#Acts of Defiance series

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

The unapologetic scrutiny sees Oliver shivering right down to his toes; the risqué thrill leaving him desperate for more as he pictures the sight they must make from the rooftop garden opposite. His ruminations don’t last long, however, and the sudden emptiness at his core incites a flustered whine, even as the low rasp of Elio’s zipper proves a slow-motion herald of what’s to come.

THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING (IS IN THE EATING)

With its three spindly legs and sleek, curving edges, the reconditioned baby grand is a great deal sturdier than Oliver first assumed, watching the fastidious moving team guide it up three flights of steps to their East Village brownstone apartment. It’d earned him a smirk: that absent-minded observation. Unsuccessfully hidden behind the blue, Columbia Lions mug Elio’s long-since claimed for his own. Yet seeing is believing - as his much-missed bubbe liked to say - and if the past four years have taught him anything, it’s that in order to trust in the improbable, one must first be prepared to embrace the absurd.

Hence the reason he finds himself bare-assed naked on the stately instrument’s cool, mahogany lid.

Grey tracksuit bottoms hobbling his sockless ankles.

Hitching gasps misting the lacquered surface as Elio’s nimble digits scissor his spit-slick rim.

The splayed-wide pads of Oliver’s fingertips are smeared with sweat: the tense muscles of his torso even more so. Gaining leverage is nigh-on impossible, and when Elio strums a ruthless staccato against his screaming prostate, the incoherent plea that spills from his throat has the other man chuckling exaltedly; eyes mischief-bright where he hooks his chin over his straining shoulder.

“You’re doing so well…” he murmurs into the riotous clatter of his pulse. “Uno spettacolo così bello. Tell me: how does it feel?” 

Oliver groans at the unexpected bite to his earlobe. “Sacrilegious,” he pants, all thoughts of structural integrity forgotten as a soothing hand cards his bedraggled hair. “Whatever would Bach have to say?”

Elio flashes a thousand-watt grin. “Oh… the Old Wig was pretty creative,” he answers sagely, angling his face for a clumsy kiss. One that tastes of Yakisoba chicken from the Japanese shokudo on the corner, yet dissolves like powdered sugar upon his tongue. “He’d probably suggest we try it andante.” A beat. “Or maybe a lively allegro,” he adds, skimming the jutting vertebrae of Oliver’s spine. “With a brisk vivace to finish.”

Oliver sniggers. “You’re a menace, Perlman…”

“Always,” he allows, mapping the field of goosebumps that adorn his flank. “But presented like this?” The floorboards creak as a jean-clad thigh urges his trembling knees apart. “All stretched and pink? Taking my fingers so nicely…” 

“Sweetheart, please…”

Elio tugs him impossibly closer. “You’ll take my cock too,” he says then, a simple statement of fact, then proceeds to squeeze his buttock once, twice, three times firmly; opening him further with his thumb. “You’re beautiful, mon amour.” 

The unapologetic scrutiny sees Oliver shivering right down to his toes; the risqué thrill leaving him desperate for more as he pictures the sight they must make from the rooftop garden opposite. His ruminations don’t last long, however, and the sudden emptiness at his core incites a flustered whine, even as the low rasp of Elio’s zipper proves a slow-motion herald of what’s to come.

“Siete pronti?” he asks, painting the sticky pearls of arousal around his greedy hole.

“I’ve been ready,” Oliver protests, the gentle nudge of his glans making him clench in vain.

Chapped lips return to the hinge of his jaw.

Sharp teeth worry the mottled bruise at his collar.

“Elio…” he hears, a blatant provocation before he’s breached properly, and Oliver grunts, choking expletives into the crook of his elbow as his tormentor huffs a bubbling laugh. “Elio… Elio… Elio…” 

His hamstrings are taut where he’s held spread-eagle. His scrotum growing ever tighter at the sense of utter fullness. Over and over, his lover thrusts within him. Over and over, Oliver chants the words in concert: hiccuping the other man’s name until the syllables blend together. Until he’s shuddering - splintering - his brain damn-near convulsing as Elio reaches to stroke his leaking shaft. 

“I’ve got you, mon chéri,” he whispers, circling the spongy tip through each rolling wave, and when Elio buries himself balls-deep - collapsing like a rag doll as he climaxes thereafter - the erratic thrum of Oliver’s racing heart beats a perfect accompaniment to the breathless I love yous peppered between them. 

[br0kenangel]

𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.

˚꒰♡꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, this shot is not following the series time, it's just a especial shot for you to have a glance at their future. Hope you enjoy!

The evening sun cast long shadows across the Great Hall of the Red Keep, where the court had gathered for a summons issued by King Viserys. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the anticipation of an impending confrontation. On one side of the hall, you stood, your gaze sharp and unwavering, with your sons, Aegon and Aemond, beside you. On the other stood Rhaenyra, her bastard children clinging to her skirts, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance.

Viserys paced the dais, his face a stormy mask of fury. His royal robes trailed behind him like a shadow, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. His anger had been ignited by a recent incident—a confrontation in which Aegon had brutally punished one of Rhaenyra’s bastards for mocking Aemond.

Aegon stood beside you, his face red and defiant, while Aemond, still shaken but resolute, clung to your side. The King’s voice echoed through the hall, a thunderous roar that made everyone flinch.

“Why did you attack that boy?” Viserys bellowed, his eyes blazing with fury as he fixed his gaze on Aegon.

Aegon looked up at his father, his chin held high despite the trembling in his voice. “He made fun of Aemond,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “He said terrible things about him.”

Rhaenyra, standing with her bastards clutching at her skirts, shot a smug glance toward you. Her expression was one of malicious satisfaction, her gaze clearly relishing the turmoil unfolding before her.

The King’s rage was palpable. “So you took it upon yourself to act as judge and executioner? Is this how you are taught to handle insults? By violence?”

Before Aegon could respond, Viserys’s hand shot out, clearly intending to strike him. But you moved with swift, decisive action, placing yourself squarely between the King and your son. Your posture was rigid, your expression fierce.

“Stop,” you commanded, your voice a steely edge that cut through the King’s fury. “You will not lay a hand on him.”

Viserys’s eyes widened in surprise, his anger momentarily faltering. “And why should I not?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

“Because Aegon did nothing wrong,” you replied, your tone unwavering. “He defended his brother from a child who deserved punishment. Her bastards should be the ones to be ashamed, not my son.”

The hall fell silent, the tension hanging heavy in the air. Rhaenyra’s smugness faltered, her eyes flicking between her own children and you. The King’s face twisted with both anger and confusion.

“How dare you speak to me in this manner?” Viserys roared. “Are you suggesting that I am blind to the truth? That my own daughter and her children are to be shunned while your sons are treated as paragons of virtue?”

“They are your sons!” You faced Viserys with unyielding resolve. “You may choose to be blind, but I am not. Rhaenyra’s children are the ones who instigate and mock. My sons are merely defending themselves. And if you choose to punish them for that, it is you who are blinded by favoritism and false loyalties.”

Viserys’s eyes flared with indignation. “Watch your tongue, Y/N. Such words are treasonous, and I will not tolerate them.”

“Cut my tongue if you must,” you declared, your voice rising in defiance. “But you cannot blind people like you are blinded by Rhaenyra’s lies and deceit. Rhaenyra is the one who bears bastards, and it is she who should be held accountable, not my children.”

The hall was filled with a stunned silence, broken only by the soft, nervous whispers of courtiers and servants. Viserys’s face grew red with rage, but before he could respond, you continued.

“I will not stand idly by while my children are mistreated. You want to punish Aegon for protecting his brother? Then do so. But know that in my eyes, you are as much a part of the problem as Rhaenyra’s misdeeds.”

Viserys, caught between his anger and the startling boldness of your words, struggled to find a response. He looked at Rhaenyra, whose face had now twisted into an expression of barely concealed outrage.

“Enough!” Viserys finally bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. “This matter will be dealt with as I see fit. And if any further insults or violence occur, there will be consequences.”

You met his gaze, your expression resolute. “I will not back down from protecting my children, even if it means facing your wrath.”

Viserys’s face softened slightly, but only in the sense of weary resignation. He turned his attention to Rhaenyra. “Get your children under control. If there is another incident like this, it will be dealt with harshly.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curled in a sneer, but she knew better than to argue further. She gathered her children, her eyes shooting daggers at you as she left the hall.

As the court dispersed, you gathered Aegon and Aemond close, your protective instincts in full force. You kissed both of them on the forehead, your eyes filled with both love and a fierce determination.

“Do not worry,” you whispered. “No matter what happens, I will always be here to protect you. You did nothing wrong, and you never should have to apologize for defending each other.”

Aegon and Aemond nodded, their expressions a mixture of relief and lingering unease. You led them out of the hall, your heart heavy but your resolve unshaken. For you, there was no higher calling than the protection of your children, and you would let nothing—neither court politics nor royal indignation—stand in the way of their safety and happiness.

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Part 4 ♡ Part 5 ♡ Part 6

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[lenaellsi]

“Crowley is still an angel deep down” “Crowley is more of an angel than any of the archangels” “Crowley was only cast out because he needed to play his part in Armageddon, he's not a real demon” “Aziraphale wants to rebuild Heaven to be more like Crowley because he’s what an angel should be” no. Stop it. This is exactly where Aziraphale went wrong.

Crowley is 100% a demon. He's not actually a bit of an angel, and he's not cosmically better than any of the other demons we see in the series. He's much less vicious than most of them, yeah, but he's also much less vicious than most of the angels, because how “nice” a celestial being is has nothing to do with which side they're technically on. Crowley's kindness comes from him doing his best to help people despite the hurt he's suffered himself, not any sort of inherent residual or earned holiness. He was cast out just like the rest of the demons, and that's an important part of his history that shouldn't be minimized, excused, or, critically, 'corrected.'

Being angelic is not a positive or negative trait in the Good Omens universe. It's a species descriptor. Saying that Crowley is still an angel deep down because he helps people is an in-character thing for Aziraphale to think, certainly--Job and the final fifteen showed that in the worst possible way--but it's not something Crowley would ever react well to, and it's the main source of conflict in the entire "appoint you to be an angel" fiasco.

We know that Aziraphale thinks Crowley's fall was an injustice, but why? Well, because Crowley is actually Good, which means his fall was a mistake, or a test, or a regrettable error in judgment, or…something. Ineffable. Etc. The point is, he’s special, much better than those other demons, and if they can fix him and make him an angel again, everything will be fine! (So once Job's trials are over, everything will be restored to him? Praise be!) Aziraphale has to believe that Crowley's better traits come from traces of the angel he used to know and not the demon he's known for 6,000 years, because that’s how he can rationalize his incorrect view of Heaven as The Source Of Truth And Light And Good with his complicated feelings about Crowley's fall.

But Crowley's fall was not an injustice because he's actually a Good Person who didn't deserve it. Crowley's fall was an injustice because the entire system of dividing people into Good (obedient) and Bad (rebellious) is bullshit. Crowley is not an unfortunate exception to God's benevolence, he is a particularly sympathetic example of God's cruelty.

And really, Crowley doesn't behave at all like an angel, especially when he's at his best. All of the things that he's done that we as the audience consider Good are things that Heaven has directly opposed. (See: saving the goats and children in defiance of God in S2E2, convincing Aziraphale to give money to Elspeth despite Heaven's views on the "virtues of poverty" in S2E3, speaking out against the flood and the crucifixion in S1E3, tempting Aziraphale to enjoy earthly pleasures because he thinks they'll make him happy, stopping Armageddon.)

Heaven as an institution has never been about helping humanity. And that's not an issue of leadership, as Aziraphale seems to think--it's by design. Aziraphale's first official act as an angel toward humanity was to literally throw them to the lions. Giving them the sword wasn't him acting like an angel, it was just him being himself. Heaven doesn't care about humans. It's not supposed to. It's supposed to win the war against Hell, with humans as chess pieces at best and collateral damage at worst.

Yes, it's easier to think that there are forces that are supposed to be fundamentally good. It's easier to think that Aziraphale is going to show those mean archangels and the Metatron what’s coming to them and reform Heaven into what it "should" be, and that God is actually super chill and watching all of this while shipping ineffable husbands and cheering for them the whole way. And of course it's easier to take Crowley, who Aziraphale (and the audience) adores, and say that he deserves to be on the Good team much more than all those angels and demons that we don’t like. But that's not how it works. People are more complicated than that, even celestial beings.

