—stretching out like a shadow given form, his head propped against the pillows, those black eyes fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter.

“Come here.”

His voice is rougher now, the clinical detachment fraying at the edges. A command, not a request.

You hesitate, knees sinking into the mattress beside his hips. The air between you is thick with the scent of your own arousal, the slick heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. Jack’s nostrils flare, his tongue darting out to wet his lips—too sharp, too pointed—and suddenly, the reality of what he’s asking crashes over you.

Sit on his face.

Your breath hitches. “I—I don’t know if I can—”

“You can.” His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees. “And I can take it.” There’s a dark promise in his words, a dare. 

“I want you to scream my name like it’s going out of style.”

You move.

Clumsy with want, you straddle his chest, one hand braced against the headboard for balance. Jack doesn’t rush you. He watches, eyes swallowing whatever faint light exists in the room, as you lower yourself—inch by trembling inch—until your thighs frame his face, until the heat of your cunt hovers just above his mouth.

His breath ghosts over you, hot and deliberate.

Then contact.

The first lick is slow, almost reverent. A flat, wet stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair. Jack groans, the vibration against your sensitive flesh drawing a broken sound from your throat.

“Fuck—!”

He doesn’t let you recover. His tongue flicks, teasing your clit before plunging deeper, fucking into you with a rhythm that’s too perfect, too practiced. You gasp, hips jerking forward, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place.

“Stay.” The word is muffled against your skin, but the order is clear.

You whimper, nails scraping his scalp as his tongue curls inside you, fucking in and out with obscene precision. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Your thighs shake, your breath coming in ragged pants, but Jack doesn’t relent.

Then—a sudden second pressure, another tongue—thicker, rougher—joins the first, lapping at your entrance before pushing in alongside it. Your eyes fly open, a strangled moan tearing from your lips. What the hell—?! 

Jack’s grip on your thighs tightens, his breaths coming faster now, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, dragging both tongues over that sweet, spongy spot inside you. Your vision goes whites out.

“J-Jack—!”

He growls, the sound vibrating through your core. His mouth is still on you when you feel it—something wrong. A slow, slick pressure, thinner than his tongue, curling against your inner thigh like a living thing. Your breath hitches, muscles locking, but Jack doesn’t let you pull away. His hands tighten on your hips, pinning you in place as that third tongue—fuck, it’s a third tongue—slithers up through the mess he’s already made of you.

It flicks once, twice, against your clit, teasing the swollen bud before pushing in alongside the others.

You scream.

It’s too much—the stretch, the fullness, the way he spears into you with a hunger that borders on violence. His teeth graze your thigh, his nails carving half-moons into your skin as he fucks into you with that unnatural muscle, coiling and twisting inside you like he’s trying to carve his name into your walls.

Jack’s eyes roll back, his hips jerking beneath you as if he’s the one being ruined. His face is glazed with your slick, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in ragged, animal pants. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when you sob his name like a prayer, not when your nails tear bloody furrows through his hair, not when your thighs shake and your vision whites out—

—because then you’re coming, hard enough to choke on it, your orgasm ripping through you like a live wire.

He drinks it down. Every spasm, every pulse, his tongues working you through it until you’re wrung dry, until your screams dissolve into broken whimpers. Only then does he let you collapse, your body limp, your mind wiped blank.

Jack exhales, slow and satisfied, his fingers tracing idle, possessive circles on your trembling thighs.

You just came hard enough to black out—vision tunneling, muscles seizing, a silent scream locked behind your teeth—but he catches you before you fall. His arms wrap around you, cradling your limp form against his chest with an unsettling gentleness. His lips brush your forehead in a mockery of tenderness, the gesture sweet enough to make your stomach twist. 

Then, with deliberate slowness, he drags his teeth over your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to bruise.

You gasp, jerking in his hold, but he doesn’t let you pull away. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your waist like he’s memorizing the give of it.

"Shhhhh…"

His voice is a dark purr, thick with something that isn’t quite human. You feel it vibrate through your ribs, deep and resonant, like the hum of a predator after a good meal. His breath is warm against your skin, but his mouth—when he licks a slow stripe up your throat—is cold.

Too cold.

You try to twist away, but his free hand slides up to cover your mouth before you can scream. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your jaw open just slightly, and he leans in, inhaling like he’s savoring the scent of your panic.

"Shhhh... There’s no need to scream now," he murmurs, voice dripping with false reassurance.

That’s when you see it.

The black.

Not just his eyes—no, those have always been voids, endless and depthless—but the slick, tar-like substance now trickling from the corners of his sockets, slow and syrupy, dripping down his cheekbones like tears. It doesn’t fall. It clings, viscous and shimmering, before vanishing into the sharp line of his jaw.

You freeze.

Jack notices. Of course he does.

His lips curve into a smile—too wide, too knowing—and he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "Perfect," he whispers, and this time, when his tongue drags over your pulse point, you taste it—copper and salt and something sweet, something rotting, something that shouldn’t be inside you—

You whimper.

He hums, pleased, and nips at your earlobe. "You did so perfect for me."

His hands slide down your body, mapping the tremors still wracking your limbs, the damp heat between your thighs. He lingers there, pressing two fingers against your clit with a slow, rhythmic pressure that makes your hips jerk despite yourself.

"But I’m not done with you yet."

Because the taste of you—fuck, the taste of you—is better than anything he’s ever had. Better than blood, better than flesh, better than every desperate, writhing thing that’s ever begged beneath his hands.

And he will have more.

He’ll take it slow this time. He’ll let you catch your breath, let your heartbeat settle, let your body remember how to want before he ruins you all over again.

After all, you’re a med student.

You’ll understand the importance of thoroughness. And Jack?

Jack always finishes what he starts.

[aleksatia]

❄️Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Zayne.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

🎨 Rafayel | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Emotional neglect / emotional suppression, Communication breakdown in relationships, References to emotional dissociation, Raised voices / emotionally intense confrontation, Crying / emotional vulnerability, Mention of jealousy & insecurity, Gaslighting-adjacent dynamics (arguably), Implied sexual tension / physical intimacy (consensual, emotional).

Pairing: Zayne x ex-wife!you Genre: Slow-burn, emotional dissection, second chances soaked in silence. Heavy on longing, surgical precision on heartbreak. Lovers to strangers to… Summary: Zayne doesn't do chaos. He does control, routine, distance. But when fate traps you both in a curated room labeled “One Hour of Honest Connection,” the silence breaks first. What follows is memory, ache, and the terrifying weight of things never said. Word Count: 3.3K

The room was small. Too small for this.

Soft jazz filtered through hidden speakers. There were two cups of something herbal already on the table, a plate of small, intentionally complicated desserts arranged like the nervous offering of a Parisian intern. The walls were a muted sage green, the lighting gentle. It would’ve been cozy, if it weren’t for the glaring fact that Zayne was sitting across from you.

You blinked once. Then again.

"No," you said flatly.

Zayne, ever efficient, didn’t even look up from the glass of water he was examining.

"Statistically," he said, voice calm, "there was a 0.2% chance of this exact pairing."

You stared at him. "So what I’m hearing is: we’re still just that unlucky."

He looked up then. God, those eyes. Calculated glacier. "Technically, yes."

The silence that followed was not companionable.

You hadn’t seen him in eleven months. Not since the divorce. Not since you stood in that shared apartment and told him — voice shaking, fingers cold — that you couldn’t keep guessing if you were real to him.

He hadn’t fought you.

He’d just stood there, like someone who'd miscalculated a formula and refused to recheck it.

You waited for something — anything. He stayed silent.

He stayed silent even when you sent the divorce papers. Even when it was over in a small judge’s office, quiet and procedural. He brought flowers — jasmine — and you still don’t know if they were a symbol of freedom or a plea.

 He never explained.

Just spoke in clipped, efficient phrases, like he’d already erased you from his life.

And now — now you were locked in a curated hell that probably had its own photo filter. A little brass plaque on the inside of the door read: One Hour of Honest Connection.

You almost laughed. Almost.

Zayne adjusted his cuffs. You noticed — god help you — that he still wore the watch you gave him. The one with the engraving inside: Every time your pulse stutters, it’s me.

Of course he still wore it. The man remembered to reorder that book you never finished—left it on your doorstep in silent punctuation.

"This wasn’t deliberate," you said finally.

"Agreed."

You folded your arms. "So. Let’s make this painless. We wait the hour, we don’t talk about feelings, and we pretend your emotional negligence wasn’t the reason we’re now two sad statistics sipping herbal disappointment."

Zayne raised an eyebrow. "Technically, the tea is chamomile, which is known for its calming properties. And you’re the one who said ‘emotional negligence.’"

"God, you’re still exhausting."

He didn’t flinch. Of course not. That would imply a physiological reaction. "So I’ve been told."

You stared at him for a beat. The weight of old familiarity draped the room like a too-heavy coat. He hadn’t changed. Not in the obvious ways. Still buttoned-down, still precise, still that undercurrent of something almost tender that never made it to the surface.

"Why are you even here?" you asked suddenly. "Blind dates don’t strike me as your thing. Too much room for inefficiency."

He tilted his head. “The nursing staff submitted my name. Some kind of team-building initiative.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. They were hoping to end up across the table themselves?”

Zayne didn’t blink. “Several of them expressed interest.”

You snorted, sharper than you meant to. “Charming.”

He nodded, like you were discussing post-op recovery times. “I considered opting out. But I didn’t.”

That surprised you. Enough to glance at him fully, meet his eyes, where something flickered — not regret, exactly. But its distant cousin. The one who shows up late to funerals.

“Why not?”

He took a sip of tea. “I wanted to see what I’d do.”

You hated how that hit. How much you wanted to ask: How many phone numbers did you collect before you landed here?

But you didn’t.

The desserts between you remained untouched. Tiny works of art. Sugar sculptures that mocked you with their curated whimsy.

"You look good," he said abruptly.

You blinked. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Say things that sound human. It throws me off."

He smiled, the faint curve of it almost imperceptible. “Noted.”

Your eyes caught on his mouth — just for a second. A breath too long. You looked away before he could notice.

There was another pause, but it hung differently now — heavier, colored with things you hadn’t said when you should have, and things he never said at all.

"Did you ever—" you started, then stopped.

Zayne watched you. Waiting. He was always good at that. Waiting until your own words betrayed you.

"Forget it," you muttered.

"No," he said quietly. "Say it."

You hated him a little for that. For still knowing when to press.

"Did you ever think," you asked, voice low, "that maybe love isn’t a hypothesis you prove with consistency? That maybe I just needed you to be… messy? With me?"

Zayne didn’t answer right away. And for once, you let the silence stay. Let it stretch and breathe.

When he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper. "Yes. I thought it too late."

You closed your eyes.

Jazz played on. Somewhere outside, people were falling in love the loud way — the all-in kind. Dramatic. Full of color.

Here, in this perfect little room, you and Zayne sat across from one another like ruins politely dressed for tea.

The hour hadn’t even started ticking down.

He was watching you now. Not intensely — not obviously. But directly. The kind of look that felt like it was being filed away for later analysis.

You met it. 

Zayne looked away first. Not because it hurt — but because there’s only so long you can hold tension before it cuts.

He looked down at the desserts. Picked up a fork. Cut into something with a caramel shard on top and didn’t eat it.

You watched him with a frustration so familiar it almost felt nostalgic.

“You always do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Control the atmosphere. One calculated silence and the room bends around you.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Then: “I thought that was preferable to chaos.”

You scoffed. “Of course you did.”

The clock on the wall, tastefully small, ticked once. You imagined someone — a curator of curated intimacy — had set it to be just barely audible.

Zayne glanced toward it.

“Forty-three minutes,” he murmured.

You laughed — dry. “You going to count them all?”

His eyes flicked back to you. “Only the inefficient ones.”

That shut you up.

You stared at your tea. Cold now. Obviously.

He watched you again. Observed you, like you were an interface needing diagnostics.

You looked away — deliberately, before his gaze could finish its quiet dissection. But your eyes caught the slight fold in his cuff, the slow press of thumb to palm as he adjusted the line of his wrist.

Surgical. Precise. Familiar.

A phantom shiver traced down your spine.

You remembered that hand on the small of your back in the hospital hallway once, the only contact he allowed himself after a seventeen-hour surgery. He never let his voice break protocol. But that one touch — the pressure, the warmth, the steadiness — had left you trembling.

You cleared your throat.

“Do you regret it?” you asked.

“This date?” he said, because of course he would miss the point.

You glared. “The way you loved me.”

Zayne’s expression didn’t shift. But you saw the pause in his breath. A calibration flicker.

“I loved you thoroughly,” he said. And the word thoroughly struck like a steel scalpel. Accurate. Clinical. Missing the pulse entirely.

You stood. “You loved me like I was a pet project. Like a very intelligent houseplant. Watered. Supported. Monitored.”

“I kept you safe.”

“I didn’t want to be safe!”

It came out sharper than you meant, and echoed too loudly in the boutique silence of the room. You saw the smallest movement — the tightening in his jaw, the shift of his heel, like a man correcting for turbulence.

He stood slowly. Adjusted a cuff. Again.

Still useless. Still beautiful.

“You think I was cold. Detached.”

You laughed once. Bitter. “You treated me like a system. Like something that shouldn’t break. Not someone who might cry. Or scream. Or—” your voice wavered, “—or leave.”

He stepped forward, eyes flickering over you.

“You did leave.”

“And you let me.”

“I didn’t stop you.”

“You didn’t even ask why.”

Your voice shook now — not from weakness, but from the fury of being unseen.

“You just stood there like it was a cancelled meeting, not a fucking life falling apart.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“What was I supposed to do?” he asked eventually, quietly.

“Fight,” you snapped. “God, anything. Say my name. Say stay. Say something other than 'okay.'”

The clock ticked again.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

“You once said I made you invisible,” he murmured, like he wasn’t even speaking to you, but to the ghost of that moment.

Your breath caught — and snapped.

“Because you did,” you said, sharper than you meant. “You watched me like a case study. Like I was data.”

Your voice broke.

“You weren’t seeing me, Zayne. You were cataloguing me.”

He flinched. A fraction. Barely there — but you caught it. And hated that it still made you ache.

His hands clenched slightly. Just barely.

“If I’d touched more, you would’ve called it possessive. If I’d spoken more, you would’ve said it was performative. I calibrated.”

“You calibrated me,” you said. “Like I was a machine you didn’t want overheating.”

He said nothing.

You stepped closer. Too close.

“You loved me like a robot,” you whispered. “And I wasn’t built for that.”

Silence. Then, very softly:

“I didn’t know how to love any other way.”

His voice dropped like a stone in water. And you swore — for a second — the lights flickered.

Zayne took another step. A fraction. Enough.

“You think I didn’t feel?” he asked, voice low. “You were the variable I couldn’t isolate. The part of the equation that never balanced. You made everything uncertain.”

And there it was again — that glint in his voice. That barely-there tremble. A fault line under a glass surface.

Your eyes flicked to his collar. The soft pull of fabric around his throat. The line of his jaw, the neat cut of his hair. The way one lock always fell forward when he was tired or tense.

It was falling now.

“You used to look at me like I was a test you were trying to pass,” you murmured.

“I was trying not to fail,” he said.

You hated how your pulse jumped.

He lifted a hand. Just slightly. Just enough to suggest contact. His fingers hovered — millimeters away from your skin — but didn’t touch.

A beat.

His voice came quieter this time — lower, rougher at the edges, like the words didn’t want to come out but had nowhere else to go.

“Another wrong calculation.”

Not bitter. Not even angry. Just… tired. And devastatingly honest.

And something in you — snapped.

Not because he said it. But because he meant it. Because he stood there, wanting you, needing you, practically reaching — and still treated it like an equation gone wrong.

You felt your breath hitch. Your fists clench.

Because you saw it in his eyes — the ache, the hesitation. The damn pulse in his throat that jumped when your gaze dropped to his lips.

He wanted this.

You.

But he wouldn’t let himself have it.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

“You didn’t,” you said, sharp. “You don’t. You want me close enough to feel it but never close enough to believe it.”

He looked at you — not coldly. Worse. Calmly. As if this pain had already been processed and shelved.

