peachygelic

[peachygelic]

I love mature readers because I would’ve been in POSITION before they even suggested sharing okay?!

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟒.ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: What started as a search for closure turns into something far messier, far deeper, and far harder to walk away from. You let them both have you—and now, you don’t know if you can let either of them go.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: threesome (f/m/m), oral (f + m receiving), vaginal sex, praise, overstimulation, creampie, light dom/sub elements, possessiveness, emotional confusion, unresolved tension, soft aftercare

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 9k

You wake up slow.

Not because you’re rested— you’re far from it. Your body feels like it’s been through something brutal, something holy. Your skin still hums in places he touched. Your thighs are sore, raw where he stretched you open, where he made you beg, where he held you like he owned you.

But it’s the quiet that wakes you.

That eerie, unfamiliar stillness that doesn’t belong to you. The soft rustle of sheets that aren’t yours. The scent of someone else’s detergent—clean, expensive, masculine—clinging to the cotton pulled tight over your chest.

You blink once, twice.

The ceiling is high, plain. The curtains are cracked open just enough to let a line of light cut through the room, soft gold across the bed. Your hand is curled loosely beside your face. Your other is resting on his pillow.

He’s not with you.

You sit up slow. Feel everything.

Your muscles ache. Your lips are swollen. Your chest is blotched with deepening bruises—his mouth, his hands, his claim. Between your legs, the soreness is heavy and thick, soaked into your skin like a reminder. You don’t need to touch to know he’s still there. Inside you. Tracing his name in the way your body still pulses when you shift.

You should be humiliated.

But you’re not.

You feel… still. Raw. But grounded.

You stand. Quiet. Bare feet on cool floorboards. His shirt hangs off your frame—too big, sleeves rolled, the hem brushing your upper thighs like a secret. You don’t bother fixing your hair. You don’t bother checking the mirror.

You follow the smell of coffee instead.

The hallway is dim and quiet, but there’s something warm at the end of it. Light spilling through the archway. The low hum of music—old, lazy, something with soft piano and scratchy vinyl vocals. And beneath it: the low sizzle of something frying.

You pause just outside the kitchen.

Toji is standing at the stove.

Shirtless.

Hair damp from the shower, pushed back messily, like he didn’t even look in the mirror before towel-drying and walking out. He’s wearing black sweats slung too low on his hips, a white dish towel tossed over his shoulder. One hand is resting on the counter, a chipped ceramic mug curled in his palm. The other is working a spatula, flipping something in the pan with slow, casual movements.

And you just stand there.

Watching him like you don’t know what planet you’re on.

Because this isn’t the man who fucked you into his mattress like he wanted to ruin your life. This isn’t the man who said he’d make you cry. This isn’t the man who bent you over his desk and filled you up like it was his right.

This is just… a man. Making breakfast. In the quiet of a house that’s too clean to be chaotic and too private to be empty.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does—and just lets you look.

When he finally speaks, it’s without turning around.

“Coffee’s fresh.”

You blink.

His voice is rough, but not cold. A little raspier than usual. Lower, maybe. Like he hasn’t used it yet this morning except to say your name in his sleep.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You step into the room, cautiously. Like it’s a trap.

“You’re cooking?” you say softly.

Toji glances at you over his shoulder. His eyes drag down your legs, over the hem of his shirt, then flick back up. No smirk. No smugness. Just… something unreadable.

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” he says simply. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

That’s it.

No innuendo. No teasing.

Just that.

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Because you don’t know what to do with this version of him. You don’t know how to square it with the man from last night—the one who made you sob into his pillow, who ruined you from the inside out and whispered things you’re still too scared to believe.

“You don’t have to…” you start, then trail off.

He turns the stove off. Moves the pan aside. Picks up the plate he’d already set on the counter. Toast. Eggs. Sliced strawberries. No meat.

He noticed.

He holds the plate out without a word.

And you take it.

Fingers brush. Just slightly. Enough to make your stomach twist.

You sit at the counter.

And for a moment, neither of you speaks.

Just the soft sounds of cutlery on ceramic. The low hum of jazz. The tension in your shoulders curling tighter with every second he doesn’t say something cruel.

Then finally, he leans on the counter across from you—forearms flat, coffee in hand, gaze steady.

“I meant what I said.”

You pause mid-bite.

He watches your expression. Calm. Serious.

“Last night,” he adds. “All of it.”

You swallow. Try to keep your voice even.

“That you want something real?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You look down at your plate.

Because if you look at him too long, you’ll start to believe him.

And you’re not sure what would be worse—believing him, or realizing he means it.

Because either way, something inside you is going to break.

You pick at the strawberries. You can feel Toji watching you, but he doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch. Lets it settle.

And maybe that’s what gets you. The fact that he’s not trying to fix it. He’s just letting it be real.

You sigh.

Set the fork down.

Look up at him.

Your voice is soft. Quiet. “I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

Toji raises a brow, slow. “Like what?”

“Like someone who…” you pause, struggling to find the word. “Cares.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. Just nods. “I didn’t either.”

That hits harder than you want it to.

And suddenly your throat feels tight.

Because you didn’t come here for feelings. You didn’t come here to get seen. You came here to burn things down, to ruin someone else’s life so yours would hurt a little less.

But now Toji’s sitting across from you, shirtless and real, making you breakfast and saying things that crack you open in places you didn’t think anyone could reach.

You don’t know what this is.

You don’t know what it’s supposed to be.

Your phone buzzes.

You both glance down.

The name flashes across the screen like a curse.

Nanami.

You freeze.

Toji doesn’t say anything—but his expression darkens. Just slightly. His fingers tighten on the coffee mug, knuckles going white.

You swallow hard.

Your thumb hovers.

You don’t want to answer it.

But you also… do.

You slide off the stool, heart racing, and walk toward the living room without saying a word. The phone buzzes again. You pick it up.

Answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. And then—

“Where are you?”

His voice.

Too calm. Too steady. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

You don’t answer.

“Please,” he says. “Just… just talk to me.”

You close your eyes.

Because it’s him. And no matter what Toji said, no matter how much this whole thing hurts—you still remember how it felt to be looked at like you were everything. Even if it was a lie.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

Nanami breathes out hard. You can almost picture him—rubbing at his temples, pacing, jaw clenched.

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I don’t know,” you say. And it’s the truth. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Another pause. Then, softer, like he’s breaking:

“I want to fix this.”

You feel it hit your chest like a fist.

You glance over your shoulder.

Toji is still in the kitchen. Still at the counter. Still watching.

But he’s not angry. He’s not smug.

He just looks… sad.

You turn away again. Back to the phone.

“You can’t fix it,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You already broke it.”

Nanami doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight.

He just says your name again. Quiet. Raw. Like it hurts him to say it out loud.

“I know,” he says. “But I love you.”

Your heart cracks.

Because part of you wants to believe it.

But part of you doesn’t know who you are anymore when he says it.

You look down at yourself—Toji’s shirt on your body, bruises on your chest, the ache between your legs from someone else’s hands.

You breathe in, slow. Careful.

“I think we all need to talk.”

There’s a pause.

A beat of silence on the line that feels like the edge of a cliff.

Nanami’s voice comes back, low and confused. “All?”

You close your eyes. “You. Me. And Toji.”

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Then—

“…What the fuck do you mean, Toji?”

You wince. “I mean what I said.”

The silence now is different. Thick. Frantic. You can hear the shift in his breathing. Like the thought is clicking into place but he’s refusing to believe it.

“You’re with him?” Nanami says, voice sharp now. “Right now?”

You hesitate.

That’s enough.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. You can hear the way he’s pacing, probably running a hand through his hair, unraveling second by second. “Of all people—Toji? He threatened you. He—he blackmailed us.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He cuts in again, louder this time. “You told me you hated him.”

“I did.”

Another pause.

“Did?”

You bite your lip.

Behind you, you hear Toji sigh. Not dramatic. Not surprised. Just… tired. Like he knew this would happen. Like this was always coming.

You turn to him, phone still pressed to your ear.

“I need you both,” you say quietly. “To sit down. To listen. I can’t keep doing this if everyone’s playing different games.”

Toji stares at you for a long second. Jaw clenched. One hand on the counter like he’s holding himself back from throwing something. But when he speaks, it’s calm. Rough, but calm.

“Where.”

You exhale.

You glance back at Toji. He’s still watching you, face unreadable, but he gives a small nod. Like he’s with you now. For real.

“My place,” you say. “Tonight.”

He looks away, muttering something under his breath, but eventually nods.

You press the phone back to your ear. “Nanami?”

He’s still breathing hard. Still trying to process.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice low. Wrecked. “You want me to sit across from the man who blackmailed you into bed?”

Your chest tightens.

You glance at Toji again. And something about the look on his face makes your stomach twist. Not guilt. Not smugness. Just… something unreadable.

You answer softly. “It wasn’t like that.”

Nanami’s breath catches. “What the hell was it, then?”

You close your eyes.

You close your eyes.

“I went to him.”

The line goes silent.

You swallow hard, every word scraping your throat on the way out.

“After I found out what you did… after Toji told me about the others. About how you—how you picked someone every semester, made it feel like fate, made me feel like I started it…”

“Stop.” Nanami’s voice is sharp. Panicked. “Don’t. That’s not what happened.”

You keep going.

“After he said you knew who I was before the first message. That you saw my photo. My name. That it wasn’t random—that it was planned.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“It felt like that,” you snap.

Your hand is shaking now. Toji hasn’t moved. He’s just standing across the room, jaw locked, arms folded like he’s forcing himself to stay out of it. Letting you say it your way.

Your voice cracks. “I thought you loved me. I thought it was real.”

“It was real,” Nanami says—desperate now, heart in his throat. “I didn’t plan it. I never—not with you.”

You press your hand to your chest like it might stop the ache. “Then why didn’t you say that before? Why did you disappear when I needed you most?”

“Because I was scared,” he breathes. “Because I knew I crossed a line and I didn’t know how to fix it. I was trying to protect you.”

“You left me to drown.”

The silence after that is brutal.

Then—

“Why Toji?”

It’s not accusatory. It’s not even angry.

It’s broken.

You blink fast, chest heaving.

“Because I wanted to stop hurting,” you whisper. “Because he didn’t lie to me. Because when he took what he wanted, he didn’t pretend it was anything else.”

You can practically hear Nanami’s heart breaking on the other end of the line.

It sits there between you—thick, choking, loud in the quiet.

“I just…” you swallow. “I need to see you. Both of you. Tonight.”

There’s a pause.

A sharp inhale.

Then, finally—barely audible:

“Okay.”

Your hand tightens around the phone.

Nanami exhales like the weight of it is crushing him. “Text me the address.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “I will.”

“Tonight,” he repeats, softer this time. “Okay.”

The line goes dead.

You stare at the phone for a second too long. Like maybe if you hold it tight enough, you can take the words back. Or stop the ache. Or rewind to something easier.

But it’s done.

You place it gently on the counter. Let your fingers fall away. Your hands are still trembling.

Toji doesn’t speak right away.

He just watches you. That unreadable expression again—part restrained, part curious, part something softer than either of you are ready to deal with.

You glance up, finally meeting his eyes.

“He’s coming.”

Toji nods once. “I heard.”

You let out a breath, shaky and uneven. “This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

He shrugs. “Could be.”

You give him a look.

Toji’s mouth twitches. “Could also be the smartest.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then he crosses the room—slow, quiet—and stops right in front of you. His hand comes up gently, fingers brushing your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”

You blink up at him, throat tight. “I’m not.”

“I know.”

His hand slides behind your neck. Not to pull you in. Just to be there. Solid. Steady.

“You’re letting him in your space,” he says quietly. “Letting me in it too. That’s not nothing.”

Your eyes flicker. “It feels like too much.”

Toji’s thumb drags slowly over your skin.

“Then I’ll take some of it,” he murmurs. “Just ‘til you can breathe.”

And you don’t say anything.

You just close the space between you. Press your forehead to his chest, eyes shut tight. His arms come around you without hesitation—firm, grounding. Not demanding. Just there.

You don’t cry.

But you hold on like you might.

Because tonight’s coming fast.

And the storm you lit is almost here.

LATER THAT NIGHT

The house is too quiet.

Too still.

You’ve checked the clock five times in the last ten minutes, even though you told yourself you wouldn’t.

Toji’s sitting on your couch like he owns it—legs spread, arms stretched out over the back, black tee tight over his chest, hair damp from a quick shower. He looks relaxed.

But you know better.

His jaw’s been locked for twenty minutes. He hasn’t touched his drink.

You’re curled up in the corner of the other end, one leg tucked under you, wearing soft clothes that don’t make you feel strong or sexy—just real. You’d changed three times before this. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt like enough armor.

“Stop fidgeting,” Toji says quietly, not even looking at you.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You glance down. Your fingers are picking at the hem of your sleeve.

You sigh. “This was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

You look at him, brows tight. “What if he shows up just to scream at me? What if this just makes it worse?”

Toji turns his head slowly to meet your eyes.

“It’s already worse.”

You go quiet.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them.

“This isn’t about fixing it,” he says. “It’s about not pretending anymore.”

You stare at the floor. “That sounds a lot like giving up.”

Toji shrugs. “Sometimes giving up on bullshit is the only way to move forward.”

You hate that he’s right.

Your heart pounds.

Your mouth is dry.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until—

A knock.

It’s quiet.

But it cuts through the silence like a blade.

You freeze.

Toji straightens slowly. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just rising to his full height like he’s prepping for a fight he doesn’t want to start—but won’t walk away from either.

You look at the door.

Your feet won’t move.

Another knock.

Softer this time.

Like Nanami’s trying not to break something that’s already cracked.

Toji glances at you once. “You want me to open it?”

You shake your head.

“No,” you whisper. “I’ve got it.”

You stand on shaky legs. Cross the room. Rest your hand on the doorknob.

You take one breath.

Then another.

Then open it.

And Nanami’s standing there.

Wearing his best self-control like it still fits. Tie loosened, eyes tired, lips pressed in a tight line that only falters when he sees you.

He opens his mouth to speak—then looks past you.

Sees him.

Toji.

In your house.

Behind you.

Casual. Comfortable. Like this is just another night.

And Nanami’s entire face changes.

He doesn’t say a word but his jaw locks and his hands curl into fists.

And you feel it—

The tension.

The history.

The weight of every secret coming home to roost.

You step aside slowly.

“Come in.”

Nanami steps inside without a word.

You close the door behind him, slow and quiet.

And the second it clicks shut, the air shifts.

Toji hasn’t moved from the couch. He just lifts his chin slightly, eyes on Nanami, calm but unreadable. He looks like he’s been waiting for this moment for years.

Nanami looks at him like he’s a disease.

“Didn’t think you’d be this comfortable,” he mutters.

Toji doesn’t even blink. “It’s not my first time on this couch.” He smirks.

A lie. But it does what it’s meant to.

“Shut up,” Nanami snaps, stepping forward.

“Toji,” you warn.

But Nanami doesn’t stop.

He turns to you, jaw tight. “I thought we were here to talk. Not for you to show off whatever this is—some power play? Revenge?”

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“Toji, kitchen,” you say firmly, not looking at him.

He hesitates. For a second. Like he’s debating whether or not to ignore you. But then his eyes meet yours—and something in them softens. He stands without another word and walks off, slow and deliberate, disappearing into the kitchen with the calm of someone who knows exactly how this ends.

You turn to Nanami.

Your voice is sharp. Cold. “I invited you here to talk. Like adults. Not so you could walk in and throw a tantrum.”

His mouth opens, offended—but you keep going.

“I’m not a student in your office anymore. You don’t get to come into my home and question my decisions like you’re owed something.”

Nanami flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t—” he starts.

“Yes, you did,” you cut in. “The second you saw him. You came in here ready to pick a fight.”

He stares at you. Quiet. Angry. But it’s not just anger—it’s betrayal.

“I just didn’t expect this,” he says quietly. “You, with him. After everything.”

Your voice softens, but not much. “I didn’t expect a lot of things from you either. We’re even.”

He looks down. Breath shaking.

You step back, nod toward the living room.

“Sit down. You don’t have to like him. But you will act like a grown man.”

Nanami hesitates.

But then, finally—he nods once. Tight. Controlled.

You head to the kitchen. Toji’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes dark.

“You good?” you ask.

“Peachy.”

“You gonna behave?”

Toji tilts his head, watching you carefully. “I’ll behave if he does.”

You sigh.

“Then come sit.”

He doesn’t say anything—just follows.

Back into the storm.

Back into the fire you’re finally ready to walk through.

Together.

The room is heavy when you return.

Nanami’s still on the couch, stiff-backed, hands folded tightly in his lap. Toji sits beside him—opposite end, far but not far enough. The silence between them buzzes like static.

You take the armchair across from both of them. You fold your legs. Set your hands in your lap to hide the tremble.

They both look at you. Waiting. Expecting.

You take a deep breath.

And start.

“When I started seeing you,” you say, looking at Nanami, “it was supposed to be fun.”

He blinks, stunned.

“I mean it. It was casual. I didn’t go into it looking for love or something serious. You were my professor. It was dangerous. It was hot. It was supposed to be… simple.”

Nanami’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak.

You continue.

“But it didn’t stay simple.” You shake your head. “You were smart and calm and steady, and you looked at me like I was more than some dumb girl who didn’t know what she was doing. And it felt… safe. Until it didn’t.”

Toji doesn’t say a word. Just watches.

You shift your gaze.

“When you ended it, Nanami, it felt like my whole chest collapsed. And then Toji told me about the others.”

His brow furrows.

“That this is your thing.” Your voice wavers, just a little. “That every semester, it’s someone. Some girl like me. And you make it feel like fate. Like I started it. Like I chased you.”

You pause. Look down at your hands. “That broke me. Not just because I believed him, but because a part of me already knew. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

Nanami looks wrecked.

“I didn’t even realize how deep I was in until you hurt me,” you say quietly. “And I hated it. I hated how badly I wanted to be wrong.”

You look up again. Meet Toji’s eyes now.

“And that’s when I went to him.”

Toji’s jaw ticks. But he doesn’t move.

You continue.

“I went to Toji to hurt you. I wanted revenge. I wanted to flip the power. I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the one getting played.”

You take a deep breath.

“And I thought it would be easy. Just good sex. Cold and angry and hot enough to get you out of my head.” You glance at Nanami, then back at Toji. “But he wasn’t what I expected.”

The silence thickens.

“I thought he’d use me and leave. I thought I’d use him and not care. But he didn’t treat me like some broken little thing. He saw me. And I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere in all of that, I stopped pretending it didn’t matter.”

You swallow hard. The words are harder now. Stickier.

“And now I’m here. In front of both of you. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“I don’t know what I feel. Or what I want. I just know I don’t want to lie anymore.”

Silence.

It stretches.

Toji’s jaw is tight, unreadable. Nanami’s staring at the floor, hands clenched together like they might stop him from falling apart.

And you?

You sit in the middle of it all.

The silence hangs.

Toji doesn’t look away. His stare is hard, jaw tight, but beneath the stillness—he’s tense. Wound up. Like he’s holding back something he doesn’t want to feel.

Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he’s already unraveling.

His eyes stay on the floor. His hands still folded. But his shoulders shake with the breath he pulls in—deep and ragged.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says quietly. “Not you.”

You don’t respond.

“I didn’t know how to handle what I felt. I kept telling myself it was a mistake. That I had to walk away. That it would be worse if it got deeper.”

He looks up, finally.

“I left because I thought it would protect you.”

You hold his gaze, eyes sharp.

“It didn’t.”

That breaks something.

Nanami shifts forward, voice strained. “And you—” he cuts toward Toji, eyes flashing now. “You couldn’t wait to twist the knife.”

Toji’s brow lifts. “I didn’t force her into anything.”

“You manipulated her.”

“She’s not a child,” Toji says flatly. “She came to me.”

“She came to you because you poisoned her against me—”

“She came to me,” Toji says again, louder now, leaning forward, “because you broke her. I just picked up the fucking pieces.”

And that’s when Nanami stands.

Fast.

Breathing hard. Rage simmering right under his skin.

You shoot up from your chair before Toji can even shift.

“Enough.” Your voice cracks through the room like lightning.

They both freeze.

You take a step between them—shaking, breathing hard, eyes wild.

“I swear to god—if either of you so much as raise your voice again, you can both get the fuck out. And we don’t speak again. Ever.”

Their chests rise and fall in sync, inches apart, like they’re two seconds from swinging.

But they don’t.

Because you’re standing between them like a threat.

“I’m not yours to fight over,” you hiss. “I never was.”

Toji clenches his jaw. Nanami runs a hand down his face.

You look between them. Hurt. Angry. Shaking from the effort of not crying.

You want to scream.

You want to run.

You want to be held and kissed and ruined and understood—and you don’t know which one of them can give you that, and it’s breaking you apart from the inside out.

“I can’t choose,” you whisper, voice splintering. “I can’t—”

Toji shifts first.

Not toward you.

Toward Nanami.

He doesn’t move fast. Doesn’t posture. Just lifts his chin a little, gaze steady, voice low and dry.

“Maybe you don’t have to.”

Nanami blinks.

“What?”

Toji’s eyes slide back to you—slow, deliberate. A flicker of something sharp and dangerous behind them.

“Maybe we can learn to share.”

Your breath catches.

You stare at him.

And suddenly the tension isn’t pain anymore—it’s heat. Heavy. Warm. Drenched in possibility.

Your mouth parts. Your body hums.

You know exactly what he means.

The room goes still.

Your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your fingertips. You glance at Nanami—his lips are slightly parted, brows drawn like he’s still catching up. Like he heard the words but doesn’t quite believe them.

And Toji?

Toji’s eyes are locked on you. Waiting. Not pushing. Just offering.

And suddenly, the ache in your chest shifts.

Because you’re done being torn in half.

You’re done choosing between fire and safety.

You want both.

You deserve both.

So you take a step back—slow, deliberate—and let your eyes flick between them.

They follow your every movement.

Your breath shakes.

And then, your fingers find the hem of your shirt.

And you pull it over your head in one smooth motion, letting it drop to the floor without a word.

Nanami’s eyes widen. His mouth opens slightly.

“Wait—what are you—?”

But his voice falters the second he sees your bra. Lacy. Sheer. Black. Like you planned this. Like some part of you wanted this exact outcome.

You reach for your waistband next.

Toji just watches you—calm, quiet. Like this is proof you heard him. Like this is permission.

Nanami doesn’t breathe.

You slide your pants down slowly. Step out of them. Stand there—bare skin glowing in the low light, chest rising fast, cheeks flushed and eyes sharp.

And then you speak—low and final.

“You both want me, right?”

They don’t answer.

You take a step closer.

“Then take me.”

Toji exhales through his nose, like he’s been waiting for that exact sentence.

Nanami blinks hard—like something in his brain is catching up late—but when his gaze trails over your body, slow and hungry, you know he’s not going anywhere.

You see it hit him.

Oh.

Oh.

And just like that, the war turns into something else entirely.

Toji moves first.

Of course he does.

Slow and steady—like a man who doesn’t rush when he knows he’s already won.

He stands from the couch, towering, eyes dark as sin. His gaze drags down your nearly bare body like he’s unwrapping you with his mind. Like he’s already imagining how he’s going to touch you—where he’ll leave marks, and how loud he’ll make you scream.

He doesn’t look at Nanami.

He doesn’t have to.

He steps right into your space, chest brushing yours, hand rising to curl around your jaw with that same rough gentleness he always gives you—like he’s allowed to touch, but you decide how deep he goes.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, voice low against your mouth.

You nod once, already breathless. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

You meet his eyes. “I want you. I want… both of you.”

His mouth twitches like he’s satisfied—and then he kisses you.

Hot. Deep. Possessive.

His hand fists in your hair. His other slides down your waist, anchoring you to him, groaning low into your mouth like he already forgot Nanami’s even in the room.

And Nanami?

He hasn’t moved.

But he’s watching.

Eyes locked on the way your lips part for Toji, the way your back arches, the way your thighs press together like you’re already aching for more.

You break the kiss.

Not because you want to—but because you can.

Toji exhales against your lips, chest heaving. His hand lingers on your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s trying not to drag you back in.

But you step back.

Slow. Steady. Deliberate.

You turn your gaze to Nanami—who’s still frozen on the couch, tense and silent, jaw tight, chest rising like he’s just now remembering how to breathe.

You walk toward him.

Not shy. Not hesitant.

He sits up straighter without realizing it, like your presence alone demands it.

You stop in front of him, wearing nothing but your underwear and a look he’s never seen on you before—full control.

“Are you going to keep watching?” you murmur, voice low. “Or are you going to touch me?”

His breath stutters.

And his hands—his perfect, always-composed hands—curl into fists on his knees.

You reach down.

Grab one of them.

Unfold his fingers and guide it to your thigh.

“Touch me, Kento.”

That’s what breaks him.

He looks up at you, gaze wrecked, and when his palm presses flat to your skin—slow, reverent—his mouth parts like he’s about to say something. But nothing comes out.

You climb into his lap like you belong there, straddling him, hands on his shoulders, his tie brushing your bare chest. You hear Toji shift behind you—but he doesn’t interrupt. He watches. Letting you lead.

Nanami’s hands slide up your thighs, tentative, careful—like he’s afraid to break you, even now.

But you lean in, press your mouth to his ear.

“I want you to stop pretending you’re better than this,” you whisper. “You’ve already had me. Now you’re going to share.”

His breath catches. His fingers dig in.

And from behind you, you hear Toji chuckle—low and dangerous.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart.”

You look over your shoulder, lips curling.

You look over your shoulder, lips curling. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Toji’s eyes drag over you, slow and hungry. But he’s not just looking at you. He’s looking at Nanami beneath you—at the tension in his shoulders, the war behind his eyes, the heat he’s barely holding back.

“You good with this, suit?” Toji asks, voice rough, already moving.

Nanami’s jaw works. His hands are still on your thighs—gripping tighter now—but he doesn’t answer right away.

You glance down at him. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising faster. He’s looking at you like he wants you, like he shouldn’t, like he might burn alive if he doesn’t have you soon.

But his mouth says, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

You smile—soft, but breathless.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “Just feel.”

And then Toji’s behind you.

Close.

You don’t hear him walk up—you feel it. The warmth of him. The way your body tenses, reacting to his presence like instinct. His hands find your hips first. Big, steady. Then they slide up your sides, slow and firm, dragging goosebumps along your skin.

He leans in.

His chest brushes your back. His mouth brushes your neck.

“You looked so fuckin’ pretty taking control,” he murmurs, voice a slow drag of heat. “But I think we both know you wanna be handled a little now.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers reach the clasp of your bra. Pause there.

You nod once—barely.

It unhooks with a soft snap.

Your bra slips forward.

Nanami’s breath stutters.

His eyes drop instantly—latching onto your bare chest like he’s starved for it. But his hands stay put. He doesn’t touch. Not until you move his hands again—guiding them up, settling his palms beneath your breasts.

He groans—low, like it hurts to feel this good.

Behind you, Toji chuckles darkly.

“There he is.”

And then he’s dragging his hands down again—palming your ass through your underwear, pressing a kiss to your shoulder like he’s not even slightly phased by the fact you’re on another man’s lap.

“You’re gonna let us take care of you, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just relax.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t—not when Nanami’s thumbs brush over your nipples, not when Toji’s hand slips between your legs, teasing the soaked cotton with maddening patience.

Your head drops back against Toji’s shoulder, a soft gasp leaving your lips as he presses his fingers harder—slow, steady circles right over your clit through the thin fabric. You grind down without meaning to, hips twitching in need.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

Nanami’s eyes are glued to you—his hands cupping your breasts like he’s holding something sacred, thumbs dragging across your peaks again and again until your back arches toward him.

He swallows hard.

“I— I don’t…”

“You don’t have to talk,” you whisper, chest rising with every shaky breath. “Just keep touching me.”

Toji laughs softly behind you, lips brushing your ear.

“She wants it, suit. You feel how wet she is?”

He slips his fingers under the waistband of your panties—just enough to slide them aside—and fuck, the way he groans against your neck when he touches bare skin is obscene.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You’re soaked.”

Nanami’s fingers flex on your body. His jaw is tight, his breathing shallow—but he doesn’t let go.

He’s watching everything.

Watching the way Toji’s fingers stroke you now—slow, deliberate, circling your clit with maddening skill. Watching the way your lips part, head tilted back, body trembling between them like you don’t know where to land.

“You like being watched, baby?” Toji murmurs. “Like showing him what he missed?”

You whimper.

And that’s all it takes.

Nanami leans forward suddenly, mouth hot and open against your chest. He latches onto one nipple, sucking slow, tongue flicking, one hand still holding your breast while the other slides down to your waist—gripping tight, grounding himself as much as grounding you.

Your body jolts. A sharp gasp escapes.

Toji groans into your neck. “That’s it.”

And then his fingers sink in—two thick digits pushing deep, curling perfectly against your walls while his thumb keeps working that bundle of nerves. It’s too much. Not enough. You’re shaking already, hips grinding, moans falling without shame.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please don’t stop—”

“We won’t,” Toji promises, voice dark. “Not until you come all over both of us.”

And judging by the way Nanami’s teeth graze your skin, the way his breath shakes against your chest, he’s finally there with you—no more hesitation.

His mouth trails lower, kissing across your ribs, slow and open-mouthed, worshipful. His hands slide down, gripping your hips now, holding you still as you squirm in his lap—your panties pushed aside, Toji’s fingers fucking into you from behind, deep and steady and so good it makes your thighs shake.

Toji presses a kiss behind your ear. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, breathless. “Please—”

He curls his fingers just right and you whine, high and helpless, grinding down as your body tenses.

“Let go,” he murmurs. “Give it to us.”

And when Nanami mouths at your stomach, his breath hot and desperate, whispering, “You feel so perfect…”—you fall apart.

Your orgasm hits hard. Sudden. Your whole body arches, trembling, a loud moan ripping from your throat as you squeeze around Toji’s fingers, slick dripping down your thighs, your hands clawing for something to hold onto—Nanami’s shoulders, Toji’s forearm, anything.

They don’t stop.

Toji works you through it, slow strokes dragging it out until your legs are twitching.

Nanami pulls back just enough to look up at you—face flushed, eyes blown wide, lips parted.

You’re gasping, chest heaving, your body shaking in their hands—and the look on his face is pure awe.

Toji’s voice rumbles low. “Bet you could come again with just our mouths.”

Nanami swallows hard.

Toji grins. “Bedroom?”

You nod. Can’t even speak.

Nanami lifts you gently from his lap—like you’re something breakable—but Toji just scoops you up from behind, cocky and solid and ready. He carries you easily, one hand under your thighs, the other gripping your ass, whispering filth in your ear the whole way down the hall.

“Gonna ruin you, baby. Gonna have you moaning my name while he watches. Gonna make you come on my cock while he’s on his knees, begging to taste you after.”

You whimper.

Nanami follows behind, hands twitching like he doesn’t know if he wants to pull Toji off of you or push him harder into you.

Toji kicks open the bedroom door like he’s done it a hundred times—like this is his house now, his bed, and you’re his to spread out across it.

He tosses you onto the mattress, but it’s not rough—it’s confident. Like he already knows you’ll beg for more. You land with a soft gasp, legs falling open, panties soaked, bra gone, hair a mess. And you’ve never felt more wanted.

Nanami stands in the doorway, frozen.

His eyes are on your body. On the flushed skin, the way your thighs tremble, the soft shine between your legs where Toji’s fingers worked you open.

He swallows hard. His knuckles are white at his sides.

Toji strips in seconds. Shirt off. Pants shoved down. He’s already hard—thick, heavy, flushed, dripping.

And he sees Nanami just standing there.

“Take your fuckin’ tie off,” Toji says, not even looking at him. His eyes are on you. “She’s not gonna wait forever.”

Nanami flinches.

But then he starts moving.

First the tie. Then the buttons, slow and clumsy. He’s trying to stay composed, trying to breathe, but you can see it—how undone he is. How badly he wants.

You lift your hips, slide your panties down slowly, eyes locked on him the whole time.

His shirt falls to the floor.

And when he finally steps forward, trousers undone, you reach for him.

“Come here.”

He kneels at the edge of the bed—like he doesn’t trust himself to stand. His hands slide up your legs, reverent, lips parting as he leans in and kisses your inner thigh like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. “So fucking—”

Toji’s hand fists in your hair. He kisses you hard, cutting Nanami off—owning your mouth while Nanami worships lower.

You moan into Toji’s mouth as Nanami’s tongue finally drags up your slit—slow, warm, careful, like he’s tasting a memory and making it new again.

Toji pulls back, eyes dark. “Yeah. That’s it. Show her how sorry you are.”

Nanami groans against you.

You’re soaked. Shaking. Overstimulated already—and they haven’t even fucked you yet.

Toji strokes his cock slowly, standing beside the bed, watching the way your body jolts when Nanami sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Fuck, you look good like this,” he growls. “Bet she’s close already, huh?”

Nanami hums against you—then presses two fingers inside, slow and deep, curling just right.

You cry out.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please—I can’t—”

Toji climbs onto the bed behind you. His hand slips under your back, lifting you, angling you just enough to press your face into his neck.

“You can,” he whispers. “You will.”

And then Nanami pulls another orgasm from you—hot, blinding, your whole body shaking as you cry out into Toji’s chest.

You’re still trembling when Nanami pulls back—his mouth slick, lips swollen, eyes dark with awe and lust and something just a little like guilt.

Toji groans behind you, hand stroking down your spine, fingers squeezing your waist like he’s holding back.

“You good, baby?”

You nod, dizzy.

“Think you can take more?”

You nod again, breath catching.

He shifts behind you—gripping your hips, pulling you up onto your hands and knees. Your body’s weak, already overstimulated, but you spread your legs for him, back arched, needing it.

“God, look at you,” Toji mutters. “So fucking wrecked already.”

You whimper as he slides the head of his cock through your folds—slow and teasing, wet with your slick and Nanami’s spit—before lining up at your entrance.

And then he pushes in.

Deep.

Thick.

Filling you in one long, brutal thrust that makes your whole body jerk forward.

You moan—loud, shameless—as he bottoms out, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure you’ll bruise.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re so fucking tight—can feel you fluttering around me.”

You bury your face into the mattress, moaning again as he pulls out halfway—then slams back in, setting a punishing rhythm that has your arms shaking.

And then—

Toji glances up at Nanami, still kneeling beside the bed.

“She can take more, can’t you, sweetheart?” he growls.

You lift your head, eyes glassy, lips parted.

Nanami’s cock is hard—straining, flushed, already leaking.

You crawl forward just enough, still taking Toji deep from behind, and reach for him.

Nanami stares at you like he’s not sure he should let you. Like it’s wrong.

But you look up at him—wrecked, raw, begging—and he breaks.

He shifts closer. Lets you wrap your hand around him. Lets you guide him to your mouth.

And when your lips part and you take him in—hot and heavy against your tongue—he groans so deep it sounds like it rips from his soul.

“Fuck—”

You suck him slow, shaky, messy from how hard Toji’s still slamming into you, your moans vibrating around Nanami’s cock as he cups your cheek with one hand, trying not to thrust too deep.

You’re full. Fucked. Used.

And you’ve never felt more powerful.

Toji slaps your ass, sharp and hard, then grinds deep, making you moan around Nanami again.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Perfect little cockdrunk mess.”

Nanami’s hips twitch. His hand fists in your hair.

Toji keeps fucking into you from behind, steady and deep and fast, and every time you moan, Nanami groans like it’s too much.

You’re choking on him. Clenching around Toji. Losing yourself in the stretch, the burn, the absolute filth of it all.

You’re choking on him. Clenching around Toji. Losing yourself in the stretch, the burn, the absolute filth of it all.

Your throat tightens around Nanami as he groans above you, his hips jerking shallowly, hand tangled in your hair like he’s barely holding on. He keeps murmuring things—soft, desperate—“fuck, you feel so good,” “you’re taking it so well,” “look at you…”

Behind you, Toji’s fucking into you hard. Deep. His grip on your waist is bruising now, sweat dripping off his jaw as he hisses through his teeth, the wet slap of skin on skin building into something filthy and fast.

“Shit, baby—squeezing me so tight,” he groans. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Your body rocks between them. One hand fisting in the sheets. The other braced on Nanami’s thigh as your moans buzz around his cock.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

You’re already so far gone—your mind floating, mouth stretched open, slick dripping down your thighs, toes curling as another orgasm coils low in your belly.

Toji feels it first.

He slows just slightly—hips grinding deep, working that spot inside you like he knows you’re close again.

Nanami’s breath catches. He pulls out gently, cock glistening, and cups your jaw.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low, reverent.

You lift your head—eyes glassy, lips swollen, spit running down your chin.

“You okay?” he murmurs, thumb stroking over your cheek.

You nod.

But it’s Toji who answers.

“She’s more than okay.”

He pulls you back by the hips, driving into you once—hard—and you scream, body clenching, orgasm tearing through you like fire. You collapse forward, into Nanami’s chest, panting, trembling, body jerking with every aftershock.

“Good girl,” Toji growls, not stopping. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted. Come for us.”

Nanami’s arms wrap around you, holding you steady, his cock hot and heavy against your stomach as he presses his mouth to your temple.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers. “So, so good.”

Toji fucks you through it, every stroke slower now, dragging it out until your legs are shaking and your breath is ragged.

Then he pulls out, gently this time—and flips you onto your back.

He climbs over you, bracing one hand beside your head. Nanami kneels at your side, still watching you like he can’t believe you’re real.

You nod, chest rising.

“I want to feel everything.”

And they give it to you.

Toji pushes into you again—deep, raw, unrelenting, while Nanami lifts your chin, slipping his cock past your lips, groaning as your tongue curls around him.