Crowley is a demon, and the tragedy of his character is not that he's secretly a good guy who is being forced to be evil; the tragedy is that he's lived his whole life stuck between two institutional forces that are both equally hostile to the love he feels for the universe and the beings in it. There are no good and bad guys. There are no "right people." Every angel, demon, and human is capable of hurting or helping others based on their choices. That is, in fact, the entire fucking point.

[miumura]

ᯓ VILLAIN NEVER DIES — HEESEUNG FIC ๋࣭

SYNOPSIS Heeseung was great at his job—you knew that as one of the biggest villains. So, without a doubt, he was going to have you cornered. At a weakened state, Heeseung tried to save you, rather than killing you. Why? Because he loves you.

PAIRING hero!heeseung x villain-gn!reader

𓍼 WARNINGS profanity, violence, quite graphic? ( blood /cuts / blade ; just more detailed ), both are in visible pain

GENRE a little enemies to lovers action, forbidden love, betrayal, angst, comfort (?) — WORD COUNT 1.8K+ ( 1855 )

NOTE no joke i woke up from a nap and started writing away 😅 BUT WOOOO FIRST HERO X VILLAIN FIC 🗣️ i actually had fun writing this one 🫡 !! maybe i should write more stuff like this … thinking about it !

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, taking a look at your surroundings once again. You took the wrong exit out of the building, feeling yourself panic. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Placing your hand over the fresh wound on your arm, you winced, uttering a series of curses under your breath. The footsteps drew nearer, and you found yourself trapped. "Oh, is our most dangerous and scary villain stuck?" You turned to see the city's proclaimed "best" hero, Lee Heeseung.

“Fucking hell,” you whispered, but it was loud enough for Heeseung to hear, making him break into a smirk. You backed away—only to fall onto the boxes behind you, making you close your eyes due to the stinging pain.

“You’re weaker than I thought,” You hear Heeseung’s footsteps approaching you, and you flutter your eyes open, only to see him with a huge smirk while holding a blade to your throat. “This is the villain everyone in the city fears about?”

"You're quite the cocky hero, huh?" You retort, maintaining unwavering eye contact. In response, he just offers a serene smile, seemingly unruffled by the exchange.

“Not cocky, just simply telling the truth. You’re less stronger than the other villains I’ve been able to take out myself.”

Now that pissed you off. Just as you were about to grab his arm, he pushed you down again, making you wince one more time. The pain from you colliding with the wall during the chase was coming back to you again.

You glanced at him, breathing heavily after your rough collision with the boxes behind you. The unmistakable sting of glass shards embedded in your skin added to your discomfort, each movement sending sharp jolts of pain through your body. “What makes me so different from the other villains?” you demanded, locking eyes with Heeseung as he stood over you.

Seizing the moment, you grabbed onto his arm with all the strength you could muster, pulling the blade he wielded closer to your shoulder. The sharp point of the weapon had already pierced your skin, drawing a thin line of blood. You pressed his hand down harder, feeling the cold steel bite deeper. Despite your effort to provoke him, Heeseung resisted, his grip tightening as he fought to stop you.

"Stop this," Heeseung said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. His eyes searched yours, looking for something beyond the rage and defiance.

“I think we both know the answer to that, don’t we?” you said, pushing the blade even deeper into your shoulder. The pain was excruciating, but you refused to drop this act. “You love me.”

“Shut up,” Heeseung snapped, his voice filled with a mix of anger and desperation.

But you could see the truth in his eyes. Despite the pain and the blood, you pressed on, your voice trembling. “Admit it, Heeseung. You can’t stand the thought of losing me.”

“Stop it,” he snarled, trying to pull the blade away, but you held firm, forcing him to face the reality he was denying. “I can easily take you out now.”

His voice was filled with frustration, but also filled with conflict. You clearly knew he was faltering, he just didn’t want to admit it as the supposed hero he was.

"Then why don't you?" you shot back, your voice steady despite the searing pain. "You already have me here, clearly at a weak point."

Heeseung's grip on the blade tightened momentarily, his knuckles white. But instead of pressing forward, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours.

"Because," he finally said, his voice low and filled with emotion, "I can't bring myself to do it. No matter how much I try, I can't see you as just a villain. You're more than that to me."

"You're weak," you taunted, though your words lacked the usual venom. You needed to understand his hesitance, to push him to reveal the truth.

"The most wanted villain is in your hands, and yet you can’t take them out because of your feelings?" You scoffed, incredulous at how he continued to play the hero. "I didn’t know you were such a softie."

"Call me a softie then," Heeseung replied, his voice steady but filled with earnestness. "Throw all the insults you want at me—just remove the blade, please. I beg of you."

You hesitated, your grip on the blade faltering. His plea caught you off guard, the raw emotion in his eyes breaking through your defenses. For a moment, the lines between hero and villain blurred, leaving just two people caught in a complex web of emotions.

"Why should I?" you challenged, trying to regain control of the situation. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because this isn't who you are," Heeseung said softly, his eyes searching for yours. "You’re not just a villain. I see the conflict in you, the struggle. You don’t want to hurt people. And deep down, I think you don’t want to hurt me."

“Yeah right,” you said with a shaky breath, you slowly released the blade, the weight of it falling from your hand. The pain in your shoulder was still there, but the intensity of the moment overshadowed it. “As if you can change me.”

Heeseung immediately tended to your wound, tearing another strip from his clothing to staunch the bleeding. His touch was tender, careful not to cause you more pain. "Thank you," he murmured, relief evident in his voice.

"You keep letting me off easy. I know you’re a better hero than this," you said, your voice edged with frustration and disbelief.

Heeseung sighed, his expression conflicted. "Maybe I’m not the hero you think I am," he admitted, his eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions. "Maybe it’s my tendency of wanting to save all kinds of people. Good or not."

You stared at him, caught off guard by his words. "What are you saying, Heeseung? That you think I can be saved?"

"I know you can be," he replied, his voice firm with conviction. "I've seen the good in you, and we both know that. You can keep lying to yourself, but we both feel something for each other.”

“Shut up,” you managed to wince as he wrapped your arm, the pain from your injury mingling with the turmoil of your emotions.

Heeseung paused for a moment, his fingers gentle but steady as he continued to bandage your wound. "Deny it all you want," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "But it’s the truth. And deep down, you know it too."

You clenched your jaw, trying to ignore the warmth of his touch, the sincerity in his eyes. "Why are you doing this?" you asked, your voice strained. "Why not just kill me, end this once and for all?"

"Because I can’t," Heeseung said, his voice breaking with the weight of his emotions.

"Then you’ll fail your mission. Your main goal," you coughed out, the effort sending a jolt of pain through your shoulder. "Getting rid of me."

Heeseung’s grip tightened slightly on the bandage, his eyes hardening with resolve. "No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "My mission is to protect this city, to save lives. And that includes you."

You scoffed, "You can’t save everyone, Heeseung. Sometimes, you have to let go."

"I’m not letting go of you," he replied, his voice fierce. "Not now, not ever."

"Why?" you demanded, frustration and confusion mingling with the pain. "Why can’t you just do your job and get rid of me?"

"Because," Heeseung said, his voice softening, "you’re not just a mission to me. You’re someone I care about. And I refuse to believe that you’re beyond saving."

Your breath caught in your throat, the sincerity in his eyes almost too much to bear. "You’re risking everything for me," you whispered. "For what? A chance that I might change?"

"Yes," Heeseung said without hesitation. "I believe in that chance. I believe in you."

You shut your eyes, refusing to speak anymore. You knew if you continued, your facade would crumble, and you wouldn’t want to appear weak in front of a hero who claimed to have so much faith in you.

"You sure have some nerve to have faith in someone like me," you muttered bitterly, keeping your eyes closed.

"So what?" Heeseung replied, his voice unwavering. "Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, regardless of their past."

"A villain never dies," you retorted, your tone laced with defiance.

"What—" Heeseung started, but you cut him off before he could finish his thought. Without hesitation, you seized the blade he had discarded on the side and lunged at him, stabbing him in the side. He gasped in shock and pain, his eyes widening with betrayal as he stumbled back, clutching his wound.

For a moment, you stood frozen, watching as the reality of what you had done sank in. Heeseung’s expression was a mixture of shock, hurt, and disbelief, and each emotion felt like a dagger to your own heart.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. But your apology fell on deaf ears as Heeseung staggered backwards, his eyes never leaving yours.

You knew you felt terrible, and you usually don’t.

You can’t.

Emotions were supposed to be reserved for the weak, for those who had the luxury of feeling. All you had left in you was hatred. And you knew Heeseung didn’t believe that though. He just had seen you like everyone else, a person with emotions and feelings.

But you can’t listen to him. You’ve already fallen so deep in your ways. You couldn’t allow yourself to believe in that possibility. You had fallen too deep into your ways, too far gone to be saved, even if he claimed otherwise.

"YN, why?" Heeseung's voice rang out behind you, filled with hurt and confusion.

"A villain never dies, Heeseung," you replied coldly, steeling yourself against the emotions threatening to surface. You reverted to the persona you had carefully crafted. “Did I just not tell you that?”

"Next time, get me with no intentions to keep me alive," you added, your voice devoid of any warmth or remorse.

"But—" Heeseung started, but you cut him off, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

"Heeseung, you’re smarter than this," you said sharply, your tone cutting through the night air like a knife. Before you could lose your resolve, you turned away, the pain of your actions heavy in your heart.

But before you could disappear into the darkness, you paused, turning back to face him one last time. "You’ve built up this fantasy, thinking we could make things work just because I’ve opened up to you a couple of times," you said, your voice tinged with bitterness. "And even if you want to change things, no one can approve of us. I’ve done too much harm, and you have to stop me from hurting your people."

You looked at him, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. "Villains and heroes are never meant to be together," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “You know that very well.”

💬 : too much angst lately sorry guys ive been going thru it 😣 fluff soon !!!! (maybe)

ENHA PERM TAGLIST (1) — @flwoie @ixomiyu @haruavrse @shinsou-rii @bearseulgs @ilovewonyo @yenqa @dimplewonie @bubblytaetae @wtfhyuck @ineedaherosavemeenow @ml8dy @starikizs @wonioml @chirokookie @xiaoderrrr @neozon3nha @en-chantedtomeetyou @millksea @enhaz1 @eundiarys @hyeosi @ja4hyvn @judeduartewannabe @j-wyoung @thia-aep @vampcharxter @softpia @officiallyjaehyuns @itsactuallylina @hsheart @sweetjaemss @ahnneyong @hanienie @jwnghyuns @kpoplover718 @jiawji @rikizm @haknom @yeokii @wvnkoi @whoschr @teddywonss @shinunoga-iie-wa @isoobie @skzenhalove @misokei @s00buwu @ox1-lovesick @miercerise @litttlestars @enhapocketz

[futureplayboibunnie]

Heartless Pt. 4

Mafia Boss! Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

You and Miguel are married to each other…and it wasn’t because of love.

thank you for all the love so far! also this is my personal touch for this fic, but while i was writing it i was listening to the entire Honeymoon album by lana del rey (especially the instrumentals) i’d recommend listenting to it. it fits this vibe so perfectly, literally trying to encapsulate that feeling with this series.

“I'm in the middle of something.” You piped up nonchalantly, like being half naked and dripping with water in front of men was a completely normal occurrence. “Well, now that you're here, it would be nice if you were helpful by getting my bags.” You said with a wry, and slightly pissed-off smile. He just observed you with darkened eyes and a grinding jaw, if he pressed harder you would practically hear the bones crunch together. The look you gave him was an urging one. “So what will it be? Gaping at me blankly or being mildly helpful?” Your tone was aggravating, grating the inside of his head- your glib comments were making him realize that you were actually capable of disrespecting him.

Miguel didn't know what to make of you in his room like this, acting as if it were your own. It wasn't. But you were married now. Technically, what was his was yours. He didn't like it. He sneered, his features merely angry slashes contorting up his face. “I'm not your sniffer dog.” He barked, storming out of the room and slamming the door so hard that it closed and sprung back open. You rolled your eyes at his outburst, but you had to admit, it was a little unnerving to see him lose his temper that quickly. Miguel huffed, grabbed your stupid bag, and slammed the door open like a bull in a china shop. “Here, and get out of the room. It's mine.”