And that was it.

“You never said it,” you shouted. “Not once! You never said you loved me!”

That stopped him. Not like a slap. Like a flatline.

For the first time in the whole goddamn hour, his expression broke.

He blinked — slow, stunned — as if you’d just said something so grotesque he couldn’t compute it.

“You think I didn’t?” he asked, voice low.

Not soft. Not calm. Low — like thunder before it hits.

He stepped closer, but not rushed. Controlled. Always controlled.

“You think because I didn’t say the exact phrase you wanted, I didn’t feel it?”

His jaw was tight now. Breath shallow.

“You think all of that—” his hand flicked between you, the table, everything, “—meant nothing because it wasn’t loud enough for you?”

And then — his voice rose.

Not yelling. Lifting. Cracking through him, like pressure that finally split the seal.

“I LOVE YOU!”

It echoed. Echoed in that perfect little room like an alarm someone forgot to disable.

“I love you,” he repeated, lower this time. “I love you like a man who doesn’t know how to breathe around you, but will die trying to stay still just to keep you from leaving again.”

Your chest rose and fell like panic. Like longing. Like something ancient reawakened.

“Then why,” you spat, “why would you agree to a date with some other woman?!”

He stilled.

Then — movement. Swift. Sharp. Controlled chaos.

He closed the remaining distance in three steps.

His hand caught your chin — firm but not rough — guiding your face up until his eyes locked with yours, precise, invasive, burning.

“Are you jealous, princess?”

His voice was velvet and wire — both caress and warning.

And it hit you.

Not just the word. Not just the sound of it. But everything that came before it.

The I love you. The I stayed still so you wouldn’t run. The eyes. The ache. The damn way he looked at you like he still knew every nerve ending and wanted to press all of them at once.

And suddenly you weren’t standing. Not really. Your knees tried. But the rest of you was already melting.

Heat flashed through your spine like a pulled thread. Your breath caught — and stayed. Every part of your body was too much and not enough at once.

You hated him for that. And you hated that you wanted more.

Your pulse roared in your ears. There was a throb where there should have been reason.

And still — somehow — your mouth moved:

“Jealousy’s not the word. Try ‘haunted.’”

A breath passed. And he smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“You left,” he said, voice low and clear. “Don’t forget that.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t let you speak.

“Because I wasn’t enough,” he added. “Because I didn’t perform grief the right way. Or love. Or need.”

He stepped back half a pace, and the space between you hurt like an incision.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” His voice stayed calm, but you heard the crack forming in its base. “You think because I didn’t break dishes or sob in the shower that it didn’t gut me?”

He looked straight at you now. No veil. No control.

“You have no idea what it’s like to live in a body that won’t let the feelings out,” he said. “To drown in it. Quietly. Until you forget where the surface is.”

You stood frozen. Not because you didn’t want to move. But because guilt was a weight, and it was finally settling on your shoulders.

“I’m not built for displays,” he continued. “But that never meant I didn’t love you. I just showed it differently.”

He exhaled. Soft. Controlled.

“I don’t scream ‘I love you.’ I leave umbrellas in your bag on rainy days. I keep your favorite candy in your glove compartment. I flip your pillow to the cool side when you fall asleep. I listen when you hum a song twice and add it to your playlist without a word.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t dramatic. I was constant.”

His voice faltered just slightly now.

“And if that wasn’t enough for you — if you needed fireworks — I’m sorry. But I can’t become someone else to prove what’s already true.”

He took one more step back.

“Because if one day you look at me and see a man pretending to be something you want — someone louder, brighter, messier — you’ll stop respecting me. And I swear to God, that’s the one thing I wouldn’t survive.”

Your breath caught.

Your hand moved without permission, reaching for his. Taking it. Holding it with both of yours.

You lifted it gently, pressed your lips to the inside of his fingers — those surgeon’s hands. Steady. Deadly. Gentle.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered. “I didn’t see. I was so busy spiraling through my own mess, I thought… I thought your silence meant absence.”

Tears welled up.

“I didn’t leave to punish you. I just— I lost my wings somewhere along the way. In the quiet. In the waiting. I was jealous of your work. Of your focus. Of how the world looked at you with admiration and looked at me like… like a placeholder.”

Your voice cracked.

“Every dinner alone. Every party I walked into like I was still half-married to a man who’d rather be in an OR. I thought you didn’t love me.”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. His eyes — bright, focused, unreadable — didn’t move from yours.

And then, softly:

“You’re right. I didn’t love you the way you needed me to. I never knew how to make you feel chosen.”

He paused. Just long enough for the words to break skin.

“But you were. Every day. Every time.”

Another breath. Shallower this time.

“And if I had to do it again — knowing you’d leave—”

His voice barely made it past his throat.

“I’d still choose you.”

A beat.

“Because you are the point.”

And before you could react — he moved.

He pulled you close, lifted you effortlessly onto the edge of the table. The desserts clinked, wobbling on their plates. His hands cupped your face — thumbs firm against your jaw, fingers threading through your hair.

And then — he kissed you.

Not cautiously. Not politely.

He kissed you like a man who had written restraint into every breath for too long, and finally, finally, had been told he could break character.

His mouth crushed yours with a precision that stole air and reason. One hand on your hip, anchoring you. The other behind your neck, fingers fanned through your hair, tilting your head exactly how he needed.

You gasped into him, and he didn’t pause — just deepened the kiss, molding his lips to yours like he was tracing every remembered contour.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, but didn’t move far. His forehead touched yours. His breath was warm. Steady.

God, he always kissed like he was solving you. And part of you — shamefully — wanted to stay unsolved.

You opened your eyes, just barely, and met his. Focused. Hungry. Lit with a kind of reverence that made your stomach flip.

That’s when you moved.

You reached down blindly — fingers finding the soft swirl of whipped cream on one of the desserts. You dipped into it, then slowly dragged your finger along the edge of his jaw.

He didn’t flinch.

Your finger slid over his bottom lip, and when he parted them, you leaned in, tongue flicking the taste away, then trailing up his cheekbone. Slow. Almost cruel.

Zayne exhaled harshly — the closest he came to a groan — and gripped the table edge behind you like he needed grounding.

Your bodies pressed tighter.

He kissed your collarbone, your neck, his breath hot. Fingers sliding under the hem of your skirt, just barely.

Another kiss. And another.

You felt like the room spun sideways. Like you were going to—

Ding.

A soft chime.The door clicked.

Time’s up.

He stilled. You did too.

No one spoke. Breathing was enough.

Zayne lifted a hand and dragged his knuckles along your cheek. Tender. Achingly so.

He pressed his lips to your forehead.

And then — just like that — he stepped back.

You blinked, dazed. Dizzy. Waiting for him to say something.

But he didn’t. He turned, walked to the door, opened it — and left.

Just like that.

You slid off the table slowly, knees hitting the floor before your mind registered the impact.

What the hell. What the actual—

Your phone buzzed.

A message. From him.

“Emergency consult. Patient flatlined. Possibly me. Will advise.” 

[hatethysinner]

ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You run the farm alone now. The crops still grow. The animals still listen. And Josephine still drags the bodies down where no one will ever find them. Folks in town say the farm is cursed. But you’ve always wanted more—an audience, maybe. Someone to look at you like you were something worth loving. And tonight, a man’s car breaks down on the edge of your property, and you know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.

ᴡᴄ: 21.4k

ᴀ/ɴ: this fic is heavily inspired by pearl, which everyone should watch at least once in their life. it's unironically such an amazing movie and i love it sm. anyways, this was a SHAMEFUL one but as usual i adored writing it. had to pull back hard on my linebreaking due to block limits so if my formatting seems way diff that's why. i've been working on this for MONTHS so please love it or i'll sob. all i can say is strap in for the read ride of your life, both figuratively and literally.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!), unapologetically dark fic, reader is fully the villain, reader is also very unstable, exposition dump, cleverly done timeskip, very short mention of an attempted assault (the reader kills the fucker), religious mentions, obsession, emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, toxic relationship, stockholm syndrome, threats of violence, graphic violence, murder, body disposal, accomplices, non-sexual drugging, sadism, masochism, begging, silverplay, dubcon, the power dynamic is fucked (literally), dom!reader, sub!remmick, pathetic!remmick, pet!remmick, feral!remmick, COLLARED LEASHED AND MUZZLED BABY, unintentional brat taming, praise/degradation kink, blood, bloodplay, vampirism, drool, spit kink, dacryphilia, cunnilingus, overstimulation, monsterfucking, p in v, pussydrunk, rutting, breeding kink, they're not afraid to switch, extremely unreliable narrator, excessive use of dividers, format butchering to bypass tumblr's block limit

The sun rose gold this morning, spilling across the fields like honey. You were already up, already working, already smiling.

You always smiled.

The hens clucked softly in the coop as you lifted the latch and greeted them with your usual chirp. They clucked back, feathers rustling as they hopped down from their roosts, and you gathered the eggs with practiced ease, cradling each one in your palm like it was made of spun glass. The pigs oinked next. You scratched the largest behind the ears, whispered that she was beautiful, and she leaned into you with a low sigh, as if she understood.

The mule got a kiss between the eyes. The cows got songs while you milked them, soft and sweet. Even the barn cats wound around your ankles, purring like little motors as you moved through your morning.

You were kind to everything that deserved it.

You wiped the sweat from your brow and squinted toward the horizon. The sky was starting to bake. Late summer meant everything stank a little more than usual, especially out by the edge of the swamp. Still, you didn’t mind the heat. You never had. You liked how it clung to you. How it made the hem of your dress stick to your thighs and curl damply around your calves. Made you feel alive.

You didn’t wear shoes. Hadn’t in years.

Your parents used to fuss over that.

They used to fuss over a lot of things.

You don’t miss them.

They left you the farm when they died, and that was the only generous thing they ever did. Even then, it wasn’t intentional. You could still hear your mama’s voice echoing through the walls sometimes—don’t embarrass us, girl, keep that mouth shut—but it always faded after a while. You only heard it when you were bored, mostly.

And you weren’t bored now.

Not with so much work to be done.

Not with Josephine waiting.

By mid-afternoon, the sun was a white eye hanging over your head, blinking slow and mean. The trees near the swamp shimmered in the haze as you made your way down the winding path, your fingers brushing the wildflowers like old friends. Crickets buzzed. Cicadas whined. Something distant cracked, like old wood splitting in two.

Josephine was there before you called her.

She rose from the muck like a shadow come to life—thirty feet from snout to tail, with jaws wide enough to snap a door clean off its hinges. Her scales caught the light like polished stone, and her yellow eyes blinked lazily as she drifted closer.

“Hi, pretty girl,” you called, crouching at the edge of the water.

She huffed through her nostrils. That was her way of saying hello.

You loved her. More than most people. Josephine had never asked you to be quiet. Had never told you to sit with your legs closed. Had never tried to put a hand up your dress or call you a whore behind your back like the boys in town used to.

Josephine only asked to be fed.

And you were good at feeding her.

You spotted it before you stepped into the shallows—a pale, water-bloated arm, half-covered in mud and dragging a trail of flies behind it. The hand was curled like it had something left to say. You grinned.

“Oh,” you said brightly. “You left your snack out.”

You stooped, grabbed the wrist, and flung the whole thing like a softball. Josephine moved with a speed that always startled you, even after all these years. Her jaws snapped around the arm midair—CRUNCH—and you clapped, delighted.

“Good girl!” you squealed.

Josephine sank back beneath the surface, tail dragging behind like a thick rope, and you sat at the bank a moment longer, kicking your feet in the mud. The hem of your dress was soaked and stained brown, but you didn’t mind. You liked the feeling.

You leaned back on your elbows and closed your eyes, letting the sun roast your face.

That one had been a banker, you thought. Loud, red-faced, soft around the middle. Called you girl in that disrespectful tone. Tried to push you into the corn with his belt already undone. Didn’t make it more than four steps before the axe caught him in the neck.

White men were always your favorite.

So easy.

So sure you’d let them do whatever they wanted.

They never saw it coming.

You hummed to yourself, a little tune your mama used to hum when she thought no one could hear her, and traced patterns into the mud beside you with one lazy finger. You imagined Josephine still chewing beneath the surface, teeth rending bone, her heart content for now.

You were content, too.

The farm was quiet. The animals were fed. The sun was high. The bones were buried deep. You had more meat hung in the cellar than you’d need for the month. Maybe longer. And Josephine never went hungry. Not anymore.

But still.

Still.

It felt like something was missing.

Not anything practical—no, you’d taken care of that. You had grain. You had milk. You had a pretty new dress for church, even if you hadn’t stepped inside that building since your mama’s funeral.

You just wanted—

You didn’t know.

It could get lonely on the farm, sometimes.

Not all the time. Not really. You had plenty of company, after all—the hens always had something to say, the cows were sweet as could be, and Josephine had the best listening ears in the whole world, even if her answers came in huffs and gurgles.

And you were great conversation, too.

Sharp. Funny. Endlessly clever.

You smiled at the thought. “Thank you,” you murmured, nodding to no one and to yourself all at once. “That’s very kind.”

The compliment warmed your chest like a fresh cup of coffee. You deserved it.

You lay back a little farther on the bank, mud squishing under your shoulder blades, and stared up through the trees. A dragonfly buzzed past your ear, wings catching light in flashes of green and copper. Somewhere far off, a bird cried, high and sweet.

You sighed.

Not unhappy. Just… tired, maybe.

The sun had made everything drowsy. The world felt soft around the edges, like a photograph that had been left too long in the window.

Your stomach growled. Loudly.

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said, rubbing your belly. “I forgot to eat.”

It happened more than you liked to admit. You’d get caught up in chores, in talking, in thinking, and suddenly the day would be half-gone without a crumb in your mouth. But that was alright. You had plenty in the kitchen. You always made sure of that.

You pushed yourself upright, brushing bits of grass and dirt from your arms. The bank was still damp, and the hem of your dress clung to your calves, streaked with muck. You’d track it into the house. You always did.

Didn’t matter. You’d mop later.

You headed back up the path, slower now, your bare feet slapping softly against the packed earth. The breeze tugged at your dress, gentle and forgiving. Something skittered through the underbrush just ahead—a rabbit, maybe. Or a squirrel. You didn’t flinch.

You were thinking about dinner.

About buttery mashed potatoes and gravy. A pork chop seared crisp on the outside, soft in the middle. Maybe greens, too. With just the right splash of vinegar to make them perfect.

Your mouth watered.

You liked to cook.

To take pieces of things and make something whole again. Something warm. Something that filled the air with smell and made your chest feel steady and full.

It felt better than destruction.

Sometimes.

The house creaked as you stepped inside, cool and dim after the weight of the sun. You swept through the living room, humming to yourself, dragging your fingers along the wood-paneled walls like you were greeting old friends.

The kitchen welcomed you like it always did.

And you smiled as you got to work.

Night had fallen. Deep, still, and wide.

You lay in bed with your arms folded over your chest, lips pursed in an unflattering frown as you stared at the ceiling fan lazily pushing warm air in circles. The damn thing squeaked. Always had. You’d meant to fix it back in spring, but then came the planting, then the harvest, then the killing—and well, you couldn’t be expected to remember everything.

You huffed.

“Insomnia,” the doctor said. Like that helped. Like some pretty little word could make it less annoying.

You’d taken his pills exactly twice. Didn’t like the way they made your thoughts run together like yolk on the floor. Didn’t like the stillness, either. If something bad came—and it always did—you needed your full mind. Your full self.

Still, it didn’t make it any easier when the nights dragged long and wide, every tick of the wall clock another tooth in your skin. You curled your knees toward your chest. Shifted. Unfolded. Shifted again.

Then came the sound. Low and sputtering. Faint at first, like a wounded thing crawling toward your porch.

Your brows lifted.

You threw the covers back with theatrical flair, pushed yourself to your feet, and crossed the room in three easy steps.

You kept the lamp on. You always kept the lamp on. It made it easier.

You peeked through the lace curtain, careful not to press your face too close. There, at the edge of the property, a car had rolled to a half-dead stop. Engine hissing. Lights dimming. And out of the driver’s side, a man stepped into the humid dark.