The stretch is overwhelming. Toji’s cock drives into you hard, slow, like he’s making sure you feel every inch. He holds you by the hips, dragging you down to meet every thrust, his chest heaving above you.

Your moans are muffled now—spilling around Nanami’s cock as he rocks into your mouth with careful control, his hand gently guiding your jaw, his eyes locked on yours like he’s watching you fall apart for him.

“You’re unreal,” he breathes, voice strained, as your lips seal tight and your throat flexes around him.

Toji’s breath is hot against your ear.

“You should see yourself, baby. So fucked out. So good for us.”

You’re drooling now—spit slipping past your lips, down your chin, dripping onto your chest. You choke softly as Nanami hits the back of your throat, and you feel your pussy clench around Toji at the same time, the sound obscene as your body takes both of them without hesitation.

“Shit,” Toji growls. “You’re gonna make me come inside you.”

Nanami grunts, jaw tight, thrusts getting rougher now—shallow and fast. “She’s about to make me come in her mouth.”

And you just take it.

Eyes half-lidded. Hands fisting in the sheets. Your body used like it was made for this—ruined, wrecked, and fucking radiant.

Toji thrusts deep—one, two, three more times—and then you feel him shudder, cock twitching as he buries himself in you and groans, loud and low, spilling deep inside. The heat floods your core, thick and warm, dripping down your thighs the second he pulls out, breathless and shaking.

Nanami doesn’t last long after that.

You suck him harder, head bobbing, your tongue circling the tip like he’s the only thing that matters. His hips jerk, eyes squeezing shut as he gasps your name—and then he’s coming, spilling hot and thick across your tongue, one hand gripping the back of your head as he curses under his breath.

You swallow every drop.

Nanami’s cock slips from your lips, slick and sensitive, and you breathe out a soft, shaky moan—eyes fluttering closed as your body finally collapses onto the bed.

Every nerve in your body is buzzing.

Your lips are swollen, your thighs sticky, your chest rising and falling like you’ve just run a marathon. You’re trembling from the inside out, stretched open, full—and somehow still aching for more.

But for now… it’s quiet.

Toji’s the first to move.

He sinks down beside you, breath still ragged, one arm sliding under your shoulders as he pulls you into his chest like it’s instinct. His fingers trail down your spine—slow, soothing, grounding.

“Jesus, baby,” he murmurs. “You took us both like that…”

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, nuzzling into his skin. His scent is sweat and sex and something so warm it settles deep in your bones.

On your other side, Nanami is still kneeling, breathing heavy. He watches you both for a long moment, his expression unreadable. But then he leans in slowly and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Soft.

Almost apologetic.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against Toji’s chest.

“Water,” you manage to mumble, voice hoarse and thick.

Nanami’s already standing.

“I’ve got it.”

He disappears down the hall. Toji stays with you, fingers brushing your hair back, tracing lazy shapes against your shoulder.

Neither of you speaks.

Not yet.

Nanami returns with a glass and a towel, warm, damp. He kneels again, gently guiding the glass to your lips. You sip, messy and slow, letting the water soothe your raw throat.

Then he cleans you up. Quiet, careful, like touching you too fast would undo everything. He wipes between your legs, catches the drip of cum down your thigh, presses a kiss to your knee when he’s done.

You reach out with one hand, fingers brushing his wrist.

And he takes it.

The bed shifts as he lies down on your other side.

And for a while—there’s just breathing.

Three bodies tangled together.

Sticky, sore, quiet.

You’re in the middle of them, warm, wrecked, still pulsing between your legs. One arm draped over Toji’s stomach. One hand tucked into Nanami’s chest. Their fingers both resting against your skin, like neither of them’s quite ready to let go.

And you don’t want them to.

Not when everything’s still soft and quiet and full of heat. When the only sound is the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing, one on each side of you, both silent, both touching, both pretending this doesn’t feel heavier than it should.

But even as your body relaxes, melted and sore between them, your thoughts start to stir again.

Because you don’t know what this is.

You don’t know what you are now.

Toji’s hand is resting low on your stomach, heavy and familiar, fingers twitching like he’s still dreaming of your body under him. Nanami’s thumb is brushing the back of your hand in tiny circles, barely noticeable, but steady. Reassuring.

It should be enough.

But all you can think about is how you’re supposed to wake up from this.

How are you supposed to go back to anything after this?

How are you supposed to look at one of them and say “yes” while the other watches?

And the worst part, the part you don’t even want to admit to yourself is that you’re not sure you want to choose.

Because being in the middle of them felt like everything you never knew you needed. Because you loved the way they touched you so differently. How they looked at you like they were seeing something only they could hold. Because for a moment, you didn’t feel torn.

You felt whole.

But this can’t last. You know that. It was always going to be temporary—born from chaos, from hurt, from something neither of them would’ve said out loud if you hadn’t broken first.

And now that it’s over, now that your bodies are quiet and your skin is cooling… you know what’s coming.

Someone’s going to want more.

Someone’s going to ask.

And you don’t know if you can give it.

You press your face into the pillow, eyes burning a little.

Maybe this has to be the last time.

Maybe this was the only way to close it—for all of you.

But then Toji shifts beside you, arm tightening around your waist, pulling you in closer.

Nanami exhales soft and deep against your back, pressing the lightest kiss to your shoulder.

And you think: How the fuck am I supposed to let either of them go?

TAGS:

@rjreins @jeankirschteinsimp @nanamiscsleeve @rissaaaaaa @mikrh-lizzie @tnaiis @rjreins @1tsleesee @grignardsreagent @hoelynecujoh

[peachygelic]

Chat it’s so wet

you always knew you had a thing for older men.

It wasn’t just the salt-and-pepper stubble or the slow, practiced way they carried themselves. it was the stillness. the grounded energy. the calm. like nothing could touch them. like they’d been through hell and came back clean, sharper for it.

nanami kento was the embodiment of that.

you weren’t supposed to end up in his bed. it started with drinks after a shared mission, a conversation that lingered longer than expected. you were tipsy. he wasn’t. and yet he watched you like you were a puzzle worth solving. carefully, patiently, without a single wasted glance.

you’d had sex before. enough to know what you liked. enough to know that most guys your age didn’t really care about what that was. they rushed. they fumbled. Some were sweet, but rarely satisfying. even the slightly older ones, 25, 26, still had the attention span of a squirrel and the emotional intelligence of a wet sock.

but nanami?

nanami touched you like he’d studied you. like he had time. like he didn’t need to prove anything because he already knew he could ruin you. and would. he took off your clothes like unwrapping a gift he’d waited patiently to open. every touch was intentional. every kiss a quiet promise.

you thought you were prepared.

you weren’t.

his mouth on your neck, your chest, between your legs. devastating. the kind of slow burn that made you forget your name, arching into him with a gasp so raw you almost felt embarrassed. until you looked up and saw the way he was watching you. focused. like he needed to see what he did to you..

you expected him to be good. he was older, refined, deliberate in everything he did. from the way he sipped his whiskey to the way he looked at you, like he could read every need you hadn’t voiced. But this?

this was beyond anything your imagination had dared to stretch toward.

you're on your back, legs spread and trembling over Nanami’s shoulders, body pinned to the mattress like you were meant to be there. like he built this exact moment out of patience and control and years of knowing exactly what he was doing.

his cock stretches you open with a slow, thick thrust that makes your spine arch off the bed. he’s not fast. not frantic. he moves like a man who knows he doesn’t have to rush, because you’re already falling apart under him.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, as if he’s rewarding you for every helpless sound you make. “you can take it. i’ve got you.”

and you do. you take him. inch by devastating inch. because you can’t not. he fills you in a way no one else ever has. deep. heavy. the kind of depth that forces a raw, gasping whine from your throat with every stroke.

your nails claw weakly at his forearms, the only parts of him you can reach in this position. he’s got you folded open, helpless, a mess of sweat and slick and trembling limbs beneath him. his hips grind slow, controlled, like he’s studying how each angle wrecks you.

“too much?” he asks, and it’s maddening how composed he sounds while you’re unraveling like silk in his hands.

you try to answer, but nothing comes out but a high-pitched, wrecked little moan. your head tilts back. eyes flutter shut. brain static.

he leans in closer, the weight of him pressing into you deliciously, lips grazing your jaw. “words, sweetheart.”

you manage a shaky, whined: “don’t stop. please. don’t stop.”

his lips curve into the faintest smirk against your cheek, and suddenly his thrusts get deeper. not harder. not faster. just…more intentional. perfectly timed to make you feel every ridge, every drag of him against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your thighs shake.

your vision goes blurry. your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. And then it happens: Your brain short-circuits.

everything goes white-hot, your body locking around him with a desperate cry you barely hear. your climax rips through you with a sharp, clenching heat that leaves you breathless and boneless, twitching beneath him as he fucks you through it with devastating care.

“beautiful,” he breathes, watching you crumble.

you’re too far gone to even feel embarrassed at how wrecked you sound. you’re crying a little overstimulated, completely taken, the term “fucked dumb” no longer a meme, but a diagnosis.

he slows down. pulls out just enough to let you breathe, but not leave. his hands slide down your thighs, soothing, grounding.

and then, without warning, he’s back inside you. slower this time. softer. but it still hurts, in the way pleasure hurts when you’ve already come once and your nerves are still singing. you whimper, and he kisses your shoulder.

“i know, i know,” he whispers. “just one more. you can do one more.”

you don't know if you're nodding or crying, but it doesn’t matter. he keeps praising you, guiding you back to that high again with practiced care and relentless control. and when you finally collapse beneath him, thighs shaking, tears wet on your cheeks, he kisses you like you’re something fragile he’s honored to break.

he doesn’t leave right after.

he wraps you in a warm, damp towel and carries you to the bath. cleans you gently. makes you tea. sits beside you as your body catches up with your soul.

and when he says, “you’re safe,” you believe him.

and you realized then: you’d never be able to go back.

how could you? to twenty-something-year-old men who needed validation, who didn’t know what to do with a woman who needed to be held, not just touched? who didn’t understand the ache that came from deeper wounds. wounds that wanted comfort, not conquest?

nanami wasn’t just good in bed.

he understood. he moved with restraint, with precision. the kind of man who didn’t need to be loud to leave a mark.

you looked up at him. his calm, unreadable expression softened only by the way his thumb brushed over your hip. and it hit you:

you weren’t just ruined for boys.

you were recalibrated.

no one else would ever compare.

[peachygelic]

I for one, am all ears 😝

i have something so heinous and so downright filthy to say y’all….

[peachygelic]

Y’all don’t like seeing me happy.

Something something vampires have no reflection so he can't even try to see his brother's face anymore when he looks into the mirror

[peachygelic]

The head bop got it. The best ragebaiter I know 😭

no but seriously what is his problem??? 😭😭

[peachygelic]

When I’m in a super fan competition and my opponent is Remmick

Poor Sammie played literally his first gig and immediately got the worst fan to ever exist

[peachygelic]

Rewatched it a few hours ago too and can confirm 🙂‍↕️

Just watched Sinners again and I’m fucking speechless how the fuck was it even better the second time???? God that movie is gorgeous from top to bottom and the story is just stunning, pure perfection. I’m obsessed. One of the best movies I’ve ever seen. Ryan Coogler’s mind should be studied because I can’t even comprehend how someone could conceive of a story like that, the man is a genius. Michael B Jordan was fucking phenomenal, I grasped the intricacies of his performance as the twins so much more the second time around, he is masterful in this film. I have a whole new appreciation for him as an actor after watching this and I already thought he was great. And Wunmi Mosaku. holy fuck. She was perfect, such an amazing character and performance, I am genuinely in awe. The music in this film is so good it’s euphoric, every single note does exactly what it needs to. I’ve need listening to the soundtrack and the score nonstop since I saw it the first time and I don’t see that changing any time soon.

Cannot recommend this movie enough. GO SEE IT.

[peachygelic]

The longest fic I’ve read in a while and it’s definitely going to be a tough act to follow because WOW

ᴋᴇʏꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴍʙᴏ

Synopsis: A man arrives at your door in the dead of night asking for a simple favor, but once he's let inside, he begins making offerings too good to be true.

Now you're alone with a stranger that's odd in a way you can't quite place, trapped and isolated within a house that offers no safety . . . and normal men don't drool like that, do they?

Warnings: Fem! reader (in pronouns and body descriptions). 18+ content, MDI. Oral (Fem! receiving). Hints of sub! Remmick, but he's still a manipulative brat. Drool, religious themes, abusive relationships (nothing too graphic), infidelity (but her husband's abusive, so who really cares).

Notes: 28.9k words (This is way too long, I'm sorry). Not yet proofread, so please ignore any errors. I'll fix them later.

You've been staring at it for too long. Possibly only minutes, but truthfully it must be closer to an hour. You've long since fallen into a sort of daze, glazed over and trapped while your mind wanders, but you're still able to notice how the muted sunlight has dulled from the soft way it had streamed in through the window. Faded from the powdered shade of dusk and dimmed into a thick dark that eclipses shadows over everything. 

The only light now comes from the old fixture on the ceiling above, spreading out over the room in a warm, yellowed glow. Somehow, it only seems to make you feel more suffocated. The almost rhythmic drip, drip, drip, of the leaking faucet does little to quell the dread prickling and coiling in your stomach. 

It's haunting somehow, if not a little pathetic. Your hands have gone clammy. Palms turned damp from the thick air, all humid and dark from the night. Not even the setting of the sun has helped to cool the temperamental heat. It makes the atmosphere feel like a physical thing. Weighted; a damp blanket that's been draped over your body and tucked tight around the shapes of you. 

It makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, held in too tight it. The unease skirting across your nerves does little to help your predicament, and the wink of the light reflecting from the glass of the bottle, catching across the clear liquid contained inside seems like a taunt. It makes it tempting to drink from it. To feel the scorch of it run down your throat, fueling the fury in your veins. 

You had intended to simply pour it empty down the sink. To crack the top open and watch the booze spill down the drain. And you were planning to do the exact same to the three other bottles of gin that your husband has hidden beneath the floorboards, but you've found that he's already drank them empty. And somewhere along the way, the liquor has wound up out of your hand and down on the kitchen table. It's been sitting there for roughly around the last forty-five minutes.

Never in your years could you have imagined that a simple bottle would be so intimidating. You've been eyeing it as though it's a snake, all coiled in, ready to strike. But it isn't just a bottle. Not anymore with the dry laws, and if Colin knew what you were planning to do with it then you're certain it would send him into a frenzy. You can already hear the echo of his booming voice in your ears, ringing so loudly that you nearly flinch. 

You draw in a deep breath instead, curling your fingers tight to keep yourself still in your seat. He'd paid a fortune for the liquor; you know that well enough. Paid too much. Dug through the tin box that had once been hidden in the floor - the same space that the liquor now occupies - to remove the bills that had been kept there for safe keeping. Wasted through the little you had for some bathtub liquor. 

He needed to take the edge off, he deserves it after all the work he's been putting in, laboring for hours out of the day, callouses built on his skin and sweat staining his brows. His voice had edged close to that tight drawl, anger biting at his words while he seethed through his teeth while he had kneeled on the floor over the open gap in the planks. All you could look at was the money clutched in his tight first, the fierce, irritated glare of his eyes. 

You knew not to pry then. To agitate him any further. Not when his mind had already been made up. It might as well as been set in stone then. Once he's made a decision, he latches on with all the fury and ardor of a dog. You had swallowed down the angry words that welled up in your mouth, trapping the fire behind your lips to keep all the frustration he's been harboring for the past week from releasing out onto you. 

You can't stand the sight of booze anymore. It only reminds you of loses and arguments over money and his dependency. You've found that the fights are more trouble than it's worth. But the impact of them remains vivid. Stained behind your eyes, and the bottles always seem to be the incarnation of all that strife. 

You should pour all of it down the sink and be done with it. It's not a solution, but you know that it would feel good. A temporary relief but one that you would hold onto for years to come. A small retribution for his wandering eyes . . . and hands. 

It makes you nauseous to know that's where he reasonably is now. Out indulging in another woman. Finding pleasure between her thighs and comfort in her arms. He's turned his back on you long ago. You've known it for longer than you'd like to admit. He should have been home at dusk. You would have heard the thump of his footsteps on the porch, the low metallic whine of the door hinges as he let himself inside, his dirty boots would have thumped a little when he slipped them from his feet. 

And yet, he's still nowhere to be seen, but you can hazard a simple guess. Always bending to his impulses, he's probably already dragged himself up to whatever shady gambling den or dingy back alley that might still be willing to take him. If you're lucky, he might be holed up in the house of one of his friends from work, drinking up their booze and taking up a spot at their dinner table. 

He's built a name up for himself for being a man with a shaky poker face, poor luck, and stupid persistence. In some respects, that's what is more embarrassing, what stings and gnaws at you the most. How people look at you now, passing you fleeting, sympathetic glances as you walk past them. Now you're only the wife to the unfaithful gambler, the man who drinks himself into a stupor. Who finds solace in other women while he lays all of your funds out on a table. 

When they all look at you, all you see reflecting back is pity, oversaturated sympathy. It fills you with loathing, mostly because you can't blame them. If you were in their shoes, what more could you do but watch hopelessly from the side lines? 

They hardly see you as an individual anymore, only a woman who can't keep her man from straying. But that's the thing about some dogs, no matter how much love you give them, you can't always keep them from wandering from home. Sometimes you wish that he would wander so far off that he couldn't find his way back. That would save you from the agony of it all. 

But mostly you just wish that you could leave this place yourself. Countless nights you've sent a prayer out that you'd find the courage to finally save yourself and pick up the pieces you have to search for something better. That nerve hasn't found you yet. 

Now you just sit alone, plopped on a rickety chair in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the bottle as though it's full of kerosene that might light up at any moment. Take you up in a roar of fire. That might be a mercy. 

Your mind wars. It tells you to snatch up the liquor and dump it all, while another, more vindictive, fantastical side demands that you finally face your reality for what it is and leave. Fold and pack your belongings into that special suitcase and take off into the night. 

A wife's job is to endure, the words that your mother had said to have all but been branded across your psyche, burning. Permanent. What would God think? You made a promise, sweetheart - a vow, as the Lord your witness! 

The pain you've almost come to grow used to in a twisted way. Though the debasement is another beast in its own right. It digs deep, burrows down into your marrow and carves you out of your skin until you're nothing but bare. Stripped for the judgment and prying eyes to hail down upon. 

Common sense warns you to take the bottle and put it back in its place. He wouldn't even know that it's been moved. You could still nestle it down under the floor, tuck the wood back over into their places and he'd be none the wiser. And yet, you don't move. Don't so much as twitch in your seat. 

Defiance rages inside of you. Thick, heavy, pinning you down in place and thrumming through your limbs, making your fingers tremble. The hatred smoldering in your chest frightens you sometimes, as hot as it burns. Scalding and boiling just beneath your breasts. Sometimes it makes you feel as though you can't breathe, lungs choked on your own ire. 

You've gotten little victories in this marriage, and it's made you desperate. Foolhardy. Downright stupid from your anger and hopelessness. Often times you find yourself thinking, so what if he gets mad? What could he possibly do that he hasn't already? 

Let him hit, let him swear. Like a vagrant you'd take what you could get, no matter how lowly you'd have to scrounge, or how pathetically you'd strike back, you'd get yours. The urge dawns on you suddenly, a weak, scrambling idea, but you cling to it all the same. Colin can go out all that he likes. He can waste himself away, stick his hands up other women's skirts, and in turn you'll take what you can get. Scavenge and prod for the little triumphs you're afforded. 

You almost feel detached from yourself as your hand slips across the tabletop and reaches for the bottle. The chilled glass somehow seems hot on your skin, but you keep your fingers fixed around the shape of it. You hardly think, hardly resist the urge when you lift it up, listening to the liquid sloshing within the vessel as you press the mouth up to your lips to toss back a swig. 

You wince as soon as it touches your tongue, lukewarm and stinging as it slips down your throat, traced with smoke and earth. You haven't bothered with a sip of liquor in years. It wasn't worth the cash or the trouble, from the law or Colin. The last you drank had to have been back when you were a young girl, and your curiosity had you searching through the cabinets for your father's bourbon. He'd caught you red handed. You had expected a punishment then. For him to order you to scavenge the yard and search for your own switch among the fallen branches and twigs from the black gum and oak trees. You had stood awkwardly while you waited, bottle held in a shaky grip while your heart fluttered wildly. 

But there had been no discipline dealt that day, only a small drink shared on the porch while he made you promise him that you wouldn't do it again. When you had first tasted the unpleasant burn of the booze, it had been easy to agree to that vow. But the odd tenderness that he had regarded you with had alleviated the sting of it. If you concentrate enough, you can feel the balmy glide of the breeze on your skin from that evening, you can hear the soft thrill of the birds that had been chattering nearby, the rustle of the trees. 

That memory seems a lifetime ago, and the next gulp you take of the gin seems to bring you closer and pull you farther away from it all at once. You bring the bottle down on the table with a noisy thump. Your muscles tense while you suck a breath in through your teeth through a revolted grimace. The alcohol tastes as awful as you remember. Harsh, biting, and the hint of juniper, distinct and a touch too bitter, it makes your mouth twist. 

For a moment you consider actually just evicting it down the drain, but your hatred keeps your hold fixed around the bottle, though you don't make any moves to lift it back up to your lips. It sears its way into your stomach, settling there heavy and warm. It doesn't help. It doesn't soothe to ache that's been splitting you apart. It doesn't quell the anger and hurt. Not even while you imagine the indignation Colin will feel when he finally stumbles home and finds the last of his booze gone. The brief show of betrayal that will be in his eyes, the irritation that will show there, will be enough to turn your rage into a smug satisfaction. 

But it's difficult to allow yourself to try and bask in what that might could feel like while you're sitting alone in the kitchen with nothing but the sound of your own quiet breaths and the dull chirp of the crickets outside to occupy the silence. It's times like these where you start to fantasize. It becomes a simple thing, for your mind to drift somewhere safe and better. 

There's a suitcase in the closet inside your bedroom. It's made of dark, chestnut leather and brass buckles. You can't recall where exactly you got it from. It might have been an old purchase that's slipped your memory, or it's possible that you had taken it from parent's home when you had finally left it, when the wedding band around your finger was shiny and new. Despite the kind of enigma around it, you think of it often for an entirely different reason. 

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and vacant like this, you take it out of the closet and open it up on the foot of the bed. You remove your clothes out from the dresser - only after thoroughly evaluating each garment - and choose carefully. The room available in the luggage is sparse, and you'd have to make do for the journey ahead. You pick through all of your clothes, picking meticulously - sometimes for different destinations. You went through all of your thicker clothes for a trip to Missouri; you know the winters there can be brutal. You had selected all of your best dresses for a journey to California, the ones made of lighter materials to keep you cool during the heat, though you're sure that the dry temperatures would be nothing in comparison to the humidity down here. 

You organize all of your things, packing only what you'll need. You fold up your clothes, tuck in a book or two for something to entertain yourself during the monotony of travel, some of your makeup and the little pieces of jewelry you own, and then you shut the suitcase tight. You flick the buckles closed and it's a noise that's final. You still don't think you've ever heard a sound sweeter than the heavy, metallic click that always echoes out against the four walls of the small room. A private, gentle noise. 

It's the sound of being able to go anywhere, and you like to tell yourself that that's true. One day you'll get on a train. You'll head to the depot in town and buy a ticket. You don't care where to - Las Vegas, New York, Boise, Charleston. Anywhere else is better than here. But you think of the Californian coast often, sand under your bare feet and a sweet sunrise blooming over the stretch of glittering water in gold and blush. 

You have a postcard of the ocean. An artist's rendition of the waves, done up in pastels, watercolors, blues and beiges and pinks. A pier stretching out over a large body of water. You imagine often stepping out onto it and walking into the sunset, to be touched by a new light. You've held the postcard so often that the corners have become all bent up, weakened from too much touch, turned soft from your palms. You keep it safe inside the suitcase, but sometimes you can't keep yourself from admiring it, tracing the elegant font that's scrawled across the face of it, dreaming you were there instead of here. 

Deep down in the pit of your soul, you know that you'll never leave. That's what's killing you inside. Twisting you up, chewing you down and grinding you into a pulp. Brutalizing you in a way that not even Colin can. The hatred is like an affliction that's tainted you down the marrow. It's festered. Turned your blood black and eaten you down from the inside out, and now you hardly recognize yourself. When you look in the mirror you hardly see the person you had once been. You aren't the naïve girl who had fallen in love with Colin all those years ago, when he had been alluring one-liners and the protective nature he had shielded you with seemed well intentioned and not stifling and controlling. 

How dumb you had been. All ignorant and blinded by sugared feelings and young love. You'd dug yourself into a hole. Allowed yourself to be pulled in by the charm he'd once had, now curdled and rotten by time, and it's become too late to dig yourself up from the soil. This is where you'll take your final breath, curled up in a quiet house, blood on your busted lips while the cicadas send you off with a warbling cry. 

It makes your heart burn like a coal. It spreads through the sinew inside of you white-hot and coiling. Worse than that is the emptiness. The defeat that hollows you out in a shell. You're a ghost now. Dead and dull. You have no choice but to hate who you used to be, to be jealous of that youthful spark you once had, but it's all but been snuffed out and relit into something hateful. 

You want to scream. No one would here you all the way out here, tucked around the thicket of heavy trees and the swaddle of the night. It would be your secret if you let it all out, pitched your voice up into a wail that you know would pierce your own ears, release the tension that's been trapped in your lungs. And yet, no matter how much you long for it, the cry never rattles past your teeth. It's stays lodged there, like a rock behind your sternum. 

You hardly recognize the desperate reach your hand takes for the bottle again, slipping over the scuffed tabletop to grasp the smooth glass. The feel of it in your palm feels wrong, like it doesn't fit, but you hold onto it all the same. You don't want it, the bite of the liquor on your tongue. Not even the soft warmth that's scattered over your limbs, as balmy and satin as heated water, is tempting enough to want you to keep drinking, but the ire you have for Colin is. 

Your fingers slip up, smoothing up to clasp tight around the neck so that you can lift the bottle up from the table. The glass is cool on your skin, just whispering against your bottom lip when you tilt your head back to take another swig. 

Your grip slackens just a bit, a clumsy error, but that's all it takes for the bottle to slip from your clutch. The bottom of it hits the table with a heavy thud, and you hardly have time to track it as it tilts on its side and careens over the edge. It's a blur of silver as it hurtles towards the floor, and your breath snags harshly when it meets the wood in an eruption of shards. 

Everything in you locks in place. You go completely still as you stare down at the mess, taking in the liquor staining the floor, darkening the worn oak. The sting of the spilt gin pierces the air in a pungent bite that makes you sick to the stomach, blending with the sheer horror wracking your body and for a moment you fear that you might actually be sick. That you might double over and evict your guts all over the wooden planks; the pungent scent of alcohol already permeating across the air, staining the walls. 

You don't give it an ounce of thought when you crumble out of the chair, falling so abruptly the seat's legs scrape in a shrill cry and your knees smart when they strike the floor. You can't pay it any mind though. Not while you're cursing in a frantic stream, reaching down with shaky fingers to pluck up the shards of glass, desperate to pick it all up. 

Suddenly you don't feel invigorated or empowered, but just foolish. A dumb girl who tried to get the upper hand, who tried to feel big and crumpled under her own weight. 

You pick up the shards as quickly as you can, cradling them within a shaky palm one delicate piece at a time. It seems not even the universe is willing to allow you a victory, as miniscule as it may be. 

A cursory glance out through the kitchen window confirms that it is indeed deep into the night. It's so dark out that there's no definition to what lies outside the pane; there's simply just a strip of black velvet. An infinite void that stretches too wide, means to swallow you entirely.  

You aren't certain for how long you've been sitting here, stewing in your own chaos, but if you had to try and guess it must be close to 10 p.m., if not nearing midnight. When Colin vanishes like this, he often isn't back for hours, sometimes not making his way back until the dawn, all but barraging through the door in a noisy shuffle as though he'd been ushered in by the rising sun.  It makes you thankful at least, that you'll have time to clean up properly without him stumbling upon you, a mess in the kitchen with his drink now a collection of glass on the floor. The very thought of it makes your hands shake, fingers trembling. 

A hiss rips from you when a sharp throb pulses through your hand. When you look down again, there's a bit of red beading from a sliver in your skin, long and thin from the serrated edge of jagged glass. It's a clean cut, narrow and not too deep from what you can make of it in the low light and the smear of blood, but it still palpitates white-hot across your flesh. Sliced from the heel of your thumb and easing off just shy of the direct center of your palm. 

"God dammit all," you swear but your frustration is snuffed out by the tone of ragged panic and defeat in the inflections of your voice. You lift yourself up to your feet on wobbling legs, knees turned feeble from the dread weighing you down, but you still manage to cross over to the sink. You toss the glass shards that you picked up and toss them into the basin as though they're hot coals; the clatter of them striking across the cast iron sounds akin to a round of gunfire. 

You snatch the rag draped over the lip of the sink up in a mean jerk to press it against the wound. It burns to hold it to the laceration, but you clench your teeth together to distract yourself from the pain. You're almost entranced in your watch, seeing how the scarlet blossoms across the thick cloth, turning some of the fabric a rich red, distant from yourself as your mind chants to hide the evidence - to hide the remnants of the bottle before it's too late. You got too big, too bold, and now God or fate set out to knock you down a peg. To remind you of who's in control. Humiliation burns at you, unforgiving, fire raging, violent and fueled by hatred.  The smell of the gin is noticeable in the air. Thick, burning in your nostrils. He'll smell it once he gets home. It'll hit him as soon as he steps through the door, distinct, undeniable. Truthfully, if you had drunk it or broken the bottle, the result would still be the same. It would earn nothing but one reaction: anger, the strike of an open fist.  But somehow this seems so much worse. Perhaps it's the lack of control. The fact that it hadn't been a conscious decision, not part of the plan. But it's horrific, leaving you panicked and frantic, mind spinning out in a blind terror.  You'll have to open some of the windows, let the house ventilate and breathe and hope that that'll be enough to get rid of the smell - A repetitive noise sounds out from the front of the house. Steady, polite. Knocking. Someone is knocking on your door. 

If Colin had come home, he wouldn't bother with announcing himself. He'd simply ram in through the front door without a care, probably dragging his feet and slurring his words as he mumbled in a drunken drivel. 

Not many drift this far out, apart from the occasional neighbor you might spy while out pulling weeds in the yard, many driving out in their vehicles or hitching it on foot for a trip into town. You're all fairly quiet. And despite the cordial wave in greeting or a nod of acknowledgement while in passing, you mostly keep to yourself unless something calls for it. The last time you had someone at your doorstep was when Helen Young needed to borrow some flour, and that had been nearly a year ago; you'd kept her for as long as you could, sharing recipes and nuggets of gossip. 

You can't think of a single reason why anyone else would be at your house at such a late hour. You struggle to come up with a logical explanation and it only seems to sweep you up in a bigger whirlwind, one too great for your scattered psyche to handle.  There's another knock tapping on the door, still mild, considerate. Decidedly unlike Colin, but you're still unable to deny that there's a slim possibility that it might be him regardless. That all it takes for your body to go up in an uproar of confusion and dread, but it can't help but to obey the call coming from outside. Not if it's Colin who's out there, waiting and impatient, temper turned hot by alcohol. 

Every facet of you winds tight from the possibility of him actually being home. But the nature of his arrival is abnormal. Though maybe, the prospect of someone having dragged him back here, having become too drunk and incoherent, isn't an absurdity. Just the thought douses you with the sensation of cold water, and you long to move to crawl back over to the splinters of glass on the floor and clean them up, to toss them away in the bin and pretend that your ignorance never got the better of you. 

But that's only a temporary fix from the inevitable. Colin will find out regardless. He'll know what you've done. Look in the hollow under the floorboards and find that it's empty. Smell the fumes in the air. It's pathetic how all of the defiance and rage in you has been snuffed out into a wild disquiet, traded in for fear.  

Despite your panic, your feet don't stop in carrying you towards the door. It goes in a blur how quickly you cross the space from the kitchen to the adjoining living room until you're standing in front of the entrance with your heart thumping wildly inside your chest . The floor creaks under the shuffle of your feet, seeming too loud. The door seems to stand imposing, nothing more than a tall structure of wood, and yet it might as well as be the Grim Reaper standing before you. Ice sinks low in your stomach, becoming weighted as you eye the knob in your cautious approach. 

You wind the cloth around your hand, binding it tight and tucking the loose edge into the wrap of the fabric so that you can hide your hand behind your back, just out of sight without fear of the makeshift bandage falling free and giving evidence to your crime. You have to steel yourself as best as you can, sighing deeply to calm your nerves, but it does little to help as you twist the knob until you hear the telltale click of the latch bolt slipping from its divot. 

It's cold when you finally grip it, a shock to your skin despite the sticky warmth that's swaddled the air. You have to brace yourself, swallowing a shaky breath as you prepare for who's on the other side. But as much as you'd like to cling to the shaky bit of peace that you have, you can't hold onto this moment for long. 

You loathe the low whine of the hinges as you draw the door open, like the hissing of feral cats. It nearly sets your teeth on edge when you press yourself to lean out and peek around through the gap between the threshold and the door, just enough to be able look out onto the porch. 

The dark outside dares to swallow you whole. It's only from the dull light of the oil lamp on the accent table on the far side of the room that offers a wisp of illumination to slip out past the threshold. A muted, buttery hue that struggles against the oppressive shade of the night, but it's enough to highlight the figure that stands at the edge of the porch, just above the first descending step. 

It strikes you immediately that you've never seen this stranger before, and that manages to alleviate you from the fear of facing Colin and distress you all together. Uncertainty seems to press down on your shoulders, nudging at the nape of your neck as you eye the man warily. You can feel your brows pinch close from your confusion as you sweep a glance down at him from down to his shoes and all the way up to the relaxed smile on his lips. 

The expression on his face is polite, friendly, but that doesn't make this situation any less odd. He - whoever he is - doesn't seem to have the same reservations or thoughts as you, not with how relaxed his posture is. Fully comfortable in a space that doesn't belong to him in the late hours. His boots are a little worn, the leather scuffed slightly around the toes from all of the walking he's probably done, and there's a banjo hanging from his back. Not by a proper shoulder strap but by a pale, old rope. 

It isn't entirely unusual to have travelers come walking through here. All in search of different things, individual goals and destinations. Many follow after the train tracks that depart from town, using the rails as a guide to help themselves along to the next town over. What is unusual is to have one standing outside of your house. It sets you on edge, and you're taken away with the worst-case scenarios, the possible horrors that might arise from being alone out here. Horror stories of people attacked and murdered in their own homes. 

It makes your heart thud. 

"May I help you?" you ask, and you hope that he doesn't take notice of the way you scan a vigilant glance around the surrounding land, looking out for possible figures lurking off on the dirt road in the near distance or hiding in the trees. Luckily, you see nothing out of sorts. 

When your attention flickers back onto him, something about him seems amused. There's a glimmer in his eyes and the shadows that are being spilt across his face seem to pronounce the lilt at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry for disturbing you at such a late time, but I'm on my way through here and I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to spare a sip of water." 

It's a simple request, and good manners encourage that you comply, but common sense presses you to slam the door shut and lock the bolt. The urge to deny his ask rests in your mouth, right there on your tongue, but the refusal never makes it past your lips. It dies out when he dares to creep a little closer, stepping further into the murky fire light, and the weight of his shifting feet, despite their soft shuffle make the boards beneath creak. It could be a trick of the shadows, but you're sure that when he lifts his chin just the slightest, that his nostrils flare likes a dog that's caught onto a scent, and his eyes seem to flicker down to trace down your shoulder, following where you've tucked your wounded hand behind your back. 

Then his eyes are on yours, a movement so quick that you think you might have imagined the entire thing. The dark fashioning illusions, exacerbated on by your frazzled state. 

"I can't let you in," you blurt. It's all rolled out as though it's been struck from your chest, like you were worried he might try to shove past you and allow himself through the threshold. "My husband's asleep - he doesn't like to be disturbed." The lie rolls from your tongue easily enough, but it feels clunky too, unnatural. You find yourself hoping once again that he can't notice your discomfort, that the night will cloak your expression enough to keep your uncertainty hidden, the ceaseless cries of the crickets will hide your tone. 

"I don't need to be brought in," he replies. A reassurance, but you swear that something about its delivery seems . . . entertained. Like you've said something vaguely amusing. "I can stay right here on your doorstep. Take what you're willin' to give me and then I'll be on my way. It'll be like I was never here." 

There's something unsettling about the suave nature of his voice, like velvet wrapped around teeth, honey soft to lure you in and placate you. As tempting as it is, something animal skirts down your spine. Still you stand in the part in between the open door. You don't move. It's as though you've been stuck in place, caught by the societal etiquette that's been engrained in you since birth and something more damning, the weight of his stare. 

It isn't right, you know, to turn down a person in need, but your paranoia demands that there's a menace in the air. That danger might lurk right around the corner. Or that it's already standing directly in front of you, watching with a smile. 

You should step back, bid him to leave before your husband does actually make his way home, slam the door shut and sweep up the glass, tend to your wound. But you don't do any of those things. Instead you move back a hair, sparing the stranger a brief look as you begin to nudge the door closed. "Wait here," you relent. "I'll be back. But once you're done drinking, I expect you to leave." 

You don't wait to hear his response, but you think that you might catch a distant 'Yes, ma'am' passed you way as you head off towards the kitchen. You make quick work, opening the cupboard above the sink and grab the first glass you see to begin filling it from the faucet until it's full, almost trickling over the rim. You try not to glance at the broken shards still dusted over the floor beside the table, glittering and winking under the light, taunting you from the distance. You ignore the heated pulse that thumps and flares across your hand in time with your heartbeat. 