“What? I was in here first.” You protested in vain, you were the one who was dragged away on a honeymoon, you were the one who was being ordered around like a stuck-up child. The least he could do was let you sleep wherever you wanted to sleep.

“Well, I own the fucking building.” Miguel bit back deadpan, his voice flat and so sadistically arrogant, like money was all that made him. It was an insult to the whole idea of humanity to rely on something as belittling as money.

Miguel's head was storming, dissecting every single premonition about you and how you could so easily flip on him, he would tolerate your disrespect for now, you hadn't properly settled in yet, but if you made it a habit, he'd make you regret it. It should be funny, Miguel was so proper and particular about his women. There were things he liked and didn't like on women. He hated flats. He only liked certain colors. He hated jeans. He liked skirts and dresses for...easy access. He liked his women easy, and you were definitely not easy. You were making it difficult for him on purpose now. But for some reason, defiance suited you more than nonchalant complacency. It was more entertaining than the graceful, polite facade you shirked up.

“Can I put my clothes on now?” You objected, snapping him out of his pondering, looking like an idiot just glaring at you like this.

Part of him wanted to say ‘Well. No. I'd prefer you with nothing on actually.' His steely resolve almost broke at the realization, but he shook his head and pushed it down. Yes, you were attractive but your personality was a mystery for him, he was battling his own personal mysteries, and he didn't have time to psychoanalyze anyone elses.

-

You slept...okay. Miguel didn't disturb you or actually force you out of his room which was odd. He probably had enough of this senseless bickering, you'd probably just go back to ignoring each other, maybe at least try to independently enjoy this stupid 'honeymoon.’

The sun woke you up sweetly, and the soft gentle breeze billowed through the open curtains, offering the hum of salt air whispering through the room. You wanted to avoid Miguel as long as you could, so you decided to just go in the garden, sunbathe, read a book, do something meaningless to just forget about the fact you're married to one of the most dangerous men you've ever met.

You practically jumped out of bed, went to the bathroom, splashed your face with water, brushed your hair, and put it up in a claw clip with the speed of an Olympic runner. But what was all the hurrying for when you were completely stumped on what to wear? You tossed out your clothes and put them all away, you ultimately decided to wear a bikini and on top a cute mid-thigh sundress, you weren't going anywhere too fancy, the back garden wasn't exactly Paris fashion week. When you glanced outside the terrace, you were happy to see that the garden was adorned with carefully cut shrubs, willowing trees, orchids, and chrysanthemums. Considering Miguel rarely leaves for leisure, it was a surprise that is was being kept up - it must have meant a lot to him then. You grabbed your things and opened the door quietly, wanting to sneak out as soundlessly as possible in order not to attract attention from Miguel, or worse, be the reason to wake him up.

You padded away barefoot, feeling the warmth of the sun outside surround you as it seeped through every glass window.

Even though Miguel told you to get used to his lifestyle, you still hadn't settled in, something just didn't sit quite right with you. You were fortunate enough to come from a wealthy family but the way Miguel wasn't bothered by the sheer amount of blood money he acquired is...distasteful. Thinking of which, you peeked your head around the corner in order to see if Miguel was awake but instead you found something else. He wasn't in bed at all. He was asleep, his hands were crossed on the kitchen counter and his head was flat on his upper arm, fast asleep with his laptop open in front of him Jesus. He still hadn't changed. What was it with men not wanting to take care of themselves?

You shifted towards him, inching closer and closer to his sleeping form. Wow. He almost looked peaceful, not full of that mindless aggression he was known for. His copper hair was tousled and disheveled, his golden skin was creased but reflective against the light, and his breathing was slow and heavy- it was odd seeing him this relaxed when he wasn't even in a relaxing position in the first place. You raised an eyebrow at his disposition. Maybe Miguel wanted to outsmart and outwit sleep, he obviously had to succumb to its charms. You worked your way around the kitchen island, unable to stop looking at him like this, you grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and just stood and stared at him like a creep. You really should leave before he wakes up, but you didn't want him sending his capos combing the entire complex for you, so you just left him a note.

In the garden.

-

Miguel heard a gunshot.

It reverberated in his ears.

More gunshots. Thousands of rounds smoking away.

His eyes widened, and the sleep left his bones. His head spun around, shifting erratically, and he almost fell off the fucking chair. A tight anxiety squeezed the color out of his face, the heavy breaths wouldn't bring any solance to any of the fragments falling at his palms. His chest filled with panic, and the first thing that came into his head to find was you. He eyed your note and rushed down as fast as he could. He needed to get you out of here.

But then all he heard was silence when he stepped out onto the patio. A muffling silence. Then the sharp hum of wildlife, the birds chirping, the distant sounds of the beach, the flattening waves. The crickets trilled and the leaves rustled, the nostalgia of the oddly familiar sounds crept up on him like a disillusioning shadow. An itch he couldn't scratch. A never-ending nightmare he couldn't end. A man with everything he could ever want, but no clear consciousness, no clear mind. He was blind and tortured.

You were lying on a sunbed, and Miguel only caught onto your back and a little bit of your side profile. His eyes were dead set on you, contemplating you...and there you are, emerging in his eyeline. Those flashes of skin become a painting, a jigsaw puzzle coming together. He was slow in his movements, finally viewing you as you were. You were lying there, glowing in a small bikini, taking in the sun like a nymph. Your body was so….

Miguel frowned.

The apple you bit into was stuck to your teeth, you stopped everything you were doing, pausing for your eyes to follow from Miguel's thighs to his face. This was the moment where he saw you as if you were like a deer in headlights, like a naive girl who tries to hide behind back-talk and retaliation. The wide-eyed look you gave him, pupils glazing over, revealing no thought behind your eyes. But he saw you. He saw you being affected by his presence. He felt himself loom over you. Your eyebrows creased in pensive irritation, Miguel's face was hard and steely in something he couldn't quite define. You finished biting into the apple, chewing and just giving him a nonchalant look. Reverting back like second instinct.

“Did you rush out here to gawk at me again? Or to blame me for your lack of sleep?” You breathed out judgementally, but at that moment, the way your eyes connected sent a strange chill down your spine, even when you were lying out in the sun. Miguel felt it too. The scorching, pulsating beat behind your gaze was a never-ending maze, an attempt to figure out who was going to break first. Neither of you was willing to back down. It was sizzling…as wellias unsettling.

Miguel didn't know how to answer your question. He couldn't exactly tell you that his nightmares of the most traumatic thing that's ever happened to him tricked his head into believing he was hearing the remnants of it in real time. Part of him wanted to say yes to both. His sleep schedule was a nightmare in itself and the woman who is the bane of his existence has to be looking so...delicious when he was absolutely not in the mood. He wanted you with nothing on, maybe force you to look at him the exact same way he just found you...with his hand between your thighs.

Miguel shook the annoying, sleep-induced thought away. He was acting like every other man, their mind wandering to hell when they see any attractive woman- he won't fall for it. He won't. But you weren’t any other woman were you?

Miguel watched you bite into the apple and instinctively, he just grabbed it from your mouth, almost pulling at it. He watched your face flit into a multitude of different emotions at what he did. You opened your mouth to say something but you just huffed instead, glaring a hole into his face. Miguel took a bite out of it and tilted his head to contemplate you. He knew he shocked you.

You were really fuckable.

Extremely fuckable.

It was an objective statement.

But he still won't play into it. Nah. You wouldn’t be able to fix him. He was too damaged for you. He wouldn’t mind the primitive pleasure of fucking you. He just won’t do it. You weren’t as nice as before. You’d grown a smart mouth.

“Hm.” That was all he could say to you. “I want my room back.” His fingers reached out and tilted your chin up a little, he felt you flinch just a millisecond and that expression on your face was unamused, dead set looking up at him. It felt like you were holding your breath. He took another bite out of the apple. "Happy sunbathing carino." He yelled behind him as he walked away.

-

taglist (giggles) : @deputy-videogamer @aisyakirmann @idolautism @residentialcryptid @bunnyrose01 @hqllcheers @minalovesyoubabes @amelialysm @moonvoidpng @ahano @hanberkkk @lavenderslemonade @mynameiswilliamblake @gejo333 @leahnicole1219 @iite-cool @zaunsin @kkchgee @yujyujj @hazelnutbitch @hiraya1802 @leo-lvr @sh4nn @watyousayin @siidmm @ciwywt-com @death-moth-art @ihateuguys @enmuhusben @berry-potchy @s0lm1n @amelialysm @migueloharastruelove @lauraolar14 @tashames @soymiguelsesposa @noblesavagex @miguelsslutprincess @lilipads (sometimes i hate this fkn app it literally doensn’t let me tag other ppl why)

[whereireid]

* ੈ✩‧₊˚ — 𝐒𝐄𝐗 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 | masterlist

pairing: tonowari x omatikaya!fem reader

series masterlist | avatar masterlist

wordcount: 2.5k — warnings: power imbalance? oral sex (m receiving), sexually naive reader, coercion, first time blowjobs, guidance, small mentions of drugging (side effect of the pollen) declarations of love, one sided pining, age gap, dead ronal, reader is Jake’s adult daughter | PSA: You’re responsible for your own media consumption. 18+ + under my #womnsfw tag. MDNI.

summary: To thank Tonowari for allowing your family into the Metkayina clan, you gift him a flower that you had picked from the forest before you fled your home. What you don’t realise is the the flower becomes toxic when near water, and Tonowari is experiencing all of the side effects: being left with a hard ache in his pants, and an overwhelming desire for relief.

—

“What is this, little one?” There’s a beat of hesitancy from Tonowari, whose light blue eyes scan your yellow ones in confusion. “I have not seen this before.”

“This is an irayo flower,” you tell him gently, your ears pricking upwards slightly as he clasps the flower in his big hands, examining it carefully. “It is a gift. I’m very grateful you’ve allowed my family to stay here.”

Tonowari clears his throat, satisfied with your answer. He holds the flower gently, appreciative of the pink and purple hues, his eyes flickering up to scan the horizon. He wonders how many flowers you must have picked before you fled your home. He can only imagine the pain you must be in, the grief - leaving your clan behind and everything you once knew, with nothing but flowers and trinkets to hold your memories.

“Thank you. It’s… lovely,” Tonowari nods his head in acknowledgement, trying ignore how his heart clenches in his chest as your lips quirk upwards into a gentle smile, relief washing over your features. “But it is getting dark, little one, and your father may be growing worried by your absence. JakeSully does not strike me as the type of man to appreciate defiance.”

You nod your head, eyes flickering between the Metkayinan leader and his flower, pleased that he accepted your act of gratitude. You turn heel, bidding him a meek farewell, before scurrying off to your family hut, excited to tell your father about your day.

—

Two days later, you are in Tonowari’s presence again, only this time, he does not appear pleased, and certainly does not look kind. There’s a stern look on his face as he approaches you - his lips are set in a thin line, and his body is tense, his eyes unwavering as they stare directly into yours.

“That flower is poisonous. You have gifted me a poisonous flower.” Tonowari declares, his lips curling in disgust as he shoves the flower in your face, before crumbling it into his hand. A wave of disappointment shoots through you as it falls to the floor, looking bent and pathetically broken. “I have been kind to your family, and this is how you have repaid me?”

You frown, shaking your head as you stare down at the flower. “No. You’re - you’re wrong - I gifted you an irayo flower. It is said to promote peace and to help bring comfort.”

“Comfort?” Tonowari seethes, so loudly that it sounds like a hiss, and your body stills when you notice his ears pinning threateningly against his head. “It has done the opposite of bringing me comfort. In fact, I am in incredible pain.”

Your own ears flitter backwards, your head bowing downwards in fear, and his heart pulls because he doesn’t wish to scare you, but he is terrible discomfort. Even simply suggesting to you that he is in pain is a massive understatement. Ever since being in possession of that stupid flower (which he couldn’t stop sniffing because it reminded him so badly of you) his cock had been aching. At first, he assumed it was because he hadn’t been around such a desirable women since Ronal, but that thought soon disappeared when the ache only got worse.

Even now, staring down at you, the ache overwhelms him. You overwhelm him. That stupid flower overwhelms him. His senses are heightened, and his heart is racing, and his cock is so hard, throbbing with a painful need.

And when you stare up at him meekly, trying to calm down your own rapidly beating heart, before muttering, “I’m sorry, Tonowari,” the helpless throbbing of his cock only gets worse. But then your eyes glimmer with hope, your hands pressing against his abdomen, and you ask, “is there anything I can do to help?”