You tilted your head.

Even from a distance, even through the heavy blur of night, you could see he was white. Dressed too nice for a road like yours—like he belonged in one of those new department store ads in town with slicked-back hair and tailored trousers. His shoes were shiny. His coat too clean.

And furious.

He kicked the wheel once, shouted something you couldn’t quite make out, then turned—and saw the light in your bedroom window.

You smiled. And just as always, you slipped away from the glass.

Light drew them in. Like moths to a flame.

You padded quietly down the stairs, steps careful and practiced. You didn’t rush. No, you never rushed.

By the time you reached the mirror in the hall, you could hear the footsteps. Soft crunching of gravel, the porch creaking under weight that wasn’t yours.

Then, the knock. Gentle. Too gentle for a man so freshly angry.

You licked your lips and tucked a loose curl behind your ear. Your dress was thin cotton, not exactly flattering, but it framed your waist well enough. A dab of rose balm to your lips. You leaned in toward the mirror, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers.

“Lovely,” you murmured. “Just lovely.”

The doorknob was cool in your hand. You turned it slowly. Opened it wide.

And there he was.

Light-skinned, but not pallid—warm-toned, even in the dark. Brown hair slicked back neat, not a strand out of place. His suit was a shade of blue just a whisper off from navy—expensive looking, though it didn’t quite fit his frame right. The jacket sagged a little at the shoulders, a size too big maybe, but his posture made up for it. He stood like a soldier. Or a preacher. Like a man used to being listened to.

Except tonight, he looked nervous.

"Evenin’, miss," he said, voice warm and rolling. Soft-spoken, too. "I sure do hate to bother ya, and I’m awful sorry for knockin’ so late, but my car went and gave up on me just a little ways back. I was wonderin’—would it be alright if I parked here for the night? Just sleep in it till I can get someone out come mornin’?"

His voice was honey. Not cloying. Just sweet enough to make you lean in.

You blinked slowly, drinking him in.

The faintest stubble dusted his chin. A gold chain sat modestly around his neck, almost hidden by the collar of his dress shirt. His canines were sharp. Not like a monster’s. Just sharp enough to notice. His eyes were dark blue, but there was something red behind them—something faint. Barely there. Like fire hidden under the coals.

And handsome. God, he was handsome. The kind of handsome you could’ve written sonnets about, if you’d ever been one for poetry.

You wondered how long it would take to carve the terror into his pretty face. If he’d cry when the knife found its mark, or if he’d try to hide it—swallow his sobs like a man with something worth dying for. If he’d still speak to you sweetly while he bled out, voice warm and shaking, trying to charm you even as the color drained from his cheeks.

You wondered what his breath would sound like, ragged and shallow, when it started to fail him. If it would hitch in that soft chest of his, little by little, until there was nothing left but wet rattling.

You thought about how his pupils might bloom wide as the pain caught up to him. How that slicked-back hair would cling damp to his temples when he sweated through his fear.

You wondered if he’d beg.

“Miss?”

You blinked again, caught staring.

His smile had softened with confusion, eyes squinting as he tilted his head politely.

You smiled right back.

“Out in that heat?” you asked with a lilt. “What kind of host would I be if I let you sleep in your car?”

He raised his hands, sheepish. "Now, I ain’t tryin’ to impose—"

“But you already knocked,” you said sweetly. “So I’d say the imposition’s already happened, wouldn’t you?”

That flustered him.

You liked that.

He glanced down at his shoes, sheepish, brushing a hand over his wrist. “I… suppose that’s fair. Still. Wouldn’t feel right acceptin’ too much kindness. Not from a good woman like yerself.”

Your smile widened.

“Kindness is for guests, sir,” you said. “And I only ever show it to people who come through my door.”

He hesitated.

But you didn’t.

You stepped aside.

“Come in,” you said, low and warm. “I’ve got an extra room made up. You’ll be comfortable.”

And he stepped in. So easily.

And you made sure to lock the door behind him.

The sound of the latch sliding into place was a familiar one. A good one.

You turned around with your hands clasped sweetly behind your back. "Are you hungry?"

He blinked. Took a second longer than he probably meant to. His eyes flicked toward the kitchen, then back to you. “Oh, no, ma’am. I wouldn’t want t’—”

“I made too much supper,” you interrupted, stepping around him lightly, your bare feet pattering on the wooden floor like you’d forgotten all about him already. “Three-course mistake. I do that sometimes. Don’t know what gets into me. But it’s lucky you stopped by! Really, you’ll be saving me from leftovers.”

“I don’t wanna put ya out, now,” he said as he followed a few hesitant steps behind. “Y’already been too kind.”

Your head cocked just a little. The smile didn’t leave your face.

And right on cue—his stomach growled.

It was soft, but loud enough to make him grimace and drop his gaze, almost sheepish. You didn’t laugh. You just turned on your heel, delighted.

“Go on and sit,” you said, already reaching for the stovetop. “I don’t let anyone go hungry in my home.”

The table was small—meant for two, even though it had rarely been set for more than one. The seats were padded with worn floral cushions, the kind your mama once swore made a guest stay longer. You liked that idea.

He stood awkwardly near it, still not quite sitting.

“Y’live out here alone?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “Big place like this?”

You hummed as you pulled out a plate and filled it generously, trying your best to give the warmest servings. “Sure do. My mama and daddy left it to me.”

He finally sat, stiff-backed. “They don’t help ya run it?”

“They passed,” you said cheerfully, spooning an extra heap of beans onto the plate. “Not too long ago.”

His brow creased just slightly. “I’m sorry t’hear that.”

“I’m not!” You said it like it was nothing. And to you, it was. You smiled a little to yourself. “They weren’t the kind of people who liked to share. Especially not space. Or dreams.”

He didn’t answer that.

You turned toward him—plate in hand—setting it in front of him like a prize. “I love having people over,” you said, clasping your hands together. “It gets awfully quiet on this farm with just me and the chickens and the cows and the sky. I talk to myself so much I start giving myself compliments.”

You laughed a little and leaned in, voice low and gleeful. “And I always say thank you.”

He offered a weak chuckle of his own. “Yer… real spirited, miss.”

“Isn’t that just the nicest thing to say,” you beamed, walking back to the drawer for silverware.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “What do ya grow out here?”

“Oh, the usual,” you called. “Corn, sweet potatoes, berries, peppers, whatever wants to grow.”

“Ya take care of all that yourself?”

“Mhm.” You pulled the drawer open and clattered around until you found a clean set of polished silver.

The moment you walked back and set them down beside his plate, he jerked slightly.

His fingers curled away. His jaw tightened.

“Ah—” he winced, shifting in his seat. “I don’t s’pose ya have… steel? Or… aluminum, maybe?”

You paused. Looked down at the utensils. Then back up at him. The smile didn’t slip, but your eyes narrowed just a touch.

You turned away again without asking any questions.

“Picky eater?” you teased as you rifled through the odds-and-ends drawer under the flour bins. “You allergic to silver?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered.

You found an old aluminum set and wiped it clean with a hand towel before setting it gently beside his plate.

“There,” you said. “Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.”

He smiled again, but you noticed he didn’t meet your eyes this time. Still, he picked up the fork.

And ate.

He was careful about it. Polite, but with little hesitation. He chewed thoughtfully. Deliberately. Like he wanted to make sure he got every taste before swallowing. You watched his jaw shift, the little twitch of his throat as he swallowed. The slight tremble in his hand where he held the fork.

You leaned your elbows on the table, chin in your palms, watching.

He noticed. He tried not to. But you saw the glance. The way his spine straightened, the way he looked everywhere but at you.

“So,” you said brightly, “what’s your name, stranger?”

He chewed slower. Took his time before answering.

“Remmick,” he said finally.

You mouthed it to yourself. Softly. Like a little treat.

“What kind of name is that?”

“Family name,” he added, like he was used to the question. “And yers?”

You leaned in just a little closer. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me where you’re headed.”

He hesitated. Fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“North Carolina,” he said, slow. “Got people up there. Was hopin’ to visit a few.”

“You married?”

He looked up sharply. “No, ma’am.”

“Ever been?”

“No, ma’am.”

You grinned. “That’s a shame. You seem real sweet.”

He shifted again.

You could practically smell the nerves now.

You liked that. Liked the way he was trying to be so composed, so gentlemanly, so proper. You could see the effort in every movement. And you could see it fraying at the edges already.

So easy to pick apart. So easy to slip a knife into.

You clapped your hands together once. “I knew tonight was gonna be special,” you said brightly, watching him squirm under your gaze. “Josephine said so.”

Remmick blinked. “Who?”

You pointed out the window toward the woods and the swamp beyond.

“My gator,” you said, smiling wide. “She don’t say much. But she’s always right.”

You laughed at his face.

And Remmick—Remmick managed a tense chuckle, lips twitching. But his eyes never quite left yours. Like he was waiting for something. Like he was trying to decide if he should be afraid.

And maybe he was.

You saw it. Just a flicker in his eyes when you rose from your chair and reached toward his plate. A blink-long flinch, quick and tight, gone as fast as it came—but not fast enough.

You took the plate gently, like you hadn’t noticed.

He cleared his throat and forced a smile, sheepish. “Thank ya kindly,” he said, nodding toward the cleaned-off plate in your hands. “That was… real good. Better than good, actually.”

“Why, thank you,” you said, your own smile rising soft and sweet. “Means a lot, comin’ from a stranger.”

You turned to the sink, rinsed the plate with the same care you did everything, and set it in the basin with a little hum. The house creaked around you, like it always did when the wind moved through. But the windows were still. The world outside had fallen quiet.

When you turned back to face him, Remmick was standing awkwardly now, thumb hooked on the strap of his suspenders, other hand tucked into the pocket of those neat blue slacks that didn’t quite match the dusty world around him.

“Let me show you to your room,” you said brightly, already moving toward the hallway.

He followed, slower this time, his steps measured.

You opened the door near the end of the corridor and flipped on the light.

It was perfect.

The linens were fresh, crisp and white with just a hint of lavender from the sachets you kept in the wardrobe. The floor was swept clean, the dresser dusted. The mattress was new. Or, at least, new enough. You’d turned it twice and flipped it once. Couldn’t have the stains showing through.

The air inside smelled faintly of bleach and pine. Clean. Comforting.

Nothing of the man who’d bled out there just a few weeks ago.

Remmick stood in the doorway for a beat too long, eyes taking in every edge. Not suspicious, exactly. Just… cautious. Like he couldn’t tell if it was too polished.

Then he stepped inside.

His eyes landed on the doorknob.

“Where’s the lock?” he asked, brow furrowed as he pointed toward the little brass handle and the empty round hole where the latch should’ve been.

You tilted your head and smiled. “Broke,” you said, voice light. “Years ago.”

A pause. Just long enough.

But he nodded, like he believed it. Or like he wanted to.

“Well,” he said, sitting gently down on the edge of the bed. “This is more’n generous, miss. I… I appreciate it, truly.”

His hands rested on his knees. The posture of a man not used to being taken care of.

You stood just inside the doorway, one hand on the frame, watching him settle in like you’d already begun carving out the memory. Or carving him open. What was the difference, really?

“Anything else you need?” you asked.

He looked up a little too quick. “No, ma’am. I’m— I’m alright. Ya’ve already done too much for me.”

You nodded slowly, lingering.

Then you let your voice soften again. “Well… if anything comes up, I’ll be right down the hall.”

He didn’t answer right away, just nodded and offered you another one of those hesitant, grateful smiles. The kind that looked like it didn’t get worn often.

“Goodnight, Remmick,” you said, voice curling sweet around the name.

“Goodnight, miss.”

You slipped from the room and pulled the door gently shut behind you.

You woke to the sound of metal grinding metal. And not gently.

It was still dark out—barely a stitch of light crawling past the horizon—but some dumb son of a bitch was out there raising hell like it was noon. You sat up in bed, heart hammering in your chest not from fear, but from irritation. The kind that sank deep behind your ribs and lit up like a match.

You knew who it was before you even pulled the curtain back.

There he was. Remmick. Fiddling under the hood of his car, brow pinched, jaw tight, making more noise than a dying horse.

Your lip twitched. He had the gall to sneak out? To wrench around in your yard like you hadn’t just fed him, sheltered him, welcomed him into your home like the good woman you were?

You were on your feet before the thought could settle.

Downstairs, bare feet quick and light against the old pine boards, you reached under the loose floorboard behind the coat rack. The click of the latch released with a familiar little song in your bones. Out came a wrench. Heavy, clean. Well-oiled. Meant for more than fixing. You held it for a moment, just feeling the weight.

Then, with a breath, you checked yourself in the mirror near the door. Smoothed your hair. Tugged your nightgown tighter at the collar. Pressed your lips together and pulled them into something pleasant. Not too wide. Not too stiff.

“You are lookin’ lovely,” you murmured. And then you thanked yourself for the compliment.

You always were polite.

The wrench was tucked behind your back by the time you opened the front door with a little too much force. Let it swing wide and hit the side of the house with a crack.

“Mornin’!” you called, raising one hand in a wave. “Aren’t you just the busiest bee this side of the county.”

He jumped. Actually jumped. That did something warm and golden to your insides.

“Oh! Mornin’, miss,” he called back, voice rising nervously. “Ain’t mean to wake ya. Just figured I’d get a jump on the car ‘fore it got too hot out.”

For just a second. Just long enough. You saw it—panic. That tight jolt behind the eyes. The flash of guilt, of being caught. But it vanished quick, replaced with that practiced easygoing smile you were beginning to suspect he wore like armor.

You stepped down the porch stairs one by one, each heel clicking like a metronome. The wrench stayed tucked behind you, swinging with the rhythm of your walk.

“Oh, that’s so considerate,” you said sweetly. “But you really shoulda let me know. I’d’ve made you some coffee. Or somethin’ to eat.”

He smiled again—too tight—and shrugged. “Didn’t wanna be a bother. Figured I’d get it goin’ and be outta yer hair ‘fore ya even noticed.”

You stopped a few feet from him. Tilted your head.

“Were you plannin’ to leave without sayin’ goodbye?” you asked lightly, voice still honeyed but with an unintentional tilt to it.

His smile faltered. “No, ma’am.”

Too quick.

You tilted your head. “Hmm.”

For a second—just a second—you pictured it. The arc of the wrench. The sick sound it’d make when it met bone. The way his body would slump forward against the car, eyes wide and confused, blood warm on the bumper.

You’d done it before. A dozen times.

Men like him always thought they could come and go. Thought kindness was something they were owed. And when they didn’t get what they wanted—when they got scared—they ran.

You didn’t like runners.

But not this time.

You blinked, and the vision passed. Instead, you smiled wider and stepped close enough to catch a whiff of whatever he’d used to wash—something woody, a little metallic. Something just shy of real clean.

“No need to rush,” you said sweetly. “Ain’t every day I get such fine company out here.”

Then you reached out and looped your arm through his. Smooth as butter.

He stiffened. You felt it. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t dare.

“Come on,” you chirped. “I’ll give you the grand tour. Least I can do after all your troubles.”

“I really don’t wanna trouble ya more’n I already have—”

“Oh, hush,” you said with a light squeeze to his arm. “I insist.”

He looked down at where your hand sat so neat against his wrist. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. But he said nothing.

You started walking, guiding him gently past the house, through the tall grass that had gone gold at the tips from the summer sun. The breeze was picking up now. The sky was glowing pink.

Remmick kept pace, though you could feel the tension radiating off him. The animals watched you from their pens as you passed. The cows shifted in their stalls. The chickens rustled on their roosts. You weren’t stopping for them. They knew better than to make noise when you were working. They knew who fed them.

But that didn't make for much of a tour, did it?

He kept stealing glances at you. You could feel it. That unsure curiosity. The way he watched the side of your face like he was afraid to look full on.

You didn’t mind.

His shoes scuffed along the dry path as you pulled him past the crop fields and beyond the thickets that edged the far back of your property. You could already smell the swamp—mossy, ripe, alive. Like it breathed.

He slowed as the trees thinned, eyes narrowing toward the glint of green water ahead. The dock stretched out in old, uneven planks, all grayed with time and slick with morning dew.