You twist the water off, catching it before it can overflow from the cup, turning the knob with a pronounced, rusted squeak. 

With another deep, steadying inhale, you find yourself opening the front door for a second time tonight. It's all too soon, as though you've blinked and lost time even though you can remember the steps you had taken to get back to this point. Your nerves feel shot, all fired up and confused, and it makes the minutes pool around you in a blur. The faint warmth that you had just begun to feel from the gin has all but left your system; chased out by the anxiety. 

When the door rasps open again, a part of you is disappointed to see that the stranger is still standing on your porch even though you fully expected for him to be there. When your eyes meet it's as though you've entered some sort of stalemate. He creeps closer, but there's a calculated edge to movements, as though he's approaching as one would a startled animal. 

You don't meet him halfway. You can't manage to get yourself to twitch past the threshold. Your hand that holds the cup hovers close to your chest. There's a disconnect somewhere. You tell yourself to extend your arm out to let him take the glass, but it doesn't happen. You remain tucked against the door. There's a safety here. An ability to close the man out if need be and hide yourself within the safety of familiar walls, but your hesitation has pulled a hush over the space. 

There's a clear uncertainty extended from the both of you now, but he doesn't eye you with awkward puzzlement but almost an intrigue. His head tilts a little, a minute movement that makes you feel studied all the same; an insect pinned to a board. That's how both of you remain for the next passing minute, for probably just a blink but a void seems to wrap out around you, turned hauntingly private from the dull hiss of the breeze shifting over the grass and the chirp of noisy nocturnal insects. 

It's another catch of the contained flame flickering within your home, but his eyes seem to reflect the night, the glimmer of distant stars catching in his pupils. You don't know if you've ever been consumed by a stare before; it's definitive that you have now. 

Your hand twitches forward, fingers flexing around the glass as though you might actually stretch your arm out past the doorway for him to take, but it hardly makes it more than a few scant inches. 

You notice the corner of his mouth nudge upward. "Plannin' on letting me keel over from thirst?"

A part of you can't help but hate how playful he sounds, as though you're well acquainted - cordial, familiar - and not outsiders to each other. The other, more buried half, the side that used to know how to smile easily and share harmless gibes in a second nature, rouses under his light ridicule. Maybe you would have insulted him for being the one crawling up as a beggar on a stranger's doorstep, and the desire to do so slips over you like a ghost. But you can't allow yourself the possession of that temptation. 

You force your hand out then, stretching it just enough to offer him the glass. 

The paranoid concern that he might grab you instead rises in your gut, but when his hand reaches, it only takes the cup with a polite, "Thank ya kindly," muttered out to you. There's a purposeful gentleness when he removes it from your own grip, keeping eye contact with you the entire time while he raises it to his lips, lifting his chin to drink it down in heavy gulps. He empties it in drawn out sips, pouring down his throat as though it's the only water he's had for miles. It has something like guilt whispering over you. 

 "What are you doing out here . . . so late?" The enquiry leaves you much more tentatively than you intended, and you reflectively clear your throat as though that might banish the nervousness in your chest. 

He seems delighted by the question. His posture straightens just the slightest, shoulders drawing up, boyish and pleased, as though he thought you'd never ask. "Oh, I'm a musician you see." He reaches behind to pull at the neck of his banjo, rotating it around to brandish it against his hip. "We've got ourselves a gig not too far up the road there." 

He lifts a finger up from the grip he has around the now empty glass and points out to his left in the direction of the path paved by car tires and wagons, cutting up through the earth and trees. The crickets chirping seems to ring out, raising up higher and higher as though they're loudly declaring him a liar. You hardly pay that any mind. 

"We?" Once again, you're scanning the surrounding dark with a worried glance, expecting finally see shadows lurking. Still and quiet, waiting for the perfect moment the lurch forward and take what they want. 

"A couple of my friends," he clarifies. He pulls on the rope around his chest, tugging the instrument back around in its proper place behind his back. He shifts on his feet, slipping about half a step closer, making the floor groan in a faint protest. "They're just up ahead, not too far from here. I thought I'd be able to make it just fine, but I have to admit that this heat is gettin' to me." 

"Yeah . . . It's plenty warm out here." You agree, half-hearted, struggling in your effort to keep him appeased with a geniality that you know must seem forced. 

This is odd. Something about this - him isn't right. It nudges at the back of your head like the weight of a reprimanding hand, pokes and prods at you to cut this interaction short and shoo him away from your doorstep like a stray that's overstayed its welcome. Regardless, you're stuck. All spun up in a glimmer of intrigue that sinks into you with a stubborn influence. All the isolation out here has made you deprived in a way, starved for interaction that doesn't come with the threat of scathing insults or the swat of a hand. 

You'd be fooling yourself if you couldn't admit that your fascination has been piqued. There's a magnetism around him that you can't quite explain. He looks like he could be any other man, not exactly plain faced, but his handsomeness shows in a way that isn't particularly arresting. It's pleasant, strong despite his rounded features and eyes that seem dark, impish. It's how he carries himself you conclude, the puckish lift of his lips and the lively way he expresses himself. 

There's a sort of energy around him that is almost palpable, thrumming and brushing through the light fabric of your dress to run over your skin; charged air in an oncoming storm. Suddenly, you feel a lot like a moth daring too close to an open pyre. You fear you might have already drifted too close to turn back now. Something instinctual and buried begs that you do, but like a bass captivated by the glimmer of a bobbing lure, you don't know if you're able to. 

It's like you can see the traces of his journeys on his body, remnants of the treks he's taken immortalized in the scuffs on the toes of his boots. You had seen that the calfskin face on his banjo has been turned darker in certain areas, made that way from frequent use; the brushes of his hand while he played. It aids you in picturing all the places that he's probably strummed the instrument in, plucking the strings with deft fingers while people dance and laughed, jovial in their celebrations.   

"Oh, it sure is," he answers with an excited grin. He tilts back just enough to place the glass on the railing, freeing his hands before he turns to you. It reminds you of a salesman preparing to make a pitch. "You could join us tonight, you know. It's fixin' to be quite the party, and the more the merrier." 

The invitation takes you aback, knocks you off quilter so that you're staring at him dumbly from within your doorway. "Excuse me? I can't - that's very kind, but I don't know you." You shake your head while it all leaves you in a sort of jumble, turned messy from your bewilderment. 

"C'mon now," he encourages as though he's a longtime friend and not an unknown, a stranger shrouded in mystery. When you lean back a little, tucking one of your shoulders tighter against the threshold, he tracks the movement with a stare that seems too eager, like an animal watching its prey twitch. "Everybody's a stranger to somebody; take a chance and we might just wind up as thick as thieves."  The smile on your face is tight, muscles twitching as you wield your mouth to shape an expression that's hardly convincing, too strained.  "I'm sorry, I have to decline. It's late. My husband is sleeping-"

"Your husband is occupied, all tucked into bed, sound asleep, just as you've said." His brows perk up a little, embellishing the question and he leans in close as though you're both sharing a secret. "So he wouldn't notice then, if you disappeared for an hour or two. He didn't even hear me knocking on your door - dead to the world, huh?" 

The last comment borders on mockery. A sardonic jab that's thinly veiled with an easy smile. It's knowing, as though he's in on something that he shouldn't be and can't help but to be a little smug about it. A distant, but clamorous voice cries from the corners of your mind in a paranoid stream of he knows, he knows you're all alone out here. 

He has an arrogance and condescension that leaves you a little speechless. You've only been in his presence for less than fifteen minutes, but the blurred genial character he has and the thinly veiled snark makes your head spin. You can't tell if he's attempting some strange, boorish flirting tactic, or if he's simply ignorant enough to believe that you would truly feel comfortable enough to allow yourself to be swept away by a complete stranger.  Even worse than all of that though, is that a side of you, dull but persevering, a remnant of your former self turned alone and quiet, is tempted. It's easy to fantasize about being spirited away, about being pulled into a whirlwind of titillation and celebration, flowing drinks and bubbling laughter. 

But those thoughts bring nothing but danger. A sinking in your gut that seems to tug you down to the bottom of a river, dragging you like a rock. 

"I can't." That's all you can manage to say. 

"Well, that is a shame." He concedes a lot easier than you had expected. He doesn't strike you as the type to roll over and except defeat, but he lets out a dispirited sigh. He nods like he understands, a minute gesture while he shifts his focus to his left, looking back off towards the road - a kicked puppy. That's what he looks like. Eyebrows furrowed over the wide shape of his eyes. He's actually pouting.  For a moment, you think that he's relenting. That he's finally picked up all the signs that he's been ignoring (willfully or otherwise) and that he'll turn and leave with a thank you, vanishing in the dark like a phantom that never existed. 

It would be easy then, to believe that you had made him up. A figment of your imagination come to haunt you. 

When his attention shifts back onto you, that glimmer of the faith you had fizzles out like water doused coals. It's involuntary when the hand behind your back flexes, clenching your thumb around the bandage. It licks a painful heat up the wound and you can feel your face wince. His nostrils flare in that peculiar manner, again. An animal scenting a trail. 

"I hate to take advantage of your kindness, but before I go, would you mind if I got another glass?" He lifts the cup up between you both and tilts his head as though he's eager to hear your response, rotating the glass back and forth to hold your attention. "I'm real parched." 

No. It's right there again. At the ready. But once again you can't find it in yourself to speak your mind. The stare he holds you in is testing. Evaluating. As though he's weighing you for your worth, challenging you to see how you might respond. It's become instinctual in you to waver, to shrink yourself down beneath a heavy stare. 

That's all it takes for you to grab it from his hand. You aren't sure if you appreciate the smile he gives you. He's stopping you before you can turn around and fill the glass - or get rid of him. 

"You wouldn't mind if I stepped inside, would you? Only to take some pressure of my feet. And these damn bugs, they're hungry tonight. I must taste good with how they're nippin' at me." 

He grins like he's said the funniest thing. As though you're close friends and he's made an inside joke. You can't manage a laugh though. You feel heavy, turned into stone as you stand in the doorway, tense, wound throbbing, and concern gnawing in your gut. It's kneejerk to want to refuse his request. Common sense nags at you to do just that, but fear keeps the words trapped inside. 

He's acting calm now, friendly, all things considered, but would his mood take a turn if you refused him? Would he lash out? Barge through the door if you slammed it shut or crash his way through one of the windows? 

Another voice entirely chides you for making assumptions. For being so judgmental in the first place. He might be a bit odd, but that doesn't make him a threat. He's a weary traveler looking for a place to rest his feet before he moves on, and you can hear your mother berating you from the grave, scolding you for turning a man in need away from your home. You can hear Pastor Hemley's voice raising high in that unwavering timbre, booming off the old, polished walls that existed long before you; echoes of one of his old sermons as he gripped the edges of the pulpit in an impassioned grip. "Who are we to turn away another man in need? What if it was the Lord himself asking, seeking you out for your aid, testing you of your humanity and goodwill, and you shunned him? Or what about your fellow man? Is it not our sympathy, our empathy - that makes us in His image? It is the meek who shall inherit the earth." 

Now you aren't ignorant enough to believe that Jesus himself has wandered up to your doorstep, but it still feels a sin to deny the stranger now. The prospect of it turns sour, bitter on your tongue, iron turning to rust. 

"You'd have to be quiet. My husband - "

"I'll be quiet as a mouse," he assures quickly. 

"I just don't want any trouble." You draw the door a little tighter, just enough that your shoulders and head can peek through the gap. Your hand tightens over the empty glass making the smooth shape of it dig at your palm. Your right hand squeezes tight too, and involuntary action that makes pain flare. A wince pulls a little at your face, makes your brows twitch. "My husband has early mornings; he needs his rest." 

"I ain't no trouble." It's a promise that brings you little comfort despite the sincerity. "If I so's much as look at you wrong then you can go ahead and throw me right out the door. Knock me out on my ass right on your front porch, if it pleases you." 

A kind of inner voice whispers from somewhere in the hidden fringes of your mind, distant but no less profound. It's like a brush along the nape of your neck, raising the small hairs there and it threatens to make you shiver. It settles in your bones, takes root deeply but as light as a phantom, distorted and chilled. It almost begs you to step out from the threshold and back into the familiarity of your house, and you nearly do. You can feel yourself coiling, the muscles in your leg bunching and it the heel of your foot slipping back just the slightest. Not even an inch but he notices, you can tell by the way that the corner of his mouth perks up. He's not even bothering to try and hide his amusement. 

You have to flex the grip you have clasped around the glass. Gripping it hard enough the rounded shape of the cup bites into your palm and keeps you centered. You really shouldn't let him in. The instincts creeping up your spine urge you don't, and yet you somehow find yourself split. Ensnared in a stubborn limbo that seems to hold you tight. 

The way that he's watching you doesn't help. His head is a little tilted, the smile on his face is still there, and the relaxed nature of his posture is intimidating despite that casual air of it. As though he's made a pocket for himself in your space. As though he's entitled to it. That it's belonged to him this entire time and you simply weren't aware. It irritates you. It intrigues you too. Everything about him seems to have been fashioned to lure you in. The easy confidence he emanates, the roguish glimmer in his eyes. 

He's laidback and odd all at once. The way that he stuns you is a product of pure roguish charm. He moves as though he's someone important, even while there's a soft smear of dirt on the cuff of his shirt, his boots are worn, and the leather has long lost its sheen, and yet you don't think you've ever felt so captivated in your entire life. It's as though you're held hostage. There's a grip that you can't shake, and it has your attention pinned onto him as though there's some sort of magnetic pull stretched between the both of you. You stare all while your mind chants in a repetitive, startled loop: Make him leave, close the door, lock the bolt. 

The crickets sing into the night. There's a caution somewhere in their cries. High pitched. Warbling. Animal. 

You best listen, they seem to say. 

You draw in a deep breath. 

"Alright, you can come in. But only for a moment." You relent so quickly that you hardly register it at all. It's not until you're shifting out of the way, nudging the door open and turning your body to give him a berth that you notice what you've said. Something in the pit of you urges that you slam the door shut before he can act out on your compliance, but like a spirit trapped inside a doll, you sit idle as he steps forward.  

Something seems to break now that he's crossed the threshold. A membrane has broken, been torn through and invaded as he moves across the floor, boots thumping softly in a hushed murmur over the worn wood. Each creak sounds like a scream to you. Ragged, strained, ringing out on a thin breath. The air is tense, strained with an awkwardness that you don't know how to navigate. 

The cup in your hand seems heavy. As weighted as a big stone. You track him from your place at the door as he comes to stand in the middle of the living room, not caring to hide how he sweeps a curious, evaluating look over the space. Eyeing the furniture, the outdated floral wallpaper - turned stained from age - and the family photographs hung on the wall above the sofa with an eager eye. A vulture scavenging. 

He just evaluates them for a moment. Staring as one might a set of paintings in a public museum. It strips you bare. Makes you horrendously vulnerable as he observes the images of your life; the glide of the satin air pouring in from the open doorway seems to perpetuate that vulnerability. Skirting over your flesh in dark, damp brushes. 

He scrutinizes photograph of you and Colin, the one of you tucked into each other's bodies, caught staring in each other's eyes while standing out on the stoop of the church. It was a time when you were still able to smile, when Colin built a warmth and love in you that burned inside, that could keep you safe. 

You had felt so beautiful that day, wearing your mother's own wedding dress, adorned in optimism and fine beading. Now you just feel stupid. 

It makes you sick to look at the picture. To see yourself draped in lace, all dolled up for a wedding that you'd come to regret. It's worse to have someone else staring at it with a kind of strange fascination. As though it's the most interesting thing in the world. 

It's worse still when his eyes drag downward to the frame directly underneath, taken a year apart, but the difference was telling. When you had first slipped the picture into its frame, you had wondered if others would be able to notice the strained nature of your smile or if it was an element that only you could see. If they would be able to notice how the light had dimmed from your eyes, turned dull in a muted reflection of the argument that had taken place only a few hours before. 

You know now that he, at least, is able to tell. 

"Happy couple," he comments, and it seems suspiciously sardonic. The remark could be private, an inside thought that slipped out, but he seems guiltless to have spoken it. 

He looks so normal and yet he's entirely out of place in the middle of your home in a way that you can't quite place. It's unnerving. It makes your skin itch. You can only watch as he steps around the coffee table to admire all of your belongings. The knickknacks and useless tchotchkes in the display cabinet, the bits and pieces of you collected over the stages of your life all held on the end table tucked close to the edge of the sofa. Unabashed that he's in a stranger's house. Stalking along the room with steps that are leisurely, but there's a calculated edge that can't be ignored. The saunter of a predator, careful but confident. 

When his eyes flicker back onto you, they seem to glimmer. Fire reflecting in their centers, gold pooling where the black should be. Abnormal. An animal's eyes peering through the dark. They burn through you, reaching at the edges of your soul. The suddenness of it snaps you from your daze like the pop of a hand. 

A trick, you tell yourself again. An illusion thrown by the light. 

"I'll just . . . go and fill this," you manage stiffly, brandishing the glass. You don't wait for a response, carefully shutting the front door with a heavy click before making off for the kitchen as though fire is licking at your heels. It's déjà vu to be standing back at the sink, tap running, watching the water bubble and churn from the flow from the spicket. 

For the first time in in years, a part of you longs to have your husband home, and that pitiful need disgusts you. You loathe that you crave the volatile comfort that he would provide. There is a familiarity in it. A predictability. But this man - the stranger - is a complete unknown and it's terrible. 

You have to curse yourself for crumbling. For weakly relenting and allowing a potential danger into your house with hardly any fight. It has self-hared, hot and boiling, twisting in your stomach. The disappointment is debilitating, sinking down into your shoulders as piercing as a set of talons. The chaotic panic swirling in your mind does little to help your state, injecting ice into your veins as you ponder the worst. That same worry has your eyes straying from the filling glass, drifting over to a set of drawers. The same one that's full of silverware. You think of the knives tucked into the left side of the top drawer, nestled right by the forks and spoons. 

It'd be easy to turn off the sink, sit down the glass and long enough to grab a knife. You could hide it under your skirt, slip the blade along your thigh and keep it held there by the material of your bloomers. The knife would have some weight to it, but you think that it wouldn't be enough to keep it from staying in place. 

Water pours over you hand in vigorous rivulets, welling out from over the lip of the glass in a heavy current that patters down onto the sink below. You curse under your breath, startling from the chill of it, and jerk from your fantasy. You reach clumsily for the knob, hissing through your teeth as your injured thumb clamps around the steel with too much force, licking lightning up the wound. 

It twists shut with a strained, metallic squeak. Even once its off it drips. A steady tap of water falling near the edge of the drain after a temporary pause. Just that has managed to set your heart fluttering, a simple overflow of water has it thrumming wildly in your chest. Like it's fit to burst out and leave your body behind. 

You draw in a shaky inhale, tainted with the bitter sting of the spilt alcohol that's long since seeped into the floorboards, perfuming the air in an acrid cloud. It has you feeling nauseous. Unwell from the thick of it burying in your nose - a reminder of your previous accident. Your thumb throbs at the reminder, smarting and warm. But you don't want to leave the kitchen either. You'd rather choke on the scent of the gin than have to face the man skulking about your living room.

God, you've just realized that you still don't even know his name. 

It's such a trivial thing, an absurdity, but a laugh almost bubbles up from your lungs. A loose, hysterical noise that lodges in your chest and stays there in an almost painful sigh. 

You don't want to leave, but you have to. You know you do. You can only hold off, resist the inevitable for so long before he becomes curious and comes looking for you, lurking around the corners of your house like a creature scenting prey. 

You hold the glass tighter, ignoring the damp feel of the water on your skin, blocking out the unease prickling over your skin as you turn from the sink. 

Your spirit leaves your body and soars far away from earth. It happens in a blink. You flinch, drawing up tight with a sharp gasp. You think your heart might have burst too, thumping in a craze as electricity scatters through your limbs. It's a scattered blur, your body recognizes that you aren't alone before you do, notices the silhouette standing directly in front of you before you can properly process it. 

You nearly bump into a chest, run right into it. You can't help the yelp you let out, can't even be embarrassed about it because you're so swept up and startled, your body draws up in a primal reflex, tensing like you might have to make a run for it. Muscles and tendons all clenching like they were going to eject your spirit up and out of them, send you flying high over the earth and into the heavens. You're sure your soul would have done just that if not for the pair of hands settling over your arms, gently clasping to keep you in place. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." His voice is apologetic, but the glimpse of teeth, the mirthful spark in his eyes, reveals just the opposite. 

You feel all shaken up, heart racing too fast in your chest, thumping up against your sternum in a frenzied patter. You can't speak, can't berate him like you truly want to or reassure him like your manners chide you to do. It's all a jumbled-up mess, and the sight of him standing so close, the weight of his fingers on your bare arms, callused from plucking strings and tepid despite the stifling heat, anchors you in a way that you don't quite enjoy. It forces you back into the moment, packs you into your skin with a sharp jerk that commands you to meet his eyes. 

Your tongue feels useless, your voice stalled and broken. For a pause too long, you can only stare. "It's quite alright," you just hardly manage, it's more of a whisper.  It feels as though you're lying through your teeth. You are, in a way. He shouldn't be here. You know that much. It won't stop howling at you, screaming under your flesh in a wild chant that tells you to send him off, to get him gone before the worst can happen. What the 'worst' might be, you aren't sure, but your paranoia and gut assure you that it's just looming over the horizon. 

"Appreciate ya," he thanks as he plucks the glass from your weak grip. You're grateful for that. You would have likely dropped it too, sent it shattering along the floor just like the gin if you held it for any longer. 

You can only nod. He doesn't step back. Doesn't give you room to breathe. He keeps you pinned between his body and the sink, only a sliver of space given between you both, just little more than a foot. It's as though all of the oxygen has been siphoned out of the room, turned viscous and too thick, pooling in your lungs like stove-hot molasses, burned and scorching. 

His eyes seem too dark, a pair of yawning pits held open to see, to taste. It's stripping, tearing you down in some terrible manner. It's as though you've been stripped of all your clothes. As exposed and naïve as the day you were born. You can feel yourself waver, shrinking under his attention as he raises the glass to his lips. But it is worse, so much worse when he rotates his shoulders just enough to comfortably look behind him, and you know instantly that he's taking notice of the broken glass scattered and winking on the floor. 

You're flooded with ice. Frigid, seizing. Even while it's fragmented into shards, it's still clear to see what kind of bottle it had been. The cap is still intact to the neck, severed and jagged from what had been the rest of it. It'd take a complete and utter fool not to realize just what it was, what it had contained. He doesn't seem like the law-abiding type, the sort to go running for the cops as soon as he spots something illicit, but the apprehension springs up on you regardless. 

You struggle for an excuse, anything that sounds remotely convincing, but you know you can't deny it. Not while all the air in here smells of liquor, doused so strongly with it that you could choke on it. 

He must catch your expression - not that you're doing a particularly good job at keeping yourself schooled - because he seems downright amused. All pleased to see you so stressed. 

"Oh, I ain't one to judge someone for lettin' a little loose. I've been at the bottom of a bottle more times than I can count," he consoles while grinning too much. "Nothing wrong with enjoyin' life's simple pleasures. Shame you went and dropped it." It's another comment that you're unable to tell if it's a mean dig or not, but it makes you bristle regardless, and unsaid retort sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. 

You don't like how he seems to effortlessly see right through you, how he toes a line between impish charm and disconcerting arrogance and unpretentious amiability. It makes you unsteady. Lost while standing inside your own home. You've been backed into a corner, herded there willingly, shoved there by a subdued snapping of teeth and eyes that don't seem quite right. 

It's too much, being held under his stare, standing as close to him as you are. You can smell the night on him; subtle and pleasantly honeyed from the pollen of blossoms, earthy with dew and humidity; there's the light tang of salt too, sweat and something you can't quite place, but it's severe like the traces of coins that have been left behind in a tight fist. Like copper or iron. Dust and ancient soil. 

It makes your skin crawl. 

You need a distraction, something to keep your mind from losing sight of itself and giving under the weight of your own discomfort and panic. You need to distract him too, it feels, wave something in his face like distracting a dog from lashing at your jugular in exchange for a fresh bone. 

But in a pattern that is swiftly becoming uncomfortably common, he knocks you off kiter before you get the chance to help yourself. 

"I don't think that old rag is doin' you much of a favor." 

Your brows pinch, your confusion evident as you try to make sense of what he's said. But just as fast you're able to connect the dots, much quicker with the dull, pained throb in your hand that seems to highlight his words in a burning scarlet. 

You can't keep yourself from looking down at your hand, tracing the tight bundle of fabric that coils around your palm and thumb like a worn, fabric serpent with your eyes. It's stained dark. The red dulled into a shade that nearly seems black in the murky, yellowed light. It's already coming loose. The edge that you had used to tuck into the rest of the clothe is beginning to slip, but using the one hand you had to fix it place had made it difficult. A few more minutes and a couple more twitches from your fingers and the poor bandaging you had done would unravel. 

"It's fine," you say instead. But when your hand protectively nudges close to your hip, that's involuntary. 

"Let me tighten it, at least," he offers. "The least I can do, as payment for the water." 

There's a gentleness somewhere in his tone that you don't trust. It doesn't sit right, it lurks and saturates his words, all sickeningly sweet. As tempting as the honeysuckle that used to grow outside your family home, the ones you'd pluck from the vine as a child, taking them as treats while you headed down to play in the creek that flowed in the nearby thicket. 

You've been tricked by pretty things before. Sweet sounding and tempting. Look where it's gotten you. 

"Really, it's alright." 

Surprisingly, he doesn't pry. Still, he doesn't quit staring. His stare seems fastened onto your hand, unwavering and fascinated, bordering on fervency. The glitter of the kitchen light reflects a fire in his eyes, shimmering in the dark pits of them. It's just another thing tonight that has you out of your depths, tugged down and far away from reason. This entire encounter has spread across so many different levels: he seems normal in certain lights. A laid-back traveler, just looking for a place to rest his feet. Relaxed until he's almost blithe. And that's what's so confusing. How heedless he is despite all the charm. 

Your skin crawls, nervousness shuddering in your bones. It's as though your wrist is tugged by a string when you nudge your wounded hand around your hip, hiding it behind your back. All out of the outlandish fear that he might reach for you. He seems akin to a dog tracking a strip of bloodied meat, following your hand until it disappears from his vision. And like a dog salivating, you need to distract it lest it lunge. 

"Have you ever seen the ocean?" you blurt. 

His brows perk at the question, the corner of his mouth curls, but the intensity that had been alight in his eyes seems to shift - redirect. It lets you draw in a breath that you didn't know you needed, just seconds away from becoming lightheaded. 

"There isn't an ocean in this country I ain't seen," he claims. He steps away from you then, backing towards the little dining table across the floor. His focus doesn't waver when his boots crush over the shatter glass, shattering the fragments into shimmering dust with his weight, the brittle pops and crunching peppers softly over the air. To you they sound violent, but he doesn't so much as acknowledge them as he slips the shoulder strap for his banjo over his head, lifting the instrument to lean it against the edge of the table.  He invites himself to sit, just opposite of the chair you had once occupied, like he belongs there.

"The Pacific, the great Atlantic. From sea to shining sea," he finishes in a familiar singsong rhythm, amused with himself and smiling. "I spent weeks harbored up on a ship once. Sometimes, late at night when I'm alone, I can hear the wood shudderin' around me. Groaning and moaning from the waves." 

It's almost conspiratorial, how he talks, though there's an unspoken invitation in his posture, relaxed, welcoming, thighs wide and spine slumped against the backrest of the chair as though he's sat there a thousand times before. It's as though you're the stranger now. Uncertain and delicate in a kitchen that suddenly doesn't belong to you. You're a phantom in a new space, lurking and banished to the outskirts while he observes you with a stare that's too disarming. Too calm, too wild simultaneously. 

"What's it like? Being able to travel like that?" You feel compelled to move closer, but your movements are still tentative as you approach the unoccupied chair. You don't remove your attention from him as you sit, watching him as though he might jerk forward at any moment. 

"There's hardly anything that compares to it. Free to wander wherever the wind takes you, just followin' after your own spirit." He finally sits his cup down on the table, now empty, and it hits the wood with a hollow thump. "And then I remember, that there truly ain't nothing else better than comin' home. That after being gone for so long, just lost and ramblin' through days and years, chasing after little more than a feelin,' the relief of coming back to the ones that love you the most is - well, it's religious. Better than breathin'." 

He speaks with something euphoric and distant. The tenderness and fervor of someone recalling a thing that's become lost but no less cherished. The passion he contains frightens a part of you, that flighty, uncertain part that jumps at shadows. But it's difficult to accuse yourself of being paranoid while he looks at you with the sort of restrained ferocity of a feral creature.  If you were truly a person that you could admire, you would have chased him out with a broom or a blade by now. And maybe you should do just that. The caution to do so has been weighing down heavy on you all night, and still, you can't manage to get yourself to act on that instinct. You can't keep yourself from being the least bit captivated when his eyes glitter with a passion and excitement that you haven't witnessed in ages. 

And you truly are entranced with how he's watching you. Staring as though you're some sort of cipher that must be understood. An artist staring down a slab of marble, mapping out the figure that resides somewhere beneath the stone. You aren't sure if you entirely enjoy it or not. 

"Have you ever felt that way before? Longed for something that's been taken from you? That you used to, but now it's entirely beyond you, jus' out of reach?" he asks. 

The questions suspend between you both. It's punctuated by the quiet. If you listen closely enough, you can catch the chitter of the crickets outside, but they're voices are muffled. Miles away. 

The inquiry is so outlandish that you can't help your laugh, as stilted and unsure as it is. He's still smiling, but he doesn't seem amused, entertained, certainly, just not as smug as he was before. There's a solemnness to it that could almost frighten you, as though the answer to the question is paramount, of the upmost importance.  You're pinned down in your seat. Terrified that you might answer incorrectly, as though this is some sort of test. All the while your mind chants to lie to him. Lie, lie, lie. 

"Of course not." You wrangle it out, muttered through a dry mouth, and now you're the one longing for a glass of water, though you can't seem to gather yourself up to fetch one.  What proceeds is an excruciating stretch of silence. A pause that spans over the kitchen like a chilled blanket, making you shiver despite the heat of the summer.  Once again you get the thought that he knows you aren't telling the truth. He knows, somehow, that you aren't allowing yourself to be honest, that there's a mountain you've erected between the both of you. 

You can't deny that it sounds tempting. You've dreamed of traveling, of packing up all of your clothes into a suitcase and vanishing into the night countless times, letting your mind drift up to the heavens to look down on every place you've ever dreamed of. Sinking your spirit down to cities that you'd never be able to see or touch or experience outside of books and paintings. You can only attempt to imagine what he may have discovered in his lifetime. The people who he's spoken with, the stories they've exchanged, the music they've shared. A hundred lifetimes in a single one.  Your vision drifts down to his left hand, idle on top of the worn tabletop, gold band encircled around his ring finger. It's lost its polish, gone a little dull from what must be years of being worn. He hasn't mentioned a wife once during this interaction, and you can only wonder if his she might be among the pair of friends that he has waiting for him up the road.  It seems typical that a man would neglect to mention that he has a wife at all while asking to enter a woman's home. You can't even manage the desire to scoff. 

"Don't you have family?" You pry, clasping your fingers together in your lap, smoothing your thumb over your nails and running it over the old cloth around your palm. You ignore the subtle sting when the fabric shifts the cut, but you don't think you kept the wince from your face. 

"Yeah, I've got family. If all goes well, I'll be seeing them tonight. It's long overdue" His voice is jovial, a sincere mirth shaping around his teeth in a visible expression of fondness. An excitement bleeding in alongside something that seems vaguely melancholic. Hopeful. Strangers with no clear description dance about in your mind, but if they're family of his, then they must be just as rugged and peculiar. You imagine dust smudged cheeks and fingertips worn from calluses, leathered from plucking and strumming musical strings. "It's been a long while since we've seen each other. Hardly feels real at all."  His expression goes a little soft and earnest, but you aren't able to share in his delight. Your too busy tussling with an envy that you don't recognize. It scatters across your sinew and nerves in a flash, as hot and bright and otherworldly as a lightning strike. You don't appreciate the guilt that comes with it, the confusion or the lick of self-hate. It doesn't belong with you. That jealousy doesn't have a place - it shouldn't. It seems impossible though, not to get all caught up in the brunt of your emotions. It would be easy to believe that this stranger isn't real at all. That you've manifested a vessel for the life you never got to live, the sort of ties and friendships you weren't fortunate enough to make. 

Colin lost his loyalty to you a long time ago. Or maybe he never had it at all. There was something about him that had seemed too good to be true, even way back when. Dahlia, his own cousin had seen it. Saw him for what he was. Warned you against him. Perhaps that's why Colin had shunned her out, nudged her back from the parameters of your marriage until she finally gave up and made a new life for herself up in Pittsburg.

A 'playboy' is what she had called him. All brawn and looks but nothing of substance, like a bit of candy. All sugar. But too much sugar does havoc on the body. It's unfortunate that you had to find that out for yourself. You still had time to set out for yourself back then and have all things your ever wanted. That's all too late now. 

It makes it horrible to have all of your wants echoed back at you. Reflected in a man you might never see again. It's as though the universe has dangled a trinket in front of your face, taunted a key before you to test if you'd reach for it. You clench your fingers tighter, threading them stiff in a lock as though it might keep you contained in your seat. The floor creak and groan beneath your feet. 

"That sounds lovely. Will your wife be there?" you probe. More of a slip of the tongue. You feel as though you've made an admittance that you shouldn't have. Your lips purse, sealing closed. 

His eyes glimmer in that odd way again. Catching light in an animal fashion. That ain't normal. That's not normal, is it? It makes you hate yourself as soon as you realize what you've asked him. You're certain that your mother is scolding you from her grave, cursing you for your poor manners. Humiliation stings at your cheeks, hot and damning, but the damage is already done.  "No, she ain't gonna be there." Is all he says, and the cold implications behind it is enough to make guilt turn to stone in your stomach. You can guess as to why she would be absent. Death or divorce, as rare as the latter is, but quite frankly, the state of his marriage and family affairs truly aren't any of your business.  "I'm apologize, I really shouldn't have ask-"  He leans over the table then, his chair creaking with the minute shift of his body weight as he crosses his arms over the counter. His teeth show in that good-natured smile that seems to be permanently displayed on his face, a flash of pale enamel - too sharp. "Are you lonely?" 

A chill seems to settle in with his words. Unwelcome and latching, gripping for whatever bit of skin isn't shielded by clothing. It stalls you in your seat, keeps you still and silent for a beat too long. You aren't certain how to properly answer. If you should at all. Quite frankly, it isn't any of his business at all. He's only been tentatively welcomed into your home, and he still conducts himself as though he is invited fully in your space, entitled to your honesty and situation. 

The anger in you - your exasperation with him - demands that you ignore him all together. To change the subject, maybe put him on the spot for a change - if that is at all possible. You know deep down though, that getting the upper hand on a man like him is a slim one. Men like him don't allow themselves to be bested. They throw their weight around, makes themselves the biggest thing in the whole room, sucking up all the oxygen until everything and everyone else dims out, starved flames. 

"Sometimes," you admit instead, gasping it out around a choked sound. Forbidden, lodged from somewhere in your throat.  He doesn't speak, but there is an unsaid question on his face, a gentle nudge for you to expand on it. He's leaving you to continue. To decide if this is something that you truly want to say. Somehow the choice of it all seems to make it so much worse. "Colin - my husband - works a lot. Long hours. He's rarely home. And when he is, he's . . . " He's mean, you want to say. As angry as a beaten dog. Lashing out at everything that moves, that looks at him the wrong way. And that thing is so often you. You can't make him happy, not anymore. There was a time that he used to admire you as though you were the prettiest creature he ever witnessed. That's all ash now. "He's usually sleeping. Or he spends his time somewhere else. Out with friends from work mostly." 

You don't know what to think of the stranger's expression. It sympathetic, understanding. There's a calmness in his eyes, though the friendly merriment from before hasn't dimmed, it's simply changed, become honed and tense as he falls silent.  He's steady as he observes you from the other side of the table. Unnervingly still, motionless. You can hear yourself breathing and the sheer realization of it makes you want to flee out of your own skin. You don't think you've ever felt so watched. Studied. Inspected. 

"I don't really mind when he leaves though. " You blurt it out in the beginnings of a nervous ramble. The need to fill the sudden quiet ripples up your spine. Makes you spit out your words in an anxious stream. "It's more . . . quiet. Peaceful. He works a lot. I'm sure you know how working men can be. All particular and all after a day of being on his feet. Can hardly blame him really." You pluck at your fingernails, curling your fingers together while your lips instinctively press up in an expression that you hope is convincingly relaxed.  You aren't sure why you're baring it all to this man. This knock at the door, a figure in the dark, a stranger at your table. Perhaps that's what it is. The comfort in knowing that he'll be gone long before the sun rises. That in a few short moments you'll finally urge him up from his seat and walk him to the front door, guiding him out into the night with a polite smile and a farewell. In due time, he won't be anything but a curious memory. A bizarre recollection that you might recall years down the road, distorted and strange. An odd man in the night, drifting along as bird perched on your windowsill might, spying into your house before fluttering away into the sky. 

There's a safety in that thought. You aren't ignorant to the insinuation hidden in your words. The implications they hold. If you were wiser, you'd might keep your mouth shut, but you can't stop yourself now. All pent up, restrained, left alone apart from the monthly trips you take to the grocery store, reduced to short, good-mannered interactions with the clerks. Brief, temporary, alone.  "What if I could help you?" 