“Would you? Would you help?” He asks, trying to ignore the desperate pulsing of his cock at your words, grumbling as you nod your head in time with his words.

“I feel obligated to help. It’s my fault you’re in pain, Tonowari,” you whisper, your hand cool against his hot abdomen, your placement friendly, nothing more, but Tonowari’s eyes glimmer with need as you splay your fingers across his skin. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

“It’s wrong of me to ask,” he breathes, his eyelids fluttering as you frown, shaking your head. You seem more than eager to help, trying to cool Tonowari down with the cold of your skin, and it’s helping. Your touch is easing the throbbing of his cock, and he knows that it’s wrong and that you’re Jake Sully’s daughter, but you gave him that damned flower.

You got yourself into this mess. “It is not wrong of you to ask anything of me, Tonowari. I have made you incredibly sick. What must I do to help you?”

It’s incredibly lucky that you’re by the coral shore, sheathed by tall, jagged rocks. It is pure, genuine luck that Tonowari has you here alone, covered by the natural environment of Pandora to save your dignity. “Get on your knees, little one,” he murmurs, his voice so low it resembles that of a growl. When you quirk your brow line up in confusion, he repeats sternly, “get on your knees.”

There’s a slight thrill which rushes to your core as you do what he says. Tonowari is so much larger than you - being of the Metkayina clan, he is built to withstand the conditions of water, and his body is much thicker than yours. His strong thighs flex as your fingers splay over them, your dark blue skin contrasting with the light of his own.

“You have no idea what pain your gift has burdened me with,” Tonowari grunts, and your eyes widen slightly as he begins to pull his loincloth to one side, slightly beginning to expose his length.

“Tonowari, what are you doing? This is not right,” you whisper from beneath him, trying to calm down your racing heart as he shushes you from above, a hiss rattling past his lips as he abandons his loincloth to the sandy floor.

“You said you would help. This is how you can do it.” He says simply, watching as your lips part in wonder, because you haven’t ever seen anything quite like it.

There have not been many suitors in your lifetime - none brave enough to face the wrath of your father - and you’d never even felt the touch of a man before, especially not in such a sensual manner. Yet here you are, knelt before Tonowari, his fingers softly trailing through your curls, your eyes set on his cock, which is so angry and hard that you feel somewhat afraid. A distorted gasp escapes your mouths as his cocks involuntarily pulses, his tip leaking with thick, white cum.

“I had no idea the flower had this effect on men,” You breathe softly, trying to calm the wavering of your voice as Tonowari’s hands guide your own to his cock. His strong fingers curl around yours, encouraging you to wrap your hand around his length, which you do, flinching as it pulses in your hand. “Does it hurt?”

The innocence in your voice and the your uneven breathing makes Tonowari’s eyelids flutter shut. You are just perfect - the right amount of innocent moulded perfectly with the right amount to please, and he wonders if he could even convince you to suck it. “It hurts more than you’d know. It’s unbearable,” he murmurs, coursing your hands up and down his length slowly, hissing as you slowly begin to take over his motions.

Tonowari is just tall enough to see over the rocks, onto his large stretch of land. The communal area is full, boasting with people celebrating over a successful hunt, and his heart tugs as he realises you’re practically stroking his cock in public. There’s hesitancy in your motions, but he doesn’t care - the smooth movement of your hand is enough for him, easing the once overbearing ache which pulsated through his cock every few seconds.

It’s more than obvious that you don’t know what you’re doing - your breath is teasingly fanning over his length, your lips almost close enough to brush over his tip, and it takes everything in Tonowari not to jut his hips forwards and force his length into your mouth. “I need more,” he tells you, his fingers playing at your hair, gently trailing through your curls, careful not to catch onto the strands too harshly. “Put it in your mouth. That will ease the pain greatly - it will almost completely get rid of it.”

You frown, unbelieving. The sandy floor is harsh on your knees, and your hands begin to slow their motion, stilling when Tonowari juts his cock closer to your face. It’s difficult to ignore the way your stomach flips with arousal when his jaw clenches as your tongue comes out to lick a wet stripe up the base of his cock. Your eyes are glued to his face, gasping softly as his nose crinkles when your tongue makes contact with his cock.

“Does this really help?” You ask, hesitant, eyes fixating now on his length, which stands hard and proud in front of you. “It seems like there may be better ways to go about this. Like - like you, giving yourself some relief.”

“I have tried to give myself relief,” Tonowari huffs from above you, his eyes narrowing condescendingly, as though he can’t believe your fiery tone. “That flower you gifted me does not allow for relief. I cannot relieve myself - where do you think I have been for the past two days? On a voyage, travelling the seas like a young warrior?”

You blink up at him, unnerving, his cock pulsating in your hands. His nostrils flare and his fingers tug at your hair softly. “No. I have been rutting against my bed like a recently mated Na’vi. The only relief I get is when I see you, little one,” he growls, his fingers now curling in your hair, a yelp slipping past your lips when he tugs you forwards. “So I advise that you put me between your lips and suck.”

There’s one final beat of hesitancy that passes through the air before you do what he says. Tonowari’s muscles flex under your fingers as you take him your mouth - your lips wrapping against his cock pathetically, a quiet whine leaving you as you begin to bob your head up and down his length. It’s intrusive, and it tastes funny - salty, but good, and he thrusts instinctively, your throat constricting as he does so.

And for Tonowari, it’s like the pain is melting away. The feeling of your tongue rolling up and down his length as you take him in your mouth eases the insufferable ache. Sure, his cock is still throbbing - desperate for uncertain relief, but he’s got what he wanted for now.

It would be wrong of him to complain. “Just like that, little one,” Tonowari hisses, his eyes flickering over to the camp, satisfied when he notices no lingering eyes. “Take in more. Come on, little one, I believe you can do it.”

The softness of his voice sends goosebumps shooting up and down your arms. Your stomach flips as you do what he says, gagging pathetically as you force your head down, your eyes pricking with tears, and it almost knocks the breath out of Tonowari’s lungs, his cock twitching in your mouth when tears begin to stream down your dark blue cheeks.

You want to speak but you can’t, and you feel so ashamed and embarassed that you don’t even try. Tonowari notices, but he doesn’t care - you’ve put him through enough pain already, and the shame you feel will soon wash away; instead, he’s focused on chasing his own high.

He’ll feel bad later on, when you’re defiled and confused, when he has to claim you as his mate. But not right now - no, he’s focusing on himself, and the feeling of your lips wrapped around his length is just perfect. Your tongue runs over every textured rib and every vein, working skilfully as though you’ve done this before.

And you haven’t, and you’re struggling, so Tonowari decides that enough is enough. His stomach flips slightly, and he tries to ignore the urge to grab your head and fuck your throat - he wants to be gentle with you, seeing how you’re such a sweet little flower, so he is. “I’m going to finish,” he grits out, his hands harsh on your head as he grips your hair, “and I need you to swallow, okay, little one? It will be salty, but it’s safe to eat.”

You blink your tears away, nodding softly in acknowledgement, flinching as Tonowari’s balls squelch against your chin, which is wet with your spit. There’s a split second he stills - a split second where the pain in the back of your throat from his intrusion eases - but it doesn’t last. He cums, and you grimance, unused to such a salty mixture in your mouth, trying to focus on the praises which spew from Tonowari’s lips.

“You have done so well, little one,” he tells you once you’ve pulled away, cooing at your teary eyes. “You have done perfect. All of the pain is gone. You’re a perfect little medic.”

You beam up at him, and he watches as your wet little lashes bat as he speaks to you. You cling onto every word, oblivious of just how pretty Tonowari finds you, happy to help the Metikyan leader at any chance. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No. The pain is all gone.” Tonowari says, beckoning you to stand up with his open palm. You take his hand your heart straining in your chest as his fingers curl around your own. “Thank you for your help, little one. It is greatly appreciated.”

Defeat pulses through you as Tonowari begins to guide you back to the communal campfire, but his hand doesn’t slip from yours. There’s kindness behind the gesture, but also possession, too, and you try to ignore the way your heart sinks when you notice your father gazing at you from your hut.

“My family will be waiting for me,” you say, meekly, your hand slipping from Tonowari’s grasp defeatedly. Your fingers splay over his chest gently, kindly, and you murmur, “the flower becomes toxic when presented with water for too long. I presume that was your mistake. But if you find yourself in a similar position again, needing support, then I am always free to help you.”

Tonowari grins, his eyes flickering over towards your father, whose hands are now resting on his hips. “Go to your hut, little one. Your father is waiting - you are late for curfew.”

There’s something teasing in his tone, an edge of playfulness, and your cheeks flush as you stalk away from him, trying to ignore how your heart flips when you think back to minutes before, where you were kneeled in front of Tonowari whilst he pumped his seed into your mouth.

You shamefully wonder in excitement if he will ever do such thing again.

[neo--queen--serenity]

Found family is such a huge theme in the Apothecary Diaries.

You have Luomen, raising Maomo from a young age, despite her being biologically his grandniece, but raising her anyway.

You have the Madame of the Verdigris House, who is Maomao’s maternal grandmother, but never tells her. She takes care of Maomao, helps raise her in the brothel the best she can, but tries not to show how fond she is of her.

You have Meimei, Joka, & Pairin, three famous courtesans at the Verdigris House who not only physically raised Maomao in her infancy (an imperfect process, as to be expected when one tries to collectively raise a baby in a brothel), but also breastfed her. These women staunchly refer to themselves as Maomao’s sisters, despite having been old enough to be her parents themselves.

You have Gyokuyou, who doesn’t have a good relationship with her own family, and actively distrusts them. She invests wholly in the women she instates as her ladies-in-waiting, treating them, instead, as her family, and as the only people she truly trusts. It’s for this reason that she asks for Maomao to return to her service over and over: because she trusts her, she loves her as a member of her own household. She shows defiance and even possessiveness when Jinshi’s involvement keeps Maomao from being her lady-in-waiting permanently, as truly trustworthy people are so hard to find, in her world.

You have Lakan, who adopted his nephew Lahan when Lahan’s own family rejected his genius and his potential for growth. Lakan, in general, tends to take in orphans and young children into his estate as servants, when he can tell they have specific talents that would be wasted when they grew older. One of his hobbies is fostering the talents of these strays he takes into his employ. Even if his motives are grey, he still drastically changes their lives for the better.

You have Chou-u, who Maomao indirectly adopted as her own (even though, age-wise, he’s closer to a brother figure for her). Since he’s lost his memories, Maomao is all he knows as a parental figure. She let him live with her, she tried teaching him medicine like Luomen did for her (even though it didn’t resonate with him). And when Maomao spends long stints away from the pleasure district, Chou-u experiences acute separation anxiety, though it slowly improves over time.

You have Ah-Duo, who acted as a surrogate mother to Lishu for both of Lishu’s tenures in the rear palace. Ah-Duo couldn’t have a normal relationship with her own child (Jinshi), so she doted on Lishu instead. This was a truly symbiotic relationship for them, as Lishu, for the longest time, had very few people she could trust or rely on as a friend when she was a consort.

And these are just the relationships I can think of at the moment!! The story has so many bonds like this. It’s one of my absolute favorite aspects of the series, and one that I think Natsu Hyuuga handles incredibly well.

[gnvrkhuroo]

insatiable desires pt. 1

leon s. kennedy x f. reader

warning: EXTREMELY DARK SMUT. NONCON, DUBCON, CNC. possessive behavior. praise & degradation. master-pet/slave relationship, size kink, corruption kink, jealousy, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, tummy bulge, dacryphilia, slight bdsm, hair pulling, slapping, spanking, brat taming, dumbification, manipulation, overstimulation, marking, love bites, branding scare.

this part is purely smut and i guess a bit of introduction to their relationship (?), the plot and story begin in part 2.