You tugged him to the edge.

“I wanna show you somethin’,” you said, voice bright.

He hesitated, boots stalling just before the first board. “What’s out there?”

You turned back and smiled. “My girl.”

He blinked. “What?”

You stepped up first, the dock creaking beneath your feet. Remmick followed, slower than before. Eyes darting. Shoulders stiff.

When you reached the end, you cupped your hands to your mouth and whistled. Loud. Sharp. Like you’d done since you were a child.

The swamp rippled. The trees hushed. And then—movement.

Water churning. Reeds splitting.

Remmick stumbled back a step, already starting to speak—“What the hell—” when Josephine rose from the shallows like something summoned. Massive, dark, ancient. Her long jaw split open in a low hiss of greeting, amber eyes blinking in that lazy, knowing way.

“God almighty!” He yelped, stumbling so hard he nearly toppled off the dock.

You caught his arm just in time.

“Careful now,” you said sweetly. “Don’t wanna lose you just yet.”

His heart thudded like a drum under your palm. You kept your grip tight as he teetered, then yanked him back with a cheerful laugh.

He stared at you, pale and breathless.

“She don’t bite,” you lied with a grin.

He glanced toward Josephine, who’d half-submerged again, only her eyes and snout visible above the waterline. She let out a low rumble, almost like a purr.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, still breathless. “What is that?”

“That’s Josephine,” you said proudly, kneeling at the dock’s edge to run your fingers through the water. “Been mine since I was little. Raised her myself. I know I mentioned her.”

“Ya—ya raised a gator?”

“She’s family,” you said. “Ain’t that right, girl?”

Josephine blinked once. Slowly.

Remmick still looked like he was trying to decide whether to bolt or vomit.

You stood again and turned toward him, offering your hand as if the two of them were being properly introduced.

“Josephine, this is Remmick.”

Then, with a wicked little twist to your wrist, you gave his hand a shake. A purposeful one. A mean one.

He lost his footing again—just a bit—but it was enough to send him swaying, toes curling for balance as the drop behind him yawned wide and dark.

Your grip steadied him at the last second.

The way his eyes went wide, lips parting in a breathless, helpless little gasp—it made a heat bloom low in your belly.

You couldn’t help yourself.

You giggled.

He blinked at you, dazed. Shaken.

You held his pretty little face between your palms. Warm, smooth skin. Clean-shaven. A sharpness to the jaw you admired. His mouth, parted in something like confusion. Or maybe pleading. You couldn’t quite tell.

His eyes—those dark, stormy blue ones—had that red gleam again. Subtle. Fleeting.

He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t, maybe.

And you knew, with a strange and perfect certainty, that you were going to keep him.

He was it.

The audience. The company. The man who’d sit across the table from you, day after day, and pretend not to be afraid even when you knew better. Even when you saw it in his eyes.

You wanted that. You wanted him.

“I think you’re gonna stay a while,” you whispered, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Not even a nod.

His breath came quick, nostrils flaring, hands clenched at his sides.

Oh, it made you dizzy.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt your head and admire the view. Still close enough to feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

So much had happened already.

You thought about the night before. How he’d stood there on your porch, looking like a lamb lost in the woods. How you’d almost slammed the door on his neck and fed him to Josephine right then and there.

You thought about the kitchen, the way his eyes darted to the utensils, how he winced at the silver. How easy it would’ve been to follow that flinch with a knife under the ribs. Slice clean. Deep.

You thought about the way he’d slept—so still. So silent. You’d stood at the edge of his room for a long time. Watching. Breathing with him. Just one pillow pressed over his face and he wouldn’t have made a sound.

And this morning? The car? You could’ve crushed his throat while he was bent under the hood. Let him gurgle into the oil pan.

And now. Now he was here.

Your fingers itched.

But instead of hurting him—

You smiled. Because he was still trembling, and he didn’t even know why.

Yet.

“You’ve got the prettiest eyes...” you murmured, running your fingers through one side of his hair.

He swallowed.

You didn’t give him time to answer.

“Let’s get you somethin’ sweet,” you said suddenly, spinning away with a skip in your step. “I bake too, you know. You want peach or apple?”

His breath caught. “Uh—whichever’s fine, I—I’m not picky.”

You turned back to look at him over your shoulder, bathed in morning haze, and winked.

“Oh, Remmick.”

You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

You were going to ruin him.

You took his car apart that same night.

He’d begged you not to. Hands trembling, voice low but desperate. He didn’t scream—Remmick didn’t do much screaming, not even then. But you still remembered the sound his voice made when it cracked. The way he said your name like it meant something.

You’d just smiled. Crouched down in your dress and pinned-up hair and unbuttoned collar, fingers slick with engine grease, wrench clutched tight in your fist.

And piece by piece, you’d taken apart his only way out.

He stood there the whole time, fists clenched, jaw set. At one point he tried to stop you—reached out, just barely, like he might grab your wrist—but the glare you gave him made his hand drop. And then it was done. A gutted carcass of a car left to rot at the edge of your fields, tires rolled into the barn, battery sunk at the bottom of the swamp.

The next morning, he asked if you’d help him call a tow.

And you told him he wasn’t leaving.

He stopped asking after that.

The first body he saw you drag was two nights later. A man with too many rings on his fingers and not enough brains in his head, who’d thought he could “have a taste” before paying for eggs. You stabbed him in the neck with the edge of a broken shovel.

Remmick had walked in as you were sawing off the feet. You looked up, breathless and smiling, drenched in red, and asked him to bring you the tarp.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared.

And then turned and walked out.

You found him on the porch ten minutes later, staring out at the cornfields like they might lift up and take him away.

But they didn’t.

So the next time, when the meat truck driver with the twitchy mustache came looking for more than pork, you let him watch from the doorway. You made sure he saw the man’s eyes roll back. The way his body twitched. The way you licked your fingers clean.

You asked if he wanted a bite.

He said nothing.

But a few hours later, when you left the heart on the barn table, you returned to find they’d been eaten.

He never mentioned it. Neither did you.

Eventually, you replaced the brass knobs with silver ones. Polished until they shone like moonlight. You didn’t bother pretending it was decorative. You wanted him to feel it. To remember. If he ever got the bright idea to leave again, you wanted the first thing he touched to bite back.

He tried sneaking out twice more after that. Once through a window on the top floor, and once during a storm when he thought you were asleep.

Both times you caught him.

The second time, he flinched like he thought you might actually hurt him.

You didn’t.

You just stood in the doorway, hair soaked, nightgown clinging to your skin, and whispered, “Aren’t you tired yet?”

And that time, for once, he answered honestly.

“Yeah.”

After that, things changed.

Not all at once. Not overnight.

But slowly.

At first, he refused to touch you. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Would sleep curled up on the far edge of the bed with his back turned and his arms tight around himself, like maybe if he stayed small enough, he’d disappear.

You didn’t push.

You just waited.

He folded eventually. They always did.

The first time he kissed you back, it was barely more than a flicker. A slow lean in, a tilt of his chin, a clumsy meeting of lips.

You’d felt him tremble.

You’d loved it.

He told you once, maybe a month in, that he still hated you.

You smiled and kissed his jaw.

“Don’t matter,” you said. “You’re here.”

And that was the truth of it.

He was here.

He fed now. Always after you were done dismembering, always with a grimace like he was swallowing bile instead of blood. But he fed. And he held you after. Hands warm and calloused on your back, mouth soft against your neck. Like he couldn’t bear to be alone in those moments. Like the only thing worse than touching you was not.

You cooked every night. He sat at the table, sometimes talking, sometimes just listening. You’d watch his hands curl around the chipped ceramic mugs like he was still trying to remember what they were for.

And in bed—well.

He stopped sleeping with his back to you. Started pulling you in instead. Kisses before sleep, lazy and familiar. Limbs tangled in the sheets. Sometimes he’d trace your scars in the dark. Sometimes he’d ask about them. You’d always tell the truth. That you gave as good as you got. That the world didn’t give kindness easy to girls who looked like you.

He understood that. Maybe more than he wanted to admit.

There were fights. Of course there were.

He’d snap. You’d scream. He’d accuse. You’d threaten. Sometimes it ended with him storming off to the barn, fangs out, chest heaving. Other times it ended with you crying on the kitchen floor while he wiped whispered your name like an apology.

But he always came back.

And you never asked for more than that.

Now it was fall.

The corn had gone brittle and gold. The apples were heavy on the trees. The air snapped cold at night, and Remmick wore one of your father’s old coats, sleeves too big buttons half-missing.

You still killed.

And he still fed.

And sometimes, when the silence between you got too thick, you’d rest your head on his chest and he’d murmur things you didn’t understand in some tongue you couldn’t name.

You never asked what it meant.

Didn’t need to.

He was yours now.

And you were so good at keeping things.

You made pancakes that morning. Thick and golden, stacked high with butter sliding slow down the sides, pooling where syrup had already soaked through. Eggs sizzling in bacon grease. Coffee dark enough to chew. The kitchen smelled like warmth, like spice, like something that should’ve belonged to a family and not just the two of you.

You hummed while you cooked, flitting from stove to counter in your house slippers and a nightgown far too thin for autumn, not that you cared. You liked the way Remmick’s eyes always tried not to follow you, like he was doing you a favor by pretending not to want.

“The chickens are still laying good,” you said cheerfully, plating everything up. “Might be the best season they’ve had in years. That big red one—you know the one—she’s been peckin’ at the fence again. I swear she’s gonna fight a fox one day and win.” You giggled to yourself, setting his plate in front of him. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“And Josephine’s doin’ so good. Belly full and happy, just like she oughta be. Did you see the way she rolled over yesterday? Like a puppy dog.” You laughed again, loud and delighted, sipping your own coffee while Remmick finally cut into the stack of pancakes like they might bleed if he took the knife to them too hard.

“She’s got that look about her, you know,” you said. “Satisfied. Like she knows she’s loved.”

Remmick winced.

You saw it, even if he tried to hide it behind a mug. You leaned in across the table, smiling slow. “She is loved, of course. I always take care of what’s mine.”

He didn’t respond. Just nodded, jaw working behind a thin smile. Took another sip of coffee. Said, “We oughta check those fences ‘round the southern field, too. Some of them posts were leanin’ last week.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you wanted.

You tilted your head, syrupy sweetness still dripping from your voice. “Did you hear me, sugar?”

He nodded again, a little tighter this time. “I did.”

“Then why’re you talkin’ about fences?”

“I just—figured we had work to do is all. Y’been sayin’ the corn needed turnin’ and the pigs—”

“Why are you changin’ the subject?” you asked, flatly this time. No sing-song. No hum.

His mouth opened. Then closed. You stared.

“Was just… wasn’t meanin’ nothin’ by it,” he said finally. “Ain’t think ya wanted me commentin’ on Josephine like that.”

“Well I do want you commentin’,” you said. “I like to know what you’re thinkin’. It ain’t fair to shut me up in my own kitchen, Remmick.”

“I wasn’t—” he tried, but you cut him off with a smile sharp enough to bleed on.

“I tell you everythin’, don’t I? My thoughts, my dreams, the way I see the world. You know all about me. So it only seems fair you give a little too.”

He looked back down at his plate.

You stood, slow, and circled the table. “Or maybe,” you said, quieter now, closer, “you just don’t like the way I talk. That it?”

“That’s not it,” he said quickly, looking up—finally.

You put a hand on his shoulder. “You think I talk too much?”

“No, I—”

“Think I’m too much?”

“No, darlin’, I don’t—please—”

Your fingers tightened. “You think I’m crazy?”

His silence said enough.

You tsked, sweet again. “You wouldn’t still be here if I was.”

He didn’t say anything.

You leaned in. Nose to his temple. Lips just behind his ear. “Would you?”

He exhaled shakily, fork clinking against the plate.

You knew that sound. You loved that sound. Because no matter what he said, no matter what words left that pretty mouth of his, his body always told the truth. He hadn’t run. Not really. Not in weeks. Not since the night you caught him watching you strip down to wash the blood from your skin and he hadn’t looked away even once.

You pulled back, patted his shoulder like it was all a game, and moved back to your seat.

“I just don’t like feelin’ like a bore,” you said lightly, sipping your coffee again. “Or worse. Like an embarrassment.”

“Yer not,” he murmured.

You smiled, but didn’t thank him. You didn’t need his pity.

You watched him eat in silence for a while. He never looked up. Never wiped the syrup off his chin. Never once reached across the table for your hand like he sometimes did in the quiet hours of night.

You hated that.

You cleared your throat. “Josephine is happy, you know,” you said again, voice brighter now. “I know she is. She’s a good girl.”

Remmick just nodded, mouthing an agreeance.

You narrowed your eyes. “You really don’t think so?”

“I said she’s a good girl.”

“You didn’t mean it.”

He looked at you again, and something mean flickered behind his expression. Something annoyed. But still, he gave you a thin smile, syrup-slicked and hollow. “She’s real lucky,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied, voice steely. “She is.”

And you let the tension hang there. Let the air get tight. Let the silence cling.

And then—abruptly—you stood. Chair scraping against the floorboards, his plate in hand, walking toward the sink like your body was pulling you away before your mouth could say something stupid. Something dangerous.

You rinsed the syrup off the ceramic in one motion, hands steady, water hot, steam climbing. The sound of the faucet filled the space behind you where Remmick sat, stiff and unmoving.

You stared down into the drain like it could quiet your mind.

He was trying to upset you on purpose. That much was clear now. He wanted a fight. Wanted the cold shoulder. The punishment. Maybe he thought if he pushed hard enough, made himself unbearable enough, you'd let him go. That you'd get bored. Give him an out.

You smiled, tight and sour.

Cute of him to think he could manipulate you.

You braced the plate against the edge of the sink. Just a little pressure. Just a test. Wouldn’t take much. A tap, really. Crack the porcelain, snap a piece off, drag it clean across that throat of his. Watch the life pour out of him in ribbons. Let Josephine have her fill and then some.

Your hands began to tremble. With excitement. With want.

You drew a breath. Let it settle.

Then you turned, eyes wide and sunny. “Since you’re so concerned about chores,” you chirped, drying your hands on a towel, “I think you can handle ‘em yourself today.”

His head lifted. “What?”

“You heard me,” you said, breezy and bright. “You wanna keep fussin’ about the south field and the leanin’ posts and all the other nonsense? Be my guest.” You walked back to the table, hands on your hips, gaze flickering down his body just for the fun of it. “I think you’ll look real nice swingin’ that axe.”

He started to argue. You could see it—the beginning of a protest rising in his throat. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the way your fingers tapped the table edge. Maybe it was the way you didn’t blink. Maybe it was the thought that you weren’t asking.

He sighed. Long. Heavy. “Fine.”

You beamed. Then followed him out the front door.

The clouds hung low like an omen. Gray and slick, heavy with promise, just shy of rain. Wind pushed through the fields in slow rolls, rustling the corn, sending the trees creaking and moaning. The animals were restless.

And you were gleaming.

You watched from the porch as Remmick hoisted the feed sacks into the wheelbarrow, his muscles shifting beneath the sleeves of his shirt. It had once been his Sunday best—sky blue, pressed and tailored—but now it hung looser across his frame, stained at the collar and fraying at the wrists.

You’d done that to him.

You’d made him work.

You’d made him stay.

“You look so handsome when you lift heavy things,” you called out, voice sing-song, arms crossed as you leaned on the porch rail.

He ignored you.

You grinned wider. “You know I’d climb you like a tree if you’d just say the word.”

He stopped at the gate, stiffened, then kept walking.

You giggled.

The wheelbarrow wobbled down the gravel path toward the pig pens. You trailed behind him like a shadow, arms swinging, breath light.

“You could at least thank me,” you said sweetly.

“For what?” he asked, without turning.

“For lettin’ you earn your keep.”

He muttered something under his breath, probably a curse.

You leaned your head to the side. “Say that louder, sugar.”

He set the feed down hard, enough to make the pigs squeal.

“I said—” he began, turning to you.

But whatever heat he meant to throw fizzled quick under your stare. Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t pouting.

You looked delighted.