You stare at him. You aren't sure for how long. A few seconds, maybe a minute at most, but the silence is disturbing. It gnaws at the reluctant comfortability that has settled between the both of you, fragile and cold and foreign like a sheet of snow. You aren't sure if you should laugh or scoff or ignore the comment all together. It's absurd that a man who had wandered up to your door, asking for help is now claiming that he would be able to do the same for you. His pants are worn from what's likely years of use, his knuckles are rough and there's uncountable number of miles on his shoes. He probably doesn't have much more than a couple dollars in his both of his pockets, and here he is, offering you salvation. 

He's earnest in his delivery. Unsmiling. Sincere. It's frightening because you don't know what to make of it. This doesn't seem to be some kind of play, and if it is then he's mastered himself fully. There isn't a hint of a smile or deceit. He's firm and committed, resolute in his proposition. It would have been more tolerable if this were a joke. There would be a punchline, a reason to laugh. That safety net isn't here. 

"How could you help me?" You can't cover the judgement in your tone, an inflection that would have gotten you nothing but pain had it been your husband sitting on the other end of that table and not the stranger; another row of bruises on your skin, mottled plum and scarlet and yellow with hurt.

The corner of his mouth quirks. Like he thinks he's caught you, shown you the light to something so much bigger than yourself. 

"How far will you let yourself go?"  

There's a challenge expanding out in front of you. A hurdle raising high that you've never jumped. It's intimidating, it's foreign. Once again, he's extending something out for you to take. For you to reach for. But this is much more pivotal somehow. It has you stuck, ensnared once again. Held captive within your own reservations and trepidation. Suddenly, this seems like some sort of pitch. A snake oil salesman waving a vial full of water and nonsense in front of you with the assurance that it's a cure-all. One sip of it and you'll be a brand-new person with a brand-new life.

Maybe it's the remaining remnants of a buzz that just haven't quite left your system, feeble but clinging, or maybe it's just the intrigue of having someone else to talk to. The relief of having another soul in your kitchen that doesn't belong to your husband, that isn't sneering or pacing about the house as tense and testy and as a pissed off as a junkyard dog. 

But this stranger is interesting in the same way that you can't help but entertain one of those traveling salesmen, but instead of a suitcase in one hand, he's got a banjo instead.

You've only had one drummer in all the years you've lived in this house wander up to your doorstep in the hopes of making a customer and fool out of you, knocking on your door and prattling on about combs and nifty pairs of scissors that would 'cut through fabrics like a dream'. How he had managed to take a look at your ramshackle home with its rickety porch and chipping paint and figured that he'd be able to make a client out of you is beyond your reasoning or imagination. 

You had wondered who he was. What paths in life had led him out in the middle of the sticks during the heat of the day, trying to sell useless wares; pins and lighters and needles. You could picture his life, a young kid that flunked his education or perhaps never had any at all and clung to the best means to make money. And now he's out catching trains and going from door to door in the hopes of squeezing a penny out of poor bastards that hardly have any at all.

That young man had been all nerves, sweating through his button up and stumbling over his pitch - no doubt a practiced one - while he struggled to keep your interest. But this stranger carries himself as though he has all the time in universe, as though you're the one who needs to impress him. You aren't sure how to adjust to it, the weight of his focus on you, heavy and evaluating. 

There's no consolation or support offered by the walls of your house. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. A familiar feeling but never extended from the presence of a stranger. He's unsettling in a way that you've yet to grasp. A nervous ball has been lodged in the pit of your stomach since he greeted you out of the front porch, and it hasn't waned yet. It's been thrumming and prickling over your nerves, pooling deep, all wild and surging like the feral crack and blaze of lightning across heavy summer clouds.

You should tell him to go. To pick his banjo from where he's leaned it alongside the table and tell him to get lost.

But you know you won't. You would have done that a long time ago if that were the case.

There's an allure to him that can't quite be explained. A magnetism that's haunting. It isn't right, it doesn't feel normal. It's sinking under your skin, pulling on your bones and at your blood. You could blame it on the loneliness, but that doesn't seem right.

All you think of when you look at him is something's not right. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in your house.

You tell yourself that he's trying to play you somehow. That he's some dumb hustler that's picked the wrong house. You're just as broke as him, if not more so, with only pennies and scraps left to your name.

Maybe that's what keeps you from dismissing this man all together. The twisted kick you might get out of pulling the rug out from beneath him - the promise of the satisfaction you might get when he realizes that he's spent his time trying to work money or means out of a woman who has neither to spare.

You could smile about it if you had the strength to. Maybe you're just bored, maybe the isolation of being trapped in these four, dying walls has finally caught up with you. Closed around you as tight as a pair of jaws because you get the wicked temptation to play whatever game he's set, to string him along and see where he thinks he might be able to take you.

Maybe that's why you find yourself speaking out, hushed as though it's some kind of reluctant confession, or a joke that you shouldn't be sharing.

"How far will you take me?"

You don't like the quiet that follows. The look of consideration on his face, the satisfaction that glimmers in his eyes. A wolf that's got its prey held between its teeth. You're choked, suffocating while you wait for those fangs to close in and puncture. Stuck on your seat while he watches you carefully from his side of the table, seeming miles away and too close all at once.

You seem to be toeing the line of something dangerous. There's a quality reflected in his eyes, one that you haven't had directed at you in a long while, and you nearly think that you might be imagining it.

It's heated, hungry, and you don't know if a man has ever looked at you in such a way. Not even Colin has, not even in the beginning.

It could be mistaken for raw lust, but there's an aspect about it that almost seems . . . God it almost seems violent. Glossed over but ardent, like a starved animal staring down a bit of meat.

You aren't sure if you should run or stay. More concerning that all of that is that you don't think you can run. Not now. Not with how your feet have seemed to stick to the floor again, gone all heavy limbed and immobile as though his gaze has turned you into stone.

"All you gotta do is trust me." That's his reply, cool and smooth toned. It's terrifying. All too soon you know that you're over your head.

He keeps you pinned down with that stare of his, held in your chair while he raises himself up from his; limbs shifting smoothly, water gliding over rock. And just like that you're watching a snake coil up in its hiding spot, body winding tight and tongue tasting the air while it braces for the strike.

The boards creak with his steps, the weight of his boot's thump lightly and hiss lowly with each drag of his footsteps as he moves around the edge of the table. The glass crunches under his boot and you nearly flinch. His eyes don't leave yours in his approach, tying you together while he consumes the distance between your bodies at a careful pace.

You've gone all breathless once he finally stops in front of you, his legs nearly brushing your knees as he looks down his nose at you. It's nerve-racking, waiting in silence for him to make a move, to say something, and it makes it terrible how you can hear your own heart racing, how you can feel it pitter-pattering in your throat.

For an awful stretch of time he simply stares. Quiet and still. It seems like another strange test; waiting for you to twitch so that he can lunge for you.

You don't. You're as motionless as a statue as you wait for him to do something, anything.

What you aren't expecting for him to do is to lower himself to the floor. The unexpected nature of it has you gasp, thin and surprised as he crouches down at your feet, slipping low until his knees make contact with wood, making it shift and groan from his weight. 

It's gone so quiet that you could hear a mouse rustling through the walls if there was one. Instead, you're doomed to listen to your own breathing, to hear the distant glide of the breeze shifting outside, the steady drip from the sink. But all of that fades out, dies into a useless background chaos when he takes one of your hands in his, the one bound in bloodstained cloth.

Now you truly do jerk, trying to pull yourself free from his grasp, just as an animal might try to rip itself from drooling, violent enamel, but the gentle clasp he has on your wrist turns firm. Long fingers curling tight around your flesh and bone, a vice grip. You're locked in place. "What the hell are you-"

"Easy now, I ain't gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

He smiles at you good-naturedly, as though he's placating you. He watches you as though this is normal - as if anything about this night has been normal.

It's unusual somehow, when his head tilts when he speaks. Something about it isn't right. Isn't human. Lacking fluidity and possesing too much of it. It's uncanny in a way that you can't place; a creature donning human skin with eyes that are too compelling, flat marbles glimmering in fire. Dark, bottomless, drawing you in with all the infinity of the night sky. Just two pools of black that glitter faintly; a pair of lights winking over ink.

Fire, your mind chants. Fire of damnation.

When his eyes flicker over your form, tightly wound in your seat, they leave scalding trails in their wake, burning underneath the shield of your dress.   You notice distantly that no warmth projects from his flesh. Even with the sparse space separating you both, a faint sliver, you can detect the chill that seeps through the fabric of his shirt, as though his vitality had been stolen from his body. Instinct itches at your hindbrain for you to do something. To resist (resist what?), to fight, flash teeth, claw and kick if you must. You do nothing of the sort.  You think somewhat dementedly that it's almost as though a corpse has wandered into your home and gripped you. But his stare is too lively, too impassioned to belong to a dead man.  Your tongue is dry, parched, rendering you voiceless as he smooths his fingers over the flimsy compress dressed around your hand. You can't manage to inspire yourself to speak when he plucks the bandage free and begins to unwind it from around you palm, the rejection dies somewhere in your throat. He does it slowly, tenderly cradling your wrist as though it were a wounded bird while he unwinds the old fabric free with a deft hand.  He doesn't look away from you once, holding your attention with the soft coos that have begun to spill from his mouth. A gentle stream of "Easy, we're almost done," and "Atta girl" that drifts over your mind in placid, hazy brushes. The tone of his voice has dipped all low, a smoky timbre that pours over you in a whiskey hue, buttery and tepid, dipping past your flesh to simmer somewhere past your ribcage.  And it soothes and placates your muscles just as alcohol would. The tension that had drawn you up tight and rigid ebbs away, relaxes as easily as hard wax held over an open fire.  It's intimate.  Undeniably so. The last bit of the makeshift bandage slips away, tugged free from your skin and you wince as loose threads in the fabric cling to the blood that's begun to congeal, tugged free only with a delicate pull from the stranger's hand. He hushes you when you hiss through your teeth, gritting through the sting that spreads across your palm in a smarting web. 

The wound is angry already. Inflamed around the edges of the gash, a deep, ugly red that throbs with a pulse of its own. You can't stop yourself from swearing, huffing it low within the strained base of your breath. You expect him to chide you for it; there's nothing more unbecoming than a lady lacking manners. Colin would have been keen to reprimand you for the slip of your tongue. Your body shudders from the memories of old bruises and welts, the lashings you'd taken on your rump. 

You almost flinch from the echoes of it, bracing to receive an admonishment. It never comes. 

You gaze up from the wound slowly, hesitantly glancing over the shape of the man knelt before you with a reluctance that you loathe to notice within yourself, but you can't manage to shake it. 

You don't meet the harsh stare of a person offended. There's no vehemence in his eyes for your transgression, no annoyance for a woman speaking improperly. His eyes are glazed. Glassy and distant, the sort of expression you see on drunks that are one too many bottles deep; rapturous, numbed to the world. 

He's barely paying you any mind, attention fixated onto your hand with a rapt fascination. Observing the wound, admiring the way that the blood catches that light as though it's the most interesting discovery. But there's a zealousness too. A detail to his stare that goes beyond intrigue and borders on a kind of mania. But that's not exactly right either. 

It takes a moment for it to click into place but once you recognize it, ice douses through your bones and sinew, seizing your body tight. Hunger. That's what it is. He's staring at it as though he's starved and longing to lick it up. 

Something damp drizzles across the heel of your palm, thick and cold. The press of it on your skin startles you out of your panicked daze. A gasp rips out of your lungs, thin and sharp when it snags inside of your chest. 

God - oh, God, he's drooling. 

You hardly believe what you're seeing at first but it quickly becomes undeniable. It's there, as clear as day, drool pouring from the corner of his mouth in heavy rivulets. The sort of slobber a sick dog might make, something rabid. Wet and smearing down the shape of his chin where it dangles precariously before dripping down to patter onto the floor below, and drop, drop, dropping on the palm of your hand. It starts to collect in a pool, blending with the blood that stains along the irate edges of the gash. 

There's no hiding your grimace. No swallowing down the appalled gasp of terror and disgust. It's a raw, animal panic that snatches you, tugging you back like a marionette on strings. You would have toppled yourself right over in your seat but the hold he has on your wrist turns ungiving, anchoring you in place. A rabbit pinned down by a serrated maw. 

The legs of the chair scream as they slip along the floor, stopping in place with a grating hiss when he snags you back down before you could flee. Wings clipped and earthed bound before you could even take off. It rattles you back into place, head snapping on your shoulders when he forces you still in your seat. 

He begins to hush you but it's no longer a comfort. It's patronizing, revolting to the ears and you fight against the grip he has on you, but now a manacle on your arm, it doesn't budge. 

"Shh, shh, shh, darlin,' I ain't gonna hurt you none." 

"Let go of me," you snarl, showing teeth that hardly pose a threat. "You best go and get out of here. Before my husband wakes - " 

"Oh, come now, you and I both know he ain't really here." 

He says it so casually and it's terrifying. Deep down you knew he figured you were bluffing, some unexplainable instinct in you urging that he was a lot more aware than he had let on, and like a fool you'd still ignored common sense when it had screamed at you. When it had knocked and wailed at you to turn him away. 

But to hear him confirm it is a humiliation all on its own. An insult to injury. 

He lifts his head then, an animal that's caught onto a scent and his nostrils flex as he draws in a heavy breath and huffs like one, tasting the fragrances on the air. It's a slap to the face and conformation simultaneously, all of those peculiarities that you've been ignoring, that your mind has been seeming to overlook all crash into you as his eyes burn in a demonic reflection. 

This isn't a man at all. This is a creature, a monster masquerading in human hide. You've heard stories before, whispered around the Delta, centuries old information exchanged from mouth the mouth and passed to willing ears, depicting creatures that wail and hunt in the night. It's why some paint the ceilings of their porches blue - a barrier between them and troubling spirits, meant to ward off and protect - folktales and ghost stories, you had called them. 

Well, unfortunately, a ghost story has wandered up to your door, and always the fool, you've let it right in. 

You don't bother battling with reason, there's no place for all of that here. Not now, while this man - this thing looks up at you with eyes that scintillate red, as bright as any fire, as crimson as the blood on your split flesh. 

His smile is one of brogue satisfaction, the pleasure a hunter would feel from having caught an animal in one of their traps. 

"It's just you and me now," he says. It's a punctuation, final. As though he's bent reality to his will, taken your fate in his hands and shaped it to a mold of his approval. And you let him, dumb and tricked, easily led astray by false fronts and pleasing smiles. It's an affront just as much as it is alarming. How you've been tugged adrift so simply, allowed yourself to be played by a simple disguise. 

And now this beast is inside of your house. 

"What are you?" You apply strength to your voice, but it's hollow, fragile around its fringes, ice thawed into mist. 

"You're savior." A response uttered without hesitation. Said as though it's an undeniable truth. 

If it's possible, you think your soul shudders and recoils in your body, shrinking away from his talk - downright blasphemous speech. A conman, a snake oil salesman, that's what he is. Some kind of test sent by God or the Devil himself, you aren't sure. Perhaps he is the Devil, or at the very least some kind of trickster spirit, voice tempting with that strange charm, the kind that sticks to your skin like a sap and drones in your ear in a smooth hum. 

You've heard how they often hide themself behind pretty faces, masquerading behind attractive guises to catch the ignorant unawares, and you've slipped into the razor teeth of his trap with hardly any resistance. 

"You can't save me," you shake your head, trying to slip your arm from his grip one last time but his hold remains persistent. 

"Of course I can. You asked me to show you remember?" His brows perk up, expression open and hopeful - vulnerable despite drooling, jaw damp with it. He's still on his knees before you, an imagine of submission, of seeking consent. You don't like how it makes the wedding band around your finger feel heavy and chilled, an uncomfortable pressure that seems too tight. 

"Just let me show you, like I promised," he offers softly. There's a plea on the fringes of his voice, delicate. His thumb strokes down the column of your wrist, smoothing over the impression of the bone that faintly lurks beneath your flesh, pausing along the thump of your pulse. Your skin prickles, heat sparking where his fingers touch, a sensation that's warm and sweet - sickeningly so. Nauseating in the pit of your stomach, and yet your mouth waters all the same. 

Something akin to anticipation coils inside of your chest, fluttering, alive. It's foreign, strange, and you find it difficult to try and shun it. It's instinctual to try and ignore its simmer, stuffing it beneath the anger and repulsion that turns in your stomach like an illness, but he doesn't allow you to ignore the ache. He holds your hand, locks his stare onto yours and forces you to confront the uncertainty settling across you, as fit as a tailored coat, smooth and fuzzy. Uncomfortably welcoming, molding across your person, inside and out. 

"Let me see where it hurts?" You don't believe you've ever heard a man beg before. Not while at your feet, but he certainly is. You get the terrible impression that you . . . might enjoy it, a perverse kind of satisfaction purring behind your ribs and it makes you shift in your seat as though it will help to shake the feeling off. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. 

It doesn't make him quit staring up at you as though he's seeking absolution in your being. This isn't right. It must be a corruption against nature for some man - some thing to gaze up at you with the starved patience of a saint desiring solace. 

It's wicked. This is the temptation that you've been taught to resist, the resilience that you mother had done her damnedest to try and build within your marrow. Good women don't feel things like this, not for strangers in the night, not for demons that might possibly be posing as men. Especially not a married woman. 

You wait for a surge of guilt to crash over you, but when it does it's dull. Feeble. A pale sting in the back of your mind that's soothed away by the cool caress of hand along yours. He's hardly done a thing, and yet you can feel your determination wearing thin, the barrier protecting your will getting chiseled away at one breath at a time, turning brittle under the pressure of his stare. 

You have to gulp down an unsteady inhale of air, swallowing down your nerves.  "I shouldn't." 

That's not a no, and it should be. It's an excuse to your own ears, weak willed and flimsy. 

"Why not?" His head tilts on his shoulders while he squints up at you, analyzing the frequent rise and fall of your chest. "Holdin' out for your husband who's probably wet between some other woman's thighs?" 

You almost slap him, but old instincts stop you before your free hand could lift away from your side and strike his cheek. Lashing out's never gotten you anywhere before, still the itch to give into it never truly fades. You know that he can see the hatred burning in your eyes. Unlike your husband, his face doesn't contort from rage, he doesn't raise his voice to spew venomous insults, his patience remains intact, satisfied and deceptively sweet. 

" Don't get angry, get even. I can show you how to live without him." You can't get yourself to protest as he shifts closer still, nudging himself forward until your knees are only able to comply in giving him more space, spreading open to allow him room to wedge his body between your legs. It has the fabric of your skirt pulling taught and lifting up, threatening to give and slip over your knees.

It's purely indecent, revealing more skin that he should be able to witness. You can't keep yourself from reaching down to try and pluck your skirt back at a more respectable length but the way that he has your thighs wedged apart obstructs you from properly doing so, leaving the fabric to remain in place, creased and high around the shape of your knees. 

You can smell him like this, the night still clings to him, humidity and earth. You don't like how it sticks to you now, how he speaks of 'getting even,' of insulting Colin even if he won't be directly aware of the transgression. It's petty, perhaps disgusting how you long to give in. How curiosity sings against logic and urges you to relent, to see where this man with fire in his eyes and temptation pouring from his lips might take you. 

You've been in denial for a long time, you think, walking around with your eyes closed shut, pretending to see that parts of yourself that are ugly and ache and hate. You've always been the woman you were raised to be, holding your longing close, shutting it tight behind your chest, pretending that it isn't there. 

It's gotten you nothing but hurt and man who only touches you when he's raising his hand against you. And now he's probably a few miles away from home, swaying drunkenly on barstool while he drinks himself one bottle closer to an early grave. And this is what's set to be your life, isn't it? 

One day blurring between the other, smearing between weeks left isolated behind old wallpaper and smarting bruises. You know deep down that if you let this strange man win, let him get what he wants, then maybe you won't be surviving the night. You've heard that beings like this usually settle in taking your life in some way, regardless if it's by collecting your soul or sinking their teeth in until all that's left is bloodied remains, is inconsequential. 

You've always known that you were going to die in this house, at least now it'll be done by your terms. You've always been too afraid to take risks, too much of a coward to allow yourself to act, keeping your fantasies of escaping your life firmly trapped within your head. Abandoned and left for you to ruminate on, spinning around inside of your mind like a stunned bird flapping uselessly across the ground, trying desperately to find lift on damaged feathers. 

It's laughable that for the only time in your life, you've been allowed to know what it feels like to have control, though you know in your bones it's only the illusion of it. The stranger crouched between your legs could (will) surely kill you in a blink, snap the wrist he has clutched within his palm with the flick of his hand. It shouldn't thrill you, but it does. 

"Fine then," you relent, strengthening your tone with a confidence that you don't entirely feel. "Show me." 

His guise fully slips then, the both of you seeming to come to an unspoken unanimous agreement to quit with facades. You feel disgusting, allowing yourself to relent, baring the grimy parts of your soul to this demon in human flesh; in turn he grins, victorious. Shows teeth that aren't human, jagged and serrated, designed to cut flesh and tear. 

He drools and his eyes reflect, the gleam of blood-soaked coins. You've known now that he isn't human, but to see your suspicions so clearly confirmed, revealed to you so casually is as terrifying as it is reaffirming. 

"I'll make it all better, don't worry." You feel puffs of air brush over you from his words, drawing over your hand, ghosting along the cut on your palm. The wound throbs and stings from the chill of his voice, aching while he speaks into your blood as though he's making a vow, trying to imprint it into your being. 

Blood and his spit smears on your hand. It seems profane to see the blur of it so close to the ring on your finger. The sight alone has to be a sin, a perversion, but worse than all of that, you find that you don't truly care. The thought doesn't wrack you with guilt, it doesn't char in your gut, it rolls past you, as slick as any oil. Reason and morality begin to abandon you, leaving you behind to be a helpless observer as he lowers his face to your open palm. 

Fear shifts dim in your veins, unimportant, overpowered by the fascination while his lip's part and his tongue slips out to trace over your blood. You can hear the voice of rationality crying distantly, your psyches last resort to try and snap you from the daze of intrigue that clouds over you. But not even the burn of his tongue dragging over the split in your skin is enough to save you now, not even while your hiss through your teeth and twitch from the pain. 

The ruined nerves within the raw slice shriek, boiling hot from the press of his mouth. Your muscles bunch in preparation to tear your arm out from the source of the pain. Just as quickly, the urge nullifies, washes away from the look in his eyes. He watches you, seeming to gauge your reaction while he continues to lap at your blood. But that glazed quality is back in his stare, intoxicated, enraptured, lashes fluttering like he's consuming an ambrosia. 

You don't expect the groan that rumbles from his chest, though you probably should, a guttural, heavy noise that skips through his throat in a snarl - an inhuman noise that causes the small hairs on the nape of your neck to stand on end, goose flesh prickling on your arms and legs. 

"Don't pull away. Lemme see you." A gentle warning if you've ever heard one. Slurred from how he doesn't bother to remove his mouth to speak, smothering his face to your palm. He's hardly lapping at this point, unwilling to sacrifice the sliver of space that would require, instead opting to latch his lips around the laceration to draw in the scraps of blood draining from it, gulping and sucking like he means to drink down your very heartbeat. 

He curls himself closer, torso pressing into your knees so close that his head is practically in your lap, severing the minute scale of space between your bodies while he latches on to you with more conviction, holding onto your wrist with all the fervor of a disciple cradling a sacred object. 

Your jaw parts open, a revelation of your disbelief, a gasp stuttering inside of you while you watch. It's paralyzing, the constant pain and soothe of his mouth, the wet drag of his tongue curling and stroking. You can see his throat flexing; the thin gold chain draped around his neck catching light while he drinks down what must only be thin remnants of your blood. The flow had been previously staved off by the bandage, already congealing and turning thick to heal. 

He's groaning over what could only be compared to crumbs, a dog eating off of the floor, happy to gnaw the old dry bones given. A part of you uselessly attempts to convince yourself that this isn't real, an odd dream, or strange fantasy. That truly, you've swallowed down all of Colin's gin and drunk yourself into a stupor, passed out at the kitchen table and you'll wake soon, safe and sound. Untouched. 

You know that isn't the truth though. This strange man is here, kneeling at your feet, teeth too sharp to be normal scraping over the heel of your palm, breathing heavily through his nose, panting as though he'd die without the taste of you on his tongue. 

It's hypnotic. You've never seen anything like this in all of your days. Your imagination had never been inspired to create an image such as this and seeing it before you with your physical eyes has you breathless. Sparks scatter down your spine, pouring down to settle inside the shape of your hips, molten, honeyed, a shock of heat and stars that simmer between your legs. 

It should be insulting, shameful, the familiar heat coiling deep inside your belly, but the remorse doesn't have time to settle or secure itself, because he parts his mouth from you. A brief lull, a break from the sting and a strange glide of his tongue before he's rotating your hand around with his own. He descends just as quickly as he had separated, slipping your thumb inside his mouth to lave his tongue over the sliver of a cut slicing up the length of it, sucking on you the digit.  

His violent teeth trace over it, and he eyes you when the enamel grazes. You swear an unspoken, I could bite if I wanted to hangs in the humid air. It's twisted tight between you, a tense, quivering thing that hums while he cradles your thumb beneath his tongue. 

It's an indecent show, far beyond what is respectable between a man and a woman - strangers, no less. Then again, there hasn't been a single thing about this night that's been respectable. Your mother would swat you if she could see you now, pull you up by your nape and strike some decency into you. Prompt you to recite prayers until you lost your voice, until the words stung your throat. 

But shame is a faraway concept now. Diluted and vanquished from the fever spreading through your being, the calefaction building inside of you is poisonous, as steady and potent as any disease. 

Your thighs switch, muscles involuntarily squeezing to seek out a friction that isn't there, impeded by the wedge of his shoulders between them. Your cheeks tingle, humiliation waxing across your face when your mind, sluggish and hindered from the syrup that clings to your thoughts like molasses, processes what you've done. When you fully notice how your hips have begun to move on their own, subtly shifting on the seat of your chair, longing to raise and find something to ease the ache that's pooled between your legs. 

You're as rigid as a doll when you freeze, bunching your muscles up to coerce yourself back still on the seat. You can only hope that he hasn't noticed it, but you know that he has. There isn't a chance in hell that he hadn't seen you starting to hump at the air, as flagrant as any dog. 

You almost wish that he'd scold you for it, that he'd call you out for the degenerate that you are. He doesn't. He does look at you though, watching curiously, staring with eyes that see you for what you truly are but don't judge. 

Still, you can't keep yourself from apologizing, a hushed whisper of a thing uttered out on humiliated lips. The need to rectifying the wrong ignores that he's much more debased, polluting you slowly, drinking your blood from an open wound.  "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me." 

It's only then that he removes his mouth from your thumb, slipping his mouth from it with a damp pop! He shakes his head, not a silent admonishment but a confirmation of sorts - the apology isn't necessary. He licks his lips instead, cleaning up the drool that's sapped around his mouth, as though even the faintest pieces of you, small scraps and thin iotas deserved to be savored. 

He laps at the pad of your thumb one last time, like a parting kiss, before he trails his lips over heel of your palm, just outside the damaged flesh. It's as though he can't bear to part, inhaling deeply to draw in the scent that clings to your skin, the fragrance of blood staining the angry slash. 

You aren't expecting him to say your name (I didn't give him my name, you note distantly, thoughts distorted under fog. Haven't said it once), you aren't anticipating the reverence it's spoken with either, the tenderness, candied between his teeth. It shocks you immobile, confuses you into silence. He regards you - sees you entirely, you know that now. He watches like he's picked you apart, slipped past your flesh and rummaged around in all your parts, traveled from the fringes of your soul and all the way down to the pit of it, and equally delighted and sympathized in what he's seen. 

It has you naked while you sit fully clothed. Vulnerable and exposed within your own home. 

"He don't treat you right, does he." It isn't really a question. It's rhetorical, an observation. For perhaps a moment too long it takes a while for it to click, for you to make sense of what and who he's referring to. But once it all does, weak threads tug together, connecting under the inert pace of your mind, you can only stare at him. Voice stolen, snuffed out. 

It's as though he well and truly knows, as though he's carded through your memories, felt the strikes of an open palm and closed fists himself, tasted the echoes of violence and agony held within your veins. Perhaps he has. You've heard of the power that flows in blood, it's uses in practices. In spells and prayers, blood vows, pacts made and forged by blades to flesh. 

You aren't certain of what he is. Some sort of demon sent to prowl about the earth, a starved spirit that preys on the weak, either of those could be true or false, so it shouldn't surprise you that he was able to peek inside of your soul through the passage of your blood. That he's witnessed the reflections of your life, learned your name all from drinking you down with his tongue, but it does. The possibility of it unsettles you, curdles inside of your marrow, makes your stomach roll with nausea. 

It's wrong - this is wrong. This entire night has turned bad, unnatural, mangled and warped. He isn't meant to be here. He shouldn't be in your home; you never should have invited him inside. And yet your jaw remains a steel trap, containing your fears and opinions inside on a shuddering breath, just as it always does. Rendering you voiceless, compliant, the same as when Colin comes home in a mood, set on seeking out an outlet in your flesh. 

You stopped fighting years ago, the fervor for survival dying inside of you, a forgotten thing. 

You shouldn't enjoy that this unnamed man from the dark, this otherworldly traveler has seen the worst parts of you. The secrets that were supposed to remain hidden, the horrors you've kept close. What happens between a man and his wife isn't meant for the attention or council of others, it's a private affair, and yet he's peeked inside of you. Seen more than Collin ever will, forever set to be ignorant to how much you loathe him, how you wish that God would finally answer your prayers and strike him dead. 

There's been countless nights where you've sat across from your husband at this very table, hardly able to sit from the welts burning your ass, raised and white-hot, hellfire on your flesh. All while he perched directly across from you, unaffected by the sting on his right hand while he ate and partook in the dinner you'd spent hours making for him. 

You would dream that he'd choke on it. That the mouthfuls would catch in his throat and he'd collapse onto the floor in a suffocating heap, looking up to you with a plead for mercy glazing over in his eyes. Asking for the empathy that he's never shown you. 

"Men such as him deserved to be beaten within an inch of their lives."

It snaps you from your reverie, your fantasizing like the crack of dead branch splintering over a knee. 

There's a danger that lurks in his tone, sinister and coarse, the inflections enclosing on the sound of a growl. You swear the noise of it reverberates throughout your skeleton, it thrums up the nape of your neck, itching, clawing, phantom fingertips skirting over your scalp. His eyes are still burning, alight with the depths of hell, scorching, consuming. It'd be easy to believe that his body has been hollowed out, a vacant shell captained only by the flames of damnation, seeking to burn and corrupt. 

Maybe you were just easy kindling. 

"But I'm gonna make it alright," he presses the plush of his mouth to your palm again, a cloying glide of lips. "Let me kiss it better." 

You don't get to object or agree. There's not a second to process the salacious nature of his words because he lies to you. He doesn't kiss - he bites. 

It's a blur. A contorted smudge, grease besmirching a fine painting; he pounces forward, lithe and too quick to be tracked. And then teeth sink in, parting meat between the fine, daggerlike points, puncturing tissue and sweet flesh with a brutal mouth. Liquid fire douses across the heel of your hand, the one already damaged by the slice of glass, previously soothed by the sweep of his tongue. 

You cry out, from shock, from terror and agony. A shrill wail that cuts and chisels at your quivering ribcage when it pours from your throat. You writhe and heave in place, a rabbit caught in snare, struggling to hoist yourself out of your seat. You don't know if it's possible to feel betrayed by a man you don't truly know, but the sting of it blossoms regardless, violent and fatal. 

The chair wobbles beneath you, feet dragging across the floor with a shrill scrape that sounds like the call of a wounded animal. Despite all of your flailing, he doesn't budge. He's latched onto you, hand secured around your wrist in a vice, jaw locked onto you as though his teeth have become one with your being, enamel suturing to the bone beneath the damaged sinew. 

You try to strike him with the arm that's still free, but he takes that one too, clipping it down before it could be brought down upon the crown of his head. Gripping it within the steady clasp of his fingers, monstrous talons raking over you as they curl around the joint of your wrist to render you immobile. 

Tears blur and crystalize along your waterline, unshed but no less distressed. It's difficult to see past the watery film they leave in your vision, silvery wisps and hazy shapes making up what's visible, but you can still understand him through the distress. He's clutched onto you, still kneeling but just as selfish and persistent as any parasite, throat bobbing as he gulps down the blood that flows abundantly from where he's bitten. 

His thumbs caress you, elongated now, spidery and sweeping back and forth in motions that are meant to conciliate, but it only rouses more anger, more dread. You feel tricked even though he's been nothing but honest with his nature, drooling and flashing vicious teeth at all night. You were the one who tricked yourself, allowed yourself to believe that he wouldn't turn them against you. 

This is what happens when you allow strays inside of your home, expecting kindness instead of a snarling maw. 

Maybe a part of your soul recognized the death in his eyes long before the rest of you did. Maybe that's what you truly wanted. The solace of it, the release. 

He drinks and drinks and drinks. Filling his mouth and his belly while your head fills with fog and stuffing saturated with wine, inebriated and weighed down. Your skull lolls on its neck, suddenly heavy, too much to bear and your chin dips down towards your chest, giving you no other option but gaze down at him. An unwilling observer of the saliva and blood that slips past the seam of his lips, threading through your twitching fingers, soiling the gold hue of your wedding ring before it all drips and drops onto the floor in a rusted combination of blush and scarlet. 

It would be easy to assume that you've passed on already with how lethargic his bite has turned you, his gluttonous eating diminishing the blood in your veins gulp by gulp. It guides you into a sensation so dreamy, so airy and delicate that it feels as though you've slipped outside of your body and begun to levitate, but you know that you haven't. 

The view you have of him still kneeling before you, mouth fixed around your hand confirms it. Your limbs belong to a doll, motionless, unable to move, the connection between your brain and body having seemed to be stretched wide apart, too far for thoughts to travel. 

Limbs fill with sand, useless, unable to function from the fatigue that drips through your body and pours down your ligaments in a paralyzing pulse and boneless thrum. Something is taking root, sprouting where his fangs puncture you. Its seeps inside of your bloodstream, tingling, bubbling within vessels, sugar glazing across nerves. Working through your system, intrusive, an alien element that was never meant to join inside of your body. But you can feel it, you know that you can. Spreading, altering, searing and soothing simultaneously, rendering you stationary. 

He's a rattlesnake. Curled up in the grass, visible only until it's too late with fangs that kill. His venom's inside of you now, reaching depths beyond your understanding, altering tissue, destroying you from the inside out. 

He removes his mouth from you with a heavy sigh, one of relief. The kind of noise you let out after a long day of great labor once you're finally able to rest your feet and feed the ache in your belly. 

He bestows another kiss to the gash he's left behind. A gnarled wound, deep rows made from the rip of sawtooth fangs, torn over the cut from the glass. This kiss isn't sugared; it doesn't make that longing side of you swoon beneath his lips. You can't forget your rage, not with his mouth now glistening with the red of your blood, flickers of gold shimmering across the damp, reflecting from the light above. 

"I know you're mad at me," he answers, as though it's enough. A proper excuse and not an insult - a mockery. "I can see your anger, and I don't blame ya for it. But this - " he lifts your wounded hand, still cradled inside his lithe talons - "This is how how we're gonna get you better. How we save you from the man who was meant to keep you safe. You aren't gonna need Colin anymore. Not now, not ever again." 

You don't want to hear it, don't want to listen to the lies he spews, but the sound of his voice spirals and twines inside your ears in a that smoky drawl. Too hypnotic for his perversions. Your body yields all the same. You tell yourself that it's only the venom that no he doubt possesses that has you going lax, turning malleable despite the hatred that still lies in your heart, but you don't know if that's the case anymore. 

The truth seems murky now. An uncertain, undefined thing, and you're not certain if it ever existed in the first place or if it was always just a fairytale you told yourself for comfort. 

It doesn't help that he's staring up at you as though he's seeking your forgiveness, eyes wide, brows furrowed in a guilty pinch. The image of culpability, of remorse seeking forgiveness. It has you so transfixed that you don't feel him place your injured hand down inside of your lap, and you don't entirely register the glide of his palms cupping the outside of your thighs, honed points of his claws trailing over the supple skin, daring to slip just the scantest inch beneath the hem of your skirt. 

A suggestion, a request. 

He only deserves your denial. Your refusal. He's repulsive, a monster performing as a man, lurking around the shadows while you were vulnerable. And now here he is, still at your feet, the implication of obscene desires evident on his face. Behaving as though the proof of his deceit isn't torn into the flesh of your hand, blood trickling to stain the fabric of your dress. 

He's selfish, having injected the venom on his teeth into your veins. You're too dazed to physically reject him, inebriated fumes seeming to warp inside of your skull, fuzz brushes within your fingertips and toes, as though you've been encased within a perfumed mist. Though you still have enough clarity to cling to your animosity and pride, as tattered and useless as it might be, moth eaten paper clutched in a quivering grasp. 

You should cling to your righteous fury, your disdain, and yet it begins to slip. It grows brittle, tainted by the persistent warmth that remains between your thighs. A constant manifestation of your want that hasn't waned, not even when he'd sank his teeth into you. 

He must see the war on your face, the conflict. Because understanding shows on his, patient and lacking negativity. 

"I told you I'd kiss it better, didn't I?" 

"You lied." You don't spare him your indignation, glowering with all the visible loathing you can manage. He doesn't waver beneath it, as resolute as mountain pelted by the ferocity of a summer downpour. 

"I did," he agrees easily.

And you hate how something as simple as his admittance is enough to mollify some of the hurt and outrage storming inside of you. You're just as starved as he is, desperate for an escape, an exit that you'll only have in death. If you had something to live for, perhaps you'd find the will to fight. Maybe you'd generate an impossible strength and turn your teeth on him instead. But you don't have the resistance in you anymore. Sometimes you wonder if you ever did. 