(not proofread & lowercase intended)

note: the following content contains explicit and adult-oriented language and themes. this piece is fictional and solely intended for the reader's satisfaction and imagination. the author does NOT condone or endorse any real-life activities that may be depicted. reader discretion is advised. mdni.

please bear with me for a bit, as i haven't written for a while. however, i intend to improve my writing with every part of this series.

you've tried everything. exploring every possibility in your relentless pursuit of pleasure, yet it remains unfulfilled. you want—no, you need the real thing — a real cock. not a cold silicone dildo or a vibrator but a genuine connection with a man who can satiate your deepest desires. someone who not only comprehends the hidden desires that you are yet to find in the corners of your mind, but also your current fantasies. a man of experience, confidence, and the ability to surpass your expectations, while respecting your boundaries and limitations.

driven by this longing, you made a bold decision one fateful day. you set your sights on a formidable individual, a man whose reputation precedes him. with unwavering determination, you sought to approach leon kennedy, a figure who held the key to unlocking your satisfaction, as they say.

and so, he invited you to his penthouse, seated comfortably behind his wide desk, he reclined his swivel chair. his piercing blue eyes alternated between the document resting before him and the person who stood before him—you.

leon smirks, leaning back further in his chair, his fingers steepled together. his piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, his voice smooth and confident. "let's go over the agreed-upon rules one last time." he reaches forward, picking up the paper and clearing his throat before reading out loud.

rule number one: you will address me as "master " at all times, without exception. disobedience will result in punishment.

rule number two: your body is mine to do as i please. you will obey any and all orders given to you immediately and without question. failure to do so will result in punishment.

rule number three: you are to be completely submissive and obedient at all times. any displays of resistance or defiance will be met with consequences.

rule number four: trust and honesty are crucial. you will communicate your desires, limits, and boundaries clearly and openly.

rule number five: "red" will be our safe word, a word that will signify the need for an immediate halt to any activities. and for situations when you cannot speak, a double tap from you shall serve as your signal for me to cease.

rule number six: consent is given and assumed between us. we have entered into this agreement willingly and with a clear understanding of the dynamics at play.

rule number seven: any physical marks or bruises left on your body will be solely at my discretion. i may use them as a reminder of your submission and my ownership.

rule number seven: you will wear the collar i have provided you with at all times when we are together. it symbolizes your submissive status.

rule number eight: aftercare is of utmost importance. i will provide care and comfort after each session, tending to your physical and emotional needs.

rule number nine: limits and hard boundaries will be respected. any acts or requests beyond those limits will not be entertained.

rule number ten: discretion is crucial. our arrangement and any activities that occur between us will remain strictly between us.

rule number eleven: i shall provide for you as long as our contract is in effect.

rule number twelve: communication is key. if at any time you have concerns, questions, or suggestions, you are to bring them to my attention.

rule number thirteen: exclusivity is expected. you will be mine and mine alone. you will not engage in any form of sexual activity with others without my explicit permission.

rule number fourteen: this agreement is subject to periodic review and amendments as we see fit, but any changes must be agreed upon by both parties.

rule number fifteen: above all, remember that your role is to serve and please me. your submission and obedience will be rewarded, but disobedience will not go unpunished."

leon finishes reading the rules and proceeds to enlighten you now with the punishments in order for disobedience and failure to follow the contract. the severity of the punishments depends on the nature of the transgression.

"for minor offenses, i may choose to administer a spanking, using my hand or other implements of your choosing. a whip, a belt, or even a paddle. the sting and the marks they leave will surely remind you of your place.

for more grave offenses, i might decide to deny you pleasure, subjecting you to a period of denial and frustration. teasing you, torturing you with pleasure until the brink, only to leave you unsatisfied.

for severe transgressions, humiliation. i will expose your deepest, darkest secrets, making you feel vulnerable and exposed. in front of me, or perhaps even in front of others, if i deem it necessary. the shame you feel will be a harsh reminder of your place.

another form of punishment i enjoy is forced orgasm. i will push you to your limits, overstimulating your body with pleasure until you are begging for mercy. but i will continue, without pause, until you are broken, trembling, and completely at my mercy."

and, of course, there is always the option of physical pain. whether it be through flogging, caning, or even more extreme methods, like branding.

the act of marking you permanently, etching my ownership into your very flesh. it would serve as a stark reminder of your place and your commitment to our contract. for the location, i have chosen the upper back, just below the neck. it is a prominent yet easily concealable area, allowing you to exhibit your mark when desired or to hide it under clothing when necessary."

"as for the design, a simple symbol of my choosing will suffice. an intricate "L" intertwined with a fierce dragon, symbolizing power, dominance, and the unbreakable bond between master and slave." leon's voice lowers, his gaze intensifying as he locks eyes with you.

"and now, the method. we shall proceed with scarification, using a heated branding iron. the sensation of searing pain, the sizzle of flesh meeting metal, will etch the memory of my ownership permanently into your being."

setting the paper back down on the desk and swiftly sliding it across the table towards you. he studies your face carefully, waiting for your response.

after thoroughly reviewing the contract and deeming it satisfactory, a surge of confidence coursed through your veins. without hesitation, you grabbed the pen from his desk, eager to finalize the deal with a flourish of your signature.

"done."

without wasting another precious moment, leon reached for his desk, deftly pulling open a drawer to reveal a thick and vibrant pink collar. with a determined gaze, he rose to his feet.

his fingers idly toying with the collar's texture as he approached you. then he pressed his lips tenderly against your forehead, a gesture filled with affection and a hint of dominance. it sent shivers down your spine, amplifying the anticipation that already hung in the air.

circling behind you, his hand delicately brushed your hair over your shoulder. with a confident yet gentle touch, he wrapped the collar around your neck, securing it in place. the buckle clicked, its snugness striking the perfect balance between leaving a mark and allowing you to breathe freely.

"who owns you, pretty thing? tell me,"

"you do, master. all for you."

"mmm, such sweet devotion," leon purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction as his hands trailed down your body, his touch both possessive and tender. he gripped your waist firmly, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to elicit a gasp from your lips.

leaning in, his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, his voice a low, velvety whisper. "you belong to me now. your body, your pleasure, all for me." his words sent a jolt of desire coursing through your veins, your body growing more submissive under his commanding presence.

leon slowly guided you towards the bed, his hands never leaving your body. he sat down on the edge, his gaze fixed on you with hunger in his eyes. "strip for me, pet. show me what's mine," he commanded, his voice laced with an intoxicating blend of authority and desire.

your hands shook slightly as you began to undress, the vulnerability and anticipation electrifying every movement. leon's eyes drank in the sight of you, his gaze washing over your exposed skin, appreciating every curve and contour. his lips curled into a wicked smile, his own arousal evident.

as you stood before him, bare and vulnerable, leon's hand snapped out, the sound of a sharp slap resounding through the room. a mixture of pain and pleasure ignited within you, your body responding to the delightful sting. "you've been such a good pet, haven't you?" he taunted, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "but we're just getting started."

without warning, his hand tangled in your hair, roughly pulling you towards him. his lips claimed yours in a fierce and possessive kiss, his tongue dominating yours as he explored the depths of your mouth. the taste of him consumed you, his taste lingering on your tongue as you gasped for breath.

breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged. "you're mine, and i'm going to make sure you never forget who you belong to," he growled, before pushing you back onto the bed, positioning himself above you.

leon's lips crashed into yours once again, the hunger and desire intensifying with each passing second. his hands roamed your body, exploring every inch with a possessive grip. as your tongues danced together, the room filled with the sound of your muffled moans, consumed by your shared lust.

his fingers trailed down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. with a firm yet gentle grip, he squeezed your ass, the sting of the slap still lingering on your skin. "you like it rough, don't you? tell me," he demanded, his voice filled with a mix of dominance and eagerness.

a shuddering breath escaped your lips as you mustered the words, your voice a mere whisper. "y-yes, master. want it as rough as you want," you admitted, your submission fueling the fire within him.

in response, he threw you onto the bed. leon gripped your wrists and pinned them above your head, holding them firmly in place. his kisses descended from your lips, trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of love bites and marks in his wake. the combination of pleasure and pain sent waves of electricity through your body, leaving you trembling with anticipation.

his hand slipped between your thighs, teasing your slick folds with his fingers. with a wicked smirk, he leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "do you want me to claim you, pet? to make you mine in every way?" he murmured, his voice laced with a sadistic edge.

desire surged through your veins as you nodded eagerly, your voice barely above a whisper. "y-yes, make me yours completely," you pleaded, your words punctuated by a moan as his fingers slipped inside you, expertly exploring your depths.

leon's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he felt your wetness coating his fingers. he moved them in a slow and calculated manner, curling them to find that sweet spot that would elicit delicious moans from your lips. each movement of his hand was designed to bring you pleasure, to make you crave more.

keeping his eyes locked on yours, he pulled his fingers out, only to thrust them back in, setting a rhythm that matched the growing heat between you. each stroke was deliberate, leaving you on the precipice of pleasure, but never quite pushing you over.

his voice was a commanding whisper as he spoke, hot breath cascading over your ear. "so obedient and responsive," he growled, his voice dripping with authority. his fingers quickened their pace, plunging deep into your core, causing you to arch your back in pleasure.

leon's smoldering eyes bore into yours, relishing in the sight of your submission. he pumped his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right to hit your most sensitive spot. your moans filled the room, echoing the pleasure that surged through your body like an electric current.

with a flick of his wrist, he removed his fingers from your dripping entrance, making you whimper in need. he brought them up to your lips, the scent of your arousal filling your nostrils as he traced your lips with his fingertips. "open," he commanded, his tone demanding your unquestioning obedience.

as your mouth opened, he slid his fingers inside, fully coating them with your taste. "suck them clean, pet," he ordered, his voice laced with the promise of retribution if you disobeyed. without hesitation, you wrapped your lips around his fingers, your tongue swirling around them, cleaning off every drop of your essence.

satisfied with your obedience, leon withdrew his fingers from your mouth, a glimmer of sadistic pleasure dancing in his eyes. "perfectly made just for me," he declared, his voice filled with lust and dominance.

a cruel smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he unbuckled his belt, the sound of leather sliding through metal sending a shiver down your spine. holding the belt firmly in his hand, he let the leather coil against his palm before he loomed above you.

his strong hands gripped your hips, flipping you onto your stomach. "you're going to feel every strike of this belt," he warned, his voice filled with a mix of authority and sadistic pleasure. yet, he paused. "color."

"g-green."

without further delay, leon brought down the belt, the leather hitting the exposed skin of your backside with a resounding crack. the sting and burn left you breathless, each strike toeing the line between pleasure and pain. your moans filled the room as he continued his relentless assault, marking your skin with red welts that matched his voracious desire.

he leaned in closer, his voice husky and dominant. "such a good girl," he praised, his lips brushing against your ear. "you're already so wet for me, so eager and ready to get fucked rough."

he released his pulsing cock from his pants, his touch sending a jolt of anticipation coursing through him. his hand moved with a purpose, stroking his length firmly, the sight and sound of his hand gliding along his throbbing shaft filling the room.

leon's cock throbbed in his hand, the veins pulsating with anticipation. each stroke elicited a soft grunt of pleasure from his lips, his grip tightening around his shaft. it was a sight to behold, his arousal on full display.

with a teasing smirk, he pressed just the tip inside, relishing in the way you gasped and writhed beneath him. "you want it, don't you, pet? beg for it," he commanded, his voice a low growl of dominance.

an intense desire coursed through you, driving you to please him even further. "please, n-need you inside me, master," you pleaded, your voice dripping with desperation.

leon's dominance ignited within him. before you could prepare yourself, he shifted his body, his throbbing length pressing against your slick fold and without warning, he thrust himself inside you with a forceful intensity. pleasure mixed with pain as your body adjusted to his size, and a guttural growl escaped his throat. he set a rhythm, his movements powerful and relentless, his grip on your hips leaving bruises in his wake.

you gasped loudly, your hands gripping the bedsheets, nails digging into the fabric. "o-oh fuck, leon," you moaned breathlessly, your voice filled with a mix of pleasure and surprise.

suddenly, leon's hand came down hard on your ass, the sound of the impact echoing in the room. the sting of the slap sent a jolt of pain and pleasure coursing through your body, a reminder of your place and the rules you should follow.