You looked hungry.

And something about that scared him more than your rage ever had.

“Keep talkin’ to me like that,” you said, stepping closer, “and I might not let you come to bed tonight.”

“I didn’t—” he ran a hand through his hair. “I ain’t tryin’ to be disrespectful, alright?”

You reached out, brushed dirt from his shoulder. “I know.”

He flinched.

You laughed.

The rest of the day passed like a fever.

You didn’t lift a finger. Didn’t offer to help with the crops or the troughs or the compost. You just watched. Sat with your legs swinging from the porch or tucked beneath you on the fence rails, humming and calling out compliments like a proud wife.

“Look at you,” you purred when he rolled up his sleeves to clean the chicken coop. “Sweatin’ for me.”

He scowled.

You leaned in. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

His ears turned pink.

You nearly moaned with satisfaction. “Oh,” you sighed, hand to your chest. “You blush so pretty. I could eat you alive.”

He stood up too quickly, knocking his head on the coop’s frame. You howled with laughter.

He groaned, rubbing his scalp. “Christ, woman—”

You sauntered closer. Still laughing. Still beaming. Still thinking about the way his neck had flexed earlier while he hauled that feed. Still thinking about how tightly that belt clung to his hips.

“You alright, sugar?” you asked, voice dipped in faux-concern.

He grumbled something about being fine.

You just laughed again and kissed his cheek, ignoring the way he stiffened when you got too close. “Atta boy,” you whispered.

You turned your face to the clouds, the wind rushing through your nightgown, lifting it just enough for him to see the curve of your thigh.

And you saw it. The way his eyes flinched and darted away. The way his chest rose sharper. The way he hated this. Hated what you were doing to him. Hated that he couldn’t stop it.

You grinned to yourself, already fantasizing about that blush of his creeping lower, lower, until it spilled down his stomach and between his legs.

You could definitely get used to this.

“Don’t stop now,” you called sweetly, slipping back up to the porch and stretching across the swing like a satisfied cat. “Still plenty of daylight left.”

Remmick wiped his brow, biting down whatever curse sat on his tongue.

And went back to work.

That night, the house was quiet.

You lay in bed, arms tucked under your head, staring up at the ceiling as the soft splashes of water drifted from the bathroom down the hall. Remmick was in there, washing the day from his skin, muscles you’d watched flex all afternoon gliding beneath soapy hands.

You’d considered joining him.

More than a few times.

Considered waltzing in without a word, without permission, maybe still wearing your dusty day-dress—or nothing at all—and pressing yourself up behind him, palms flat against that broad back. Sliding your hands down his slick sides, hearing his breath catch in that way it always did when you got too close too fast.

You’d imagined biting his shoulder just to watch him flinch. Imagined how the soap would go sliding down the drain pink-tinged from his skin.

But you’d let him have his little win tonight. You’d taken the bath first. Given him the illusion of privacy he clung to so desperately.

You weren’t cruel, after all.

Well. Not always.

The nightgown you’d chosen was white, soft as river mist, and sheer enough to make an honest man sin. The thin fabric clung to your breasts, your stomach, the dip of your hips—and went nearly transparent where it fell between your thighs.

Remmick hated it.

Or, rather, he tried to pretend he did.

He always pretended not to look. Always tried to keep his eyes polite and his hands to himself. But somehow those hands always ended up wandering. A palm skating over your ribs. Fingers brushing your throat. A thumb pressing softly to your lips as though he could tug the words right out of you.

Tonight, you intended to make him work for it.

You sprawled across the bed, legs crossed, the nightgown bunched high on your hips. Waiting.

When he finally came out of the bathroom, steam rolling past him into the hallway, he froze.

He stood there in nothing but a towel, hair still wet, water dripping down the hard line of his chest. He looked half a wild thing—eyes wide and uncertain, mouth parted as if he’d forgotten how to speak.

Your lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.

“Somethin’ wrong, sugar?” you asked, voice like honey.

He blinked hard, as though trying to reset his brain. “N-no. Just… just gettin’ dressed.”

“Mm-hm.” You trailed your fingertips down your own stomach, slow and deliberate. “Don’t let me stop ya.”

He forced himself to move, crossing to the dresser, trying so hard to keep his eyes on the drawer pulls instead of the stretch of your thighs. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, watched the muscles in his arms twitch when you shifted on the mattress, making the gown slip another inch higher.

He pulled on a pair of loose cotton pants. No shirt. Not yet.

He tried to climb into bed.

You stopped him with your foot.

Pressed it lightly against his bare chest, right over his heart, so he couldn’t swing his legs onto the mattress.

He stilled, glancing down at your foot, then back up at your face. “Darlin’…”

“You grumbled all day,” you started, cocking your head to the side. “Got on my nerves somethin’ fierce.”

He flushed. “I… I ain’t mean nothin’ by it—”

You smiled, far too sharply.

“So you can sleep on the floor tonight.”

“I ain’t sleepin’ on no damn—”

You dug your heel in deep, enough to make him wince. “Come again?”

He kept his mouth shut.

“You wanna sleep beside me, sugar, you’re gonna have to earn it back.”

“Darlin’…” he breathed. “Please…”

“Earn it.”

He lowered himself to his knees, hands sliding up your calf, pressing reverent kisses to your ankle.

“Start there,” you murmured, voice gone breathy. “Make it up to me.”

He did.

He kissed his way up your shin, warm lips brushing your skin so softly you wanted to scream. He paused at your knee, pressing his forehead to it, breath shaking. Then he moved higher, mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sucking gently enough to leave a shiver behind.

He skipped over the slick heat between your legs entirely.

Coward.

You decided not to scold him. Not yet. Let him think he could get away with it.

He climbed higher, pressing soft kisses to your stomach, your ribs. His mouth lingered at the curve of your breast, hovering for a long moment before he finally took a nipple between his lips, sucking slow and careful. His fangs scraped lightly against the peak, just enough to make your breath catch.

You let out a low sound, fingers sinking into his hair.

He flicked his tongue over the sensitive bud, then drew back to kiss your other breast, open-mouthed and damp, leaving little trails of saliva cooling on your skin.

“Remmick…” you breathed, tugging him higher.

He obeyed, rising over you, chest brushing yours as he caught your lips.

You let him kiss you first. Let him keep it sweet. Chaste.

But then you seized it.

You tilted your head, lips parting wide, tongue diving past his as your teeth scraped his lower lip. The kiss turned messy and consuming, your moans vibrating into his mouth as you devoured him, letting the drool he’d been fighting so hard to swallow spill out, slicking your chin, your chest, his mouth shiny and wet.

You pulled back with a soft pop of suction, lightly tapping his cheek with your fingertips.

“Forgot somethin’, sugar.”

He blinked at you, panting, lips slick and parted. “Wh-what…?”

Like he didn’t know.

You raised your brows expectantly.

A flush crept up his throat as he ducked his head, shuffling back down your body.

Then his tongue pressed flat against your folds in one long, devastating stroke, licking from your entrance all the way to your clit, your thighs falling wider.

You let your head lull back, smiling knowingly.

Now he was earning it.

Remmick’s tongue pressed in again, this time slower, deliberate. He licked you in long, languid strokes, as though savoring each new slick taste, letting your wetness coat his tongue before pulling back just enough to breathe.

You felt his breath stutter against your cunt, hot and shaky, a tiny tremor in the wet heat of his mouth.

“Mmm… s-sweet… s’so… sweet…” he mumbled, half to himself, eyes fluttering closed as he flicked his tongue over your clit in soft, teasing circles.

A laugh bubbled out of you, high and breathless.

“Listen to you,” you gasped, voice shivering as he laved another stroke through your folds. “God, look at you. All that big man act, and here you are… drooling for my pussy.”

He let out a muffled, broken sound, as if your words cracked him deeper open. His lips sealed around your clit and sucked gently, sending lightning shooting up your spine.

“Oh fuck— Remmick—”

He groaned into you, the vibration rippling through your cunt. And something shifted then—some thin line of control snapping tight and then giving way.

Suddenly he wasn’t slow anymore.

He dove in with reckless hunger, tongue plunging into your entrance, twisting and writhing as if he were trying to bury himself inside you. His big hands gripped your thighs, squeezing bruises into the soft flesh as he pulled you open wider, forcing you to take every filthy lick.

Wet, wet sounds filled the room—obscene slurps and slick, messy laps. Your own moans rang out sharp, trembling, each one higher than the last as your hips bucked against his face.

“Fuck—fuck, Remmick—don’t stop—”

But he wasn’t listening anymore.

His fangs grazed you, just shy of biting, scraping along your swollen lips and making your breath catch in a ragged cry. He growled low in his throat, and you felt his tongue working frantically, plunging deep and withdrawing to flick over your clit with quick, feverish laps.

Drool spilled from his mouth, mingling with your slick until it coated his chin, dripping down the insides of your thighs.

“God damn,” you choked out, half laughing, half moaning as you fisted your hands in his hair. “You hear yourself? The noises you’re makin’? You sound pathetic.”

He lifted his head barely an inch, eyes wild, pupils blown crimson. His lips were glistening, shiny with your wetness, and a thread of drool hung from his lower lip as he panted.

“C-can’t help it… y’smell… s’sweet… s-so fuckin’ good—wanna live here—” His voice broke as he stuttered forward, burying his face between your legs again.

He moaned shamelessly, loud and aching, as his tongue fucked into you faster, deeper, almost frantic. Each thrust of it sent jolts of pleasure rocketing through your belly, your thighs quivering around his head.

Your own laughter turned ragged, punctuated by sharp, gasping cries.

“Ohhh, Remmick—shit—y’gonna come just from eatin’ me out, huh? That how easy you fall apart?”

He whimpered into your cunt, hips rolling uselessly against the bed as if he were trying to rut the air. The needy, broken sounds poured out of him, half-words and trembling moans, all muffled into the heat of your cunt.

“Please… need… m-make ya come—lemme—need t’—fuck, fuck—”

You threw your head back, eyes rolling, your laughter dissolving into a long, helpless moan as he sucked your clit between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue until your whole body seized.

Your hands twisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding yourself against his mouth with reckless abandon.

“Shit—shit—Remmick—oh God—”

His fangs grazed you again, and that tiny brush of sharpness tipped you over the edge.

Pleasure crashed through you in a blinding wave, your hips jerking wildly as you cried out, your voice echoing around the room.

Remmick just held you there, moaning into you, tongue still lapping as if he’d never get enough, chasing every last drop you gave him.

And as you came down, trembling, breathless, a grin split your lips.

Remmick was still kneeling there, shoulders heaving, his face a disaster.

His mouth, chin, and neck glistened, dripping with slick and spit, globs of it slowly sliding down his throat. His lips were parted around shallow, panting breaths, eyes shimmering wet in the lamplight.

“D-darlin’…” His voice broke, hoarse and shaking as he licked at the mess still streaking his lips. “C-can I… please… get in bed now? My… my knees’re hurtin’ somethin’ awful…”

You tilted your head slowly to one side, pressing a finger to your chin in a big, exaggerated gesture of contemplation.

“Hmmm…” you said, dragging it out as you fluttered your lashes at him. “No.”

He blinked, stunned, a pitiful whimper catching in his throat. “Wh… why not…?”

“Took you long enough, ain’t it?” You swept your nightgown down over your thighs, smoothing the fabric, then shot him a look as sharp as broken glass. “I’m exhausted now. I could’ve run the entire farm twice while you were trying to figure out how to use your tongue.”

His face crumpled, an embarrassed flush crawling up his neck. “I—I was tryin’ so hard—”

“Try harder next time,” you said sweetly.

And with a sudden snap of your leg, you kicked him in the chest. Not viciously—but just enough force to knock him back so he landed flat on the floor with a little oof, arms splayed out like a ragdoll.

“Goodnight, sugar,” you chirped, already turning your back on him.

You were up before the sun, apron tied snug around your waist, hair pinned back in curls, humming to yourself as you cracked the eggs and watched the whites sizzle in the pan. “Sun ain’t even had her coffee yet,” you whispered to the stove, eyes bright. “Lazy thing.”

You swayed from side to side as you moved, bare feet brushing the floorboards, the hem of your dress dancing over your ankles. The smell of butter filled the air, thick and golden, pooling around fried potatoes and fresh sausage, two links for you and four for Remmick.

You liked watching him eat. Liked how quiet he got when his mouth was full. Liked how he always chewed so neatly, so polite. You glanced over at the second plate and sighed dreamily.

“What a night,” you said aloud, to no one in particular. “What a night.”

You weren’t sore—not exactly. But you could still feel the ghost of his mouth between your legs, the way he’d whimpered like a dog, like a man starved. “Poor thing,” you cooed to the skillet. “Workin’ so hard just to sleep beside me.”

You flipped the eggs. Behind you, the house creaked. You didn’t flinch. Just smiled, humming a little louder as you reached for the biscuits you’d baked an hour earlier. They were still warm in the basket, soft and flaky, slathered in melted butter and clover honey. You licked your finger clean as you set them out, plate after plate until the table looked like it belonged in a painting—except better, because it was yours.

Remmick was still upstairs. Still sleeping, probably. You wondered if he was dreaming.

And then, just as you laid the final fork down—a scream.

Loud. Wet. Ragged.

You beamed. Clapped your hands once, delighted. “Oh! There he is!” You wiped your palms on your apron and flounced toward the table, adjusting a napkin, fixing the syrup pitcher so the handle faced just right. Another scream—this one more guttural, panicked, echoing down the staircase. You could hear him stumbling against the walls.

He made it to the first landing with a thud. Then again at the bottom of the stairs, thumping into the hallway like he’d tripped over his own feet—or maybe just from the pure shock of it.

You leaned over the plates and breathed in deep. “Smells like love,” you sighed, and then turned just as—

“Darlin’—!”

Remmick burst through the kitchen doorway, rattling the frame so intensely you thought it’d crack. His chest was heaving, shirtless, still damp with sleep, pants barely pulled up right. His hands were shaking. His eyes were glassy and rimmed with red. And wrapped tight around his throat—smoking faintly with every frantic tug—was the collar. Thick. Tight. Silver.

His fingers trembled as he tried to yank at the buckle again, hissing when his skin touched the metal. You watched it burn him. Watched him keep going anyway.

He caught himself before he spoke, swallowing his curses, his breath, all of it down deep. Then he plastered on the sweetest expression he could muster and stepped forward, voice cracking with the effort to stay gentle. “D-darlin’,” he said, “what… what’s on m’neck?”

You tilted your head, blinking at him with wide-eyed fondness. Then giggled. “Oh, Remmick,” you whispered, sweeping forward and throwing your arms around him before he could back away. “Good mornin’, sugar!” You kissed his cheek, lips brushing sweat. He flinched. Hard. But you didn’t let go. You nuzzled into his neck, ignoring the acrid scent of silver against skin. “Ain’t you just the handsomest thing?”

He opened his mouth again, but you beat him to it. “I found it last night,” you explained, not even looking up. “Rummagin’ through the cellar after you fell asleep. Belonged to one of the old hounds my daddy used to keep. Can’t for the life of me remember his name. Wasn’t a very nice dog anyhow. Died real sudden. Think he got into the swamp.” You giggled at that. “But it was good silver. Can’t just let good silver go to waste.”

Remmick’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Did you…” he started, voice barely there, “…did you put it on me while I was sleepin’?”

You turned, eyes bright as dew. “I sure did,” you said, like it was the most romantic thing in the world.

He went quiet. You returned to your chair and sat, folding your napkin in your lap. “You wouldn’t’ve let me if you were awake,” you added with a little shrug. “So I gave you the berries. Just a few. The ones that make your head all foggy and slow. Little bit of that’ll knock out a bull!”

His face paled. Remmick stayed where he was, breathing hard, the faintest whimper leaking from between his teeth as he tried and failed again to pry at the collar. You could see the skin starting to welt, to bubble faintly at the edges, little angry red patches spiderwebbing across his throat. But he was too scared to yell. Too scared to scare you. He knew better.

You placed a hand on your hip and gestured to the table. “Now,” you said sweetly, “I made you breakfast. Sit.”