"Let me show you I'm good for my word." His head bows, low enough for him to press the point of his nose to your knee, separated only by the thin cut of your skirt. He observes you from there, shadows spilling over his face, crimson smoldering from where peers he up at you. "Let me ease the ache." 

And you are aching, aren't you? Your body is buzzing, a humming livewire, something ancient and primal creeping up from the base of your spine. A ghost, an apparition, alive and singing with primordial promises and impulses that merge with the venom in your veins. It twists together, a confusing merge until you can't tell which symptom is a product of which, an ouroboros of heat that rides off the back of the haze clouding your head. 

You've never felt like this. So consumed. Turned inside out and left wanting. The loose fit of your dress is too tight, clinging to your hips and breasts in all the wrong ways, uncomfortable in a way that it's never been before. Your nipples brush against the material with each inhale of your lungs, annoying and tantalizing all at once. 

You're outside yourself, unable to recognize who you are as a need that you've never experienced rises up, seeking and frenzied. It's worse still because you aren't entirely sure if you can blame it on his influence, the infection that must be spreading and ravaging your body. It's terrifying to think that venom might have only induced or invigorated the desire that was already there, heating it until it could finally give and bubble up to the surface. 

Something in you breaks, snaps beneath all the conflict and pressure, the ceaseless tug between morality and longing. It could also be that you're tired of resisting, of holding yourself back from the lust coiling inside of you like a serpent. It could be how he continues to look at you, a little pathetic, devout. A worshipper at an altar. 

It's instinct and surrender concurrently. 

You allow yourself to settle against the back rest of the chair, hearing it creak softly from the weight, getting comfortable. Not once do you tear your attention from the man in front of you, not even as you reach down with your uninjured hand, using it to pluck at the length of your skirt, gathering it up to pool it on your lap. 

You don't know where this sudden surge of boldness has come from. Where the confidence that allows you to spread your thighs wide has developed, and why it's chosen now of all times to reveal itself. But it's empowering, stimulating. 

His own focus drops down between your legs, watching while you reach down to hook your fingers beneath your undergarments. You're both silent while you slip them down your thighs, gliding them down the hitch of your knees. You don't have to work them down the rest of the way. He does that for you, cutting them free from your legs with the sharpness of his claws. 

You feel them fall to the floor, useless, tattered. But you can't pay that any mind, not while you spread yourself open for him. You've bared yourself completely, and the caress of the satin air gliding across your cunt makes you crudely aware of the arousal that's smeared down the inner cushion of your thighs. 

You're soaked and aching, splayed open like a whore that's been paid, and he looks everything like a creature that's tore itself from the bowels of hell. Long talons raking across your flesh, elongated, boney fingers trembling with fracturing self-restraint, blood - your blood - blemishing his face in a stain of carnage. 

And yet you've never wanted a man as much as you do now. Not your own husband, not even when you were young and he was still tender towards you. Your fantasies then had been rose-tinted, spring blossoms and intimate embraces. Nothing as carnal as this. An animal creeps inside, snarling, vile, rippling beneath the cage of your ribs, contained only by bone and lungs. 

He stares between the apex of your legs as though he's been entranced. A hint if drool begins to drain from the corner of his mouth again, teeth flashing as he parts his lips and inhales in a greedy gulp of air. 

He's breathing you in, you realize, scenting your cunt in a disgusting display of hedonism. 

It doesn't repulse you like it should. You think you're too gone for reason to properly reach you now, floating on a high of intemperance and indulgence. Despite the temptation you know that if you go down this road, give him permission again that he'll mark each and every part of you - if he already hasn't. 

You don't know what might become of you, but you can already feel yourself changing. The exhaustion weighing you down grows heavier, dipping you closer towards a dark warmth that mimics the welcome of sleep, but it's too distorted and peculiar to be something so innocent - unusual, cold. Skeleton fingers. You assume, down in the furthest parts of you, the pieces that just know things, animal instincts, that it might be death coming to collect you. 

You aren't sure if there will be another side to great you. If you'll still be entirely you or not once you cross over it, or if you'll be just the same as him. A perversion of nature, of the soul. The venom must have done its work, set in too deep, because you no longer care what lies ahead of you. You can only think of now, of the drooling fiend wedged between your thighs. 

"Go on then," you prompt, reclining further. Draping yourself along the chair, unabashed, spread open. "You said you were going to set it right." 

He grins, wicked and pleased. He remains in place for only a second, just long enough to offer a gratified "Yes, ma'am" before he's leaning over and burying his face directly between your thighs. There's no teasing or playing, no unnecessary intention to draw it out to frustrate you. He gets right to it, dipping his tongue inside the entrance of your cunt, stroking it inside to gulp you down his throat as though it's holy water and he means to cleanse himself from the inside out. 

He eats you like he's still starved. A bottomless pit, cursed with gluttony. You couldn't have anticipated the fervency behind his hunger - not for this, at least. It has your spine bowing already, hips tilting up to catch the friction of his mouth and he groans, contented like he's the one being fucked. As though the pleasure is eating him alive and not you. 

Your jaw drops with a breathless sigh as your head rolls back to thump against the top edge of the backrest, body conflicted between going completely lax and basking in the steady drag of his tongue or allowing yourself to grind and chase after his mouth; greedy, wanton. 

The point of his nose catches on your clit, the rounded shape of it pressing onto it just as he effortlessly finds that spot inside of you - the same one that Colin always struggles to reach, probing at you with inept, impatient fingers. He doesn't struggle at all though, and the dual points of pleasure make you melt, thighs twitching while you roll yourself onto the rhythm of his tongue. 

It's messy. The combination of his saliva and your arousal is wet on your flesh, besmearing down the swell of your ass. You can hear it when his tongue splits you open, rebounding softly across the close walls of the kitchen in a lewd melody. The damp smack of his lips moves up to draw around your clit; a coarse, sloppy noise induced by the steady pulse of his tongue. Electricity skirts down your nerves and ignites inside the foundation of your spine, ravaging you with heat - lightning striking the earth in a thunderstorm. 

You can count on a single hand the number of times your husband has had you like this, an event arising only in a blue moon when you managed the confidence to request it; treating your pleasure with a detach responsibility. There was never any effort put into the curl of his fingers or the glide of his tongue. He approaches it with about as much enthusiasm as a chore, as though it's an obligation that he was unable to escape. 

Always clumsy, incurious. It never failed to make you guilty, weighing down your shoulders with an adamant shame, wracking you with humiliation and remorse, until you simply stopped asking it of him. It's what a good wife would do, after all. 

This though is shared ecstasy. There's no air of burden or indifference surrounding the man currently kneeling at your feet. He does so with passion you've never been subjected to, enthusiastic in a carnal way. Burying his face deeper as though he intends to suffocate himself with you. 

Though you wonder if a creature such as him bothers with an earthly requirement like breathing. 

You should be repulsed with yourself. This entire encounter, as unnatural as it is, goes against everything you've been taught as a self-respecting woman. Your wedding band is still on your finger, chilled and heavy despite the humidity and the balmy temperature of your skin. Another man is gripping onto your hips with claws, mouth on your cunt while he fucks you with his tongue, jagged teeth lightly grazing over tender flesh making your knees shake. 

It's obscene in every sense of the word. There's a high chance you're going to hell. You can practically feel the flames already, licking up your back, burning within your gut like a furnace. And yet you don't care. 

He's seen your thoughts, relived your memories like they were his own, slipped inside of your limbs and felt the scale and variety of your emotions. It's sickening how he's witnessed you in your most vulnerable stages of life, seen the worst of you from the reflections of your blood. There's nothing left to hide, no barrier to protect yourself under. 

It shouldn't excite you, it's horrid, invasive . . .  intimate. But there's something thrilling about a person observing the worst facets of you, the insecurities and the sins, the parts you've tried your best to repress and remaining unaffected, unbothered.

(Probably because he's so much worse.) 

Perhaps it's the blood loss giving you lightheaded delusions, darkening around your vision in a hazy vignette, or the venom infiltrating your body and soul, but you think that you can feel him too now. Twisting and invading through the map of your brain, singing in your blood to spread with the lethality of a disease, embedding down into the center of your bones where its deep and rich with life and marrow. He's in your soul too, he has to be with how something in you cries out, equally in spiritual terror and hedonistic elation. 

A wind that isn't real caresses over you, full of the scent of dew and fruitful earth, damp soil, the distant salt of far-off tumultuous water - waves, cresting and rushing. It's a land you don't recognize, but you know it now. Know it better than you know yourself, even as you see the impressions of it through another's eyes. 

Sights and sounds cocoon around you, vivid, vociferous, phantom touches of experiences you haven't personally endured pour across your body, a surge of mirages - of memories not belonging to you, expanding, stretching out years beyond your comprehension. A lucid, dramatic mosaic. You can taste his years on your tongue, like an aged wine, ancient, enduring. 

Whispers crowd your skull, fluttering about you, ceaseless, persistent, uttering a tongue unheard of to your ears. A throaty, rhythmic cadence; circling and persistent echoes that layer and overlap upon each other. Ghosts caught in different shades of emotions, some humming gentle tunes, some raising in blood curling shrieks, agony, terror; faint curls of laughter rising and falling in their mirth. You smell smoke, taste ash on your tongue, feel a terror and heartache that guts you down the middle. 

Something shifts above the rest, the silver flash of a fish gliding beneath the ripples and dapples of a stream, elusive and quick. Darting away before it can be caught. Scales slipping through an unsteady palm. You try to concentrate on it, try to pull it forward into something tangible but the pleasure distracts you, swelling and subsiding, a constant cycle of and bliss, repeating over and over again, unraveling you at the seams. 

He doesn't stop, doesn't give you time to breathe and process the sensations of it all. He's eating you alive, in each and every sense of the meaning. Taking you in, slipping little pieces of you inside of him, tunneling himself within you in turn, nesting, bridging you together until it all starts to become a little clearer. 

That one word becomes more distinct, shadows slipping back with the illumination of a midnight sun, silver scales brightening in the dark: stars crystalizing to spell names, uncovering false identities; faces he's claimed, lives he's taken, names he's stolen. Whispering them over and over, but one rises above the others, persistent among the mob, demanding, longing to be know. Chanting in the command to be spoken.  

It's right there, dangling on the edge of your consciousness, just out of bounds, suspended there as though to tease. A glimmer of gold peeking through mud and red earth, smudged in centuries, tantalizing. Each letter reverberates through your bones, lighting sparks along your nerves, the memories held with it cauterize, leaving a mark on your spirit that can't be seen with the naked eye. 

Longing undulates, the impact of a cold stone breaking water, an emotion so raw you nearly mistake it for your own, but it's far too ancient. A wound that spans years long before your making, still bleeding, gouged and picked clean, torn wide. A carcass hollowed out of all that it's made of, yearning to be filled, to have the appeasement of warmth and touch. But it's grown teeth, become violent, feral. A hatred, a starvation that's rabid, frothing at the mouth to infect. To tear when the prey isn't willing, forcing the resistant into compliance. 

Forcing just as violent hands willed it into acceptance. A hypocrisy. 

You nearly sob from the brunt of it, crushed under the agony of it, the devastation, the horror. The logic within you - the part of your being that seems to be dying off with the rest of you - attempts to swim and find the surface of reason, but the light never comes. 

His tongue glides over you, the point of it swirling around the shape of your clit in a succession of enticing circles before alternating into steady flicks that turn your thoughts and will into vapor. Dissolving, salt in murky water. His palms smooth down your hips, talons tracing down your flesh like he's tempted to leave marks; the sting blazes down your flesh from the fine points of them, and a twisted sort of pleasure scatters beneath their razor-sharp tips. 

He counters the subtle pain, dropping his mouth open to pulse the muted chill of his mouth around your clit, dousing you in bliss from head to toe. He gets greedy, apparently not close enough despite being shoved face first against your cunt. He grips your thighs, lifting them to hinge your knees over his shoulders, using the angle to shove you closer with a harsh jerk that almost has you slipping out of the chair entirely. 

Your hands fly up on instinct, raising to steady yourself and they find the crown of his head in your blind reach for an anchor, fingers threading through the sweat-damp tresses of his hair in a steel grip. Your injured palm screams from the pain of it, the pressure searing up the wound, but you can't manage to rip your palms from him, and he groans in the response to the tight clasp you have on his scalp. But it's from pleasure, not pain. 

You can feel yourself dying, fading around the edges, energy draining from you in a steady flow. You think your heart is straining inside your chest, pumping in vain on the meager flow that still supplies your system; the pathetic scraps that he didn't drink from you. 

You should tear him away from you, toss him to the floor and demand that he leaves, but you know that that opportunity has come and gone, snuffed out as a flame on a wick, a hot coal dulled to charcoal. You're already dead, you know that now, and when you wake up again, either minutes or hours from now, you wonder what kind of monster you'll make. 

A ruined, damned imitation of your current self. Unfortunately, you've always been tricked by pretty things, by decorated promises and rosewater words. You've cursed yourself once again, once with a ring and vows, and a second time with blood and teeth. 

Your fingers flex in his hair, split with the opposite desires to pull him away and bring him closer. You're between the rift of it, drawn in a limbo while your body squirms beneath his mouth, seeking out a bliss and reprieve from the onslaught of his tongue, but he's relentless. He doesn't let up, doesn't allow you a second to breathe or think, to gather a thought and center yourself. 

It's ceaseless, almost brutal in its ecstasy, tracing over you with a fervor and practice that you've never been pinned under. He's steadfast and calculated in his determination to bring you over that tantalizing edge. You're almost afraid for it to be over, horrified of losing the bliss that pulses over you, as molten as liquid fire. But more potent than anything is the fear of what comes after this ends, the promise of eternity looming over you with disturbing consequences. 

You think you've always longed for death. Yearned for the finality, the release, the embrace of it. And now that it's come to collect, smelt your desire on the air like a scent, infected your bloodstream with its venom, regret wells up inside of you. But it's come too late, you can't escape now - if you ever could. You've made your bed, and now you have to lie in it. 

"Remmick." 

It leaves your lips, thoughtless, odd, tasting ancient. Strained on a thin whisper, a beg for mercy or a request for more, you can't tell anymore. 

He answers you with another groan, not bothering to remove himself from as makes his next plea, purred out between licks on a throaty sigh. His eyes flicker up to look at you from his place between your thighs, two small flames flickering in the dark, drawing you in. "My name sounds pretty comin' from you, darlin'. Say it again for me." 

He seems determined to stir it from you, not waiting for you gather the breath to speak it yourself, he seeks to draw it out of you himself. His hands slip up, roaming over your body in a rapacious sweep, not stopping until he finds the shape of your breasts beneath the material of your dress. He doesn't waste a second to grope and feel, massaging his fingers over the fat. Your spine arches to meet his palms, seeking out more, pressing into the weight of his hands for more. 

You don't entirely register the shrill sound of fabric tearing, a thin hiss across the thick atmosphere. But then you feel it, the tepid skim of air drifting across your chest, pressing down upon your skin in a soft caress. 

You have to force your head to roll on your neck, the weight of it beginning to become too much, exhaustion creeping up on you makes your neck feel as though it's as weak and loose as a string. Your chin tucks against your chest, nudging close to your clavicle while you watch him - Remmick, your brain laggardly recalls - fondle and pluck at your now bare breasts. 

He's torn your dress, split the material right down the middle with his claws as though it was made of paper. An admonishment is right there, scathing and ready to be said, but it gets choked behind a moan. You can feel him grinning, the impression of his smile on your skin, the flash of his teeth grazing over your cunt. His hands are everywhere now, your breasts, tracing your ribs, smoothing over your hips and thighs, clinging over you as though he's memorizing your body, desperate to touch each and every part of you. 

He's inside of you in a way that no other could be, stained across your soul, minds merged together in an inseparable link. You can feel him too, the inside of him. As though you're sitting within his body. It's distant, fuzzy, but the press of the floor against his knees is on your own, textured and hard; you can feel the smooth plains of your body beneath his palms as though his hands are yours, stroking across yourself all while your fingers remain rooted within his hair. 

It's out of body, unnatural, but the doubled sensations is damning. You can feel his pleasure, the taste of yourself on his tongue, earthy and rich, the salt of your skin, subtly sweet in an aftertaste of powdered sugar. It creates an endless loop, an echo that's rapturous. You know that he's hard inside of his drawers, aching and throbbing, pressed up tight against the seam, getting off on your pleasure like it's his own. 

It makes it impossible to escape, overwhelming in the most delightful, terrible way possible. Your breaths come out quick, shuddering from your lungs in a steady rhythm of heavy panting, pitching and keening in the air. He's got you right on the edge, a burning wick, heat sparking and thrumming, smoldering into something dangerous and debilitating. 

You can't keep yourself from chasing after it, hips rolling, grinding yourself across his face and he seems all too eager to let you use him for it. His lashes are fluttering like he's actively resisting the urge to let them slip close, all so that he can watch you hurtle closer to your pleasure. 

It isn't now that you've noticed that you've been chanting his name, repeating it with the fervency of a newly learned prayer. His expression is smug, eyes shifting in the dark, a reflection of contentment and ego. 

You've never heard of a man getting off on someone else's pleasure, feeding from it so explicitly. Not like this. It's like he lives for it, hanging on the twitch of your thighs, the rise and fall of your breasts, the wet smear of your arousal glistening on his lips. And he has you right there, balancing on the precipice. All you need is a small nudge, a light push into the chasm below. 

All you can feel now is him, all you can hear is the both of you, the thrum of his pleased groans humming across your cunt, the messy, lewd sounds slipping from where you both meet; his tongue splitting you open, languid and hungry. His nose nuzzles over you, brushing along the apex of your thigh when he tilts his head to gently draw one of your lips between his teeth, sucking lazily to savor all of you. 

It's the first teasing thing he's done, parting from where you directly need him the most to skim his mouth over you, tracing it along the tender skin of your inner thighs. He nips and sucks where he goes, but he soothes the stinging just as quickly, dragging his tongue over the smarting to ease it with the chilled temperature of his spit. 

"Remmick." It's something akin to a reprimanding hiss and a needy whine. 

You hate how familiar that sensation is. The feeling of having the rug pulled out from beneath your feet, the promise of bliss being snatched out from your hands before you could bask in the brunt of it. You've been here a million times, worked up to ecstasy, tasted it on your tongue only to have it extinguished, lost on talentless fingers - by a husband that doesn't even know how to use his cock properly. Not for you, at least.  

You could sob or curse from the frustration of it. Your fingers flex with the temptation to shove him back right where you want him, but he hushes you again, head shaking just the slightest, holding your vexed stare with his pleased one while he leans down, placing a kiss just above your clit. His hands travel down as a pair, one on either side of you, drifting down to cradle the swell of your ass, holding you in place while he slips his thumbs along your cunt. 

You can't help the way you twist on the seat, instinct and worry spiking in you from the proximity of his talons held so close to the most intimate part of you. He silences your concern with a coo before you can even voice them, that patronizing sound that unfortunately works on you. Your muscles go lax, turning malleable as he spreads you open further with his thumbs, splaying you open in a pornographic display. 

You feel the old bruises there too. Still fading, reminders of Colin's last punishment, only just beginning to fade. It makes you nervous, disgust and hesitation bubbling in your gut, but Remmick doesn't allow you to ruminate on it. That new, strange connection between you hums, coming alive with a delicate caress, and that sliver of trepidation vanishes as though it had never existed at all.

"I got you," he murmurs gently. 

You can feel Remmick's devotion and lust trickle through you as if it were your own, burning and lecherous, gentle and worshipful, smoldering inside of your bones - in his. It's beautiful. It's horrible. 

"Don't worry. If I tease you, it's on purpose." At first you assume it's just arrogance, a man's confidence, but your dying mind gradually connects the dots. The realization that he's seen your memories - lived through them - catches up to you, and you see the comment for what it is. A subtle dig at your husband. A crass insult aimed at Colin's struggles with bringing you to orgasm. 

"You ain't gotta worry about your pleasure with me baby." 

That's all he says - his reassurance - before he starts right back where he left off, mouth fastening over your cunt, tongue licking over you in a persistent pattern that has stars and galaxies diffusing and streaking across your vision. It's as though he's never stopped. You're right back at the point that he had you off in, already burning, body on fire as though you've been doused in syrupy warmth, honey left to heat on a stove. 

He seems to double his efforts, going at it like he has a point to prove, and you're already splitting at the seams. You're wanton, coming undone, nerves lighting up to set you on fire. Pressure builds in your gut and your muscles drawn up tight, body winding up in anticipation while bliss and sugar washes over your palate. It's a euphoria that going to be crippling, winding back a loop, constantly recycled between the connection that's still tethering and strengthening between you and Remmick. 

You can feel him, and he can feel you, and it's overwhelming. An entire ocean dumped upon your head, a current pulling you under to pour inside of your lungs, suffocating you. Choking you on until you taste it. 

Suddenly it's on you. Too quick for you to anticipate. Cresting, churning, building, lightning beneath your skin. 

"Remmick -" You try to warn him, a plead for him not to stop, for him not to ruin the high blazing over you, but all you manage is a pathetic moan, forced out on a gasp. 

He must understand you, must feel your need, hear your thoughts in his head, because he doesn't change his pace, doesn't alter the lap of his tongue or the brush of his lips. He keeps it steady, persistent in the cadence he's built. He guides you through it, holding onto you with his hands beneath your ass, keeping you secure to his mouth, chasing after the desperate roll of your hips as you cling to and seek out the rapture of it all. 

The brunt of it rips through you, tears you open from the inside out. Guts you with pleasure until it's all that remains inside, molten, simmering, consuming you with ecstasy that blurs across your vision and blinds you; darkness and constellations rupturing in a kaleidoscope. 

The only thing to guide you through it is the press of his head beneath your hands, the grip of your fingers on his hair, clinging on to the damp tresses as though the hold might save you; the sound of his panting rising up alongside yours is just as wrecked, just as wild. All of it rings across that strange bond connected between you, singing and echoing between your minds or souls, or both, you aren't sure, but it feels infinite. Webbing, uniting, fusing, over and over and over until it seems eternal. 

He hasn't stopped, you realize. Hasn't let up, hasn't allowed the pleasure to crest over you and ebb. It as though he's determined to remain this way forever, keeping you beneath his mouth, tormented and loved by it. 

You didn't realize that your eyes had closed until you're willing them open. A simple action that takes more effort than it should, but the blood loss and the venom is doing its work, and the warmth soaking in your limbs, settled in by the blaze of your orgasm has all but sapped you of the fumes of energy you had left. Renders you all but limp and useless, unable to do anything else but watch as Remmick continues to subject you to more, gliding his tongue over you, grinding his nose on your clit. 

He looks just as blissed out as you must, eyes glazed over and drunk, hair mussed from your hands. Far too intoxicated for a man who's only been eating you out. But then you notice it, the frantic but subtle jerk of his hips, grinding into a friction that isn't there, riding out a pleasure that he shouldn't feel. It dawns on you suddenly, the severity of the connection between the two of you. 

He must have felt when you had cum. Felt it as his own, scalding and vicious beneath his skin, and his own body had reached its peak that same moment yours did. And now he's greedy, desperate like a mutt. An animal that's been spoiled, fed a proper meal and now it's ravenous. Insatiable and starved. 

He doesn't stop. He keeps his hands on you, secures you underneath his mouth and doesn't cease or pause in feasting. He must realize you're watching, feel you staring down at him through the bond maybe, because his lashes flutter open, vision lazily flickering up to take you in as you stare at him in shock. 

"Can't blame a man for gettin' off when you taste so good." He answers, voice slurred and smoky, drugged on you. "You're just too sweet." 

Everything fringes on too much, but he keeps going, pushing you to your limits. You're left to endure all of the sensations, sight, sound, the feel of him on you, inside of you. It seems impossible to recall how many times he built you back up that debilitating elation, hellfire and indulgence. Bringing the both of you to orgasm over and over again - twice more, three times, four - you aren't certain. 

They all merge into the other, pouring and intersecting, crisscrossing into an infinite torture, consumed constantly, expanding into something that the earthly flesh isn't meant to experience. 

You only know when it finally stops. A reprieve. A gasp for air after being held underwater. The kisses he peppers across your thighs bring you back to reality, escorting you down into your body, slipping you within the place of your weary bones and sweat-slick skin. Your chest heaves, lungs making an effort to cling onto oxygen, thighs quivering with the exhaustion of someone who's ran miles. 

You can feel it, really feel it now, the influence of death slipping over you, a chill on your skin that prevails in the sticky heat clinging to the air. It isn't far off in its lurking anymore, it's imminent. A hitch in your breath, a delay in your lungs. The terror that awakens within you is a primal thing, frenzied, a determination to live, unfortunately that resolve sits host inside a body that's half dead. One foot already out the door, standing on the other side. 

You could sob, cry out from the hopelessness of it, but you can't manage a sound. Not with how weak you've grown, heart overexerted, growing lethargic inside of your chest with only pitiful drops of blood left to pump. You've been bled out, and the one responsible for the bleeding caresses you like you're breakable. 

"Don't fight it now," he soothes or warns. Still knelt between your legs. He cups them both, removing them from their places balanced on his shoulders, settling them down until the soles of your feet settle back on the floor. Moving you tenderly, like one would something cherished. His eyes glitter still, red hued, stunning and hideous in the dark. "You're gonna feel so much better when you wake up. It's all gonna be so much better, you'll see. For all of us." 

He grins up at you, still kneeling, but there isn't an ounce of control in your grasp. The bond you have already sings, twines across your psyche, joins you to him, but you know that it's yet to take full effect. You aren't dead yet, and once you are there will be no escape for you then. You'll be a part of him fully, as attached as any other limb, a unit in separate bodies; sewn to him by fragments of your spirit, threads from your blood. 

Death is inevitable in two ways now: death of the body and of your soul. A wish you've always made, sent out to the universe and now it's answered the call. Delivered a creature to your doorstep and now he waits at your feet, carefully fixing your skirt back down around your knees, as considerate as any lover should be, but his eyes show the truth. A truth that you had been too stupid to see. 

When you slip off into the threads of death, as welcoming and soft as a blanket, you drift off with a life that doesn't belong to you playing across your vision. Facsimiles of a land and a time you've never witnessed before. Faces, voices, horrors and cruelties; old memories, unwelcome and unfamiliar, take root as though they're yours, clicking into place right alongside images of your own life like they'd always existed there. 

A cuckoo's egg in a blue jay's nest. 

And it's with your heartbeat dying in your ears, inspiring a final flicker of consciousness, a weak death rattle of the mind that you think of regret. The regret of opening the door when that knock had sounded from the other side. 

You see his eyes burning in front of you through the film tainting your vision, the same color of the blood on his lips - your blood - perched at your feet, as loyal as a guardian angel; a scavenger waiting for a weakened animal to finally collapse beneath its own weight so that it can feast on the remains. 

It all begins to vignette, shadows elongating, crowding around you, desperate for flesh. 

Those eyes are the final thing you see. Burning, horrid coins, unwavering in their observation of your trip to the other side. Pretty, otherworldly, grotesque. 

You never should have answered the door. 

[peachygelic]

WOULDN’T WANT YOU TO MELT

easy white chocolate 😍😍

[peachygelic]

Now THAT’S what I’m talking about

“stay still,” kento murmurs as he adjusts his tie, phone already pressed to his ear. you’re in his lap, skirt hiked up, panties pushed aside, his cock buried deep inside you, stretching you full as he answers the call. “yes, go ahead,” he says, professional, calm, like you’re not warming his cock.

you try to obey, hands gripping his shoulders, but it’s torture feeling his thickness pulsing inside. your hips twitch, a tiny grind, chasing friction, and a soft whine slips out. nanami’s free hand clamps onto your thigh, warning, his gaze flicking to you. “i said still,” he whispers, barely audible, but the edge in his voice makes you shiver.

you can’t help it. another grind, slower, needier, and you whimper, louder this time. his jaw tightens, and he sets the phone on speaker, muting it briefly. “you’re testing me,” he growls, yanking his tie off in one swift motion. “open.” you do, and he stuffs the silk into your mouth, muffling you. “quiet, or they’ll hear.”

he unmutes the call, resuming like nothing’s wrong, discussing reports while you squirm. the tie tastes faintly of him, and you’re soaking, the urge to move overwhelming. you rock your hips, just a little, and he grunts softly, hand gripping your ass, guiding you to grind slow, controlled, enough to tease but not satisfy. “good,” he mutters under his breath, half to you, half to the call.

the call drags, and you’re trembling, muffled whines barely contained. when it ends, he tosses the phone aside, ripping the tie from your mouth to kiss you hard. “fucking brat,” he pants, lifting you to thrust up, deep and rough. “now you’ll get what you want.”

[peachygelic]

“You shivered in fear” the fuck I did

[peachygelic]

Only god knows (I’m atheist)

will i finish this english essay or will it finish me?

that is the question.

[peachygelic]

reblog if you wear glasses. too many mutuals don't know they have glasses wearers in their midsts

[peachygelic]

Someone said sub Hawks?

♯┆𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 .ᐟ — 𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐊𝐒

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: hawks is desperate. rutting. drowning in instincts he can’t control. when someone finally tells him about the underground pleasure worker known only as the siren, he knows he shouldn’t… but he books her anyway. and by the time the night is over, he’s ruined — body, mind, and soul.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: rut!hawks, mating press, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, sub!hawks, begging, reader using pleasure quirk, cumplay (lots of cum), prostate fingering, reader is a private escort, power play, light degradation, praise kink, filthy language, soft aftercare, explicit smut, 18+ ONLY! Don’t like it? Don’t read it.

𝐖𝐂: 5.3k

No one knew your real name.

No one dared to ask.

In this world — in the underbelly of heroes and villains and everything in between — you were only known as her.

The one people whispered about in dark corners of bars.

The one you booked if you had money to burn and no shame to spare.

The one who could ruin you with a touch.

The Siren.

You weren’t a fighter.

You weren’t a hero, or a villain.

You were something far more dangerous. Far more addictive.

Your quirk? Pleasure.

A useless trick on the battlefield, sure — but in the right setting?

It made you unstoppable.

You could make someone shatter with a single brush of your fingers.

Could make them ache, whimper, beg with just a look — a single glance when you let your power bloom and your eyes glowed that soft, damning pink.

And people would pay.

God, would they pay.

Heroes, villains, celebrities, CEOs — the desperate, the lonely, the powerful.

It didn’t matter who.

If they had enough cash to pay your price — and they understood your rules — they could have a taste.

A taste of the best orgasms of their life.

A taste of something they’d never find anywhere else.

You lived private. Alone. Clean.

Bookings were done through encrypted emails, references required, and half the money wired before you even agreed to a meeting.

You didn’t do relationships. You didn’t do repeats unless they paid triple.

You didn’t do love.

You were a professional.

And tonight?

You were waiting for a client who, frankly, you weren’t sure could even handle you.

You lounged in the hotel suite, high above the city skyline, bathed in the cool silver of the moonlight bleeding through the glass walls.

A silk robe slid off one bare shoulder, the delicate sheen of lotion on your skin catching the light, every inch of you prepared like a weapon.

You’d heard of him, of course.

Hawks. Keigo Takami. The Winged Hero.

Charming. Flirtatious. Powerful.

But under all that easygoing bravado?

You knew the truth.

You knew what it meant when a creature like him went into rut — deep, animalistic instincts, a biological need to mate and breed and fuck until there was nothing left but empty, mindless satisfaction.

You knew what he was coming here for.

And you knew he wouldn’t leave the same.

You smiled to yourself, stretching lazily across the bed, waiting.

Another desperate soul about to lose himself on your body.

Another man about to learn that pleasure could be a weapon too.

You didn’t have to wait long.

The door clicked.

Soft. Barely a sound.

But you heard it anyway, the quiet shift of the air as the hotel suite’s lock disengaged.

You stayed stretched across the bed, utterly at ease, as the figure stepped inside.

Hawks.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

You simply watched — and let him be the first to fall.

He was taller in person.

Broader, too.

Golden eyes sharp even under the heavy exhaustion dragging down his body. His wings, usually proud and preened, were ruffled and heavy behind him — tired. Restless.

He was suffering.

And god, was he trying to hide it.

He rolled his shoulders, casual, cocky — the way you’d seen him do in a thousand interviews — and flashed you a grin.

But it faltered.

Just for a second.

When his eyes raked over you, splayed out in silk and skin and knowing smiles.

When he realized you weren’t just some pretty thing he could flirt with and charm into bed.

You were a professional.

You were a weapon.

And he was already so, so fucked.

“Well,” Hawks drawled, voice rougher than you expected, buried under something feral and raw, “gotta say — pictures don’t do you justice, sweetheart.”

You smiled lazily, uncrossing your legs slow enough that the silk of your robe slipped higher up your thighs.

“Pictures?” you echoed, voice syrupy sweet. “Baby, no one gets pictures of me.”

His throat bobbed.

You saw it.

The way his hands twitched at his sides.

The way his wings flared just a little, ruffling anxiously, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

You tilted your head.

Let your quirk pulse.

Just a little.

Just a taste.

The pink glow flickered to life in your eyes, soft and subtle.

And that was all it took.

Hawks stumbled — literally, just for a second, like his knees went weak — one hand bracing against the wall.

“Fuck—” he rasped out, barely more than a whisper.

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.

He was close.

Already so close to snapping.

The rut was right there under his skin, vibrating in every muscle, every twitch of his wings.

“Take off your jacket, bird boy,” you said, voice low and commanding.

“You’re burning up.”

He obeyed without thinking.

Shrugged out of it with jerky movements, dropping the heavy leather onto the floor like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Underneath, he wore nothing but a simple black shirt — soaked through at the collar from sweat, clinging to the lines of muscle that flexed as he shifted, restless and overwhelmed.

You sat up slowly, legs sliding over the side of the bed.

Bare feet kissed the soft rug.

A few steps forward, smooth and slow.

You let your fingers trail along his chest, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric.

His breathing hitched — sharp, ragged.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides like he was holding himself back by a thread.

“You’re so tense,” you murmured, almost mockingly sweet.

“You need me, don’t you?”

He made a choked noise — half laugh, half whimper — and dropped his forehead against yours like he physically couldn’t stand the distance anymore.

“I’m—”

He tried. God, he tried to say something cocky.

But it broke.

Splintered under the weight of his instincts.

“I’m fucking losing it,” he gasped, grinding his hips forward without meaning to — cock already rock hard against the front of his pants, leaking, desperate.

“Please. Please, I—”

You shushed him softly, stroking his cheek, thumb brushing over his flushed skin.

“You don’t have to talk, pretty bird,” you whispered against his lips.

“Just let me take care of you.”

You let your quirk flood into him then — full force — a rush of molten heat crashing through his body, every nerve ending igniting all at once.

Pleasure. Need. Desperation.

Hawks snapped.

With a strangled, broken noise, he lifted you off your feet, carried you to the bed like you weighed nothing, and threw you down onto the mattress with a growl so deep it rattled in his chest.

And before you could even blink —

he was on you.

Feral. Wild.

Mouth crashing against yours in a messy, desperate kiss, hips rutting against your thigh like he couldn’t even wait to be inside you.

Hands everywhere — grabbing, clawing, tearing your robe open — like he needed to feel every inch of you against him right the fuck now or he was going to lose his goddamn mind.

His rut had taken over.

And you were about to find out just how badly the number two hero could break when he needed you more than he needed to breathe.

His mouth was everywhere.

Dragging over your throat, your collarbone, your chest — desperate, open-mouthed kisses, like he needed to taste every inch of you before he burned alive.

You laid there, still, patient, letting him.

Letting him ruin himself against your skin.

And the wildest part?

You hadn’t even used your touch yet.

Hadn’t even really started.

All you had done was look at him.

A little glow, a little tease — and already he was crumbling.

“Need you…” he mumbled against your skin, voice shaking, almost slurred with need.

“Fuck, need you so bad, baby, please, please—”

You hummed softly, stroking a hand lazily through his hair — not activating your quirk, not yet — just soothing him, letting him sink deeper into the hunger clawing through his body.

His hips were rutting against your bare thigh now, frantic little thrusts he couldn’t even stop, cock so hard you were sure it hurt.

Soaking through his pants.

Dragging messy, desperate friction against you like he didn’t even care anymore.

“You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” Hawks gasped, biting gently at your shoulder, panting like he’d run a marathon.

“You don’t even gotta touch me… fuck, you’re killin’ me…”

His fingers found your hips, digging in hard enough to leave marks, dragging your body up to meet the rough grind of his cock like he was trying to mate with you through sheer force alone.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against your chest like he needed the contact to breathe.

“Can’t… can’t think, baby, just— just wanna feel you. Need you. Fuck— need you to make me cum, please—”

You watched him.

Carefully.

Cruelly.

Letting him drown in it.

Letting him humiliate himself, rut against you like a desperate animal, gasping and begging and rubbing his cock against your skin like he might cum just from that alone.

And you still hadn’t even touched him properly yet.

He was breaking.

And it was only the beginning.

You shifted just slightly under him, a slow, calculated roll of your hips — and he whimpered.

The sound was pure, raw, unfiltered need — high and broken, leaking from his throat without permission — like he couldn’t even pretend to be a cocky hero anymore.

Not here.

Not under you.

“Please,” Hawks gasped, grinding his cock against your thigh even harder, faster, chasing the friction like a man possessed.

“I-I can’t— please, just— lemme cum, lemme cum, baby, fuck, please—”

You smiled softly, almost pitying.

He was so close it hurt.

The front of his pants was soaked, a dark, sticky patch spreading bigger with every desperate thrust against your bare skin.

You could feel him — throbbing, leaking, aching — and all you had to do was lay there and let him ruin himself.