"address me properly, pet," he growled, his voice filled with a potent mix of warning and desire.

tears glistened in your eyes as the pain radiated through your ass, your skin tingling from the impact. "i-i'm sorry, master," you whimpered, your voice laced with both regret and desire. "please, forgive me."

leon's hand ghosted gently over the now reddened flesh, his touch contrasting the previous harshness. "you know better," he chided softly, his tone a twisted blend of affection and dominance.

with a shift of his hips, he resumed his forceful thrusts, his cock pounding into you with a relentless pace. each stroke brought a mix of sensations driving you further into submission. as your body trembled against him, you vowed to never forget his title again.

leon smirked, relishing in the sight of your desperate and needy state. "hm... you liked that, didn't you?" he taunted, his voice filled with a mix of sadistic pleasure and satisfaction. "of course you do, fucking slut."

with each forceful thrust, he drove himself deeper inside you, hitting all the right spots. his hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he claimed you completely. his body moved with calculated precision, his hips meeting yours with an insatiable hunger for dominance.

the sound of skin slapping against skin resonated through the room, the bed creaking beneath you. your moans filled the air, mixing with his growls of satisfaction. his relentless pace pushed you to the edge, your body trembling with pleasure as you clung to the brink of release.

but leon wasn't done with you yet. with a sudden change in position, he flipped you onto your back. "now you're going to take it just how i want," he hissed, his voice laced with a sadistic edge.

his free hand moved to your throat, hand gripping the collar firmly but not enough to cut off your oxygen. "look at me," he commanded, his eyes locked with yours. "i want to see you. look at me in the eyes as i claim you as mine. fill you up with my seed, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"y-yes!" you exclaim in ecstasy, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, on the brink of spilling over.

as your eyes met, he could see the hunger, the desperation reflected in your gaze. his hand traveled up to your face, his thumb brushing gently against the corner of your eye, capturing a tear. he brought his thumb to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours as he licked it clean, savoring the taste of your submission.

"there it is... such a beautiful sight," he murmured darkly, his voice filled with a mix of lust and superiority. your tears only spurred him on, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more frenzied.

leon's thumb found your clit, rubbing circles against the sensitive nub, sending pleasure coursing through your veins. the combination of his skilled fingers and the overwhelming pleasure he's forcing onto your body had you on the brink of release, your breaths coming in sharp gasps.

his hand released your throat and trailed down, his fingers tracing a path along your collarbone until they reached your pert breasts. with a firm grip, he kneaded them, squeezing and massaging the soft flesh, relishing in the way they filled his hands.

with a smirk, he leaned down and took one of your hardened nipples into his mouth, sucking on it with an irresistible intensity. his tongue swirled around your sensitive bud, creating delicious friction that made you arch your back in pleasure. he alternated between gentle and rough bites, leaving love bites in his wake. the mix of pain and pleasure sent shivers down your spine, igniting a primal need within you.

"m-more, master," unable to hold back any longer, you moaned and tangled your fingers in his hair, encouraging him to take more of you. the sensations were overwhelming, a perfect blend that brought you closer to the edge.

he couldn't resist the urge to give you a sharp bite, his teeth sinking into the sensitive flesh of your breast which sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, earning a yelp from your trembling lips. his hot breath ghosted over the bite mark as he murmured, "beautiful."

his mouth left a trail of wet kisses and love bites along your chest, marking you as his possession. he could sense your desire building once again, your body begging for release under his touch.

with a sinful smirk, he released your breasts from his mouth. his fingers circling your nipples, tugging on them lightly before sliding down your body to grip your thigh. hoisting your leg over his shoulder to grant him deeper access and allow him to pound into you harder.

with half-lidded eyes, you gaze at leon, intrigued by his furrowed brows and the intensity of his gaze fixed on your lower region rather than your face. leon's thumb grazed against the bulge in your lower abdomen, his touch sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body. his teasing caress only heightened your desire, leaving you yearning for more of his delicious domination.

he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered huskily, "seeing my cock bulge reminds me that you exist to serve me. you are mine, my plaything. every thrust, every swell of my cock inside you... it's a constant reminder of how deeply you've submitted to me."

with a swift motion, he thrust his hips forward, driving his bulging cock deeper into you, aching against every inch of your inner walls. the sensation was both pleasurable and torturous, a sweet torment that left you craving more of his merciless control.

"do you like feeling that bulge, my pet?" he asked, his voice laced with satisfaction. "does it make you feel owned, completely at my mercy? my cock stretching you, filling you, pushing you to your limits."

leon smirked at your trembling form, relishing the power he held over you. he firmly guided your hand to press against the bulge on your stomach, ensuring you felt every pulsation and throb of his cock as it filled you completely.

"such a good girl," he praised, his voice laced with wicked satisfaction. "feel that? feel how deeply i'm inside you? the proof of our connection lies right here."

he tightened his grip on your hand, making sure you couldn't pull away, as he thrust his hips forward, causing his cock to press even harder against your hand. every movement sent waves of pleasure coursing through both of you, reinforcing the intoxicating control he had over your body.

"you'll take everything i give you, won't you? every drop of my seed belongs inside you, isn't that right?" he commanded, his voice filled with sadistic delight. "but not just yet, pet. you don't get to cum until i give you permission."

with that, leon withdrew his slightly, a sadistic smile crept across leon's lips as he held himself still, teasing you with just the tip of his hardened length. he savored the sight of your desperation, relishing in your need for him to fill you completely once more.

your whine of frustration and need only fueled his sadistic delight. with a cruel twist of his hips, he pushed himself deep into you once again, his length plunging into your eager depths. the sudden fullness made you gasp, a mixture of pleasure and relief flooding your senses.

but just as quickly as he had given you what you craved, he pulled back, leaving only the head of his cock inside you. a whimper escaped your lips, the anticipation and desire consuming your thoughts.

he studied you, his gaze hungry and possessive, as he reached down to brush his thumb against your swollen clit, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm and gasp.

he shifted his rhythm, alternating between deep, agonizing thrusts and shallow, teasing motions. the anticipation and frustration built within you, driving you to the brink of insanity. your body writhed beneath him, involuntarily seeking the release it so desperately needed.

leon began to thrust slowly, torturing you with every languid movement, pushing you to the edge of orgasm only to deny it. he wanted to see you quivering with need, desperate and helpless under his dominant control.

leon was merciless. he reveled in your torment, denying you the climax you longed for, pushing you to the edge and then pulling back. his eyes danced with sadistic delight as he watched the desperation and need etched on your face.

"master, please," you pleaded, your voice filled with desperation. "i'll do anything. please let me cum."

"no, pet," he sneered mockingly, his tone dripping with authority. "you do not get to cum until i allow it. and i must say, i'm quite enjoying watching you squirm and beg for it."

he continued his calculated torture, bringing you closer and closer to the edge with each torturous stroke. your body trembled, juices dripping down your thighs as you teetered on the precipice of release.

submissively, you spread your legs wider, silently offering more of yourself to him. you desperately hoped that your actions would be enough to convince him. finally, when he deemed you had suffered enough, leon's rhythm shifted once more. his movements became rough and forceful, pushing you over the edge.

each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, your walls tightening around his thick cock. you could feel him deep inside you, his size filling you to the brim.

as your body quivered beneath him, on the precipice of release, he continued his ruthless assault. your moans grew louder, more desperate, as you tumbled over the edge into a mind-shattering orgasm. the waves of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you gasping and trembling beneath his dominating presence.

"l-leon!" you cried out his name, your pleasure mingling with his dominance, creating a symphony of ecstasy.

as your body shuddered and twitched beneath him, leon continued his relentless rhythm, prolonging the blissful torture. with a groan, leon reached his peak. he buried himself deep within you, emptying his hot essence deep into your waiting womb. you felt the pulsations of his release, his thick, potent seed filling you completely.

his eyes boring into yours as he slowly pulled out, relishing the way your body clenched around him leaving you feeling empty and yearning for more. the mixture of his cum and your juices dripped down your ass, a reminder of the intensity of your encounter.

leon's lips curled into a dark, satisfied smile as he scooped up the small amount of leaked cum and pushed it back inside you. his finger slid in smoothly, the wetness mixing with your own arousal. "don't waste a single drop of your master's cum, pet," he whispered throatily, his voice filled with a possessive hunger. feeling the tightness of your walls around his digits, he slowly withdrew his fingers.

leaning in close, he gently wiped the tears from your eyes with the back of his hand, his touch both comforting and possessive. "mmm, such a good pet," he purred, his voice laced with mocking affection. "i can see it in your eyes, how eager you are to please me. those tears only make it more enticing. you crave my approval, don't you?"

he caressed your cheek with a gentle touch. "and you'll do anything for my praise, won't you, my little slave? you'll endure pain, pleasure, and humiliation just to hear those words of approval spill from my lips."

a smug grin on his face as he watched your teary, half-lidded eyes and obedient nod. he studied you, his gaze hungry and possessive, as he reached down to brush his thumb against your swollen clit, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm and gasp.

"mine."

[probablyasocialecologist]

We don’t yet know exactly why a group of people very publicly graffitied, smashed, and torched a Waymo car in San Francisco. But we know enough to understand that this is an explosive milestone in the growing, if scattershot, revolt against big tech. We know that self-driving cars are wildly divisive, especially in cities where they’ve begun to share the streets with emergency responders, pedestrians and cyclists. Public confidence in the technology has actually been declining as they’ve rolled out, owing as much to general anxiety over driverless cars as to high-profile incidents like a GM Cruise robotaxi trapping, dragging, and critically injuring a pedestrian last fall. Just over a third of Americans say they’d ride in one. We also know that the pyrotechnic demolition can be seen as the most dramatic act yet in a series of escalations ��� self-driving cars have been vocally opposed by officials, protested, “coned,” attacked, and, now, set ablaze in a carnivalesque display of defiance. The Waymo torching did not take place in a vacuum. To that end, we know that trust in Silicon Valley in general is eroding, and anger towards the big tech companies — Waymo is owned by Alphabet, the parent company of Google — is percolating. Not just at self-driving cars, of course, but at generative AI companies that critics say hoover up copyrighted works to produce plagiarized output, at punishing, algorithmically mediated work regimes at the likes of Uber and Amazon, at the misinformation and toxic content pushed by Facebook and TikTok, and so on. It’s all of a piece. All of the above contributes to the spreading sense that big tech has an inordinate amount of control over the ordinary person’s life — to decide, for example, whether or not robo-SUVs will roam the streets of their communities — and that the average person has little to no meaningful recourse.

[bzurk]

what gets dirtier the more it cleans?

series masterlist:

tuesday, week two:

cw: dubcon turned noncon, frottage, noncon photography, overall terrible assholery

The weekend is a blessed reprieve. The morning sun streams through the window, casting a harsh light on the disarray of your thoughts. The world outside continues its indifferent rhythm, while your own has been irreversibly altered. The air is thick with a tension that has taken root in your mind, refusing to let go.

The memory of Simon's and Price’s touches linger, a ghostly presence that sends shivers down your spine. It all plays like a sinister symphony, the notes sharp and discordant, leaving you with a sense of unease that clings to your every move. You try to find solace in your morning routine, but every action feels mechanical, detached from any sense of normalcy.

With trembling hands, you clutch your mug of coffee, the warmth seeping into your palms offering little comfort. The room is filled with tense silence, the kind that settles after a storm, leaving a void where chaos once raged. You take a sip, the bitter liquid grounding you, anchoring you to the present even as your mind drifts back to that office, to the way Price’s eyes bore into you with a predatory intensity.

A cold dread coils in your stomach as you consider the days ahead. You need this job, the money it provides, the stability it promises in a world that seems to thrive on uncertainty. Yet, the thought of returning to that house, of facing Price - or worse, Simon - fills you with a visceral fear that paralyses you.

The world outside your window carries on with its mundane symphony: the distant hum of traffic, the occasional chirp of a bird, the rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze. Each sound is a reminder of life beyond your current turmoil, a life that feels increasingly out of reach.

You glance at your calendar, the dates marked with reminders of bills to pay, obligations to meet. It all seems so trivial now, overshadowed by the looming spectre of what awaits you at the mansion. You know you have to go back, the precarious balance of your finances dictating your choices with a merciless grip.

But the question remains - how can you face Price after what happened? How can you navigate this new, treacherous terrain where the lines between employer and predator blur into a disturbing shade of grey? How can you survive walking right into a wolf’s den?

The truth is, you don’t know. But you do know that you can’t let fear dictate your actions, can’t allow it to suffocate you.

With a deep breath, you set your mug aside and rise from the bed. The room feels suffocating, the walls pressing in with each passing moment. You need air, need to escape the claustrophobic confines of your thoughts. Grabbing your jacket, you step outside into the cool embrace of the morning.

The street is quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of city life muted in the early hour. You walk, the rhythmic cadence of your footsteps a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. As you make your way through the familiar streets, you allow yourself to imagine a life unburdened by the shadows of the past few days, a life beyond instant ramen and scraping by, exchanging favours to pay the bills.