He didn’t move. So you stepped toward him again, slowly, and took his hand. “It’s alright,” you whispered, leading him gently. “Ain’t nothin’ to cry about, sugar. I think it suits you.”

He let you seat him. You slid his plate in front of him and kissed the top of his head. The collar hissed. You smiled. Then rested your elbows on the table, cupping your cheeks as you stared across at Remmick like he was the center of the whole world.

He hadn’t touched the food yet. Still trying to remember how to move with a burning collar around his throat. Still calculating how much pain each twitch of his head would cost him. But finally—finally—he lifted the aluminum fork with a trembling hand and sliced off the edge of a runny egg. He didn’t look up. Not once.

You leaned in closer, breath quickening as he tilted his head the tiniest bit, wincing when the silver sizzled against his neck. Oh, it sang for you. Right before he could slip the bite between his lips—

“STOP!”

He froze. His whole body jerked with it—shoulders stiff, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes going wide like a deer in headlights.

You gasped and slapped your palms on the table with a dramatic squeal, chair skidding back as you stood. “Don’t move a muscle,” you warned, grinning ear to ear. “Almost forgot your surprise!”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Frankly, you didn’t care what he would’ve said. You were already turning toward the cabinet. The tall one in the corner, one that neither of you really checked, which made it perfect. You opened it slow, savoring the creak of the hinges, fingers trailing along the bottom shelf like you were picking out fine china.

And then, from behind a bundle of dried herbs and spices—you pulled it out. Thick. Black. Shiny with oil. The leash.

Remmick didn’t make a sound, but when you turned around with it held high, his jaw dropped. Fully. Wide open, like he’d just seen a ghost. You cackled. “Oh, sugar,” you chirped, skipping back over to the table. “You should see your face!”

He blinked at you, stiff as a corpse. You laid the leash down on the table between the plates, smoothing the leather flat with one hand. It looked so good there. You couldn’t stop grinning. “I been meanin’ to fish this thing out for ages,” you said brightly, dangling it just a tad before putting it back down. “Didn’t even know if I still had it! My mama used to use it on that ugly dog. He hated it, poor thing. Choked himself half to death the first time she snapped it on.”

You beamed, as though recalling a fond memory. Remmick swallowed hard. Maybe it was spit. Maybe it was bile. Either way, it looked like it hurt.

“You excited?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes at him.

His lips trembled. “Y… yeah,” he croaked, voice thin as paper.

You clapped, delighted. “Oh good! I was hopin’ you’d say that! We can take it for a lil’ test run after breakfast. Maybe do a walk ‘round the coop! Or down to the swamp, say hi to Josephine.” You leaned closer and dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s gonna lose her mind.”

You dug into your food with a happy hum, cutting into your sausage and letting the juices soak the edge of your biscuit. Every bite melted on your tongue. You moaned, licking the honey from your fingers.

Remmick hadn’t moved. He just stared at his plate like it might bite him. You noticed. You didn’t mind. You gave him a look, head cocked, still chewing. “You’re eatin’ slow today.”

He blinked, startled. “I—I’m just tryin’ to savor it,” he offered, voice small. “It’s real good.”

You narrowed your eyes, fork mid-air. Then shrugged and giggled. “You’re so sweet to me, sugar. Always got such nice things to say when I cook.”

He smiled. Or something like it.

You jabbed a sausage link and made it dance on your fork, humming to yourself as you watched him cut another bite of egg. He moved like his limbs didn’t belong to him. Like every inch of him was fighting something inside. You loved it. It made your heart sing.

“Y’know…” you said thoughtfully, propping your chin on your hand. “I was thinkin’ last night. Right before I went to bed.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept chewing, slow and silent.

“I was thinkin’,” you went on, “that we oughta build a little shed out by the swamp. A real one. With a roof and a table and some hooks. Somethin’ sturdy.”

He looked up at that. Not all the way. Just a flicker of his gaze toward your face. You smiled back. “We could butcher ‘em out there. Hang ‘em up by the heels and drain ‘em before Josephine gets to ‘em.” You tapped your fork twice against your chin. “Bet you’d like that. Give you somethin’ to do with all that muscle. Show me how strong you are...”

Remmick’s mouth was a grim line. His fork had stopped moving. But he didn’t say no. Didn’t say anything at all.

You decided to let him be quiet today. Let him have this last calm before the leash clicked into place. Before the whole day rolled out yellow and warm at your feet. So you just hummed. And you watched him eat. Each bite slower than the last. Slower than anyone had any business chewing.

You kept your smile. Kept your tone light and your hands folded in your lap. You even hummed a little tune to distract yourself. But inside? Your nerves buzzed like hornets in a jar. He was dragging it. Just to spite you. Just to stretch out the moments before the inevitable. Bite after agonizing bite, chewing each mouthful like it might be his last—like the eggs might dissolve into a final miracle if he just waited long enough.

You tapped your fingers against the table once. Twice. Took a sip of coffee you didn’t want. Licked your lips and told yourself it was fine. That you were being patient. Kind, even. You hadn’t lost your temper yet. Proud of yourself for that, really.

But when he reached those last few bites—those very last crumbs of sausage and flecks of yolk smeared against his fork—you stood. Calm. Still smiling. And held out your hand.

Remmick paused mid-bite. His whole body tensed. But he didn’t argue. Didn’t whine or flinch or try to buy himself another minute. He just dropped his gaze, brought the fork to his mouth, and swallowed the last bit of sausage.

You snatched the plate from his hands the second he did. Light, sure. But quick. Sharp enough to make his shoulders jolt. You didn’t even rinse it. Didn’t pretend to care. Just tossed it into the sink with a clatter and turned back to him, your grin returning in full force.

Then you dropped. Right onto his lap. The chair creaked beneath the weight of you both, but you didn’t give it a second thought. You wiggled happily, thighs spread wide, grinding slow over the hard line of him through his pants. You felt the way he stiffened. Heard the way he sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.

And oh, how it delighted you.

Your fingers found the leash next—where it still lay coiled neat on the table. And you clipped it on. The snap of the clasp echoed like a gunshot. A soft hiss came from the collar, that same old burn—but not nearly as loud this time. Like the silver was running out of fresh skin to char.

Remmick whimpered low in his throat, flinching under you, and you took your sweet time drinking him in. Blisters had risen now, red and mean, dotting the edges of the band like broken pearls. But what interested you more were the strange deep marks traveling out in tendrils—like veins. Darker than blood, winding up his throat and slipping just beneath the skin of his collarbone. Like the silver was trying to root in him.

You pressed your thumb just beneath the burn, watching the skin give way, soft and hot to the touch. He twitched. And your stomach fluttered.

He looked... God, he looked beautiful. Absolutely wrecked. Exhausted. Skin flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pain. Like something you’d starved for.

You wrapped the leash twice around your wrist, tugging it just tight enough to make him blink. And then you kissed him. Open-mouthed. Wet. Devouring.

He made a wounded sound when your tongue slipped past his lips—like he didn’t mean to let it happen, but couldn’t stop himself. Like the leash did more than just keep him close. It made him obedient.

Your free hand cupped his jaw, thumb dragging along the sticky corner of his mouth, smearing spit from your kiss across his cheek as you leaned in harder, grinding again. You felt him twitch beneath you—felt the conflict thrashing in his hips. Part of him wanted to run. Part of him didn’t.

The leather between your wrist and his neck tugged softly as you shifted, and you giggled when his tongue jolted in your mouth—like a shock had gone through him.

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Didn’t think I’d see you so flustered again,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “Thought you’d left all that self-respect between my thighs, sugar.”

His eyes darted over your face, sweat trickling down his temple. “I—I ain’t…” he started, but the words tangled and died before they found their way free.

You ran a hand through his damp hair. Then tugged the leash again. A sharp snap of silver tension, and he gasped, hips bucking up involuntarily beneath you.

You grinned. Leaned close again. “Y’know what I think?” you murmured, dragging your lips along the side of his face. “I think you like bein’ kept.”

“N-no…”

You pressed a kiss to the curve of his jaw. “Sure you don’t.”

You rocked again in his lap, slow and deliberate, dragging yourself over the bulge in his pants, feeling it throb beneath the weight of you. His hands gripped the sides of the chair like he was begging himself not to touch you.

You giggled and pulled his face to yours, nipping lightly at his lower lip. “Such a good boy,” you cooed. “Such a pretty, pretty thing.”

His breath hitched again, and you felt his thighs tremble beneath you.

And then—there it was. You saw it in the slow, uncertain twitch of his fingers. The way they unfurled one by one from the wooden frame of the chair, creeping up, hesitant, toward the soft give of your thighs.

You waited—let them rise just enough to ghost along the edge of your hips. Then you stood. Abrupt. Purposeful. Yanked the leash as you went and forced him to stumble up with you, nearly toppling the chair backward in his scramble to keep his footing.

You giggled, all teeth and joy when you caught the way his hips jerked forward with the movement—when you saw the thick, unforgiving bulge at the front of his pants.

“Well, look at that,” you cooed, head tilting sweetly as your fingers moved down to brush against it. He hissed softly through his teeth, already trembling again.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” you promised with a wink. “But right now? I wanna test this little thing out.”

You gave it another playful tug, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make the collar snap taut against his skin again—just enough to watch the muscle jump in his throat as the silver hissed and sizzled fresh against his blisters.

He whimpered, eyes fluttering. But he didn’t speak. You wondered if it hurt for him to.

You turned on your heel and started toward the back door, your steps bouncing with glee, purposefully walking faster than usual—just to see if he could keep up. The leash stayed tight between you. His bare feet padded across the kitchen floor behind you in uneven, scrambling little bursts.

You didn’t look back. Not when the screen door groaned open. Not when you stepped out onto the porch.

The sun was already high, baking the roof tiles, bleached white and brutal overhead. But the trees lining the path to the barn were generous with their shade today, long-limbed and swaying, dappled light painting the dirt trail below.

You turned just enough to flash Remmick a grin over your shoulder. “You better keep up,” you chirped. “Wouldn’t want your pretty skin boilin’ off, would we?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a tight little nod and braced himself as you set off—speedwalking now, steps quick and light, kicking up little clouds of dust as you went.

The leash tugged and bounced between you with every footfall, and more than once, you felt the tension snap sharp—followed by the soft, unsteady scuffle of Remmick nearly tripping behind you.

He never fell.

But oh, how close he came.

Each stumble sounded like a prayer, a bite-back whimper, a half-muttered “fuck” caught on the wind. And still, he followed. Always followed.

You beamed as you reached the wide barn doors and pushed them open with a loud creak, the hinges singing like they hadn’t been oiled in years. You stepped into the cool dark and let the leash slacken in your hand, uncoiling it from your wrist so it dangled freely now, just barely held in your grip.

Remmick panted behind you, cheeks flushed, sweat glistening at his hairline, and you turned to him like a proud hostess. “Well,” you said brightly, “get to work, sugar.”

His brow furrowed. “Work…?”

You gestured at the far wall, where rusted tools lined the hooks—shovels, axes, hammers, nails in glass jars, coils of wire and thick rolls of canvas tarp. All coated in a thin shimmer of grime. A few had darker stains. One of them still had a little chunk of something clinging to the handle.

“You sayin’ work like we didn’t already talk about this?” you asked, voice rising into a high, mock-wounded whine.

His brows pinched together, eyes flicking uncertainly toward the tools again.

You frowned, winding the leash tight—far tighter than you had earlier that morning—around your forearm, tugging him forward with little jerks as you took slow, deliberate steps deeper into the barn. He stumbled after you, hands lifted like he meant to soothe you.

“Wait—darlin’, I—I didn’t mean—please, I wasn’t forgettin’ on purpose, I just—I got distracted is all—”

“You forgot about our project, Remmick,” you said with a pout so heavy it almost cracked your face in half. “The shed, remember? Down by the swamp? We talked about it just this morning. You said it was a fine idea.”

You knew he hadn’t said a word in agreement, but he certainly wasn’t going to try and fight you on it.

“I—I know, I know,” he said quickly, nodding. “I swear I did—I just—my mind’s not been right since I woke up with this—this—thing—’round my neck—”

You yanked the leash hard, and he choked on the last word, the collar going taut again.

The sound it made was less of a sizzle now and more of a whimper, like the silver had grown tired of burning and instead burrowed itself down deep, content to throb inside his skin.

You gave him a sharp look—one that shut him right up.

“Start gathering,” you said, so flatly you surprised yourself. “Lumber’s in the corner. Nails’re on the shelf. You’ll need the hammer, the shovel, and probably one of those little saws too. Unless you wanna build it with your teeth, sugar.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once. And moved toward the tools.

You flounced back against the nearest hay bale and perched yourself there, crossing your legs with a lazy hum. And watched.

Hefting the heavier tools made his arms strain, muscles twitching in his bare chest—and only then did you remember he still hadn’t put a shirt on. The sun slipped through the slats in the walls in thin, golden stripes, but Remmick kept shifting to avoid them, ducking just slightly out of reach each time they threatened to graze his skin.

Every time he bent down to pick something up, you caught yourself biting your lip.

He really was pretty.

Especially with that chain trailing from his neck.

And oh, those marks.

Crawling further now. Right below his jaw, down toward his chest, some even skimming his chin in those vein-like streaks. Blooming like angry vines.

You tugged the leash.

He flinched.

Another tug. He stumbled.

You laughed.

He looked back, eyes wide with something soft and wounded—but didn’t say a word. Just nodded once more, gripped one of the thick wooden planks in both hands, and hoisted it up onto his shoulder.

“Mm-mm… grab two more while you’re at it, sugar,” you called sweetly. “And don’t forget the hammer! Crooked walls would make me so upset…”

He obeyed.

And you tugged again—just to watch the way his hands trembled, the way he jerked forward, like he was yours to puppet.

Which, of course, he was.

And you couldn’t wait to make him prove it.

You waited hours for the sun to get its selfish little behind out the sky. Too bright, too bold, too hot. She always liked to steal attention. You told her so—out loud, a few times, while watching from the kitchen window, arms crossed over your chest and leash wound in your hand like a ribbon of patience. But she finally tucked herself away. Which meant it was time to get to work.

Remmick had been building like a man possessed. Quiet, focused, bare chest and back damp with sweat, mouth going slack with every heavy breath. And oh, hadn’t he been good. All those planks cut to size, the posts dug straight, the frame already nailed tight. The walls were nearly done now, with only one side open to the swamp for your little friend to come and go as she pleased.

You sat in the grass nearby, knees hugged to your chest, cheek resting lazily on one arm as you watched the leash swing and tug with every movement of his neck. He was sweating. He was filthy. He looked beautiful.

“Take a break,” you chirped suddenly.

He hesitated—just for a moment—then set the hammer down, brushing his palms against his pants. “Don’t gotta tell me twice,” he said, and that smile—oh, that smile—blossomed out slow and real, his first honest one all day. No twitch behind the eyes. No edge of panic in his voice.

You beamed. He took a seat beside you, still too far, but you let it slide. For now.

You reached into the basket you’d brought and started pouring lemonade into a glass. Then paused. Thought better of it. With a bright hum, you pushed the whole pitcher into his lap.

“There you go, sugar. You earned it.”

He didn’t even hesitate—just lifted the pitcher and drank straight from it, throat bobbing with every deep swallow, jaw flexing as he gulped it down like water in the desert. You watched. You stared. Your own mouth went dry.

“I love watchin’ you drink,” you said dreamily, scooting closer until your bare shoulder touched his. “Like watchin’ a big ol’ dog at a water bowl.”

He choked on the last gulp, coughing softly. You patted his back, grinning, then plucked a sandwich from the basket—turkey, thick and cold with a generous smear of butter and two slices of tomato—and unwrapped it slowly.

Remmick turned his head, brows lifting.

“Oh, no,” you said, wiggling your fingers. “This one’s on me.”

And with that, you plucked off a corner of the sandwich and held it up to his mouth.

He hesitated. But not long. He opened, lips parting slow—and you didn’t just feed him.

You slipped your fingers into his mouth, slow and deliberate, feeling the soft heat of his tongue as he closed around them. Then deeper. Just a bit. Letting your fingertips slide past his tongue and press lightly against the back of his throat.