“You poor thing,” you cooed, stroking his messy hair back from his flushed, sweaty face.

“You’re trying so hard.”

He let out a desperate, choked sob, his body trembling against yours.

“Need you,” he whimpered again, hips stuttering, rutting faster and faster, losing every ounce of composure he ever had.

“Fuck, please— please, gonna cum, gonna fucking—”

And then he did.

Hawks shattered with a hoarse, broken cry, hips jerking helplessly against you as he came hard in his pants — hot, wet, messy — soaking through the thin fabric, soaking your thigh, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

He slumped against you, panting, shivering, cock still twitching against your skin, painfully hard even after spilling inside his clothes.

Already overstimulated.

Already wrecked.

And still needing more.

Still twitching, grinding weakly like his instincts wouldn’t even let him stop.

“Not enough,” Hawks whimpered, voice rough and wrecked against your skin.

“Please— need you— need your pussy— please, baby, need it so bad—”

You almost laughed.

Almost.

You cupped his face gently, thumb brushing over his trembling lips, and tilted his chin up until he was staring at you with wide, desperate, glassy eyes.

“You came already,” you said sweetly, voice dripping with false sympathy.

“You couldn’t even handle a little grinding, pretty bird.”

He shook his head frantically, tears brimming in the corners of his gold eyes.

“Can do better,” he rasped, words slurred from need.

“Swear— swear I can— just, just please— let me fuck you— lemme fill you up, please, please—”

God, he was pathetic.

Pathetic and perfect.

And he didn’t even realize, you hadn’t even touched him properly yet.

You hadn’t even used your real quirk, your hands — the real drug.

Not yet.

But maybe…

Maybe it was time to start breaking him for real.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, while Hawks lay there — slumped against you, shivering, panting, his soaked cock still grinding helplessly against your thigh even though he had just cum.

Desperate.

Ruined.

Pathetic.

And still begging for more.

You let your fingers trail lazily down his chest, featherlight, just enough to make him shudder, to make his hips twitch up chasing your hand like a starving thing.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you sighed dramatically, clicking your tongue as if you were bored.

“Otherwise I’d let you hump my leg all night like a pathetic little mutt.”

He whimpered, whimpered — the sound leaking out of him shamefully, hips bucking up again.

The front of his pants was disgusting now, soaked, sticky, filthy, and still, his cock strained against it, hard and twitching like he hadn’t cum at all.

“You want to cum again, baby bird?” you purred, letting your hand brush lower, fingertips ghosting just above the waistband of his ruined pants.

“Please,” he gasped, golden eyes glassy and wide, wings trembling behind him like they couldn’t hold still anymore.

“Fuck, please, anything— anything you want— just need it, need you—”

You smiled sweetly.

Without a word, you slid your hand down, slow, slow, agonizing, palming the sticky mess between his legs, feeling how hard and leaking he still was even through the soaked fabric.

He sobbed against your skin, hips jerking up into your hand like he couldn’t control it.

You stroked him lazily through his pants.

Long, slow drags of your palm over the thick length of him, teasing, light, cruel.

Not using your quirk.

Not yet.

Just making him suffer.

“You’re such a mess,” you murmured, almost fondly.

“Heroes aren’t supposed to be this pathetic, you know. What would they say if they saw you like this? Rutting against a whore’s hand like a needy little thing?”

He moaned.

Actually moaned at your words, hips stuttering up again, cock twitching under your palm.

You pressed harder, slow grinding strokes, watching him fall apart for you.

Drooling. Whimpering. Sweating.

“Poor baby,” you whispered against his ear.

“You’re not gonna last even a minute inside me, are you?”

“I can— I can, please—!” Hawks gasped out, voice breaking, desperate and ragged.

“Swear, I’ll be good, I’ll make you feel good, just— please— I need your pussy— I need it so bad—”

You laughed softly.

Low. Dangerous.

Finally, finally, you pulled your hand back, slowly undid the button of his ruined pants, dragged the zipper down with a loud, teasing sound that made him shudder from head to toe.

You freed him from the sticky, ruined fabric — his cock slapping up against his stomach, flushed an angry red, twitching, drooling precum everywhere.

God, he was beautiful like this.

Ruined. Wild. Broken.

And still yours to destroy.

You wrapped your fingers loosely around his shaft, soft, slow, teasing strokes, watching him shudder and buck into your hand like he couldn’t control himself.

“Feels good?” you murmured sweetly.

“Y-yeah,” he whimpered, voice hoarse, hips twitching.

“Good,” you whispered.

And then…then you activated your quirk.

Only a little.

Just the tiniest, tiniest push.

A little glow to your touch.

A little pulse of pleasure, barely there.

Barely anything compared to what you could really do.

And Hawks screamed.

A raw, broken sound ripped out of his chest — back arching off the bed, cock pulsing violently in your hand, as he came again immediately, violently, without even warning, thick white ropes spilling all over your hand, his stomach, the sheets.

He twitched and sobbed through it, hips jerking weakly, clinging to you like he thought he might die from how good it felt.

When it finally stopped, when he was lying there, twitching, panting, a ruined fucking mess, you leaned down close to his ear, smirking.

“Poor baby bird,” you whispered.

He whimpered weakly, trying to buck up into your hand again even as his body shook from overstimulation.

You squeezed him gently, still half-hard, still twitching, still so pathetically needy, and laughed low in your throat.

“We’re just getting started,” you promised.

“Now be a good boy—”

You straddled his hips, dragging your soaked pussy along his cock, slow, teasing.

“—and show me how many times you can break for me tonight.”

His golden eyes fluttered open, wrecked, desperate, and he nodded frantically, hands grabbing at your hips like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you even for a second longer.

“Please,” he gasped.

“Please, need you, need to feel you— wanna fill you up— wanna breed you— fuck, fuck, please—”

You smiled down at him sweetly.

And finally, finally, you began to sink down onto him.

And Hawks lost his mind all over again.

You sank down on him slow, excruciatingly slow — letting him feel every inch as you stretched around his thick, twitching cock.

He sobbed against your chest, arms clinging to you like you might disappear if he let go.

“F-fuck— oh fuck— you’re so warm— so tight—” he gasped, tears leaking from the corners of his golden eyes.

“Please, please—”

You shushed him softly, brushing his messy blond hair back, rolling your hips lazily once you were fully seated.

Still not using your full quirk.

Still only giving him a taste — a sweet, burning heat that made his cock pulse inside you but left him wanting, needing more.

He bucked up instinctively, trying to fuck up into you, but you pressed a firm hand to his lower stomach, holding him down with barely any effort.

“Patience, baby bird,” you cooed, rocking your hips in slow, teasing circles.

“You’ll get what you need… eventually.”

He let out a broken whine, hips twitching uselessly under your hand, cock throbbing pathetically inside your tight, dripping walls.

You could feel every desperate twitch, every shudder, every frantic attempt to cum again — and you denied him, over and over and over.

“Please—!” he sobbed, voice wrecked.

“Need you— need to cum— need to fill you up, please—!”

You smiled sweetly, cupping his flushed cheek, activating your quirk just enough to make his body jolt with pleasure — a cruel tease, a flash of overwhelming bliss — before pulling it back again.

He cried.

Real tears this time.

Golden eyes wide and pleading, tears slipping down his cheeks as he tried to thrust up into you again, helpless and broken.

“Please, please, please—” he begged, voice hoarse.

“Can’t— can’t take it— need you— need to fuck you— need to breed you—”

You leaned down close to his ear, dragging your hips agonizingly slow over his cock, squeezing around him just enough to make him scream.

“Poor thing,” you whispered, almost pitying.

“You wanna fill me up that bad, baby bird? Wanna stuff me full of your cum?”

“Yes—!” he sobbed, hands clutching at your hips like he could force you to move faster.

“Please, let me, need to— need to put a baby in you— need to—”

You laughed low in your throat, cruel and sweet.

“You’re not even close to earning that yet.”

You rocked your hips again, slow, dragging friction, and activated your quirk again, another little spark of devastating pleasure, just enough to make him twitch and spill a little precum deep inside you.

Hawks snapped.

With a savage growl that barely sounded human, he grabbed your waist, talons digging into your skin, and flipped you over onto your back, wings flaring wide behind him like a beast finally off its leash.

“Mine,” he snarled, voice wrecked and broken, gold eyes burning down at you with wild, feral hunger.

“You’re mine.”

You barely had time to smirk before he hooked your legs over his shoulders, forcing your knees to your chest, a mating press — pinning you down into the mattress under his full weight.

And then he was slamming into you, brutal, deep, desperate thrusts, fucking into you so hard you could feel the bedframe creaking under the force.

He wasn’t trying to hold back anymore.

He wasn’t trying to be gentle.

He wasn’t thinking at all.

Pure, raw rut.

“Mine— mine— mine—!” he chanted under his breath, every thrust punching filthy noises out of you, his cock so deep you could feel him in your belly.

You cried out, hands scrabbling at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his sweat-slick skin as he pounded into you like he was trying to breed you into the bed.

“Fuck— so good— you’re so fucking perfect—” he gasped, pressing his forehead against yours, golden eyes wild and hazy.

“Need to cum inside— need to make you mine— need to fill you up— fuck, fuck, gonna cum—”

And this time, this time, you activated your quirk fully.

Pleasure rushed through him like an explosion — violent, overwhelming, pure ecstasy, and Hawks screamed into your mouth as he came hard, hips jerking wildly, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled hot, endless streams of cum against your womb.

You felt it — the heat, the volume, the desperate way he kept thrusting even as he emptied himself, chasing every last drop inside you.

He didn’t stop.

Even after his cock finished pulsing, even after he spilled everything he had into you — Hawks kept thrusting, frantic, shallow thrusts, like he physically couldn’t stop, like his body was wired to keep chasing you until you broke too.

You laid there underneath him, pinned under his weight, legs folded tight against your chest, the mating press locking you in place — letting him rut desperately into your soaked, overstimulated pussy.

“Baby, please—” he gasped against your throat, voice ragged and wrecked, pressing frantic kisses anywhere he could reach.

“Please— feels so good— please, please don’t stop—!”

You smiled lazily, stroking the back of his sweat-soaked neck, feeling how he shuddered under your touch.

“You’re such a good boy,” you whispered, voice syrupy sweet.

“Begging so pretty for me.”

He whimpered, his hips jerking up into you, cock still twitching pathetically deep inside, already trying to get hard again even though he hadn’t stopped.

“Please,” Hawks sobbed, broken beyond repair now, gold eyes hazy and teary as he tried to thrust harder, chasing the unbearable pleasure.

“Need it— need your quirk again…never felt like this— fuck, please, baby, use it on me— need it, need to feel it—!”

You giggled, evil and soft, squeezing your walls around him teasingly, making him sob harder.

“You’re that addicted already?” you teased.

“And I’ve barely even touched you yet, pretty bird.”

“Please, fuck, please, I’ll do anything,” Hawks cried, hips stuttering helplessly, wings flapping weakly behind him from pure overstimulation.

“Please, please, lemme feel you cum— need you to cum— need you to milk my cock, please, wanna feel you— wanna feel your pussy cum around me—!”

God, he was a mess.

You tilted your head, pretending to think, rolling your hips up into his desperately rutting cock, dragging another broken gasp from his lips.

“You wanna feel me cum around you, baby bird?” you purred, eyes glowing faint pink as you stroked a hand down his trembling back.

“You want me to break you even more?”

“Yes—! Please, please, need it, baby, need you—!” Hawks gasped, rutting up into you with frantic, broken little thrusts, his cock twitching deep inside your soaked cunt.

You smiled — slow, dangerous, indulgent — and finally, finally decided to be merciful.

You slid one hand down between your bodies, fingers finding your own swollen, throbbing clit.

Still pinned under him, still locked in the mating press, you started rubbing slow, tight circles over yourself — adding just the right pressure, teasing yourself closer to the edge.

And as you did it — you activated your quirk.

On yourself.

A sweet, slow pulse of pure, molten pleasure flooded through your nerves, curling low in your belly, making your pussy clamp down tight around his desperate, overstimulated cock.

Hawks screamed — a wrecked, broken sound — feeling your walls fluttering and squeezing around him, feeling the way you got tighter, wetter, hotter with every desperate rub of your fingers.

“Fuck— fuck— baby, please, please— wanna feel it, wanna feel you cum—!” he sobbed, voice shattering as he rutted helplessly into you.

“Please, let me feel you, baby, please cum on my cock— please, need it, need it—”

You moaned low in your throat — letting yourself fall apart just slow enough to drag it out — rubbing your clit harder, faster, feeding the pleasure through your body, through his cock, until you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your orgasm hit like a bomb.

You cried out, clenching hard around him, your whole body shuddering under the overwhelming wave of pleasure — your walls fluttering, squeezing, milking him — your quirk amplifying every ripple of ecstasy.

And Hawks —

Hawks fucking exploded.

He came again, harder and deeper this time — a broken scream ripped from his lungs as his hips jerked violently, stuffing you full of another thick, endless flood of cum.

Hot. Sticky. Messy.

Overflowing.

He collapsed against you, wings twitching weakly, cock still buried deep inside, twitching with the aftershocks.

You held him there, arms around his trembling back, nails scratching soothingly down his spine, while he sobbed quietly into your neck, his body still desperately thrusting little, pathetic, overstimulated rolls of his hips like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

“Good boy,” you whispered against his ear, still gently rubbing slow circles over your clit, making your walls twitch and flutter around his spent, leaking cock.

“You came so good for me, baby bird.”

“Y-you too—” he whimpered, clinging tighter, voice shaking.

“Felt you— felt you cum— fuck, so good— so fucking good—”

You giggled softly, kissing the top of his head.

And he moaned, a soft, weak, wrecked sound while still rutting helplessly into you, still chasing you even as his body trembled from exhaustion.

He finally collapsed beside you, his body giving out, panting harshly, moaning softly with every little twitch of his hips.

You turned your head to look at him…God, he was ruined.

Hair plastered to his forehead, gold eyes half-lidded and glassy, lips swollen from where he’d bitten them raw.

And his cock?

Still hard.

Still twitching pathetically against his belly, slick with both your juices and the endless cum he kept stuffing you with.

The sheets beneath you were soaked.

Sticky. Messy.

You could feel it leaking out of you, hot and thick, dripping down your thighs, pooling beneath your ass, so much that it had completely ruined the expensive mattress.

And still…

Still, he was looking at you like a kicked puppy.

Panting, whining, silently begging for more even though his whole body was trembling from exhaustion.

You laughed softly under your breath.

Pitiful.

Perfect.

“One more, baby bird,” you whispered sweetly, crawling between his trembling legs.

“Just one more.”

He whimpered, a soft, needy sound and let his legs fall open for you without even thinking, without even questioning.

You wrapped your hand around his slick cock, no quirk, no tricks, just a slow, steady stroke.

And god, he twitched violently under your touch, a broken little whine spilling out of him, hips jerking weakly off the bed even though he had nothing left to give.

“You’re so sensitive, aren’t you?” you cooed, stroking him slow, teasing, just enough to keep him right there, whimpering and trembling under your hand.

“So good for me, baby. So easy.”

He gasped and nodded weakly, tears brimming in his eyes again, hands fisting the ruined sheets at his sides.

You smiled.

And then without warning, you slid your hand down between your own legs.

Felt the mess he had left inside you, still hot, still dripping, and scooped it up with your fingers, gathering as much of it as you could.

He watched you with wide, dazed eyes, too fucked out to even ask what you were doing, as you brought your cum-slick fingers back up, glistening in the low light.

You stroked his cock again with one hand, and with the other, you pressed two cum-slick fingers against his tight, untouched hole.

He whimpered, high and broken as you slowly worked one finger inside him, using his own cum as lube.

“Relax, baby,” you whispered against his trembling thigh.

“Let me make you feel good.”

He sobbed quietly, body shuddering, hips twitching helplessly as you pushed deeper, curling your finger just right, searching, until you found it.

His prostate.

You rubbed it gently, soft, slow, maddening circles, while still stroking his cock, watching as Hawks completely unraveled for you.

He couldn’t stop moaning.

Couldn’t stop begging.

Broken little cries spilling from his lips like he didn’t even know he was doing it.

“Please— fuck— please, more— need it— need you—” he whimpered, hips jerking weakly, so overstimulated he was trembling head to toe.

And then, you stopped stroking his cock.

Letting it throb, untouched, while you kept fingering him deep and slow.

He cried out loud, desperate, hips grinding helplessly, trying to fuck himself into your hand.

And that’s when you turned your quirk back on.

Just your fingers.

Just enough to flood his body with another unbearable wave of pleasure, targeted, precise, devastating.

You pressed against his prostate, quirk activated, and watched as Hawks’ whole body seized, his back arching off the bed, golden wings flaring wide, head thrown back in a silent scream.

He was fisting the sheets so hard his knuckles turned white, body stiff, shaking violently and then he was cumming again, untouched, untouched, untouched — thick, hot spurts spilling over his stomach, over your hand, over the ruined sheets.

He moaned and sobbed through it, his body trembling violently as his cock twitched and spilled everything he had left.

Overstimulated. Wrecked. Broken.

And he loved it.

Loved every fucking second of it.

When it finally ended, when his body finally slumped back against the bed, twitching and whimpering, you slid your fingers out of him slowly, gently, wiping them on the soaked sheets without a care.

You crawled up beside him, smiling sweetly.

And Hawks? Hawks immediately curled into you, still gasping, still shivering, burying his face against your chest like he couldn’t stand to be even an inch away.

You stroked his hair, lazy and slow, while he whimpered quietly against your skin.

“Good boy,” you whispered against his temple, kissing him softly.

“You did so good for me, baby bird.”

He sobbed weakly, but it was a happy sound this time.

Relieved.

Wrecked.

Hawks clung to you even as he drifted.

Still trembling, still twitching every few seconds — little, helpless spasms through his ruined, spent body.

You stroked his hair slowly, feeling him sink deeper into the mattress, breath hitching less and less, golden wings drooping heavy across the bed.

“That’s it, baby bird,” you whispered against his forehead.

“Sleep now.”

He tried to mumble something, your name maybe, a broken plea for more, but it faded into a soft, exhausted whimper before he passed out completely.

You smiled fondly.

Carefully, slow, gentle, practiced, you eased yourself out of his arms, ignoring the slick mess between your thighs, the soaked, ruined sheets beneath you.

You grabbed the heavy blanket from the edge of the bed and tucked it around him, cocooning him safely.

He curled into it immediately, into the lingering warmth of your body, nuzzling the pillow you left behind like a man still dreaming of you.

You laughed under your breath.

On the small hotel desk, you found the stationary and scribbled a quick note, folding it once and leaving it tucked under the heavy glass ashtray.

Thanks for the fun, pretty bird. You know where to find me next time your rut rolls around.

You tucked a soft curl of hair behind your ear, straightened your robe, and checked your phone.

Payment: Received.

Account balance: Updated.

Another successful night.

Another hero broken to pieces in your hands.

Another bag secured.

You smiled lazily to yourself, heels clicking against the marble floor as you slipped out the door, disappearing into the velvet night without a trace.

Already wondering, already excited, who would be desperate enough to call for you next?

[peachygelic]

Now that’s what I call a meal.

loaded promise

pairing: sylus x afab reader

words: 5.3k

contains: self-indulgent, brief mentions of blood and murder, alcohol consumption, attempts at seduction, suggestive themes, teensy bit of gun play (tell me if you find anything else that should be mentioned)

author’s note: this idea came to me after replaying sylus's branch in the main story and razor's dance.

The soft crackle of the needle kissing vinyl filled the room, a gentle static undercurrent before the first lazy notes of the saxophone curled through the air. It wasn’t bright or brash. It was the kind of sound that slinked, a slow, sultry exhale of brass and smoke that seemed to melt into the dim light.

From the corner, the record player spun its glossy black disc, the arm swaying in small, precise movements as the music oozed from its speakers. The saxophone was low and languid, each note drawn out like a whispered confession. It wrapped itself around the furniture, softened the sharp lines of the room, made the air feel thicker, heavier.

It was as if Sylus had not left the auction from earlier tonight.

The estate it was held at loomed over the city like a relic of forgotten royalty. Gilded columns twisted toward vaulted ceilings, paintings depicting scenes of conquest and betrayal stretched above the guests. Every inch of the grand hall spoke of excess. Obsidian floors polished to a gleam, walls lined with stolen artifacts, and chandeliers so large they could crush a man if they fell.

Dressed in sleek, minimalistic uniforms, servers moved like shadows, silent but ever-present, their eyes betraying nothing even as they overheard whispers of treachery.

Every conversation was a duel, every smile a carefully placed gambit. Women leaned in close, voices hushed, while men clinked glasses and sealed deals with a smirk and a handshake.

Sylus had no interest in all the luxurious sights and sounds, all too aware that everyone was only playing pretend, parading around as if they were elite and above others. It was pathetic really especially since all these people got to where they were through corruption and bloodshed.

Not that he was much different but he digressed.

A coded data drive disguised as a jewelry box was up for auction. It contained a list of captives and their locations, all of them linked to Ever Group. Sylus’s goal was to intercept and snatch it before it fell into the hands the corporation intended.

However, his most trusted agent for undercover missions such as this had a family emergency and he had no choice but to allow you to take her place for the night. It was hard to refuse after you overheard his conversation and demanded to be a part of the operation as you were investigating Ever as well.

It never failed to amaze him how seamlessly you slipped into any role he gave you. Be it a spoiled heiress, a meek piece of arm candy or, in tonight's case, a temptress meant to distract his target so he could easily win the auction right under Ever's nose.

You were a vision in liquid silk, the fabric pouring over your curves like a whispered promise. The deep crimson of your gown mimicked the color of freshly spilled wine, the slit riding high enough to invite speculation. A single diamond glinted at your throat, nestled just above your pulse—a beacon for wandering eyes. You moved slowly, deliberately, as if you knew the entire room was watching.

And watching they were.

Sylus had mingled with other guests at the auction, conversations of Protocores, new technologies and possible trade partnerships going over his head as he killed time waiting for you to lure in the target and lead him away.

Humans are after all slaves to their desires. Especially the male species. Lust was their vice. They were so weak for it. Cheating on their lovers and crumbling years and years of trust and loyalty for a single night of meaningless sex.

He found it truly unbecoming.

The target was no different. Despite having a wife who adored him, the moment he caught sight of you, Sylus knew his plan would work.

The bastard sidled up to you at the bar where you had chatted with the bartender, your luscious curls bouncing with your laughter, the chandelier above casting you in a halo of golden light.

A lingering glance here. A dazzling smile there. A brush of your fingers against the man's arm and you had him hook, line and sinker.

Drooling fool could not even see the way your nose ever so slightly wrinkled in disgust whenever he leaned in too close, touched your thigh or said something he thought would melt your undergarments off.

A spark of amusement touched Sylus in the chest, knowing that you would berate him later for giving you such a sleazy target. He was not at fault though. You insisted and it was all your doing. You charmed the man.

The plan worked. A little too well.

You did not even need to ask the man to come away with you, he was the one taking you up to one of the rooms he booked.

Sylus won the bid and the jewelry box he came for then slipped away to find you.

Violence should be used strategically, he always said.

Yet, the sight of that grimy fucker's hands on you in that elevator made him paint it red without a second thought.

A little alarming slip of self-control if you asked him but it was nothing serious. The man had no importance anymore and Ever would have disposed of him anyway for failing his task.

The metallic, distinct scent of blood was still present in his nostrils as he sat in the chaise lounge chair, the leather groaning beneath his weight as he parted his knees in a wide stance, pushing his hips forward to get comfortable. The scent was likely owing to the fact that he had yet to wash the splatter of crimson on his face off his skin.

He was not one to wear his killings like a badge of honor. No, he had left it to dry and crust for another reason.

The tingling, sticky gloss smeared all over his face, lipstick stains from the swaying woman who currently sauntered around the bedroom, bathed in the amber light from the fireplace.

Bells seemed to tinkle as you giggled, slipping your arms into one of his blazers that you produced from his closet after rummaging in there for a while.

Your dress from earlier was still on, albeit crumpled, the straps falling off your shoulders. The diamond pendant on your necklace was askew. Eyeliner was smudged high on your cheeks, lipstick faded and smeared all around your mouth except for its rightful place on your lips thanks to you smothering his face in kisses on the drive back home. The perfectly styled hair from earlier was gone, your hairpins scattered across the floor along with your heels, freeing your wild mane.

And Sylus thinks you look more captivating than you had all night.

Shrugging on his blazer, your brows drew together as you tried to attempt what he assumed was an intimidating expression, no doubt trying to emulate him.

Walking over to where he sat with surprising grace despite the two bottles of Pinot Noir you had finished at the auction, you leaned over him, standing between his legs and tipped his chin up.

“Look at me,” you demanded, voice deeper in another attempt to mimic him. You even closed your left eye, making him focus on your right as if it glowed like his one did.

His expression remained unfazed and bored but you knew him well enough to see the hint of humor in it.

“I guess you don't remember anything.” Your knuckles caressed his cheek after leaving his chin. “Allow me to jog your memory.” You wrapped your arm around his throat like he had done the night you met.

He grasped your wrist, playing along and pretending to struggle. It was the lightest of touches, and yet you felt it so viscerally as if his palm was beneath your dress, cupping the softness between your—

Shaking your head, you blinked and continued your little act.

“From your past to your future, to all the crimes you'll inevitably commit—” With a snort, you broke out of character again, rolling those glazed eyes of yours. “Whatever that means.”

Ah, if only you knew.

You resumed, clearing your throat. “After all, you and I, we're the same. True kindred spirits.”

Then, like this reenactment of yours had unannounced timeskips, you straddled his lap, placing his gun that you had swiped sneakily out of the holster on his hip—only because he let his guard down around you and only you—in his hand.

You guided his hand up to your chest, right over your heart. “Didn't you want to take my life? Or do your words just ring hollow?”

Hand sliding over his, you pressed the gun to your heart. “Want some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?”

A huff of dark amusement left him as he lowered the gun. Black and red mist tangled around it as he used his evol to put it beside the record player.

“How scary, sweetheart. I'm trembling,” he drawled, face the epitome of boredom even as his tone carried a hint of dry amusement.

Lips puckering in a petulant pout, you climbed off his lap. The sulking expression on your face does not last for long, be it either because of your attention span or another scheme your mind came up with to try and get what you wanted from him, Sylus did not know.

But he knew it would be entertaining to watch.

The sight of you drunk was rare for him. Like one of the gems he would collect and keep just for you.

Your inhibitions were down and you were much more open with him, not hiding behind the bickering and playful insults he adored or the flowery analogies you tended to use to convey your feelings without saying them outright.

He longed for the day you would unravel for him, not in teasing hints or drunken bravado, but with the raw, honest ache that hummed beneath his skin. Until then, he would be patient, be good. Waiting for you was nothing new to him.

Your movements were loose, liquid, limbs heavy with liquor and something darker. You twirled, laughing breathlessly, then stumbled, catching yourself with a hand on the dresser. But even in your imbalance, there was intent—a slow, calculated peel of the blazer, a glance over your shoulder that was equal parts predator and tease.

Hands behind you, he watched as his blazer, oversized on you, slid off your arms and onto the bed behind you.

The hypnotic song of the saxophone seeped into your body as you began to sway in time with it like a snake to a charmer’s flute. Sylus almost questioned if he was receiving a private show.

He was your audience. That is until your fleeting attention was stolen by something else.

By yourself. More specifically, your own reflection in the mirror.

The room was thick with warmth, the fireplace casting a lazy amber glow across the dark wood panelling of the walls and the wine-red upholstery. The smooth, sultry notes of jazz became background noise for you as you swayed in front of the mirror.

A gasp sucked into your lungs at the woman staring back at you. But it was not a sound of indignation and rather one of surprise. Awe.

Lavish silk dress rumpled, your makeup more than a bit smeared, hair a cloud of chaos framing your face. Your lips were swollen from you sucking on them and your eyes were half-lidded, darker than normal as the smudged eyeliner gave the illusion that you were sleep deprived. Your gaze was lazy and glistening with desirous heat.

But god, you looked sinful. Like an ethereal siren luring sailors to their watery graves. Like you were thoroughly fucked and hardly satiated.

Hell, if you were a sailor and caught a glimpse of a woman like yourself in the depths of the ocean, you would dive in too.

Sylus could tell that you liked what you saw from where he sat stretched out in the lounge chair, one leg now over the other. He watched you. Watched you marvel at yourself as if you were simultaneously a masterpiece that a lovesick artist poured his soul into and a piece of meat tossed into the cage of a starved, feral animal.

Lifting a hand, you combed your manicured nails through your mussed hair, scratched at your scalp. It must have felt heavenly, like untying your hair from a painfully tight ponytail and feeling your head prickle pleasurably. At least that was what Sylus thought when a slightest, high-pitched exhale left you.

You gathered your hair and pulled it up, exposing your bare back as the flames from the fire flickered across your skin. It was gone too soon as your locks cascaded down your back a moment later.

Outside, snow clung to the land in heavy drifts, but in here, the air was too heavy. Not from the fire. No, it was something heady, warm, intimate that settled low in his gut.

As stuffy as the air felt, he remained in his spot. He doubted he could move even if he tried. His legs were weighed down by bricks, rooted in the ground. His eyes were stuck on you and how you were bewitched by yourself.

Throat parched, Sylus let the cool rim of his glass he had forgotten about brush his lips, inhaling the sharp scent of whiskey, wanting to ground himself. His eyes never left you as he took a sip, the burn going down his throat nothing compared to the one in his gut.

You arched your back in a stretch that was clearly staged, hips cocked just so. With the way your nipples strained against the fabric of your dress and he caught the shift of your thighs as if you were pressed them together, he could tell you were arousing yourself.

A hum slowly started beneath your skin. The warmth of the room, the crackle of the fire, the swelling notes of music, it all curled around you like the ghost of a lover. The brush of silk against your bare thighs made you shiver. Every glance at the goddess in the mirror was stoked with heat. Lips tingling, you almost wished that you could step into the mirror and kiss yourself.

Was this how Narcissus felt?

You felt alive, charged, like your skin was too tight for the heat bubbling underneath it.

There was a throb between your legs—not sharp but insistent, a pulse that made you squeeze your thighs together for a poor attempt at relief. Bad idea. It just made you aware of how wet you were between your folds—slippery along the slit of your pussy. Rubbing your thighs together moved your clit, and you had to stop yourself from doing it again.

Every part of you felt so sensitive. Your nipples itched for attention even from just silk grazing them. The drag of your own fingers over your throat was enough to make you exhale, low and needy.

The sound had his cock kicking in his trousers, laid against thigh. Said bodily response was thoroughly ignored by him as it had been all night. Even then, it ached, a hot, heavy pulse that demanded his attention. However Sylus refused to be controlled by the head between his legs.

Watching you like this was its own kind of torture as he knew that it only sharpened the fire simmering in his gut, made him feel lightheaded as if he were high on his self-control and imagining the taste of your skin.

His teeth tingled, tongue pressed to the backs of them as something pulled in his chest, gnawing at his ribs with the desire to sink his teeth into you. He ran his tongue across his teeth, prodding at his canines in an attempt to try and stop their throbbing.

Taking a slow breath, he let himself slump in the chair, head tipped back, eyes heavy-lidded as he forced himself to watch you—a punishment as much as it was a privilege.

You caught the movement in your peripheral, eyes finding his in the mirror. The weight of his gaze on your skin was worse than his hands might have been. Heavy, assessing, patient. It made you want to writhe, do something reckless. At this rate, you would come untouched.

Seeing as you could not take your lust out on the woman in your reflection, you turned your attention to Sylus. He would have to do, you supposed.

With a sigh as if you were tired, you reached for your earring to take it off. Only to—oops—drop it. And you swore you heard him suck in a breath as you leaned down to pick it up, the silk of your dress stretching over your skin tightly.

Sylus swore in his mind as your thigh slit gaped as you bent over, the fabric plastered to the backs of your thighs, tantalizing swells of your ass all the way down to the sliver plush folds winking at him between your legs.

He averted his gaze, hand clenching around the armrest of his chair.

You knew—oh, you knew—what you were doing to him. Under different, more favorable circumstances, he would have crossed the room, tossed you over his shoulder and dropped you onto the bed, face buried between your thighs before your panties were even off. His cock jerks at the thought.

But he did not move. Not a sound, not a shift in his seat as you straightened up and tossed him a glance over your shoulder, lips quirked in a lopsided, dazzling smile that made something in his chest stutter as your hair curtained your face.

Your gaze caught his one. It was unhurried, heavy and unfazed. Not hungry. Not desperate. Not frustrated from your teasing. Just watching like a client in a private room of a strip club, half-bored, half-entertained and fully in control.

It was maddening. The knowledge that you could dance, tempt and fall apart right in front of him only for him to barely lift a brow. He just sat there, legs spread in a careless sprawl, one arm draped over the back of the lounge chair, the other cradling a glass between long, steady fingers. The soft amber of light of the room caught the sharp lines of his jaw.

There was a faint pull at one corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, as he caught the exasperated frown of confusion on your face—bothered that he was not responding the way you wanted. It was hilarious, really. You were so inebriated that you failed to notice the long, thick outline of his cock against his thigh.

Had your antics been more intentional. Sober. Consent laced into every glance and gesture. If those eyes, now hazy with liquor, were clear and sharp, daring him instead of pleading clumsily for attention, he would have given you everything.

That is evidently what you want. And it was shown when your actions became even more reckless.

It became too much when you hooked a thumb into the thin shoulder strap of your dress, mischief flashing in your glassy gaze as you tugged it down at an agonizing pace.

Sylus was thankful for your little tease as it gives him time to conjure black-red mist around the flimsy piece of fabric before it could fall off the swell of your breast and give him a tantalizing view of that pebbled nipple beneath it.

God, if you were sober, he would have been on you. Pressed you into the nearest surface, felt you melt against him, the silk of that dress bunching in his fists. Traced the line of your throat with his mouth along with every inch of skin you revealed for him as you peeled the fabric off. Found out what sounds you made when you were in your senses and willing.

A fussy noise sounds in your throat as your movements are stopped by his evol.

Trying again, you reached for the hem of your dress, fisting the silk in bunches and pulling it up. Only a sliver of your thigh holster was revealed before he was suddenly up and before you, pulling your dress back down.

“Miss Hunter, as riveting as your little display is, your mission as a temptress is over,” he reminded you, voice low and calm, not the strained and labored voice you were hoping for.

Lines form between your brows as they furrowed when you looked up at him, frustration and something close to hurt festering in your chest and plain on your face—no doubt from his rejection.

This is the second time tonight.

Evidence of your first attempt was streaked on his collar—a misfired aim for his neck—and the lipstick stains all over his face. Apparently you were the only one who got all hot and bothered from showering him in kisses in the backseat of the SUV earlier after the mission.

He had picked you up off his lap and set you on the seat beside him silently, a quiet but clear rejection to your advances that left you stewing in annoyance and embarrassment.

Though the fact that he had not showered yet and rid himself of the aftermath of your kisses gave you hope that you could try again.

Clearly you thought wrong.

Alas all those glasses of wine you drained slid down your throat, settled in your stomach in a warm puddle and gushed out of your cunt and drizzled into your panties, leaving you feverish and dizzy with want.

His scent—a cocktail of cologne, soap and mint—washed over you, making you far drunker than you already were and rolling into your belly in another wave of hot arousal.

Eyes dropping to the smear of blood on his jawline, your hand followed. You traced a finger along the bloodstain on his throat, then pressed your mouth to it, another red mark to blur with the others.

When he did not stop you, you pushed a little more, rising to your tiptoes, pressing yourself against him as you leaned in, lips parting over his pulse and sucking in every beat. It sped up under your mouth and your breasts tightened, nipples grazing his chest.

A barely coherent, almost desperate sound left his throat, slithering into your ears, making your head spin and melting your core.

You thought that maybe, just maybe he was actually beginning to crack. Maybe he would give in. Maybe he would finally snap and fu—

Large hands clasped your biceps and gently but firmly pushed you away, your mouth forcibly unlatching from his skin with a wet pop, red blooming in that spot.

“Sylus, what are you doing?” The question came out in breathless exasperation and confusion. You felt his heartbeat pick up and even now, his clothed cock pressed against your lower belly despite the infuriatingly calm look on his face.

His right eye flicked, vermillion lighting up, undoubtedly picking up your desires. What you wanted him to do to you without you saying it out loud. Something unhinged and restless thudded in your chest, willing you to bite him, consume him, devour him.

“As flattering as your attempts at seducing me are, I'm afraid that you're past the point of consenting. You're drunk. A woman in your state could not consent to any form of intimacy, no matter how much you try,” he informed you with the tone of a professor lecturing a student.

An undignified whine slipped past your lips. You almost want to stomp your foot but refrained. That was childish and definitely not fitting the criteria of the seductress you were trying to play.

Could he not see how desperately you wanted him? Could he not feel how hot you were against him? Could he not hear your choppy breaths?

Or maybe he did, judging from the way his pupils seem to eat up the crimson of his irises.

His hair was growing out, a few silver, wispy strands from his bangs framing either side of his forehead. The arches of his strong brows made him look as if he was always staring at someone with an air of superiority, especially whenever he looked down the line of his nose. Below those were a set of hooded, ruby eyes, framed by pretty dark lashes, that met yours with an unimpressed look.

His nose was strong and straight for the most part, though there’s a bump near the bridge, an imperfection that only makes him more painfully, achingly real. It drew the eye, a reminder that even something this dangerously beautiful was touched by flaw. And somehow, that made you want him more. His lips were full and deceptively soft-looking, carrying a natural curve at the corners like he was always one breath away from smirking at some private joke.