But for now, all you can do is put one foot in front of the other, to navigate this uncertain path with as much grace and strength as you can muster. You can’t change what happened, but you can decide how you’ll face the days ahead, how you’ll protect yourself from the predators that lurk, preying on vulnerability.

—

You decide to take your mind off things, to indulge in a small act of defiance against the creeping dread that threatens to consume you. The idea flutters through your mind like a tantalizing whisper, a promise of something different, a break from the monotony of fear and uncertainty.

The idea is both daunting and liberating. You remind yourself of the money Price gave you, his silent expectation that you'd fulfil his request. In any other circumstance, you might have found the notion distasteful, but now it feels like a small rebellion.

Retail therapy.

As you wander through the bustling city streets, the noise and vibrancy of life around you serve as a temporary distraction, pulling you away from the darker recesses of your thoughts. But maybe, just maybe, a little indulgence could offer a brief escape. You find yourself drawn to the glass-fronted boutiques, their displays promising luxury and allure. The shop windows are filled with mannequins draped in delicate fabrics, the sheer elegance of lace and silk beckoning you with a promise of transformation, igniting a spark of defiance within you. You’ve spent so long prioritizing everyone else, putting your needs on hold, that the idea of buying something just for yourself feels like an act of rebellion.

The boutique door chimes softly as you enter, the sound mingling with the gentle music playing overhead. The store is a haven of soft lighting and rich colours, a world removed from your reality—a place where you can be someone else, even if only for a fleeting moment.

You weave through the racks, fingers grazing the smooth fabrics, eyes tracing the intricate patterns. There’s a sense of freedom in this act, a choice that is entirely yours to make. The world outside fades away, leaving you enveloped in the quiet intimacy of the store.

A part of you wonders if this was their intention all along - to mould you into a certain image, to see you comply with their whims, bribed and paid off until your dignity and sense of sense is gone. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but you push it aside, focusing instead on the array of colours and fabrics before you. You run your fingers over the lace, feeling its intricate patterns under your fingertips.

Your hand pauses over a deep burgundy set.

The questions float through your mind, kicked up by an errant thought like dust under a boot - did they really need a maid, or was there another reason they hired you?

Was this all part of some twisted game to see how far you'd go, how much you could take?

Why you, specifically? You know that you're attractive, but there were so many other people they could have hired - people who were more qualified, more experienced.

In the back of your mind, you know they don’t need a maid. They’re men of discipline, of order and routine. All of their beds, minus one, are made in the morning with perfect corner tucks and nary a crease in sight.

You turn to the mirror, holding the set against your body. The rich hue of the fabric catches the light, casting flecks of red across your skin like an expensive wine spilled onto a pristine tablecloth. You meet your gaze in the mirror, and for a moment, you glimpse the girl you once were - the girl who dared to dream beyond her means, who believed that she could carve out her own path in this world.

The realization is both freeing and terrifying - you have a choice. You can let them break and shape you, mould you into a picture of compliance, but outside of that mansion, you’ll bounce back. As you look at the price tag of the lingerie set, you can't deny the dangerous allure of it.

They’re using you - but aren’t you doing the same?

You square your shoulders, determination setting into your jaw. You may not be able to control much right now, but you can control this.

Lost in thought, you barely notice the chime of the boutique door, but a familiar voice breaks through your reverie.

“Fancy seeing you here, little miss maid.”

You turn, startled, to find Kyle standing at the entrance of the store. His casual attire - jeans and a simple t-shirt - contrasts sharply with the opulent surroundings. He looks at you with a friendly smile, but there’s something in his eyes that makes you pause.

“Kyle!” you splutter, your heart pounding in your chest as you hastily tuck the lingerie set back into its hanger. “What are you doing here?”

“Just running some errands, thought it was you I saw around,” He takes a step closer, eyes raking over your form, then plucking the maroon set from the rack. “I never pegged you for the silk type.”

The air between you feels charged, crackling with unspoken words and hidden intentions. You know you should walk away, that this is some sort of trap or test, but you find yourself rooted to the spot, unable to tear your gaze away from his. He’s been nothing but sweet to you so far, it’s unfair to assume the worst of him.

You try your best to hold onto your earlier resolve and courage, but fuck, that cheeky smile is making it hard.

“I-I just...” you stammer, at a loss for words, mentally cursing yourself for sounding like a babbling idiot.

Kyle raises an eyebrow and his mouth quirks upwards in a knowing smirk, as if he can read your thoughts. “You know, you'd look gorgeous in this. A shame to let it go.” He doesn’t ask if you want it, instead slinging it over his arm and gesturing towards the racks and mannequins.

“Kyle, I can’t -”

He silences you with a wave of his hand and a wink, “Keep going. Surely didn’t come out just to buy one set?”

Your clothes wrinkle under your clammy palms as you fidget, fists rhythmically clenching and unclenching, and you can feel the blush coating your cheeks, eyes darting from Kyle’s open, smiling face and the lingerie. You’ve never shopped for anything like this before, let alone with a near-stranger for company. Your stomach feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, a stress ball under the hand of a vengeful god.

The tension in the air is palpable as you and Kyle stand in the boutique, his presence a mix of unexpected comfort and unease. You try to regain your composure, to wrestle control of the situation from the disorienting mix of his casual demeanour and the intimate setting.

“Kyle, I really shouldn’t-” You start, but his easy grin and confident stance make it clear he’s not going to let you off the hook so easily.

“Hey, no worries,” Kyle says, his tone light and reassuring. “If it makes you uncomfortable, just let me know. But if you’re here to treat yourself, why not go all out? It’s not every day you get to pamper yourself, right?”

His words, though well-intentioned, feel like a double-edged sword. The idea of indulging in something luxurious seems almost therapeutic, yet it’s hard to ignore the unsettling implications of his presence.

Kyle’s gaze is steady, and his smile, while friendly, seems to hold a hint of something more - an unspoken understanding or perhaps a curiosity about your choice.

You take a deep breath, attempting to steady your racing thoughts. “I guess... maybe you’re right. It’s just-” You pause, searching for the right words. “I don’t think I can afford it right now.”

Kyle’s smile doesn’t falter as you voice your concern. He looks at you with a mix of sympathy and understanding, his expression softening.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his tone reassuring. Before you can protest further, Kyle gently places the burgundy lingerie set back on the rack, his fingers brushing over the delicate fabric with casual ease. “Besides, a little looking never hurt anyone. There’s no harm in browsing a bit more, if you’re up for it. I really did just want to pop in to hello, though - I do have to run now, unfortunately.”

You nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and awkwardness. Kyle’s gesture is generous, but you’re also acutely aware of the boundaries you’re trying to maintain. The lingering unease you felt earlier doesn’t dissipate completely, but there’s something comforting about Kyle’s presence and his offer to help.

With a final wave and a warm smile, Kyle heads towards the store’s exit. “Well, I’ve got my errands to finish up. It was nice running into you. Hope the rest of your shopping goes well.”

You return his smile with a weak but sincere one, watching as he disappears through the boutique’s doors. As he leaves, the store’s soft lighting and luxurious fabrics seem to close in on you again, but now there’s a small, lingering sense of warmth from Kyle’s unexpected kindness.

You spend a few more moments in the store, skimming through the racks but finding yourself unable to fully engage with the experience.

As you leave the boutique, the cool air of the street feels like a welcome relief, a chance to clear your head. The city’s usual buzz seems distant now, replaced by a contemplative quiet.

You feel realigned, grounded, a train put back on its tracks.

You’ll go to work on Tuesday, get your paycheck, and buy yourself something nice - that pretty dark red set.

You find that you’re dreading the mansion less, with a clear and attainable goal in mind.

—

“See you next week.”

Tuesday arrives, dragging with it the weight of anticipation and dread. You’ve spent the day counting down the hours, each minute an excruciating reminder of the looming return to the mansion. As the day fades into evening, you find yourself standing before the imposing entrance once more, the same sense of foreboding settling over you like a shroud.

See you next week. See you next week. See you next week.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself before pushing open the door. You’ve prepared for this. You know what you’re going into, at least. You’re going to stand your ground, get shit done, and leave. You’re going to make your money, pay your bills, and buy yourself a little treat, and after that, set bigger and better ambitions. They pay you well, even without the… bonuses. You’ll buy a new bedframe, hire a plumber for your leaky sink, maybe move into a nicer part of town with a few months of pay. You ignore the little voice in the back of your head that whispers only if you last that long.

The chime of the keypad cements the shift in you, from a scared, wary girl to a determined professional. But when the door finally slides open, revealing the empty garage, an overwhelming sense of relief washes over you. The space is devoid of any vehicles, a blank canvas untouched by the veterans who have come to define your recent existence.

The empty garage greets you like a sanctuary, a haven where the shadows of last Tuesday can't reach. The absence of Simon’s and Price’s cars feels like the lifting of a heavy weight from your shoulders.

You take a tentative step inside, and then another. Your heart rate slows, the pounding in your chest easing into a steady rhythm. The silence isn’t suffocating; instead, it’s liberating. The quiet is a balm, soothing the frayed edges of your nerves.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the exhalation carrying away some of the tension that had knotted your insides. The sight of the empty garage is a visual confirmation that you are blissfully alone, that there is no one lurking in the shadows, no predator waiting to pounce.

There’s a sense of elation bubbling up within you, a giddy feeling of triumph. You allow yourself a small, victorious smile, a rare moment of joy that breaks through the constant worry and fear that permeates the house.

For a moment, you linger there, savouring the victory of the empty garage. You take one final look around the empty space, etching the feeling of relief into your memory before steeling yourself for what lies ahead. You've come this far; you can make it through another shift.

With renewed determination, you step fully into the house, the click of your shoes echoing in the emptiness, a light skip in your step. The doors are still closed, their ominous silence hanging in the air like a tangible threat, and make your way down the dimly lit corridor, flipping light switches and opening windows as you go, each step fueling your determination to prove to yourself that this place won’t intimidate you anymore.

Inside the house, you efficiently tackle the chores that await you. Dust bunnies don't stand a chance against your furious feather duster, and cobwebs tremble in the face of your wrath. You clean like you've never cleaned before, and for a brief moment, you feel invincible, as if this grand mansion, this symbol of your servitude, is bowing to your will.

As you scrub away the stains and grime that have accumulated, you allow yourself to daydream about the future. The pretty red lingerie set is within reach, a reward for surviving another week at this twisted job. But your ambitions don't stop there. In your mind's eye, you see yourself buying a small but cozy apartment in a safer neighbourhood, with a view of the city skyline and freshly painted walls that smell of promise and new beginnings. The quiet hum of the vacuum becomes a soothing symphony as you move methodically through the rooms. You relish the freedom to hum to yourself, to let your thoughts wander without the need to look over your shoulder. The echo of your footsteps on the hardwood floors is no longer a reminder of your isolation but a testament to your presence, your moment of control in a house that felt so suffocating.

With renewed vigour, you finish mopping the floors and windexing every inch of the mansion's endless windows. The day is bright and sunny outside, and the warm light streaming through the windows fills you with a buoyant energy. A smile touches your lips as you glance outside, the backyard beckoning with its lush greenery and inviting pool. Today, the weather is on your side, a perfect excuse to tackle the outdoor areas with the same enthusiasm you've brought to the mansion's interior.

With your spirits lifted, you head to the back patio, the sliding glass doors gliding open with a soft whoosh. The fresh air is invigorating, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the manicured hedges that line the property. You take a moment to bask in the sun's embrace, letting it warm your skin and lift your mood further.

The back patio is a hidden gem of the mansion, a tranquil oasis with elegant wicker furniture and potted plants that sway gently in the breeze. The stone tiles beneath your feet are cool to the touch, the slate-grey colour complementing the natural beauty of the surroundings.

Armed with a broom and a bucket of soapy water, you set to work, sweeping away the fallen leaves and debris that have gathered on the tiles. The rhythmic motion is soothing, and you hum a cheerful tune as you move. The sun shines down, casting playful patterns of light and shadow across the patio, making the space feel alive and welcoming.

With the floor cleared, you turn your attention to the furniture, wiping down each piece with care. The wicker glistens under your touch, restored to its former glory. You fluff the cushions, adjusting them just so, and step back to admire your handiwork.

Next, you make your way to the pool area, its sparkling waters a vibrant blue under the clear sky. The sight of the pool, with its gentle ripples and inviting depths, fills you with a sense of ease. It's a far cry from the tense atmosphere inside the mansion - a place where you can breathe and appreciate the beauty around you.