He didn’t gag.

Didn’t flinch.

Just held your gaze.

Steady. Obedient. Unblinking.

Slowly, you began to pull back, your fingers grazing the sharp points of his fangs on the way out—light, teasing, just enough to feel them graze your tips. A long string of spit followed, stretching wet and shimmering from his lips to your knuckles.

You lifted your hand, tongue darting out to catch the drool with a pleased little hum.

“There’s my good boy,” you murmured, feeding him another piece. “Makin’ up for bein’ so sour yesterday, aren’t you? Bein’ sweet now. Bein’ real sweet.”

He chewed and swallowed, his eyes flicking sideways, all that confidence sapped in an instance.

“Yer takin’ care of me,” he said softly. “It’s… real kind of ya.”

“Kind,” you echoed, like the word was candy on your tongue. “You think I’m kind.”

Another piece. Another bite. His lips brushed your fingertips this time.

You smiled. Wider. Licked your teeth.

When the sandwich was nearly gone, you dropped the last piece into his palm and watched as he finished it, your eyes locked on his mouth, your hands twitching in your lap. You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Until he looked up. And then you pounced.

You pushed him backward, fingers splayed over his chest, and climbed on top of him in one fluid motion, your knees pressing into the grass on either side of his hips.

He made a soft, startled sound—but didn’t fight. Didn’t move. Just blinked up at you, pink creeping up his throat.

You folded your arms on his chest and rested your chin atop them, gazing down at him, rocking just slightly where you sat.

“Have I been mean to you?” you asked, voice pitched soft. “’Cause I’ve been thinkin’ about it… and I worry I’ve been mean.”

He went tense beneath you. A full-body kind of still.

“No,” he said too fast. Too sharp. Then softened it. “No, darlin’. Y— y’ain’t been mean.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you sure?”

His bottom lip trembled. He bit it. But he nodded.

You grinned. Bright as the evening stars.

Then leaned down and peppered his face in kisses. Soft ones. Wet ones. One on the nose, one on the cheek, one at the corner of his mouth. His lashes fluttered with each press.

“My sweet boy,” you whispered. “My sunshine. My angel pie. My beautiful lil’ farmhand. Lettin’ me feed you, lettin’ me sit on you like this. Letting me love you.”

He made a sound—barely audible—but it buzzed against your lips as you kissed his jaw.

You sat up, straddling him, hands resting lightly on his ribs. Then he stiffened, suddenly.

Huff.

You blinked. Turned your head.

A slow grin split your face.

There she was, Josephine!

Her big eyes and broad snout breaking the swamp’s glassy surface, nostrils flaring.

“Well, well, well,” you cooed, tilting your head. “You want in on our picnic, baby girl?”

Josephine huffed again.

Remmick—still pinned beneath you—stared at her with wide, horrified eyes.

You turned back to him and leaned down close, nose brushing his.

“She likes watchin’,” you whispered. “Likes seein’ you be good for me.”

He swallowed, hard.

You gasped like he’d confessed to a crime and slammed both palms flat against his chest. “You ain’t even pet her yet!”

The thud from your hands knocked the wind out of him—he let out a stunned little grunt, halfway between a hiccup and a groan, like someone’d punched him in the ribs. His eyes blinked wide.

“I—I didn’t—didn’t know I was supposed to…” he stammered, breath catching as your hands stayed firm on his sternum.

“Remmick,” you said, voice low and grave as you leaned in close. “That girl has loved you from the moment she laid eyes on you. She welcomed you into her home—my home—and you haven’t even given her a single pat on the head?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I—I don’t… I mean, she’s a gator, darlin’—”

“Oh, hush.” You were already on your feet, brushing dirt off your thighs, your smile bright as ever. The leash gave a soft tug as you wrapped it tighter around your fist. Remmick’s body stiffened.

“C’mon,” you said, sing-song. “On your feet, sugar.”

He sat up slowly, like his bones ached. “Darlin’, I dunno if that’s such a good—”

You gave the leash another gentle yank. Not mean, not yet. But the message was clear. “Now, Remmick.”

He stood without another word.

You led him by the collar all the way to the edge of the dock, your pace just a little too fast to be casual. When you got there you flopped belly-first against the old, sun-warmed wood, your feet kicked up behind you. The water lapped quietly beneath the boards.

You patted the dock beside you. “Get down here.”

He hesitated—but not for long. Soon he was lying stomach-down beside you, arms tense at his sides, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. Like he was trying very hard to keep calm.

You reached out toward the water like you’d done it a thousand times before, fingers splayed wide, wrist loose. And from the murk below, Josephine rose. Just her snout and those big sleepy eyes, surfacing slow and steady, her nostrils flaring once in greeting. Her wide head pressed against your palm, and you scratched under her chin, down her neck, nails dragging over the thick hide. She made that low, slow, rolling sound again—somewhere between a growl and a purr.

“There she is,” you cooed, rubbing her head with both hands now. “There’s my good girl. My beautiful, scaly angel. God, you missed me, didn’t you, baby? You missed mama. You missed your treats.”

Remmick lay frozen beside you, not breathing. Not blinking. You could feel the tension in him, like a little live wire strung tight at the edge of the dock.

You pulled your hands back slowly and smiled at him. “Your turn.”

He looked at you like you’d asked him to saw off a finger. “I—I don’t think I should—”

You rolled your eyes, and your tone took on that extra sugary sweet edge it always did right before something snapped. “Remmick. She knows if you’re scared. She feels it. She’s an empath, remember?”

His mouth opened. “I—since when is—gators ain’t empath—”

“She’ll bite your damn hand clean off if you hesitate,” you added with a nod. “But no pressure.”

He gulped. And, with a hand that shook like a leaf, he reached out.

Josephine let him touch her—but just barely. He managed to graze a few fingers along her head, and for a moment she stayed put. Then she huffed through her nose and sank back down into the water, gone in a blink.

You sighed, fond. “She don’t like nervous men.”

“I—I wasn’t tryin’ to be—” he tried.

“Shhh,” you sounded, digging through the basket behind you. “She still loves you.”

You pulled out a turkey sandwich and leaned forward, tossing it into the water. “There you go, sweet pea,” you called, watching it land with a plop. “Just a snack, alright? I’ll get you a full meal soon. Promise.”

Josephine’s head rose again briefly. Then disappeared, sandwich and all.

You turned back to Remmick, your face practically glowing. “Ain’t she just the sweetest?”

He gave the water a long, slow look. His voice, when it came, was high and hoarse: “Y-yeah. Real sweet.”

Remmick’s breath had evened out, but yours hadn’t. You were too wrapped up in how soft his hair felt against your fingers, how his body melted so easily into yours tonight—like he was made to lay right here, head on your chest, arms circled around your waist, every inch of him lax and humming from the day’s work.

You’d let him clean you earlier. Run that sweet, reverent mouth of his between your legs while the bathwater turned lukewarm. He’d made dinner after, too, so gentle when he set the plate down in your lap and fed you the bits he noticed you liked most. He’d been perfect. So good you’d even considered taking the collar off.

The thought had risen up, a quiet little whisper in your brain, as you looked down at him just now—curled up against you like a dog freshly dried and warmed by the fire. For a moment, you’d imagined slipping your fingers under the clasp, lifting the chain from his neck, kissing the spot beneath. You’d even smiled at the idea.

But then you laughed. Out loud.

The sound made him twitch a little, like he’d heard it from underwater. You stroked his hair to soothe him, the warmth of his breath on your skin making it so hard to believe he’d ever been anything but soft. Silly thought. You weren’t taking the collar off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe never.

Your eyes had just begun to flutter shut when it came—a sharp pop from beyond the trees. Like a firecracker. Then the low hiss of rubber gasping its last breath. You blinked, cocked your head. Another few seconds passed. And then, right there through the window: the silhouette of a young man coming up the drive. White. Frazzled. Bag slung over one shoulder and both arms waving as he called out toward the house.

“Oh!” you squealed, lips already curving with glee. “Remmick!”

You cradled his cheeks and kissed his mouth, giddy as you shoved his face further into your chest.

“Remmick, wake up—we’re gonna do this one together, you and me!”

He grunted softly, blinking up at you, mind still foggy from almost-sleep. You didn’t wait for him to catch up. You practically threw the blankets back and hopped out of bed, breathless with excitement as your feet hit the floor. He sat up slowly, still dazed, brows furrowed like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“Someone’s here?” he mumbled.

“Mhm! On foot. Tire popped, I bet. Looks all helpless.” You giggled, digging into the back of your wardrobe. “I was wonderin’ how long it’d be before another one of ‘em showed up uninvited.”

He stood stiffly, the creak of bed springs behind you betraying his hesitation. You fished around the top shelf until your fingers brushed cool leather.

“Here it is!” you said, spinning around with the muzzle in your hands like a prize you’d won at the fair.

The blood drained from Remmick’s face. You practically skipped back to him, grinning from ear to ear.

“No, no—wait, wait,” he said quickly, stepping back. “I can behave. I—”

But you didn’t give him a chance to finish. You mounted him right there, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he stumbled back onto the edge of the bed, catching himself with both arms behind him. You clutched the muzzle between your teeth just long enough to use both hands to grab his face.

“You’re not in trouble, silly,” you whispered sweetly. “I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t move. You reached behind his head and clipped the muzzle into place, firm but not too tight. His jaw flexed slightly under the leather straps, but he didn’t fight it. He just closed his eyes for a moment like he always did when he wanted to pretend he wasn’t here.

“You’re my best helper, you know that?” you chirped, patting his cheek once it was secured. “But I don’t want you gettin’ any ideas before I’ve had my fun. Or gettin’ too hungry. You remember what happened last time.”

He blinked. You beamed, smoothed your hands down his chest, then slid off his lap and stood tall.

“I’ll be quick,” you promised, brushing down your nightgown and walking to the mirror, tilting your head back and forth. “They always say you should look your best for company.”

He didn’t answer, of course. Not with the muzzle on.

You could feel his eyes on your back as you grabbed a light shawl and wrapped it around your shoulders, humming quietly while you fixed your hair with your fingers. You heard him shift on the bed, a quiet creak of wood beneath his feet, the sway of the leash still hanging from his collar. You turned and offered him your hand.

He took it.

You led him downstairs with a big smile, reaching the door just as the knock came—a hesitant, almost embarrassed little tap. You looked back at Remmick once more, just to drink him in.

There he stood, framed by the moonlight pouring through the window. Eyes dark and still and tired, lips hidden behind the black leather muzzle. Leashed. Collared. Silent. Perfect.

You turned the knob.

And opened the door with a smile.

The moment your eyes landed on his, you felt your blood start to sing. Long blonde hair, pale and tangled in front of his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it. Blue eyes, too soft and mellow for someone his age. No older than twenty, if that. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, and he’d clearly been moving fast, his white button-down stuck to his chest with sweat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shoes caked in dry mud.

He started speaking before he’d even fully reached the porch. “I’m real sorry to bother y’all—tire blew out back on the main road, and I ain’t got a spare or no way to patch it, so I figured—”

Then he looked up.

You watched his mouth falter mid-sentence, eyebrows pulling together in a way that made your jaw twitch.

His gaze fell on you first. Your nightgown. Your bare feet. The smile that hadn’t dimmed even once. He squinted. Tilted his head just slightly. Looking you up and down like you didn’t make sense, like you didn’t belong here. You could see the words forming behind his teeth. Wondering whose house this was. Wondering if you were the maid or the mistress. You knew that look. You’d spent your whole life learning it.

But you smiled wider. Steadier. Tilted your head right back.

And then his eyes shifted. To Remmick. And oh, how they stuck.

The young man blinked. Once. Twice. His shoulders went taut, and his jaw clenched hard enough to crack. He didn’t even try to hide it—the long stare, the bewildered skim of his gaze over the leather muzzle stretched tight over Remmick’s face, the silver collar buckled low on his neck, the black leash clutched loose in your hand. Remmick didn’t say a word. Just stood behind you, silent and stone still.

The man's face rippled with something—confusion, disgust, maybe even fear—but he buried it fast. Took one full step back and cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at either of you.

“Y’all wouldn’t happen to have a spare tire layin’ around, would ya?” he asked quickly, voice breaking just slightly at the edges. “Don’t mean to impose. I’ll be on my way soon as I can.”

Your smile didn’t budge. “Sure we do,” you said sweetly. “It’s a little ways out back, but we’ll show you where it is.”

He nodded fast, grateful. “Thank ya. I really appreciate it.”

But you didn’t move. Not yet.

Because your mind was still ticking, loud and red and quick, on the ways you could end him. You pictured him bent over and gagging on the floor, his hands flying to his neck, eyes wide and wet as blood slipped through his fingers and soaked his shirt. You saw his head cracked open on a tree stump, the edge of your axe buried deep between those golden locks. You imagined peeling him apart slow, piece by piece, just to see how long it would take before his throat gave out.

He’d scream pretty. You knew it.

And if you let Remmick off the leash? If you took off that muzzle and gave him just ten minutes?

There wouldn’t even be blood left to mop up.

You stood there and stared, jaw slack with quiet delight, until the silence stretched too long.

A hand brushed yours gently. Large. Cold.

You blinked.

Remmick, still behind you, tilted his head down, muzzle twitching slightly as he nudged your arm. His palm hovered near, careful not to touch too much. Just a reminder. You’d been still too long.

“Oh,” you said suddenly, breath hitching with a laugh.

The man blinked. Nervous now.

You squeezed Remmick’s hand once as a little thank-you, then turned your grin back on the stranger like nothing had happened at all.

“Well, come on then, sugar,” you said brightly. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

And without another glance back, you stepped off the porch into the night, leash taut in your hand.

You took your sweet time with the walk to the shed. The man walked a few paces ahead, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Remmick trailed close behind—head down, footsteps silent, muzzle already dark with spit.

It felt like walking a pig to slaughter. The thought made you smile.

“You from around here?” you asked casually, raising your voice just enough for the man to hear.

He glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. “Nah. I’m from up near Tunica. Just passin’ through.”

“Tunica,” you echoed, lips puckering in mock thought. “Ain’t that where the river bends all funny?”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “That’s the one.”

You hummed like you cared, hand swaying gently at your side. “And what brings you out this way?”

The man rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders slumping a bit. “I was comin’ back from a work trip. Construction job got cut short. Figured I’d surprise my boy by gettin’ home early.”

You cocked your head, grin sharp behind your teeth. “Oh, that’s sweet. Little one?”

He smiled a little wider. “Yeah. Just turned seven.”

“Even more reason for you to get back on the road quick,” you said, voice light as air. “Can’t have him thinkin’ Daddy disappeared.”

He chuckled politely, missing your tone entirely.

“You got a wife?” you asked, sing-songing it this time.

He looked back again and nodded. “Sure do.”

“Good,” you said brightly. “Means your son’ll still have someone to watch over him.”

Remmick inhaled sharply behind you.

It wasn’t loud. Not to anyone else. But you heard it. Felt it, even—the tight recoil of breath through that muzzle, the slight yank of the leash in your hand from where he’d jerked forward. You didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back.

The man turned to you fully now, brow furrowing. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

You barked out a laugh so loud it echoed off the trees.

“Oh honey, nothin’!” you said, voice too high. “Meant it’s good someone’s there watchin’ him while you’re gone, that’s all! My brain just runnin’ ahead a bit, that’s all. Don’t mind me!”

The man forced an uneasy grin.

You rounded the final bend and reached the shed, looking even sturdier than how Remmick and you had left it earlier that day.

You gestured with a lazy wave. “Tires’re in the back. Light’s back there too.”

He blinked. “You don’t got a switch up front?”

“Nope,” you lied. “It’s one of them pull-chains. Back right corner.”

He hesitated, just a beat too long. Then stepped inside, head low, hands outstretched to feel along the wall.

You waited until his back was turned. Then reached out and undid the first strap of Remmick’s muzzle.

Click.

The second strap came undone slower. Your fingers lingered.

Click.

The muzzle dropped loose, hanging heavy from the bottom strap until you slid it off entirely. And there he was.