There was something behind that wolfish gaze and all those perfect, ruinous angles that marked him as lethal. He was charming he needed to be, saying the right things, playing the accommodating predator cloaked in civility, but it was all a facade. Because when the door to his lair closes, the sheepskin fell away and he bared his teeth.

“Even if your antics were a success, I don't fuck drunk women unless they're my girlfriend.”

His words had you rudely pulled out of your thoughts, your face heating at his use of a cuss word. Sylus never cussed.

“Pardon?” You blurted stupidly.

Sylus exhaled and repeated himself, slower for you to register it this time. “I don't fuck drunk women unless they're my girlfriend.”

A nasty feeling coiled in your gut at the thought of him having had previous girlfriends. It's probably because you have never had a boyfriend so you felt inexperienced.

But he did mention once that he did not experience a breakup before.

That either meant he never dated or he blew the person up like he does when his deals go astray. There's no in-between in your head and you'd rather expose your affiliation with him to the Hunters’ Association before asking him directly.

“Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to shower,” he tells you, an obvious hint that you should leave his bedroom now.

At least he's not kicking you out like that time he had made you search for that brooch.

Scowling, you stepped away from him, feeling sour and reluctant to leave even after being turned down twice. But you surprisingly had scraps of your pride left so you oblige.

The heady warmth of the fire suddenly felt suffocating. Your fingers twitched at your sides as you turned, silk swishing around your legs as you made for the door, ready to storm out and let him have his stupid solitude.

Brushing past him, you bumped your shoulder against his. Well—against his bicep since you're not tall enough to be shoulder to shoulder. He had the decency to grunt as if you actually did something.

Fingers closed around your wrist in a gentle but firm grip, stealing your breath. He pulled you back to him, spinning you to face him. The room tilted, your pulse a wild, staccato beat behind your breast.

His hand came up, thumb smoothing out the crease between your brows, making your frown slip, helplessly like ice thawing fire.

“Now, now. As adorable as you are when you're grumpy, it's not that nice when you're mad at me, hmm,” he murmured as if trying to pacify you.

His voice flowed like a fine wine—rich and aged with perfection.

And damn it, you felt yourself soften. It was working.

The slight smile that tugged at the corner of his lips told you that he knows it too.

“Do not mistake my rejection for a lack of interest, sweetheart. I am very much attracted to you,” he whispered like it's a secret between you two.

His free hand carved a scalding path down your hip to the bare skin of your thigh that was curtained by the teasing slit of your dress. Fingers grazed the lace, static crackling under his touch. It was as light as a feather but made you feel like he's unfurling your soul.

Sylus drew your small, sleek pistol out from where it was tucked into the holster on your thigh, eyes holding yours, gaze heavy. The slightly cold steel was a shock to your overheated skin. You shivered.

“There's no reason to sulk, Miss Hunter. You'll thank me later,” he promises.

“What do you mean?” you questioned, sucking in a breath when he pressed the barrel into your thigh as he dragged it up slowly, almost mean.

“I mean that you will eventually get what you want from me.” The metal kissed your skin with each inch it traveled, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, splitting your focus between eye contact, his voice and the muzzle nuzzled against your thigh.

“See, I'm a patient man, sweetheart. But I'm also very greedy. So when I have you, I want all of you. No substances fogging up that pretty mind of yours.” The gun moved over the curve of your thigh, skimming across your hip, leaving a phantom slight ache that had your legs tightening on instinct.

Your knees almost buckled.

He did not stop. The muzzle of the gun trailed high, cruel, grazing over the crease of your hip, the weight unforgiving. Your stomach somersaulted with anticipation and trepidation, the latter from having a loaded weapon against such delicate parts of your body.

“I want all your senses at their peak so I can fill every one of them with me and only me.” The gun dipped under the waistband of your lace panties, kissing your skin as it continued its trail across your pelvis now.

Breasts rising and falling with expectant breaths, your eyelashes fluttered yet your gaze never dared to leave his, afraid that he would stop if you did.

"I'll be gentle, slow and get you all warmed up and comfortable for me,” he continued, eyes flashing as if he was imagining it as much as you are. They're as red as wine now, the one you drank tonight that left you in the horny mess you were right now.

"I'll take my time with you. Map out your body, kiss you as much as you like, touch you however you want, tell you how much I love it all. I'll break you and put you back together again.”

You almost protest when the gun left your hip only for him to press the muzzle between your legs, the metal dipping into your folds and nudging your clothed clit, making your pussy pound and your legs nearly gave out.

He steadied you.

The pressure was not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel the pulse of your arousal against the steel.

“And you're going to take me and make me yours. But all that's only going to happen once I become your boyfriend. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let you take me when you're drunk too—with prior consent, of course.”

The gun and his hand withdrew from you a moment later as you were wrapping your head around what he said.

When you snapped out of your stupor, he was picking out his clothes for after his shower.

“Go shower and get settled in your room. We had a long night.” His words were so casual that you almost thought you hallucinated that whole interaction.

The muzzle of your gun glistening with what you knew was your slick told you otherwise, though.

[peachygelic]

Kinda weird holding back tears and being turned on at the same time 😭

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Nanami betrayed you. Toji blackmailed you. Now you’re done playing nice. You’re not the girl who falls apart anymore—you’re the one pulling the strings. And if getting even means letting Toji ruin you? Then so be it. You’re not here to be saved. You’re here to win.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Blackmail, professor/student dynamic, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, dubcon, rough sex, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, overstimulation, creampie, aftercare, toxic relationship themes, revenge, infidelity mention, Megumi humiliation, emotional fallout. MINORS DNI.

𝐖𝐂: 𝟗,𝟓𝟎𝟎

It’s been three days.

Three long, aching, breathless days since you walked into Toji Fushiguro’s office thinking you could win—thinking that if you just stood your ground, said the right words, made him see reason, it would be enough to save Nanami. Enough to save yourself.

You thought you could hold your own.

That he’d listen.

That somehow, he’d care.

You should’ve known better.

Because the second that door shut behind you, it all slipped away.

Toji didn’t even look up at first. He was sitting at his desk like he’d been waiting there all morning, legs spread, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up, collar open. He glanced at you from under thick lashes and smirked.

“This is blackmail.”

You stood in front of his desk with your arms crossed and your chest burning, trying not to let the tremble in your hands show.

His smile widened, lazy and amused. “Is it?”

“You can’t just manipulate people like this. You can’t hold this over our heads.”

Toji leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered. “I think you’ll find I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“We’re not doing anything else,” you snapped. “Nothing. It’s over. There’s no story here. You don’t have a case. It was a mistake. We won’t be together again. On campus, off campus—ever.”

He chuckled, low in his throat. “God, you’re adorable when you’re righteous.”

You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth to stop yourself from screaming. “I’m serious. If someone’s going to take the blame, let it be me. Just leave Nanami the hell alone.”

“Why would I do that?” he said, cocking his head.

Your heart kicked, but you didn’t back down. “It was my fault too.”

“No,” Toji said, dragging the word out, savoring it. “You were just convenient. Cute, sure. But not the first.”

The blood drained from your face. “What?”

“You’re the latest,” he said casually, like he was listing the weather. “Not the first.”

You stared at him. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” His smile stretched wider. “You really thought you were the first student Nanami’s ever fucked?”

Your stomach turned.

“He didn’t even know who I was,” you argued, voice rising. “We met through that site. It wasn’t… it wasn’t planned.”

Toji raised a brow, then leaned forward slowly, folding his arms over the edge of the desk. “That’s cute. But you know what’s funny about that?”

“Professors get the student lists before the semester starts. All of them. Names. Majors. Contact info. Photos. You think Nanami didn’t know who you were when he saw your profile?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

“You’re not some hidden gem,” he says. “You were on his desk months before he ever sent you that first message.”

“No,” you whispered. “That’s not true.”

Toji shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it wouldn’t be the first time.”

You blinked.

“What?”

A cruel glint flickered in his eyes.

“It’s his thing. Every semester—he picks someone. Some sweet little thing with straight A’s and something to lose. And then he waits. Times it right. Makes it look like fate. Makes you think you’re the one who started it. And when it happens, when you’re all wrapped up in it? He pretends to pull away. Pretends he’s ashamed. But really?”

He smirked.

“He’s watching you fall apart for him. Watching you crawl back. Every time he disappears, every time he tells you it’s wrong—he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

“He gets off on it,” Toji said softly. “Watching you risk your future for his cock. Watching you beg. Watching you think it’s love when really, he just likes watching you squirm.”

You shook your head. “No. That’s not—he—he doesn’t…”

“He doesn’t love you,” Toji finished for you, leaning back again. “He loves what you’ll do to feel like he might.”

The words sat heavy between you.

He sipped his coffee like he hadn’t just cracked your entire world open.

And you stood there. Frozen. Because some part of you, even as you denied it, even as you fought it, was already starting to believe him.

Toji exhaled slowly, shaking his head like he was genuinely impressed. “He was careful. I’ll give him that. Never brought it onto campus. Always met them off-site. Never got caught.”

Then, a grin. “Until you.”

Your throat burned.

“You’re the one he fucked in his office,” he said, gesturing toward the walls around you. “You’re the one who made him forget to be careful. You’re the mistake.”

You looked down. Your hands were shaking again.

Toji tilted his head. “And now I get to use that. Or maybe I just let the old bastard hang himself with guilt. Watch his perfect career crumble while I sip my whiskey.”

He didn’t look angry.

He looked satisfied.

Like he’d already won.

Like he wasn’t threatening you—just explaining how this would go.

You stood there, staring at the floor, breath shallow in your lungs.

You blink.

The memory slips away, but not the feeling.

You can still hear his voice. Still see the smirk on his lips. You can still feel the way the floor dropped out beneath you when he said you weren’t the first. That Nanami had known. That maybe it was never real.

And now, three days later, the ache hasn’t dulled. But it’s changed. Hardened. You’re not shaking anymore. You’re not crying. You’re not sitting in your bed with your phone in your hand waiting for a message that isn’t coming.

You’re getting dressed.

Not soft. Not sweet.

You wear black. Something tight. Something that hugs your hips and bares your skin and makes you look like someone you don’t recognize anymore. You smear eyeliner over your lashes. You wear gloss that shines like a weapon.

You grab your bag.

And you walk to the admin building like your heart isn’t broken—like it’s been replaced by something sharp and dangerous and willing to bite back.

Because if this is the game?

You won’t be a piece.

You’ll be the fucking player.

Even if it means using the devil to destroy the man who broke you.

———

The admin building is quiet. Too quiet.

It’s the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re being watched, like the walls themselves know what you’re about to do. But your steps don’t falter. Your heels click across the floor, steady, sharp. You don’t hesitate when you reach the office door with his name printed in clean black lettering.

Vice Chancellor Fushiguro.

You knock once. Firm. Not out of politeness—but so he knows you’re coming.

The door swings open like he’d been waiting right behind it.

Of course he had.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Not even a little. He leans against the doorframe with his sleeves rolled up and his black shirt half-unbuttoned like it’s just another Wednesday. Like he didn’t spend the last few days tearing your entire sense of reality apart.

His eyes drag down the length of you—slow, heavy. Like he’s tasting the sight of you with every blink.

“Figured you’d come crawling back,” he says.

“I’m not crawling,” you bite.

You walk in without waiting for permission. Close the door behind you.

And this time—you lock it.

That makes him pause. His smile twists just slightly. Amused. Curious. Dangerous.

“Well well,” he murmurs. “Kinky.”

He pushes off the doorframe and moves closer, slow like he’s circling prey. “What are you here for, sweetheart?”

You stand tall. Your heart’s racing, but your voice stays level.

“I want to make a deal.”

He laughs—short and quiet, like he doesn’t take you seriously yet. “We already made one.”

“No,” you say. “You made a threat. I’m giving you an offer.”

That stops him.

He tilts his head. Says nothing.

You take a breath and keep going.

“You want leverage? Fine. You can have me. On your terms. However you want. But if you want me, then you don’t touch Nanami. You bury the recording. You never say his name again.”

The silence stretches.

He looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s trying to figure out what game you’re playing.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face.

You don’t blink when he steps closer. When the space between you tightens. When the air turns heavy, electric, laced with something sharp and sour that sinks into your bloodstream.

Toji looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second he doesn’t smile. He just studies you—like he’s trying to decide whether you’re brave or stupid. Whether you’re bluffing or broken.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“After everything,” he murmurs, “you still wanna save him?”

His voice is low. Not mocking. Not amused. Just curious. And that’s worse.

You swallow. Don’t answer.

Toji hums like he already knows. Like he can see right through you.

“You think he’d do the same?” he asks, slower this time. “You think Nanami would lock a door for you? Offer himself up just to keep your name clean?”

Your jaw tightens.

He leans in closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “Do you think he’d beg for you, sweetheart?”

You want to say yes.

You want to scream it.

But the words get stuck somewhere between your ribs.

Because you don’t know anymore.

You don’t know.

And Toji sees it. Sees the flicker of hesitation. The second of silence that splits your chest in half.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, stepping back, smile curling again. “You’re smart. But you’re not special.”

Your fingers curl into fists.

But you don’t run.

You don’t crumble.

You lift your chin again, sharp and angry.

“Then take it,” you spit. “Take me. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?”

His smile is slow, eyes gleaming like a blade catching light.

He doesn’t answer. Not with words.

He steps forward—closer, closer—until there’s barely an inch between you, until your back is nearly brushing the edge of his desk and you can smell the coffee and smoke on his breath. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second, you think he’s going to touch you.

But he doesn’t.

His fingers hover just beneath your chin, never making contact. His voice is low when it comes.

“You say that like you’re offering me something I haven’t already taken.”

Your breath catches.

He leans in slightly, mouth near your ear now, his lips just barely grazing the shell of it.

“Every time you walk around this campus with your thighs clenched and your mouth shut and your eyes all glassy like you’ve got something to confess—” His voice drops, dark and amused. “—that’s me. That’s mine.”

His breath is hot. Heavy. You don’t move.

“I don’t need to take you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You already gave yourself to me the second you locked that fucking door.”

His hand finally touches your jaw—just a graze of knuckles—and it’s humiliating how fast your body reacts. Heat blooms between your legs like it never left, like it’s been simmering under your skin since the first time he smiled at you with that knowing look. Your spine straightens, but your knees threaten to give out.

Toji watches the shift happen in real time.

“That’s more like it,” he mutters. “Go ahead. Be honest.”

His thumb traces your lower lip.

“You want to be ruined, don’t you?”

You hate that you can’t lie. Not here. Not now. Not when your body is already betraying you, your chest rising too fast, your mouth parting like you’re waiting for him to fill it.

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

Because he already knows.

And when his hand curls into the back of your neck and pulls your mouth to his—when he finally kisses you—it’s not sweet. It’s not comforting. It’s not anything you’ve ever had before.

It’s ownership.

It’s the start of something irreversible.

And you let it happen.

The kiss isn’t kind.

It’s rough—hot, consuming, all tongue and teeth and dominance. You gasp into it, and he swallows the sound whole, one hand fisted in your hair, the other already sliding down your waist like he owns the blueprint of your body. His grip is unrelenting, possessive, like he’s waited just long enough to enjoy the moment your spine gives in.

You barely register the low thunk of your bag hitting the floor before your back slams against the edge of his desk. He presses into you, chest to chest, cock already hard against your stomach through the fabric of his pants, and fuck—he’s big. You knew it. You felt it in the way he carried himself. And now there’s no more guessing.

“On the desk,” he growls, voice gravel under heat. “Now.”

You don’t move fast enough.

He flips you himself.

Hands on your hips, spinning you, pushing you forward until your chest hits the cold wood and your elbows slide across its polished surface. You feel his hand on the small of your back, flat and firm, holding you down like he’s staking a claim. The other slips beneath your skirt.

“Bet you’re already wet for me,” he mutters.

And when his fingers slide against the soaked lace between your legs, he groans—low, guttural, dark.

“Fuck. You are.”

You try to bite your lip, try to stay silent, but your body twitches under him—hips rocking back just barely, without thinking.

That’s all it takes.

Then his fingers are sliding through your folds, two of them sinking into you at once like he has something to prove.

He shoves your panties to the side. Doesn’t pull them down, doesn’t bother with anything careful or sweet—just tugs enough to get access.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, pumping slow, deliberate. “You like this, huh?”

You choke on your own moan, nails digging into the desk.

“Like being traded for a secret? Like being used to cover his ass?”

His fingers curl.

You cry out.

“Say it,” he snarls. “Say you like it.”

You bite it back.

He withdraws instantly—hand gone, heat gone, and your body clenches around nothing.

“No—please,” you gasp before you can stop yourself.

Toji chuckles darkly behind you.

“There she is.”

You hear the rustle of a belt. The clink of a zipper. The sound of fabric shifting.

And then—

The blunt, heavy press of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, head catching right where you’re aching the most.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks, mocking.

You nod, frantic. “Yes. Just—fuck, please.”

He doesn’t wait.

One hard thrust.

He buries himself inside you to the hilt—so thick it knocks the breath from your lungs, the stretch brutal, delicious, overwhelming. You cry out, nails scraping across the desk as he grinds in deeper, holding your hips like you might try to run.

“You feel that?” he breathes, lips close to your ear. “That’s mine now.”

Then he starts to move.

Brutal pace. No mercy. Just the sound of skin on skin, the slap of his hips against your ass, the wet drag of your cunt gripping every inch of him like it’s never been this full before. Your moans turn helpless, high and ruined, echoing in the room like a confession.

His hand slides up your back, catches the collar of your shirt, and yanks. You hear the fabric tear, feel the scrape of buttons popping open. Cold air hits your skin.

“You like this better,” he grits. “You want it filthy?”

You nod. Desperate. Sweat slicking your back, tears threatening to spill from how deep he is, from the way he hits that spot over and over and over—

His hand slides down.

Finds your clit.

Rubs tight, punishing circles while he slams into you.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it to me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave of fire—violent, blinding. You scream, body locking up, legs shaking as you clamp down around him and nearly collapse over the desk.

Toji groans, low and ragged. “Fucking tight.”

You feel him lose rhythm. Hear the change in his breath.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna make sure you remember who owns you now.”

You moan, still trembling, completely at his mercy.

“Please—” your voice is cracked, ruined. “Please, cum inside me—”

“Yes, Beg for it,” he hisses.

He curses hard.

One last thrust, deep and rough and final—and then he’s spilling into you, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep as he empties himself with a guttural sound that shakes the bones in your spine.

The silence after is thick. Hot. Drenched in sweat and power. You’re still bent over his desk, breathing hard, your hands pressed flat to the wood, your body slick with heat and shame and satisfaction.

He’s still inside you—deep, heavy, pulsing slow as he drags out the moment. And when he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss. Not because you want him again—yet—but because the emptiness makes you feel it all over again.

His cum spills down your thighs in slow, hot drips.

You shift, trying to stand, but your legs are too shaky.

He hums behind you, amused. “Told you I’d make it worth your while.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you lower yourself slowly onto the edge of the desk, your bare thighs sticking to the cool wood. You can feel everything—the mess, the stretch, the ruin between your legs—and it should feel degrading.

But it doesn’t.

It feels like a win.

Toji grabs a few tissues from the box on the desk.

You expect him to hand them to you.

He doesn’t.

He kneels instead.

And fuck—you almost flinch.

Because when his thumb drags through your folds, slow and lazy, smearing his cum back inside you, your whole body shudders. He watches your cunt flutter, watches your thighs tremble, watches the way your hips twitch helplessly beneath his hand.

“Don’t waste it,” he murmurs.

You gasp when he presses two fingers into you again, spreading the mess deeper.

“That’s mine now,” he adds, soft but sharp. “You gave it to me.”

He wipes what’s left with a lazy, practiced touch. But it’s not kindness. It’s ownership.

You slide off the desk on shaking legs and grab your bag. You smooth your skirt. Fix your top. Pretend you’re in control again.

Even though your panties are soaked.

Even though his cum is still dripping out of you.

Even though he’s watching you like this was only the beginning.

You make it two steps toward the door before his voice stops you cold.

“You think this was a one-time favor?”

You pause. Don’t turn around.

“I keep my mouth shut,” he says, “you keep showing up.”

You glance back at him—hair a mess, shirt undone, cock still out.

And you smile.

“Who says I won’t?”

Toji leans back in his chair like he’s already planning the next time. Like he knows you’ll come crawling back. But this time, it won’t be because you’re scared. It’ll be because you want to.

You step into the hallway, raw and sore and glowing.

Because you’re done playing fair.

You don’t feel ashamed.

You feel powerful.

And Nanami?

He has no idea what’s coming.

You return to class like nothing happened.

It’s been a full day since you locked that office door behind you—since Toji’s hands were on your skin, his voice in your ear, his cum dripping down your thighs.

A full day since you stopped pretending you didn’t like the fire.

You’ve been quiet since. Not hiding.

Just waiting.

Letting it settle into your bones, letting the world shift just enough to feel like you’re the one in control now.

And when you walk into the lecture hall, it’s like you’ve been reborn.

Same seat. Same desk. Same room.

But not the same girl.

You’re not pretending to be soft anymore.

There’s a new weight behind your gaze. A new sharpness to your smile.

You feel it in the way people look at you now—like they’re seeing you for the first time.

You’re here to be seen.

And Megumi notices first.

He’s already in your row, lounging back in the chair beside yours with his legs stretched out and that smug little smirk that says he still thinks he has the upper hand.

“You’re back,” he says, like it’s funny.

You drop your bag on the desk and sit beside him, slow and graceful and just a little too pleased with yourself.

“Miss me?” you hum.

His smile grows. “Didn’t think you’d have the nerve.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say sweetly, turning to face him, your voice low and rich. “You snitched on me. Thought you were pulling strings. But all you did was hand me your father on a silver platter.”

He blinks. The smile falters.

“What?”

You lean in, close enough that only he can hear. Your lips barely move. Your tone is dripping in syrup and acid.

“I should be thanking you,” you whisper. “Because thanks to you… I got to fuck your dad.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Megumi goes still. His mouth parts—just slightly—but no sound comes out.

And then, without another word, he stands up and leaves. Fast. Wide-eyed. Like he’s running from something that just snapped loose in his chest.

You don’t even flinch.

You just sit back. Cross your legs. Flip open your notebook like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just shatter someone.

Like you’re already thinking about what’s next.

You hear the door open behind you a moment later.

Footsteps—slow, even, familiar.

Nanami.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t look up.

You feel it in your chest when he passes—like a ghost brushing through you.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge you. But you feel his gaze linger for a fraction too long as he moves past you.

He stands at the front of the room, briefcase already open, tie perfect, expression calm.

But when he glances at you again, it’s different.

He knows.

It’s burning in the cool way you hold your pen, the way your lips curl just slightly at the corner like you’re keeping a secret.

It’s shining in your skin.

And he doesn’t know what, not exactly—but something in you has changed, and it’s loud.

And Nanami feels it.

He feels it in the pit of his stomach.

And for the first time since he told you it was over—he wonders if maybe you finally believed him.

And moved the fuck on.

The lecture drags.

But something’s off.

His voice is steady, his notes are clean, and his explanations are as polished as always. Not because Nanami falters—he doesn’t.

You are off.

And it’s throwing him.

He tells himself it’s nothing. That you’re just back—finally—and maybe he should be relieved.

He tries not to stare. He tries not to think about the way your lips shine under the fluorescents or how your legs are crossed just a little too tight.

He’s unsettled.

Because the girl sitting in the front row, notebook open, pen between her fingers?

That’s not the girl he left standing in his office three days ago, shaking and tearful and betrayed.

This version of you is cold.

Beautiful.

Sharp-edged and glowing with something dangerous.

You smile at him once—just once—and it wrecks him.

Because it doesn’t reach your eyes.

And he realizes, too late, that he’s the only one in the room who knows how far you’ve fallen.

Because he’s the one who dropped you.

Class ends.

You pack slowly. Deliberately. Your fingers move with a calm he doesn’t believe. You can feel him watching you as the room empties out—his stare heavy, desperate, burning a hole into the back of your head.

And when the last student leaves, and it’s just the two of you again?

He says your name.

Soft. Tentative. Not like a professor. Not like a lover.

You turn around slowly. Raise your brows, calm as anything.

“Yes, Professor?”

He flinches at the title.

His jaw tightens. “Can we talk?”

You tilt your head. “About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

And you almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Because this is what he wanted, right?

Separation.

Silence.

Distance.

And now that you’ve finally given it to him, he looks like he’s choking on it.

You step closer. Not enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to make him sweat.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk,” you murmur. “You made it very clear.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up again. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes,” you interrupt, sharp but not unkind. “You did.”

You watch him struggle for a second longer—jaw clenched, eyes flicking across your face like he’s looking for a way back in.

And then, just before you turn to go—

“Oh,” you say, like it just occurred to you. “And you don’t have to worry about Toji sending the recording.”

His breath catches.

“I’ve got it under control.”

You give him a sweet smile.

One that’s all lipstick and fire and secrets.

Then you walk out.

Calm. Collected. Glowing.

And Nanami?

He doesn’t sit down. He just stares at the door like it might open again. Like he’s hoping you’ll walk back in and take the weight off his chest.

But you won’t.

You already did your part.

And now it’s his turn to fall apart alone.

You don’t go home after class.

Not now. Not since you stopped pretending to be the kind of girl who lets other people decide what she’s worth.

You should. You could. But your body doesn’t move that way anymore.

You don’t text Toji.

You don’t have to.

He doesn’t say anything when he sees you. Just gives you a once-over—eyes dragging down your legs, your hips, the smug little smirk still clinging to your mouth.

Arms crossed, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a cigarette tucked behind his ear like the picture of careless sin.

By the time you reach the admin building, he’s already leaning against the doorframe of his office, like he knew you’d be back.

Then he steps aside.

Door open.

Invitation clear.

You walk in.

Don’t speak.

Just wait.

Toji shuts the door behind you, slow and easy. Doesn’t bother locking it this time—like he knows you’re not here to play shy anymore.

When he turns around, you’re already by the desk, fingers grazing the edge.

“You were late today,” he says, voice low, teasing. “Was starting to think you were over me already.”

You glance back at him, expression flat. “I was busy ruining a man’s day.”

That earns you a grin. “Let me guess—Nanami?”

You hum. “Told him I had the recording under control.”

Toji chuckles, steps closer. “You’re really getting the hang of this whole revenge thing.”

You shrug. “Figured I’d learn from the best.”

There’s a beat of silence—heavy, pulsing.

Then he moves.

One hand comes up, cradles your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip like he’s remembering exactly how it felt when you moaned around him.

Crosses the room, slow and deliberate, until his chest brushes yours.

“You’re dangerous now,” he murmurs, almost admiring. “You taste it yet?”

You don’t answer.

Just tilt your chin up. Just enough.

An invitation.

His mouth crashes into yours like a promise—messy, brutal, already desperate.

It’s different this time.

Not because it’s softer. Not because he’s gentle.

But because you want it now.

Not to prove something.

Not to survive.

But because this is yours.

You want all of it—his mouth, his cock, his voice in your ear saying filthy things that make you feel alive again.

Your thighs tighten around his hips. Your fingers tangle in his hair.

Let him peel your top off, kiss down your chest, bite at the soft underside of your breast.

You let him back you up against the desk again.

And Toji?

Toji gives it to you.

Every fucking second of it.

His mouth is already on your neck, hands up your shirt, hips between your thighs like he’s got no plans to stop. He groans into your skin, breathing heavy, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You’re gasping before you can stop it, fingers tangling in his hair, legs tightening around his hips. You feel his belt press into your thigh, the thick line of his cock hard against you through the fabric of his pants.

“Toji—” you start, already breathless.

He kisses you hard—deep and rough, like he’s staking a claim. You feel him reach for your skirt, about to drag it up, when suddenly he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough.

You blink at him, chest rising and falling fast. “What?”

“Not here,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly.

Your brows knit. “Why not?”

He steps back, adjusts your top for you, then fixes his own shirt like it’s no big deal. But his jaw’s tight. His eyes are darker now. “I’m not fucking you on a desk again.”

You just stare at him.

Then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door without another word.

When you step out into the cool air, you pause. It’s still campus. Still public. And you glance around instinctively, nerves prickling at the back of your neck.

“Toji—” you tug at his arm, lowering your voice.

He stops walking. Turns to you slowly.

Then smirks. “Baby, relax.”

You blink.

His eyes gleam with something sharp, wicked. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

You swallow.

He leans in, brushing his mouth against your ear. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

You stare at him for a second longer—until he opens the passenger door of his car like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t insane.

“Get in.”

You hesitate just a second. Then slide into the seat, heart hammering.

The ride starts quiet.

Not awkward—just heavy. Thick with everything you didn’t get to finish back in that office. Toji’s hand is steady on the wheel, rings glinting in the sunlight, jaw sharp in profile as he drives like he’s not in any rush. Like he’s trying to savor this part, too.

You shift in your seat, thighs pressed tight together, still aching with the want he didn’t satisfy.

He glances over, one brow raised, smirking. “You always this squirmy, or is it just me?”

You roll your eyes, but your face burns. “You literally dragged me out mid—”

“Mid what?” he interrupts, voice low and smug. “Mid whimper? Mid grind?”

You punch his arm lightly, but he just laughs, a quiet, throaty sound that settles low in your stomach.

Then, softer—more real—he says, “Didn’t wanna rush it.”

Your chest tightens a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looks over at you again, slower this time. “You looked too pretty to fuck quick against a desk. Wanted to take my time. Make you cry a little.”

That shuts you up.

He smirks like he knows it. Like he’s proud of himself. Then he adds, “You worried someone was gonna see you, back there.”

You glance out the window. “…Maybe.”

He scoffs, like it’s the dumbest thing he’s heard. “I own that fucking school.”

You blink. “What?”

Toji shrugs, casual as hell. “Board loves me. Faculty can’t touch me. You think someone’s gonna open their mouth? Let ‘em try. I’ll make ‘em wish they didn’t.”

You swallow. “You’re insane.”

He grins. “Only for you, sweetheart.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You cross your legs slowly. “So… where are we going?”

He looks at you, eyes dark and amused. “Home.”

“Yours?”

“Unless you wanna get wrecked in a parking lot.”

Your heart stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gonna take my time. Wanna ruin you properly.”

And with that, he shifts gears—and your breath catches.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gonna take my time. Wanna ruin you properly.”

And with that, he shifts gears—and your breath catches.

His hand stays on the wheel, knuckles tight, thumb tapping slowly against the leather. He doesn’t look at you, not yet, but there’s something about the way his jaw flexes that makes your stomach twist. That lazy, dangerous calm he wears like second skin—it’s thicker now. Louder. It’s in the way he turns onto the main road like he’s not thinking about anything else but what he’s gonna do to you when you get there.

You sit back, legs crossed, pulse ticking under your skin. You try not to shift in your seat. Try not to let your thighs press together. But you can feel the tension building, slow and sticky, winding through the air between you.

Toji doesn’t speak. Not at first. He just drives—slow enough to tease, fast enough to make your heart race.

“You always this quiet?” he finally asks, glancing at you sideways.

You shrug, voice soft. “You’re the one who said you wanted to take your time.”

That earns you a crooked smile. “Yeah. But not in silence.”

You hum, letting your head tilt slightly, lips curling. “What do you wanna talk about?”

He huffs a laugh. “Nothing. Just like hearing your voice when you’re not moaning.”

You look away, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re wet,” he says easily.

You shoot him a look, but he’s already grinning. One hand still steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift like he’s not in any rush to touch you again. Like he’s making you wait on purpose.

“Cocky,” you murmur.

He glances over. “Only when I’m right.”

The silence stretches again—longer this time. Thicker.

You can feel it creeping back in, curling between your legs, heating your cheeks. It’s not the kind of quiet you fill with small talk. It’s the kind that builds pressure. The kind that makes you squirm in your seat and pretend like you’re not imagining what his hands will feel like all over you the second you step inside his house.

And then finally, his voice cuts through it, lower now. Rougher.

“You nervous?”

You pause, just long enough for him to notice. “No.”

He doesn’t call you out on the lie. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just nods once—quiet, settled. But the way his hand tightens on the wheel says something else entirely.

“Good,” he says. “’Cause I’m not gonna stop this time.”

The rest of the drive blurs. Not because it’s fast, but because the air is thick with things unspoken. Your heart’s pounding. Your thighs ache. Every time he shifts gears, the movement sends another jolt of heat through you.

And then he’s pulling into a driveway.

It’s not what you expected.

Not a flashy house. No giant gates or pretentious signs. It’s clean. Neat. A quiet, modern two-story tucked behind tall hedges, windows dark. Private. The kind of place where secrets are safe.

He kills the engine, and the sudden silence makes your breath hitch.

“You coming?” he asks, already opening his door.

You follow, legs a little shaky as your heels hit the concrete. The air is cooler now, sharp against your skin, but you barely notice it. Not with the way he’s watching you from the front step, keys dangling from his fingers, that same lazy confidence in every inch of his posture.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t wait for you to walk in first—he just steps aside, lets you move past him, lets his hand brush low over your back like a warning.

It’s warm inside.

Dim lights. Clean floors. A dark hallway stretching out ahead of you. You hear the door shut behind you with a quiet click, and then his voice—low, close to your ear.

“Upstairs,” he says, already moving past you. “Second door on the left.”

You don’t hesitate.

You walk.

And you feel him watching every step.

You reach the top of the stairs, your fingers trailing lightly along the wall like you need something to steady yourself. Each step feels heavier, hotter, like the air’s thickening with every breath.

Second door on the left.

You stop in front of it, hand hovering over the knob, pulse drumming at the base of your throat. And then you feel it—him. Toji right behind you, not touching, but close enough that his presence drapes over your shoulders like heat.

He leans in, voice low. “Open it.”

You do.

The room is… minimal. Clean lines, dark wood, soft lighting that throws long shadows across the floor. A massive bed in the center—black sheets, unmade. Like he hadn’t expected company, but didn’t mind the idea of it.

You step inside, heart climbing into your mouth.

Toji shuts the door behind you, and this time, he does lock it.

Then silence. Heavy. Almost too much.

Until—

“Take off your shoes.”

His voice is soft. Gentle. But it leaves no room for argument.

You kick them off slowly, feeling the shift in the atmosphere as your heels hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Come here.”

You don’t walk.

You drift.

Like your body already knows the way to him.

And the second you’re close enough—he touches you. One hand on your waist, the other sliding up your spine, fingers dragging the heat of the night right through your clothes.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice gruff, almost strained. Like if you say no, he might actually stop.

But you look up at him—lips parted, breathing uneven, already undone.

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

And Toji smiles like he’s been waiting his whole fucking life to hear you say that.

He pulls you in slowly, like he wants to savor it—your skin, your breath, the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re already bracing for the fall. His lips brush yours once—barely there—before he tilts his head and kisses you for real.

And fuck—it’s everything.

Hot and messy, all tongue and teeth and want. You gasp, and he swallows it. His hands are everywhere, greedy, slow, dragging up your back and into your hair, tugging until your head tips back and he can get to your throat.

“Been thinking about this,” he mutters against your skin. “All goddamn day.”

You arch into him, hands fumbling at the hem of his shirt, needing more, needing him, but he catches your wrists and holds them still.

“Let me,” he says, low and steady.

And then he peels you open like a secret.

Top off. Tossed somewhere across the room. His eyes darken when he sees you—no bra, no hesitation. Just you, standing there like you’ve already given yourself over to him and you’re not taking it back.

“Fucking beautiful,” he says, like it hurts.

He runs his hands down your sides, slow, thumbs grazing just under your ribs. You shiver.

“Lay down.”

You do.

The sheets are cool, but your skin is already burning, and when Toji crawls over you—knee between your legs, hand cupping your jaw—your whole body arches like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment since the first time he looked at you.

“Still nervous?” he asks, lips brushing your ear.

You nod. Barely.

And he smiles.

“Good.”

Then he kisses you again—deeper, slower.

Like he plans to ruin you piece by piece.

His mouth moves lower, unhurried. Down your neck, across your collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. He palms your breast, thumbing over your nipple until it stiffens, then replaces his hand with his mouth—hot, wet, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

You writhe under him, fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Toji—” you breathe, and it sounds wrecked already.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips dragging across your chest. “Say it again.”

“Toji,” you whisper, softer this time, like it’s not just his name—it’s permission.

And he takes it.

One hand slips between your thighs, pushing them open with practiced ease. He groans when he sees the soaked fabric sticking to your core.

“Fuck. You’re soaked for me already?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “That for me, or were you just thinking about how I said I was gonna ruin you?”

You don’t say anything—but your hips roll toward his hand without thinking.

That’s enough.

He hooks a finger into your panties, dragging them down slowly, deliberately, until they’re off. Tossed aside. Gone.

And then he just looks at you—like you’re art. Like you’re dangerous. Like he’s already addicted.

He spreads your legs with his hands, slow and steady, settling between them with a low, hungry groan. “Gonna take my time with this,” he says again. “Wanna learn how you fall apart.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot, slow, sinful.

And it starts all over again.

His tongue drags through your folds like he’s savoring it—every slick, messy second. He groans against you, hands locking around your thighs to keep you open, to keep you exactly where he wants you. The sound alone makes your stomach flip, your back arch.

“Toji—fuck—”

You grab at the sheets, at his hair, at anything you can reach because the way he’s eating you out is obscene. Slow at first, lazy licks like he’s just warming up—but then he starts to focus. Starts to learn you. Where you twitch, where you cry out, where your thighs try to snap shut because it’s too much.

And he doesn’t stop.

He flattens his tongue, flicks it fast, then sucks—hard—right over your clit until you jerk up off the bed.

“Oh my god—”

He grins into you. “There she is.”

You’re already shaking, breath ragged, heat coiling so deep in your belly it hurts. He doesn’t need you to come yet. He’s just playing. Just getting you used to the way he devours.