Mouth slick and twitching. Fangs fully bared. Saliva dripped down his chin in thick globs, smacking softly against his chest. His breathing was ragged now—barely controlled. Eyes blown wide, flashing red at the pupils, neck pulsing like a wild animal held too long by the throat.

You lowered your voice to a murmur. “Wait.”

His claws were already showing—both hands curled and trembling, fingers warped to talons, nails long and glinting in the moonlight. His arms flexed like they were begging to be loosed.

“I said wait,” you whispered again. “Let him find the light first.”

Remmick swallowed hard. He nodded once.

Inside the shed, you heard the young man shuffling farther in. “Can’t see a damn thing in here,” he muttered. “Y’all sure it’s in the back?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the muscles twitch in Remmick’s jaw, the way his tongue darted out to wet his fangs. His hands clenched, unclenched. That breathy whine he let out—barely audible, like pain. He was holding himself back, just for you. Only for you.

A soft click. Then a low buzz. The lightbulb flickered once, then caught—glowing dim yellow in the far corner. The man turned toward it.

And Remmick moved.

It was a blur, really. A shadow that passed before it could be registered in the mind. He was on the man before you could blink—one claw buried in his shoulder, the other raking down his chest with a wet, splitting sound that sent a shock through the air. The man staggered, howling, shoes skidding on the wood floor slick with the evening’s humidity and his own blood. But the scream barely made it past his lips before Remmick’s teeth found his throat. Not deep enough to end it. Just a warning. Just enough to make him scream again.

Remmick didn’t kill him outright. Not this time. He made sure to stretch it out.

You stepped further into the shed, the door groaning shut behind you as your shadow fell over the two bodies. Your arms were crossed loose beneath your chest, the smile on your face softening into something dreamy and mean. Tender, even. Like you were watching a man recite poetry rather than slowly dismembering a living thing.

You crouched next to them. “Good boy,” you whispered. “So good for me.”

He didn’t look up, but you could see the satisfied tremor run down his back, his jaw twitching against the metal cage of his own control. You knew you wouldn’t need the muzzle. Not anymore. Not when he knew how much you liked to watch.

You’d taught him so well.

The man was still alive, writhing now—his pale lashes fluttering, chest heaving in broken spasms as he tried to speak around the ruined meat of his throat. It came out a gurgle.

Remmick had his claws hooked through his ribs, peeling back his shirt and skin like a page. The cartilage popped wetly. Something deep inside gave a muffled snap.

You cocked your head, breath catching, and let out a delighted little sound.

“Oh, that was a good one,” you said. “Do it again.”

His lips peeled back in a snarl—blood dripping from his chin, his fangs a mess of crimson and sinew. His glassy eyes snapped to yours, searching your face for every little flicker of praise. You didn’t even have to ask again.

He slid his claws deeper, dragging them downward with a slow, deliberate tug that sent shudders through what was left of the man. He jerked once. Twice. His legs kicked and went still.

Another rib snapped. Another noise from you—soft, breathless, touched with something like laughter.

You moved closer. The floor was red beneath your feet. The metallic smell filled your head, and you couldn’t help but to stick your tongue out, just to see if the air tasted how it smelled. It didn’t, to your disappointment.

You leaned into the man’s face this time, watching his eyes struggle to focus on you through the blur of blood and salt and panic.

“I was right, you know,” you cooed, brushing his hair back from his face, careful not to get blood on your dress. “About your wife. Your son. They’ll be just fine.”

His lips moved, but nothing came out.

Behind you, Remmick let out a moan—feral and needy, full of blood and longing. He’d sunk his teeth into the man’s stomach now, peeling muscle away from bone, his tongue lapping over the exposed cavity like a man possessed.

You turned slightly to watch him, resting your chin on your palm.

“You’re showin’ off,” you teased, voice sweet. “Tryna impress me, sugar?”

He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh, muffled by a mouthful of lung. You could see the shake of his hands—those gorgeous claws twitching, begging for more. His chest rose and fell with frantic rhythm. Still hungry. Always hungry.

You could always tell when he hit that point—when the blood wasn’t enough, when the meat beneath his tongue stopped satisfying and the ache between his legs outgrew the one in his belly. He was panting now, eyes locked on yours like he was starved for something you hadn’t fed him yet. His mouth twitched around the torn-open cavity of the man’s stomach, strings of gore catching on his fangs. His chest heaved. His claws flexed like they didn’t know what else to grab. And then he whimpered. That soft little sound he always made when the hunger shifted south.

You smiled back. Slow, loose-limbed and syrup-sweet. “Aw, sugar,” you cooed, stepping over what was left of the man on the floor. “Poor thing got all worked up, didn’t he? All full on blood and nowhere to put it?” His lips parted under the mess, his tongue flicking out slow and clumsy. He tried to nod, but his head lolled a bit to the side, too overwhelmed already to keep still. You reached out and cupped his chin, tilting his mouth up toward you. His cheeks were glazed in spit and gore, his breath hot against your palm. His eyes had gone wet and wide—unblinking. Pitiful.

“Look at you,” you whispered. “Such a filthy little thing.” He whined again, louder this time, and the sound vibrated all the way up your arm. “Down.” He dropped like a sack of bones. Not even a second’s hesitation. Muzzle gone, collar tight, blood still drying in patches across his jaw—and he went down like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

“Good boy,” you crooned, pushing your nightgown up past your hips as you stepped over to straddle his lap. “You want me to make it better?” His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, claws twitching, trembling with restraint. You laughed softly and cupped his face again—gentler now. You leaned in close, close enough to feel the heat of him thrumming like a furnace between your legs. He was already hard, already leaking, rutting helplessly up into the air like he couldn’t stand not being inside something.

“Aw, sugar,” you breathed against his lips, voice full of mock-pity. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you fuck me after all that mess, did you?” He blinked fast. Swallowed hard. His claws curled tighter into your skin. “Look at yourself,” you said, dragging your thumb across his bottom lip. “You’re drippin’. You’re disgustin’. You killed him like a pig and now you think you get a reward?” He nodded, frantic. “Mm. Maybe. But you’re gonna work for it.” You leaned in and drooled into his open mouth.

He moaned like you’d fed him salvation. Your saliva dripped down his throat, thick and warm. He swallowed it like he meant it—like it was communion, like it was blood. His eyes rolled back a little, lashes fluttering. One of his hands slid from your thigh to your hip, clinging like a lifeline.

“There we go,” you purred. “There’s my good boy.”

You sank down to your knees in front of him, dragging your mouth over the curve of his throat, lapping at the gore still caked beneath his jaw. He whimpered. Bucked once. The leash in your hand tugged taut when he tried to move too fast.

“Ah-ah,” you warned, mouth brushing his ear. “Be patient.” He was already crying. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, thick and trembling. He sniffled once, just the barest hint of it, but it made your cunt clench anyway. You reached between your legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock, already leaking through the fabric of his pants, dark and wet where the cloth clung tight.

“I’ll let you have it,” you whispered. “But you gotta make me come first. Think you can do that, Remmick?” He nodded violently. “You sure?” You dragged your thumb up the length of him, just light enough to tease. “You’re not gonna get greedy like last time, are you?” He whimpered again, eyes red and glistening.

You smiled. Leaned in. Bit his neck hard enough to draw fresh blood. Then you shoved him down onto his back and mounted his face. The sounds he made weren’t human. You don’t think they ever had been. He tongued you like a starving thing, like your cunt was the last source of freshwater in the whole Delta. His nose bumped your clit again and again, sloppy and desperate, until your thighs were shaking and your fingers were wound in his hair hard enough to hurt.

And all the while he moaned, shamelessly so. You ground down harder, slick soaking his face, his cheeks, his collar. You swore you saw his eyes cross when you spat again, let it drip right down into the mess between his lips. He sucked it in like breath as his hips bucked uselessly into the air, trembling beneath you.

His mouth was a mess—slick and starving, tongue working like it was trying to dig something out of you, like he thought if he licked deep enough he’d find god. But it wasn’t his tongue that made your breath catch like that, wasn’t his moaning or the obscene noises spilling up from between your legs. It was the fangs. You’d felt them graze you before—barely, just teasing little pricks of pressure when he got sloppy or hungry or careless. But now he was deliberate. Letting them drag sharp and slow along the tender seam of you, edged enough to sting, not enough to break skin. Not yet. They slipped over your folds, parted you with reverent care. Cool against the heat of your cunt. Maddening.

And then—goddamn him—he grabbed your hips. Both hands. Clawed fingers curling tight around your waist, holding you there, anchoring you like he thought he was in charge. Like you needed help to fuck his face. You felt the dig of his claws, not breaking skin, but close. Too close.

Any other time, that’d earn him a slap hard enough to ring in his ears. You’d drag him by the leash and make him beg for forgiveness, make him cry while you jerked him off just enough to feel it, then left him dripping and untouched on the floor. But not now. Not when your whole body was locking up, thighs trembling, belly tight and aching, the pleasure pulsing low and vicious between your hips like something with teeth. Not when his mouth was this good.

Your orgasm hit like a thunderclap—sharp and brutal and fucking filthy. It tore through you like lightning, blooming behind your eyes, down your spine, in your belly, all molten and obscene. Your vision went white. Your thighs clenched tight around his head, grinding down hard enough to bruise, smearing slick across his face and into his mouth as you rode out every last trembling second.

You moaned loud and mean, head tossed back, throat bare and aching with the sound of it. His fangs pressed firmer, dragged once more across your clit—deliberate, slow, cruel—and your whole body seized, another gush of come soaking his chin. It was too much. Too good. Too fast. He didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not even when your hips bucked to the side or your breath hitched high and painful like your lungs forgot how to work. He licked you through it, mouth open and greedy, drool and spit and slick all smeared together in a wet, glistening mess.

You seized the leash and yanked it with every ounce of strength you had, jerking his head back so fast it made his whole body flinch.

“I knew you’d get selfish,” you snapped, voice low, hot, vibrating with fury and lust. “I knew it. Couldn’t just behave. Had to grab me like you fuckin’ own me. Like you ain’t mine.”

His eyes rolled back for half a second like the leash alone could make him come.

You had already started to lift your hips when he finally came to. “No—no, no, no,” Remmick choked out, voice hoarse and shredded.

You stared down at him with disdain curling in your gut and heat pooling thick between your legs. But you didn’t stop him. Not when he pushed you back to the floor with a desperation so raw it made your cunt ache. Not when he climbed on top of you like a man possessed, already fumbling with the buckle of his belt like he thought he’d die if he didn’t fuck you right this second.

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean it, please—please—I’ll be good, I swear—” His belt clattered to the floor. Buttons popped. He shoved his pants down far enough to free himself, cock flushed and slick and trembling with need. He was panting now, a sob catching in his throat as he lined himself up and pushed in.

You didn’t stop him. You watched him. Watched his face crumple with pleasure and relief the moment his cock sank into you, the moment he was back where he belonged. His mouth fell open in a silent moan, shoulders shuddering as he bottomed out, your cunt sucking him in like it had been waiting just for this.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, burying his face into your neck, into your mouth, anywhere you’d let him go. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—please don’t take it away—I need it, I need ya—” His tongue pushed through your lips like he was trying to crawl inside you completely, hot and sloppy, tasting of blood and tears and spit. He rutted into you hard, fast, helpless, sobbing into your lips as his hips snapped against yours with a punishing rhythm.

You groaned into his mouth, not from the force of it—but from how ruined he was. He was crying—no, sobbing—again, tears falling with every thrust.

“Look at you,” you said between kisses, teeth grazing his lip as he thrust deeper. “On top but never in charge. You’ll always be mine.”

“I know, I know—I know—I’m yours—I belong to ya—don’t send me away—don’t take it back—” You dragged your fingernails down his chest hard enough to make him hiss, then gripped his hips and dug your heels into the backs of his thighs, pulling him in deeper, harder.

“You want forgiveness?” you whispered against his ear.

He nodded, trembling.

“Then fuck me like you mean it, sugar.”

And oh, how he tried. Tried to rut into you like he could dig his way into your womb, tried to kiss you like his soul depended on it. He sobbed your name like prayer, like apology, like the only thing left inside him worth saying.

And when he came—God, when he came—it was like something broke loose inside him. Like all that hunger, all that grief, all that cracked and clattering need had finally found the smallest hole to spill through. His whole body went taut, muscles locking like he’d been struck by lightning, and then he howled. Loud and guttural and torn straight from the pit of his belly, as his cock twitched hard inside you and spilled deep. Thick. Endless. You felt it flood your cunt with a heat that made your back arch, made your thighs quake, made you clutch at his hair just to feel something hold you steady.

Remmick sobbed as he kept grinding into you, every pulse of his cock another desperate little claim, another pathetic apology that soaked the inside of you with seed. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking him in place.

“You stay right here.”

He whimpered again, collapsing fully into you, face buried against your throat, arms trembling as he tried to stay up on all fours but couldn’t. Couldn’t even hold himself up after the way he came. His hips twitched every time you clenched around him, milking the last thick spurts of come from him.

He moaned into your neck. Tried to thrust again. Failed. His cock twitched, spent and going soft, and his breath hitched like he might cry again.

“I didn’t mean to be bad,” he whispered, barely audible. “I was scared y’wouldn’t let me… I just wanted—just wanted to stay inside, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

You turned his face to look at you. “You did bad,” you said, smiling. “But you made up for it.”

You kissed him—deep, wet, slow.

He melted. Boneless in your arms, body trembling, chest still hitching with the weight of what he’d given you. You kissed him again, sweet and slow, and tasted the remnants of his fear and relief on your tongue. And when you pulled back—just far enough to see the shape of his face, flushed and glistening—he said it. Soft. Raw. Almost ashamed of how much he meant it.

“I love ya,” he paused, then raised his voice. “I love ya so much it hurts. I—God, I’d die for ya, I’d kill for ya, I’d crawl in the dirt and stay there if ya asked. I can’t—” He shook, breath catching again. “—can’t be without ya. Don’t want t’ be.”

You just smiled.

“I know, sugar,” you said sweetly.

And without ceremony—without breaking that smile—you reached down and slipped the muzzle back over his face.

Click.

You gave his cheek a little pat, then rolled your hips just once—for the sole purpose of hearing him moan again, deep and pathetic behind the muzzle. His cock gave a feeble twitch inside you, and you laughed, light as dew.

He helped you get up. Still trembling, still leaking, still raw—you stood. His hands obeyed yours when you pointed to the corpse, and together you dragged what was left of the man across the yard. His body left streaks in the dirt. Pinkish-red. Bits of viscera caught on rocks and roots. You didn’t bother covering it up.

The moonlight was sharp tonight, painting the trees silver and casting your shadows long behind you. He followed without complaint, his leash slack between you, muzzle in place. Silent and obedient.

Beneath the water, still as stone, was Josephine. Her long body rippled once beneath the surface.

You gave her a low whistle.

She came.

All muscle and patience, her jaw parting with the faintest creak as you laid the man at the edge of the swamp. His head lolled sideways, hair matted with blood, one eye still open.

You sighed, almost wistfully. Then crouched down beside him, lips puckered in a kiss that never touched flesh. “Bon appétit, baby girl.”

Josephine surged forward with a pleased sound—more purr than growl—and you watched, grinning, as her jaws snapped wide and slammed shut over the man’s torso. The crunch echoed deep, wet and final.

Remmick sat beside you, still panting through his muzzle. You didn’t speak. Just leaned your head against his shoulder and watched your girl feed—limbs torn clean, guts strung out like ribbons, skull crushed between rows of ancient teeth. It took less than a minute for her to finish, and when she slipped back beneath the dark water with a satisfied grunt, the surface stilled as if nothing had happened at all.

You stayed there a while longer. Let the stillness settle over you like silk. Let your fingers toy with the leather strap of his leash. Let your pulse slow and even, heartbeat thumping with a rhythm made only for you.

Because you’d won. He was yours now. All yours. And the world, stupid little thing that it was, would keep spinning, none the wiser to what you were building out here. What you'd tamed. What you'd fed.

You rose at last, and he followed, crawling dutifully at your side.

The swamp swallowed the rest.

And the night? It sang just for you.