Then he adds a finger.

And another.

Curled just right.

It punches a moan straight out of your chest.

“Fuck—Toji—please—”

“You close already?” he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. “You gonna come just from this?”

You nod—desperate, shameless. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He chuckles against you. “Go ahead then. Wanna feel you come on my tongue.”

And you do.

Hard.

Loud.

Like your whole body gives out under the weight of him.

But he doesn’t stop.

Your hips jerk—too sensitive, too raw—but he holds you down, mouth still working you through it like he’s not satisfied yet. Like he wants more. Wants you twitching. Squirming. Whimpering under his tongue.

You whine, thighs trembling around his head. “Toji—please—s’too much—”

He lifts his head just enough to speak, lips shiny with you. “Nah, baby. Not even close.”

And before you can catch your breath, he’s moving again—fingers still deep, curling up, stroking that spot that makes you wail. His mouth finds your clit again, sucks so hard you feel your spine try to escape your body.

It’s overwhelming. You’re drenched, ruined, a fucking mess and he’s still eating you like he hasn’t had a proper meal in days.

“That’s it,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked. “So fuckin’ sweet for me.”

You try to grab his wrist, try to push him back—but he doesn’t budge. Just groans like the taste of you is enough to make him lose it. Like he needs this. Needs you.

And when your second orgasm crashes over you—louder, hotter, blinding—you scream his name like a prayer. Like a curse. Like it’s the only thing holding you to the earth.

He lets you ride it out this time. Slower. Gentler. Still inside you, still licking soft and slow while your body trembles beneath him.

You’re not even sure when the tears started.

But he notices. He always does.

“Too much?” he whispers, leaning up, dragging his lips across your thigh.

You nod, dazed. “Y-Yeah. Just… fuck.”

And he grins, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and says, “Good.”

And before you can even fully breathe, he’s crawling up the bed—slow, like he’s giving you a second to run. Like he’d enjoy it if you did. But you don’t move. Can’t. You’re still trying to process the way his mouth felt on you, the way your body’s still shaking from how easily he pulled you apart.

His hands find your knees. Spreads them again. You gasp, sensitive, and he just hums low in his throat like that’s exactly what he wants to hear.

“You’re not done,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Not even close.”

Then he leans down—one forearm beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh—and kisses you. Deep. Messy. Like he wants you to taste yourself on his tongue. Like he’s already drunk on it. You moan into it, arms coming up around his neck, legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.

You can feel him now. Hard, hot, pressed right against where you need him. But he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grind. Just teases. Keeps kissing you like he’s got nowhere else to be.

And fuck—you’re already gone for him.

You arch into him, whimpering softly against his mouth, and that’s when he finally presses down—just enough for you to feel how hard he is through his sweats. Just enough to make you twitch under him.

“Feel that?” he mumbles against your lips. “Been like that since you stepped in my office.”

You nod, dazed, breath catching in your throat as you try to rock your hips against him for more. But his hand shoots to your waist, holding you still.

“Uh-uh,” he breathes, voice low and thick. “I said I was gonna take my time.”

He leans back, just far enough to look at you. Really look at you.

Hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, skin flushed and glowing under his weight.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hands smooth down your sides, slow and reverent, like he’s grounding himself. Like if he doesn’t touch you right now—if he doesn’t feel your skin, warm and soft under his palms—he might lose it completely.

“You’ve been driving me fucking insane,” he says, almost like it’s your fault. Like you knew what you were doing every time you looked at him like that in class, every time you bit your lip and played innocent.

You open your mouth to speak, but his thumb brushes over your bottom lip again, silencing you before a word can slip out.

“Shh,” he says, gentle but firm. “Just let me look at you.”

And he does. Lets his gaze trail down your neck, your chest, the curve of your waist like he’s seeing all of you for the first time. Like he’s not just undressing you—he’s unwrapping something sacred.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Then he leans in again, presses his lips to your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone—soft, lingering kisses that make your whole body shiver.

“You feel safe here?” he whispers, mouth brushing over your skin.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, and you feel the heat in it—the promise. “’Cause I’m not letting you go tonight.”

Then he finally shifts. One hand slides under your thigh, the other steady at your waist, guiding your leg up around his hip as he settles between them. You suck in a breath, body already burning again, every nerve raw and humming. You feel him—bare, hard, pressed against your entrance—and your whole body aches for it.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not yet.

He just stays there, forehead resting against yours, eyes locked on yours like he’s searching for something in your face—something honest. Something real.

“You sure?” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like it’s costing him to ask.

You nod, already breathless. “I want you.”

“Yeah?” His eyes drop to your lips, then back up. “Say it.”

You swallow hard. “I want you, Toji. Please.”

And that’s all he needs.

He pushes in slow. Thick. Deep. Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and your nails dig into his shoulders as he sinks all the way in with one long, devastating stroke. He groans, head dropping to the curve of your neck, breath hot against your collarbone.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel… fuck, you feel so good.”

You whimper beneath him, back arching as he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside out.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

It’s worship.

Like he meant it—when he said he was gonna take his time.

Your hands slide up his arms, his shoulders, his back—grabbing at anything you can reach as the pressure builds all over again. His name slips from your lips in a broken whisper, and he lifts his head to kiss you hard, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to feel every part of you at once.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your mouth, hips rocking into you slow and steady. “All mine.”

You nod, dizzy. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “Fuck—Toji, I’m yours.”

And something in him snaps.

He picks up the pace—still not harsh, but heavier now. Deeper. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers threaded tight as he fucks you slow and possessive, like he wants you to remember this forever.

You will.

You already know.

Every drag of his cock, every breathless sound he pulls from your throat, every graze of his teeth on your skin—he’s burning it into you.

Branding you.

And you let him.

You want to.

Because this time, it’s not about power or revenge or survival.

This time?

It’s about giving in.

It’s about the way his mouth finds your throat again, tongue dragging slow over your pulse like he’s tasting every beat of your heart. It’s about the way your legs lock around his waist and stay there, shaking and tight, like you need him to stay inside you or you’ll come undone completely.

“Toji,” you whisper—barely a sound, more breath than word.

His name doesn’t even sound like a name anymore. It sounds like a need. Like a prayer.

He groans at the sound of it, hips stuttering just slightly, and that’s when he presses his forehead to yours again, eyes dark and raw and open in a way you’ve never seen.

“Fuck, you’re everything,” he mutters, voice breaking on the edge of it. “You feel—Jesus, baby, you feel like fucking heaven.”

And it should feel dirty. Should feel like something you’re not supposed to want—this man, this situation, this entire tangled mess. But it doesn’t. Not when he says it like that. Not when he looks at you like you’re something sacred.

You cling to him, gasping, shivering, blinking past tears you didn’t know were building. You can feel it building again, hot and sharp, curling low in your belly like a storm about to break.

“I’m close,” you breathe, voice shaking. “Toji—please—”

“I know,” he pants, hips grinding deeper, slower. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His hand slides between you again, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles once—twice—and that’s all it takes.

You come apart with a cry, body convulsing, legs tightening around him as the wave hits. It’s messy. Loud. Your hands scramble for purchase, fingernails dragging down his back as he fucks you through it, mouth on your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—anywhere he can reach.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl.”

And when you’re still trembling, still trying to breathe, he lets go—finally, fully.

You feel him pulse inside you, feel him spill deep, feel his whole body shudder as he buries himself to the hilt with a ragged, broken moan that sounds like it’s being ripped from his chest.

He stays there. For a second. Two.

Breathing hard. Holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

And when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to see your face.

Eyes soft. Lips swollen. Skin damp and glowing.

“Still good?” he asks, voice quiet.

You nod, dazed. “Better than good.”

Toji smiles. Really smiles. And for the first time, it’s not cocky. It’s not smug. It’s just soft. Real.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then don’t move.”

And he leans down again.

Kisses you like you’re his to keep.

And for a second—just one—you let yourself believe it.

His breath is warm against your cheek, slower now, steadier. His hand doesn’t leave your skin, just shifts slightly, from your thigh to your hip to the curve of your waist, like he’s mapping it all again now that the storm’s passed. Like he wants to memorize the softness that came after the ruin.

You blink slowly, lashes brushing his collarbone, and realize your legs are still tangled around his. That you’re still holding him. Still clinging.

And that he hasn’t let go either.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and quiet, lips brushing your hair.

You nod. A little too fast.

His fingers lift, trace the edge of your jaw, and tilt your face just enough so he can see you. His thumb strokes under your eye, down to your cheek. “You sure?”

You nod again. Then, softer, “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed.”

A pause.

Then Toji sighs—deep, from the chest—and rolls, pulling you with him until you’re draped over his body. One of his hands spreads across your back, the other tugs a blanket up over your shoulders. It’s instinctive. Casual. Natural. Like he’s done this before. Like he wants to.

“Good overwhelmed or bad?” he asks.

You blink again. Your throat feels thick. “Good,” you whisper. “I think.”

He doesn’t push. Just holds you closer.

Lets you breathe.

Lets you think.

Lets you exist here, on top of him, your heart still racing a little too fast for what’s supposed to be the calm after. Lets your fingers curl into his chest like you’re scared of what it means that you don’t want to move. That you’re not thinking about Nanami. That you’re not thinking about the mess. That you’re just… here.

With him.

And then—to your own horror—you feel it.

That flutter in your chest.

Small.

Annoying.

Warm.

Toji hums, lazy, lips brushing your hairline. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s too dry. Your thoughts are too loud.

Because he’s warm. And solid. And still tracing circles into your back like it’s second nature. Like he wants you to fall asleep on top of him.

And something about that hits you like a fucking freight train.

Shit.

Shit.

You shift slightly—just enough to hide your face again. To press your nose into the space beneath his jaw. To ground yourself in his scent before your heart does something even stupider.

Toji doesn’t question it. Doesn’t tease.

He just wraps both arms around you.

Holds you like you’ve got nowhere else to be.

And that’s when it hits you hardest.

You don’t want to leave.

Not yet.

His chest is warm against your cheek. Steady. Real. You curl in closer, one of your legs tangling with his, breath syncing up without even trying. His fingers move slowly up and down your spine, gentle like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence isn’t awkward.

It’s full.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. Long enough for your eyes to start closing. Long enough for his grip to tighten a little—like he feels it too.

And then, just when your mind starts to drift—when you think maybe, maybe this doesn’t have to mean anything—

He whispers your name. Soft. Barely there.

Your heart skips.

You tilt your head up, blinking at him.

His eyes are already on you.

And then he says it. Quiet. Careful.

“Don’t go back to him.”

You freeze.

Toji doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t clarify. He just stares at the ceiling for a second, like he’s working something out in real time. Like he’s already said too much but won’t pretend he didn’t mean it.

And then, quietly—gruffly—he says,

“I know you’re using me.”

Your stomach twists.

“Hell, I was using you too.”

You blink. Stay still.

“To fuck with Nanami,” he says. “That’s what it was, at the start.”

You don’t say anything.

“But then you showed up,” he murmurs. “Locked that door. Looked at me like you weren’t scared of what I’d do—and suddenly it wasn’t just about him anymore.”

There’s a pause.

“To be honest, I don’t know what the fuck this is,” he admits. “But it’s not a game now. Not for me.”

You glance up at him, heart climbing a little too high in your throat.

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps tracing lazy circles along your hip with his thumb.

“I don’t do soft,” he mutters. “I don’t do feelings. But… I don’t want to go back to whatever the hell I was doing before this.”

Another pause.

Then, finally—

“Nanami had you in his game,” he says, voice low. “But I don’t want that with you.”

His fingers tighten a little on your side.

“I want something that’s fucking real.”

—

@rjreins @jeankirschteinsimp @nanamiscsleeve @rissaaaaaa @mikrh-lizzie @tnaiis

[peachygelic]

Motorsport

Requested by @loldfghjkIllkjhgf sorry it took so long but I had a lot of fun writing, hope you enjoy.

TW: Manipulation, joking about murder, incorrect use of safe words (remember to establish them before playtime irl)

Tags: 18+ sexual content, x fem!reader, racer!jasontodd x racer!reader, deceptive bet, enemies to ???, light alcohol consumption, fdom!reader, dom!jason turned switch, self bondage?, handjob, oral (m!receiving), deepthroating, spitting, unprotected sex, cowgirl/riding, scratching, biting, begging, multiple orgasms (m!receiving), overstimulation.

Word count: 5700+ (not proof read so please let me know if you see something)

A/N: I wanted to try something new so I hope all ten of you who this gets to enjoy lol

Jason was pulled out of his car and patted on the back by his pit crew after his win, but you could only gawk at him as embarrassment choked you up, and a lump formed in your throat. Even the sound of the roaring crowd, cheering for the underdog, was drowned out by the blood rushing between your ears as it all sank in.

You had just been played.

The man had been coming onto you for as long as you could remember, so when he gave you a wager, it was hardly a surprise.

“You’re offering up your car?” Disbelief coloured your tone as you eyed him up and down suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

Jason stepped closer and you backed up, face screwed in confusion, and the usual hint of repulsion as he abruptly invaded your space. “I mean, I should get something out of it too, right?” He murmured while his eyes stayed on yours, a bit too intently for your liking.

“What do you want?”  The question came out dryly, and he wondered where that light and friendly tone you used with everyone else was. He had never been on the receiving end of that. All he got were hisses, sighs of annoyance and sometimes, when he was lucky, angry grumbles.

But none of that made him lose interest. Not in the slightest.

Jason's eyes dropped lower and landed right on your chest. The sheer white shirt you had on left nothing to the imagination, and the black bra underneath seemed to squeeze your breasts together and push them up, so they were nearly spilling out of the thin fabric. His eyes drifted even lower; he thought the skirt you had on resembled more of a belt, but he wasn't complaining. Not when it hugged your hips, just barely covered your ass and cut off just under it to show your thighs and your legs. God, he would never complain.

His dark eyes found yours again, and while he didn’t say anything for some time, the implication was clear.

 “No.” You were already turning around, but he was hot on your heels.

“C’mon, Trouble, what do you have to lose?” He was barely stifling his laughter, and that served to make your face flush with anger even more.

“My dignity,” You called over your shoulder, and you hated that he barked out a laugh instead of being offended like you intended. “And stop calling me that.”

He moved around you, forcing you to come to an abrupt stop, and you glowered at him.

“You won almost every race this season, and I lost most of mine. If anything, you should be jumping at the opportunity because I’m practically giving you my car.”

It all sounds too good to be true, and this is Jason we’re talking about, so you stepped closer and narrowed your eyes at him. “I. Don’t. Trust. You.”

He shrugged like that was nothing of consequence to him. “You don’t have to trust me,” he raised his hand, and his car keys jingled. “Just race me.” The logo on his keys practically winked at you, and you hesitated. 

He had a decent car. 

Oh, who were you kidding? He had the best car. The countless attempts people made at stealing it told you that much. Everything else about it told you even more. Most times, you wondered how he lost so many races with a car like that. 

Its transmission and braking systems were to die for. But even the colour was enough to draw you in. It was a deep, bluish black that was so glossy and sleek it resembled an oil spill. And its rims were silver and—

Shit, he had you.

As it dawned on you that there was no way you were going to say no, Jason lowered his chin, and his eyes glinted with satisfaction as if he knew it too. And maybe he did because when you reluctantly agreed, he didn’t even seem surprised. But there was another emotion too. Something lurking deeper in the blues of his eyes that seemed a lot like hunger, but you were too starry-eyed about his car to read into it more. 

And that was your downfall.

You underestimated him. And when his car zoomed past yours, all you could do was watch helplessly, wide-eyed, as he crossed the finish line first. 

And now, as people joined him on the track and women pressed to him and traced their hands over his arms, Jason’s stormy blue eyes found yours, and he grinned.

The fucker actually grinned at you.

You scowled in response, but it only made his grin broaden, his cheeks dimpled and eyes creased at the corners, lit up with so much amusement you briefly considered running him over with your car then stealing his.

Unfortunately, there are too many eyes.

You flipped him off, then ducked into your car and drove off. The road home seemed like a blur as you angrily muttered to yourself and used every curse you could think of. You got home in under ten minutes and knew you got a few speeding tickets on the way, but couldn’t bring yourself to care. You went to the kitchen and grabbed a cider out of the fridge, cracked the can open and gulped half of it down in one go.  You were stuck between sighing in relief and fighting a burp when your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

You fished it out, and when you saw the notification, all you could do was let out a brash laugh:

Toad

📍Location.

8pm. Don’t keep me waiting.

You send him the middle finger emoji and the response was immediate.

Toad

Don’t be a sore loser Trouble it’s not a good look.

That little—

You almost threw your phone, but decided against it at the last second because he wasn’t worth it. So, you exhaled deeply, rolled your shoulders back, then finished up your cider before taking another.

You went to the garage and washed your car, changed the tires and refilled the fuel. You almost did more, but unfortunately, you were a woman of your word, and a bet was a bet.

Or at least that’s what you told yourself as something akin to excitement made your chest tighten.

So, you went back inside and started getting ready. You took a bubble bath, one so long that your fingers pruned, and when you had to refill the tub with hot water, you knew you were running late.

Good. You thought.

It was only when you were positive you were at least an hour late that you finally got out. You lathered your skin with body oils, took your time doing your makeup and even longer doing your hair, so it wasn’t a surprise when your phone started ringing, then vibrated with notifications soon after. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. As you got dressed in a dark red co-ord, zipped up your heeled boots and sprayed perfume, it rang again.

You dropped your phone into your bag without so much as a second glance at the caller ID, and with one more look in the mirror, you were off.

                              ***



The time on the dash read 8:43 when you arrived outside the apartment building, and your lingering anger mixed with jealousy at how luxurious it looked. What did Jason, of all people, do to deserve this?

A tall man dressed in a tux with slicked back salt and pepper hair and an extravagant moustache to match emerged in front of you, and you flinched.

“Sorry to alarm you, madam,” he said smoothly. “We’ve been expecting you. Right this way.” He made an about turn and walked off, so sure you’d follow that that’s exactly what you did. He gestured for you to enter the elevator first, and once inside, he pressed a button. Then another. And another. And suddenly, the elevator panel seemed more like a keypad. 

There was a soft ding, then an electronic voice called out, “Going up.” The elevator ascended, and even as the buttons stopped lighting up, marking the last floors, it continued. Eventually, it stopped, and as the doors opened, your mouth did too.

“The Wayne suite, Madam.” The man gestured for you to enter, but you only peeked your head out.

What the fuck?

Even from the threshold, you knew you shouldn’t be anywhere near this suite because you were nowhere near the tax bracket needed to afford it.

And you were about to tell the man who led you here that he made a mistake when you see him. 

Jason sat on a couch, a black shirt stretching over his chest and dark grey sweats hugging his thighs as he manspread. His eyes were already locked on you, and there was a strange gleam in them as the corner of his lip tipped up in a smirk.

“You’re late.” 

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up, but when you stayed in the elevator, his eyes narrowed. “Are you planning to stay in there all night? I mean, I’m not against elevator sex, but—”

“Okay!” You cut him off and turned to the man, whom you now assumed was the concierge, “Thank you, Mr…” You glanced down at his nametag. “Sanders.”

Mr Sanders offered an imperceptible smile, and there seemed to be some sympathy there too as he bowed his head slightly. “Madam.”

 

You walked out of the elevator, turned to watch as the doors slowly slid closed, and Jason called out, “Bye, Alfred.” Mr Sanders’ impassive expression broke for half a second as he frowned, and you had a feeling he wasn’t a fan of Jason either, and that made you like the older man a little more.  

“It’s Sanders, sir.” With that curt correction, the doors closed completely and…you were left alone.

As soon as that thought crossed your mind, warmth feathered against your back. You didn’t even hear him walk closer. Then Jason moved in, and that warmth intensified into a fire that promised to burn you as his chest covered your back. 

Not alone.

A muscular arm banded around your waist, and he ducked his head, and goosebumps prickled over your neck when you felt the heat of his breath against it. “I thought you weren’t coming.” He murmured, then his nose grazed a line down to your collarbone. “Hm. You smell good.”

His deep breaths broke off into a soft grunt when you elbowed him in the stomach. “Pervert.” You hissed, then swatted his arm away and put distance between the two of you.

You sauntered to the couch and took a seat. The cushioning was almost too soft, and you stifled to make yourself more comfortable and set your bag beside you. 

Jason watched as your arms instinctively folded over your chest, and he tilted his head at you.

“You seem tense.” Your eyes darted to his when he spoke up, then you wordlessly rolled them. He hummed and walked to the kitchen. “You need something to calm your nerves.”

 Nerves. The word echoed in your head, and you scoffed. That would mean that he made you nervous, and he definitely didn’t. 

“What’s your poison, Trouble?  Wine, tequila, gin…the blood of the innocent?” He mumbled the last bit, but you heard it anyway.

“Funny,” you deadpanned while he snorted in amusement. “Water’s fine.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you knew you were lying. There’s no way you could deal with the asshole sober. So you shook your head.

“I take that back. I’ll have wine.” He stepped inside what you could only describe as a small walk-in wine cellar, given the dozens of bottles you saw lined against the walls. 

“So, you’re like rich or something?” You asked, unable to keep it in any longer.

“Or something.” He replied vaguely after a long pause. And your eyebrows furrowed as your mind went straight to him being a criminal. You wouldn’t put anything past him after all. “What kind of wine do you want?”

“The normal kind.” You heard a chuckle, and it made your hackles raise.

Why was he in such a good mood?

Oh, wait, you knew why. He enjoyed seeing you worked up.

He came out with a bottle, popped it open and filled two glasses before walking over with a spring in his step. His heels barely touched the ground, and he seemed giddy, like he was a second away from bouncing up and down in his excitement. He handed you one glass, and you watched as the golden liquid sloshed inside.

The wine had bubbles and when you took a sip, they pattered against your nose. It was crisp and fruity, and went down smoother than the ones you usually bought. You hated that it was so good.

You didn’t want to thank him, but you were raised better than that, so you gritted your thanks out between clenched teeth as he took a seat next to you. Too close. 

“That looked like it hurt.” He snickered before taking a sip, too. He put his arm behind you, resting it on the couch, and you moved forward when it brushed against your back.

“Jason, do you ever shut up?” You asked in exasperation, then gulped down the sparkling wine instead of sipping it.

“Not really, no. Though I do have a ball gag you can use on me if you’re into that—”

You slammed the wine glass down on the coffee table, and you knew the only reason it didn’t break was because it was probably really expensive. You were on your feet before he even finished talking, and when you whirled on him, his eyes shone with delight. You realised he wanted a reaction out of you, and you were giving him exactly that, but you were also too angry to control yourself.

“What was that?” He arched an eyebrow, so you barrelled on: “On the track. You’ve never driven like that.” 

He leaned back with a shit-eating grin and kicked his legs out in that infuriating manspread again. “I was motivated.”

“Bullshit.” You hissed, and he smirked in response. He was loving this. 

“I’m serious, Trouble. I mean, I love racing for the fun of it. The money, trophies and champagne are nice, but not really prizes that motivated me to give it my all. I could buy that myself if I wanted.”

And now he was flaunting his wealth. As if he couldn’t become more insufferable.

You were too busy making mental snide comments that when he suddenly stood up, you stumbled backwards, but the press of a hand to the small of your back kept you steady. You tried to move away, to put space between the two of you because you didn’t like how the proximity made you feel, but he wouldn’t let you. 

“But you?” His eyes roved over your body, and he bit his lip before he continued: “Now that’s a prize worth winning for.”

Prize.

Like you were some kind of object, he was entitled to. No different from a trophy.

Your jaw ticked, and when your hand lifted, he seized it in his before it connected with his face. His hold wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to make you pause for a moment.

“Too far?” He mused with mirth in his voice, and then the pause was over as you began to struggle.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch--”

“What’d my mom ever do to you, Trouble?”

He was so unaffected, so smug that you were even willing to use your non-dominant hand to slap him. Of course, he anticipated this too, and he gripped that wrist and pulled you forward. You crashed into his chest so hard that it knocked the air out of you, so you gave yourself a moment to recover. When you did, however, and you craned your head up to look him in the eye, all the amusement was wiped off his face.

“How long do you plan to keep doing this? Acting like you’re angry at me. Like you hate me.”

“I do hate you.”

“You hate me?” His laugh was humourless this time. “Is that why you came tonight? Why you chose to? Because deep down, you know it was a choice.” He added the last bit when your lips parted, ever ready to defend yourself. “Is that why you dressed up, did your hair?” He leaned, and the fruity wine mixed with cool mint as he whispered a breath away from your face. “Put on that perfume I like? Wore my favourite colour…because you hate me?”

You were silent. Silenced really.

Because he was right. As much as you hated to admit it and as much as he got on your nerves, you were attracted to him. No warm-blooded woman could deny that he was handsome. I mean, come on.

Anyway, while you were angry that he tricked you earlier, deep down, you also knew that there were a billion worse things than sleeping with Jason Todd after losing a bet. You could easily think of thirty women who would have gladly taken your place with a smile on their faces. And you knew that if you told him that you weren’t interested, even after the race, he wouldn’t have pressured you beyond that. He would have easily called someone else over instead. 

Why did that make the hairs on your arms raise?

“How would I know your favourite colour?” You retorted lamely because answering his questions seemed to be too difficult, so you decided to take the other route, to frustrate him the way he has been doing to you all these months.

You thought your plan worked when he let go of your wrists, but then his hand found your chin, and he tipped it up even further. 

Has he always been this tall? You wondered. You remember staring him down and looking down your nose at him so many times that looking up at him was strange.

Just as you were beginning to mull over that, he called your name. Crooned it, really. And not in the mocking way he called you every other sleazy pet name under the sun. It almost sounded earnest. Genuine. But Jason isn’t capable of that. Right?

“Say the word and I’ll call Sanders to take you downstairs.” He said simply, while you blinked in surprise. Not because he’s giving you an out, but more so because you didn’t immediately take it. You just stared at him and he only cocked his head to the side but didn’t rush you to answer.

Your chest tightened, and your heart seemed to stop in anticipation of your answer, too. At first, your brain chastised the mindless organ because the obvious, and smartest, thing to do would be to leave. Immediately. But it also knew that there was a thin line between love and hate. And you were definitely on that line. What you felt wasn’t hate, and it sure as hell wasn’t love either. It felt more like begrudging desire. 

Jason silently waited for you to make your decision, and as the white streaks in his hair glinted under the soft glow of the lights in the penthouse and those eyes zeroed in on yours while a gentle hand under your chin kept you from looking away, you finally made one.

Hands now free, you grabbed his face and pulled him down. You heard a mildly alarmed yelp when your mouth slanted over his, but his shock was gone within the next second as he bent his knees a little, cupped your thighs and hoisted you up.

Your legs wound around him and his hands palmed your ass as he hiked you up higher. You felt his lips quirk in a smirk as you kissed him, so you broke away.

“Shut up.” You heaved out breathlessly.

“I didn’t say anything.” He replied while trying, and failing, to stop his laughter.

“You’re such an idiot.” You grumbled as he started walking further into the suite, and he finally allowed one hearty laugh to slip out.

                                ***

Jason could only look up at you in surprise after you rolled him over and straddled him. You pulled your top over your head, and after finding his bearings, he does the same. He struggled out of his sweatpants next, and you paused at the look on his face. Determination, desire and desperation touched every dark feature, and you took his jaw in your hand.

“Jason, we’re only doing this if I take the reins.” He scoffed and began to pull away, so you gripped his jaw harder. And you knew you didn’t imagine his dick twitching against your inner thigh at your sudden roughness. “I’m serious.”

“I'm not exactly the submissive type, sweetheart.” He said with that signature smug smile, and you hummed lowly.

“Okay.” You shifted, but before you could get off him, his hands gripped your hips tightly. 

There was a silent standoff as he looked up at you and you down at him. You felt his fingers clench and unclench on your hips even through the fabric of your skirt, and after a moment, he bared his teeth slightly.

“Fine.” He growled in irritation. You shifted your hips a little, but the effect was damaging, to Jason at least. Because as long as you kept doing that, some stupid part of him considered doing anything you asked.

“You sure?” You seemed to line up perfectly with his cock and he hissed when he felt the heat of your pussy through the thin layer of your panties.

“Fuck—yes.” He groaned, and you bit your lip to contain your grin.

“Good, ” you hummed and trailed your fingers down his arms. You watched as goosebumps rose as you went, then turned your gaze back to his. “Put your hands behind your neck.”

He immediately started grumbling, so you made as if you were pulling away again, and he stopped. “Okay! Okay! Jesus.”

Ever the drama queen, he lifted each finger off your hips slowly, then linked them together, lifted his head and rested them at his nape.

“This is bullshit.” He mumbled under his breath, but you ignored that while you scooted back a little. He tensed under you, like he was going to reach for you again, but stopped himself when he realised you weren’t moving completely. You pressed your palm to his dick, now straining in his underwear and he huffed out a breath. You really liked that reaction, so you traced over the outline again, more firmly,  and his hips bucked up and this time he gasped.

“Oh shit.” He watched as your eyes darkened and fuck, he shouldn’t have liked it as much as he did.

“That feel good?” You mused and he nipped at his bottom lip and nodded, then he stopped abruptly, like he just caught himself doing something wrong.

“Goddamn, what are you doing to me?” You only smiled sweetly, and he licked his lips before allowing his own grin to break free. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Your smile only widened in answer, and he thought he stopped breathing. He loved it when you were angry at him. It made your eyes blaze and nose scrunch cutely all while you spewed insults that would’ve had any other man shrivelling into a husk of himself. But your smile? Your eyes lit up, even while there was a hint of mischief there, and your cheeks plumped up. They looked unbelievably soft. Like the rest of you. 

“What?” You asked and he snapped himself out of it. All he could muster was a dumb sounding ‘huh?’ so you arched a brow. “You have a weird look on your face.”

He spluttered, trying to find an answer for that, but then you pulled at the waistband of his boxers, and he gave up. Your soft hand closed around the base of his dick and he interlocked his hands harder behind his neck to keep himself from reaching for you.

You hummed in delight as he got impossibly harder, and your other hand came down on him too. Your thumb swiped over his head while your hand moved in a circle motion at his base, torturously, slowly, and his eyes closed. 

“People know you came up here, so if you’re trying to kill me, you’ll be the first suspect.” You shook your head at him because, of course, he still made jokes.

“Very funny.” You scooted further down his legs, and he didn’t have to open his eyes to know what you were about to do. The fan of your breath on his dick was enough.

Your choppy pants cooled down the precum that dribbled down his tip, but warmed it right up again as you closed your mouth around him. His hips lifted off the bed. You gagged. Then you took him deeper instead of coming up for air, and he whimpered. Your tongue rolled over the sensitive head, teeth scraping lightly along his length and lips puckering as he cursed furiously. His arms shot out, and his fingers trembled with the need to twine into your hair and control your movements, but he knew you’d stop if he did that. 

And that’s what held him back. Definitely not the creeping need he felt to not disappoint you. 

So he rolled them into fists and put them above his head. 

You swallowed around him and stroked the parts you couldn’t reach. And you let your free hand smooth up his thighs, over his navel, up the fine dusting of hair lined down his abs, all the way to his chest, then you dragged your sharp nails down again. Hard. 

A startled and slightly pain-filled gasp rang out, then, less than a second later, he came in your mouth. You hollowed your cheeks and swallowed it all down while he moaned long and loud.

When you sat up, he had his head turned towards his bicep, and you grinned down at him. 

“You okay?”

His chest heaved, and he was quiet for a while and just as you started to get worried, he cracked an eye open. “I think so. That was definitely a murder attempt, though.”

While you huffed out a laugh, he could only wheeze out a weak one, and when you moved up and pulled your panties to the side, he choked on it.

“Trouble, give a man some time to reload.” He complained, but you were already lining him up. 

“Red, yellow and green.” You replied simply, and his eyebrows knitted. “Those are your safe words.”

“You’re giving me safe words?” Your wetness had seeped through your underwear and coated your thighs a long time ago, and as you guided him to glide right against you, he groaned when he felt you drip onto his tip.

“Yeah. A little late too but I won’t tell if you don’t.” That was his only warning. 

You bottomed out, and twin moans of pleasure echoed through the suite. There was a bite of pain there too, for him because of overstimulation and for you because you didn’t take him slowly, but it only made you shudder.

Your eyes captured Jason’s, and even though neither of you would admit it so readily, something was being unearthed here. Firstly, that you two might be enjoying this a little too much and secondly, that it was so addictive that this couldn’t be the last time. 

Next time, he’d have you under him, he promised and distracted himself as you began bouncing on his lap so he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Your skirt bunched around your waist, and you were still wearing your heeled boots while he was completely naked, apart from the chain around his neck and the cross pendant on it did nothing to cool his skin as it burned up.

What was he thinking about again? Oh, next time he’d have you writhing and whining against the mattress. He’d hold you down just as you did to him with your hands plastered to his stomach and he’d fuck you until you both shook.

He’d—

You leaned down, eyes drawn to slits and your hair tickling his chest. “Are you ignoring me?”

Fuck. Did you say something?

“No?” That sounded like a question, and it didn’t do him any favours. You lifted your hips, and he whined at the sudden loss of you around him. Your pussy was so hot and soft, tight and—holy shit.  The noise he made when your hand curled around his dick tightly as you jerked him off with a ferocity that bordered on sadism was one he didn’t even know he was capable of making. Your grip was so firm it resembled a cock ring and he knew the next orgasm would be intense. He also knew that you were punishing him for lying. 

And he knew it hurt so fucking good. 

The pace had him gritting his teeth, his hands clasped together with the effort to not move them and when he saw you suck your cheeks in and a dribble of spit passed between your lips and fell onto him, he jerked…and came again. You slipped him back inside you so quickly, that’s where he mostly finished. And when you started grounding your hips against his again, his breath shuddered and eyebrows knitted.

“Colour?” You asked quietly and so sweetly as if you didn’t just snatch his soul.

He paused as he tried to blink away the dots in his vision, and you stopped, waiting. But then he licked his lips. “Green.” So you carried on.

You leaned down again and instead of asking him a question, you demanded something this time. “Good boy. Kiss me.”

Good boy? His eyes hooded. Oh fuck. 

Your mouths met in a clash of tongues and teeth. And his chest rumbled with a moan when he tasted himself on your lips. 

Liquid fire shot up his spine, and he broke the kiss. “L-let me touch you.” His eyes were wide and pupils even wider as they flickered over your face. “Please.” He added, and you nodded.

His arms sealed around you and held you to him as his hips bucked uncontrollably. Your mouth found purchase on his neck, and as you nipped at it, you felt the coolness of his chain against your chin.

Hands roved over your body, palming your ass, squeezing your thighs, sliding up to your hips, over your waist then to your back before his arms wrapped around you again. He held onto you so tightly that it was as if he was trying to anchor himself as his hips rutted up against yours harder.

You wedged your hand between your hips and rubbed your clit as heat spurred. As you did, your nails grazed over the topside of his dick, right over the long vein that ran downward. This paired with your scent all around him, your cunt choking his cock, your sweating body on top of his and your moans near his ear had him shouting with his release. And you were not too far behind him as your teeth sank into the skin of his neck before you soothed over the teeth marks with your tongue.

The two of you stayed that way for what seemed like ages and when you raised your head to look at him, you saw his hair sticking to his forehead, his flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. 

“Fuck that was…I can’t even—”

“I need the bathroom.” You cut him off, and at that exact moment, he knew everything went back to normal. 

Your expression was closed off, and he wanted to talk about everything, but he knew it would only make you retreat even more. So he unwrapped his arms from you and pointed to the en-suite bathroom.

You hurried inside while he lay there, sprawled on the bed, numb all over and sated as he thought about everything that had just happened. It was insane. And he loved it. Who knew he could come three times in a row?

A few minutes later, you walked out of the bathroom with your skirt pulled down properly and your hair looking slightly neater. When he saw you glance at your top on the floor, he clambered off the bed. “Oh, no you don’t.” He pulled you into his arms so easily, it was a little embarrassing and moved you to the bed.

“Jason? What the hell are you doing?” You asked as you struggled in his arms.

“You’re staying the night.” He said as if you were the crazy one and flopped you onto the bed. He knelt, grabbed your foot and began to take your boots off while you contemplated kicking him for making this harder.

“The hell I am.”

He looked up at you, and his severe gaze would’ve had anyone laughing in your face if you told them that you made him a blubbering mess a few minutes ago.

“You wanted to be in charge, Trouble. That means being in charge of aftercare as well. Or have you conveniently forgotten about that?”

 

Well, excuse me. 

Your lips pursed, and he got that knowing smile on his face that you hated and found sexy as hell.

“That’s what I thought.” He got your boots and socks off, then moved to help you out of your skirt. Once you were naked too, he pulled at the bed sheets and lay you down before covering your body with his, like a weighted blanket, and put his head on your chest. “Now rub my back.”

Even as you rolled your eyes at him, you let your arms circle around him. One hand fell into his hair, combing through it, massaging and scratching at his scalp then another rubbing his back.

Both of you were quiet for some time, and only the sound of your breathing and his pleased hums filled the room before he spoke up: “Well, that’s not how I was expecting things to go.” 

You groaned. 

“Jason, let's not talk about all that. Not tonight at least.” You pleaded and he sighed heavily.

“Fine.” He acceded, too easily for it to be true, and you knew he wasn’t done. “Tomorrow then.”

“No.”

“The day after tomorrow?”

“Jason, go to sleep.”

“Just pick a date first.”

Date? 

No, he didn’t mean it like that. 

A beat passed, and he lifted his head off your chest and looked up at you. “Do you wanna go on a date by the way?” He questioned, and you shut your eyes.

What exactly had you gotten yourself into?