You retrieve the pool skimmer and begin cleaning the water's surface, capturing stray leaves and insects. As you work, the sun glints off the water, creating a dazzling display of light that dances across the tiles. You take a moment to dip your fingers into the water, the coolness refreshing against your skin. It's a simple pleasure, but one that grounds you in the moment, reminding you that even in a place like this, there are moments of peace to be found-

“You must be lil’ miss maid!”

You gasp and shoot up straight, flicking up droplets of water, and the world moves in slow motion. You spin to face the intruder, shoe sliding with the help of a convenient puddle, before your vision tilts and a shill scream scratches your throat.

You don’t even feel the fall, not really; your brain is too busy sending alarm signals to your heart, which is hammering away like a mad thing. The sky blurs with the rushing of leaves and water, and then-

Cool water engulfs you, silencing your scream. It wraps around you like a cold blanket, pulling you into its depth. For a moment, all you see is blue, the sun's glimmer distorted through the water, like a dream turned nightmare.

You kick your legs and break the surface, gasping for air. Your hands reach for the pool's edge, gripping tightly as you blink away the water streaming down your face.

He stands there, a blur of a figure as you wipe your eyes, then clears into the sharp lines of a man you’ve never seen before. Tall and broad, with brown hair that catches the light, distinctly longer on top, and he wears a smirk that drips with casual arrogance. He’s dressed casually, in gym shorts and a tank with a white towel slung over his shoulder, but there's something about his stance, a confidence that suggests he’s no stranger here.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya.” His voice is teasing, an apology that doesn’t seem quite genuine.

You swallow the panic clawing at your throat and force yourself to focus, pulling yourself up and out of the pool. You feel the chill of the air bite into your wet clothes as you find your footing, the patio tiles suddenly feeling too solid beneath you.

“Who-” You clear your throat, the words stumbling out around a mouthful of water as you try to reclaim your composure. “Who are you?”

He laughs, an annoyingly pleasant sound, the kind that makes you feel like you’re the punchline to some private joke. “Name’s Soap,” he says, offering a hand as if you’re supposed to shake it like this is a normal meet-and-greet. “But you can call me whatever you like, bonnie maid.”

You glance at his hand, then back at him, your mind racing. The name rings a bell, a faint echo of the conversations you’ve overheard among the veterans. He must be one of them, the final occupant. You give your hand and your name shakily, the cold seeping into your bones. Your eyes trail a drop of sweat as it runs down his pointed nose.

“I-I didn’t know anyone else was here,” you manage, trying to keep the edge out of your voice as you stand there, dripping and bedraggled.

He shrugs, his hand not retreating despite the way you tug at it. His eyes scan the patio, taking in the sparkling clean furniture and the skimmer you’d dropped by the pool. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah,” you reply, a note of defensiveness creeping in. You wrap your free arm around yourself, both for warmth and comfort. “I just finished-”

“Won’t mind another dip, then?” He grins, all sharp teeth and gleaming blue eyes, releasing your hand on the next tug, and you stagger backwards again.

“Wait-!”

But before you can fully process what's happening, he lunges forward with a playful laugh, arms wide as if embracing the chaos he's about to create. In a flash, you’re airborne again, Soap’s strong arms wrapping around your middle as he tackles you back into the pool.

Water crashes over you, the shock of cold stealing your breath for the second time. For a split second, everything is surreal, suspended in the underwater silence. You kick up, breaking the surface with a gasp, spluttering and disoriented. Your hands find the pool's edge, gripping tightly as you blink away the water streaming down your face.

Soap is laughing, a boisterous, unrestrained sound that grates on your nerves. He surfaces beside you, shaking water from his short hair like a mischievous dog, eyes twinkling with unrepentant mirth.

“What the hell was that for?” you demand, voice rising with a mixture of anger and incredulity. Your heart is pounding, a furious drumbeat against your ribs.

“Oh, come on, bonnie,” he chuckles, paddling easily in the water. “Lighten up a bit. Figured you could use a refresher.” He winks, as if this entire situation is a grand joke, his amusement evident in every word.

You stare at him, your anger warring with the icy chill of the water. “You can’t just—just do that!”

He raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “Can’t I?”

The nerve of this man, this stranger who’s turned your moment of peace into a humiliating spectacle. You bite back a retort, knowing that getting into an argument with him would only escalate things further. Instead, you focus on pulling yourself out of the pool once more, muscles straining with the effort, heavy clothes weighing you down.

Once you’re out of the pool, you wring out your hair and clothes as best you can, the chill seeping into your bones, water pooling at your feet. Your clothes cling to your skin and you shiver, crossing your arms over your chest to preserve some semblance of warmth and dignity. The chill is biting, and you feel the goosebumps prickle across your skin as a breeze sweeps through the patio. Each drop that slides down your back feels like an insult, ruining the pristine environment you’d cleaned.

Soap emerges behind you, water streaming down his bare shoulders, and he runs a hand through his wet hair, flicking droplets everywhere.

"You're soaked," he observes with a cheeky grin, as if this wasn’t already painfully obvious.

You glare at him, your irritation bubbling over. “Really? Thanks for pointing that out,” you retort, teeth chattering as you speak.

“I’ll go fetch some towels, yeah?”

You glance over your shoulder at him, feeling a flash of irritation mixed with gratitude. “You can’t,” you protest, gesturing toward the open patio doors leading into the house. “I just cleaned the floors. You’ll track water everywhere.”

He shrugs, unconcerned, and gives you an easygoing smile that borders on infuriatingly charming. “No worries. I’ll clean it up later.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, clutching your damp clothes tighter around yourself. “That’s not the point,” you grumble. “I-I don’t have a change of clothes, and I can’t leave like this!”

But Soap seems unbothered by your predicament. He steps around you, water streaming down his toned frame, and grabs the white gym towel he’d tossed aside before diving in. With a nonchalance that makes you bristle, he uses it to wipe the water from his hair, then casually tosses it onto a nearby chair.

“Eh, you’ll figure something out,” he says, seemingly unconcerned with your plight. He starts peeling off his wet clothes, leaving them in a soggy heap on the patio.

You avert your eyes quickly, cheeks flaming despite the cool air. “H-Hey! What are you doing?”

“Relax,” he chuckles, hanging the towel around his shoulders. “Can’t walk through the house drippin’ wet, can I?” He grins at you, a playful glint in his eye. “Problem solved.”

With that, he turns and saunters back inside, leaving you standing there in disbelief with a generous view of his backside, and oh my god he was commando-

Your cheeks burn hotter than the sun as you let out a mortified groan, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. You shake your head, a mixture of frustration and disbelief and heat boiling inside you. “Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, watching as he disappears into the mansion. Left to your own devices, you start to wring out your hair again, muttering curses at the audacity of the man who so easily disrupted your day. At least the sun is still shining, offering a bit of warmth as you stand there, dripping and annoyed and cold.

Soap strides back onto the patio, his demeanour relaxed and casual. He’s dressed in fresh clothes, looking every bit the picture of nonchalance despite the chaotic meeting.

He carries a couple of towels in his hands, their fluffy warmth a stark contrast to the damp chill clinging to your skin. “Here,” he holds out a towel toward you, his expression a mix of amusement and concern.

You take the towel gratefully, rubbing it over your hair and shoulders, trying to soak up as much of the moisture as you can. The warmth of the towel feels like a small comfort against the cold that’s settled into your bones.

“Thanks,” you mutter, focusing on the task of drying yourself off. But as you begin to dry off, Soap’s next words catch you off guard.

“How about you get out of those wet clothes? You’ll get sick if you stay in those.” His tone is casual, almost playful, but there's an underlying edge to his words that makes your stomach churn.

You look up from your towel, eyes widening slightly. “What? No, I-” You stammer, feeling a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. “I-I can’t just-”

He raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “You can’t walk back through the house, you said so yourself. It’s not like I’m asking for anything weird.”

Despite his seemingly casual approach, there’s something unsettling in the way he’s looking at you. It’s not exactly threatening, but it’s an intrusion of your personal space and boundaries that makes you feel uncomfortable.

“Surely you have a- a side gate or something?” You squeak out as he continues to stare, his eyes trailing down your shivering shoulders and dripping hair.

“And then what?” Soap hums. “Make it to your car, get it all wet, chlorine in the seats and all. ‘Sides, you even have your keys on ya? You’re making it so complicated, lass. We have a clothes dryer, y’know.”

He nonchalantly gestures towards the house, as if he just solved all your problems. But you know this isn’t about dry clothes or wet seats. He’s pushing your boundaries, testing your limits, and you can’t stand it.

“I’ll just...” You trail off, not quite sure of your exit strategy. “You wouldn’t happen to have an- an old shirt or something I could at least borrow?”

Soap’s grin widens even more as he considers your request. For a moment, you think he might relent, but instead, he just shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Nah, not really. But look, you’re already wrapped in a towel,” he says, motioning toward your damp clothes. “Why don’t you just take those off and get comfy? Promise I’ll find you something to wear.”

His voice is still playful, yet there’s a firm undertone to it, leaving no room for debate. You feel your resolve waver, knowing that standing your ground might only prolong this awkward encounter.

“I really don’t think-” you begin, but he interrupts.

“C’mon, it’ll just take a sec. You don’t want to get sick, do you?” he insists, nodding toward the house.

There’s a moment of tense silence as you weigh your options. Finally, you exhale sharply, realizing you’re caught between a rock and a hard place. It’s either follow his lead or shiver outside until hypothermia kicks in.

Reluctantly, you nod. “Fine. But- Go inside. I’ll be there in a moment,” you agree, your voice a mix of defiance and resignation.

Soap nods approvingly and steps past the threshold back into the house, sliding the glass door closed behind him, and you watch warily as he steps behind the wall. And then wait until you’re sure he won’t turn around. As you hastily peel off your soaked clothes, you can’t help but feel exposed, your vulnerability hanging in the air.

You hurriedly wrap and clutch the towel tightly around your body, feeling its coarse fibres rub against your skin as you gather your courage to follow Soap back into the house. Your wet clothes are heavy and cumbersome as you try to hold up the towel and the bundle of wet fabric at the same time, and you make your way across the patio and into the mansion’s interior.

With a deep sigh, you push open the glass door and step inside, immediately feeling the warmth of the house envelop you like a comforting hug. But it does little to ease the tension in your chest as you follow Soap's lead towards the laundry room where he casually loads his clothes into the dryer, his movements quick and practised. You pass your clothes over for him to load in.

“There we go,” he says with a satisfied nod, his hands deftly turning the dial to start the cycle despite the way he left the door wide open. You watch him closely, your grip on the towel unyielding as he eyes the pile of clothes you’ve handed over. Your cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and irritation as he makes a show of placing each piece in one by one.

“Still got some stuff on, huh?” he teases, pointing out the obviously missing garments. “You’ll have to take those off too.”

Your eyes dart to the floor, heat flooding your cheeks. “I’m not-” you stammer, but Soap waves a hand dismissively.

“Gotta dry those too, you know. Don’t you worry,” he says with a playful smirk. “I’ll just step out and find you some dry clothes. You can handle starting the machine, right?”

You nod silently, clenching your teeth to hold back any further protest. With a final glance, Soap disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the laundry room. The moment he’s out of sight, you let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the situation settle over you like a cold fog. With a resigned sigh, you quickly rid yourself of your soaked underwear, tucking them into the dryer with the rest before rewrapping yourself. The towel becomes your sole armour against the world, its embrace both comforting and precarious.

As you start the cycle, the noise of the machine fills the room, a steady rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart. You stand there, alone and uncertain, wondering how you ended up in such an absurd situation.

You clutch the towel tighter around your body, the edges rough against your skin, as you stand in the dimly lit laundry room, the dryer humming softly beside you. It’s the only sound in the house, filling the silence with a steady, rhythmic pulse that matches the chaotic beat of your heart.

With Soap gone, the room feels cavernous, echoing with the lingering tension of his presence. You swallow hard, trying to push aside the knot of anxiety that has taken up residence in your chest.

“Hey, lass! Over here!” Soap’s voice calls out from one of the nearby bedrooms.

The warmth of the house seeps into your bones as you follow Soap’s call, tiptoeing down the hallway towards the bedroom where his voice beckoned. Your bare feet make no sound on the polished wooden floors, the air thick with the scent of lemon polish and fresh laundry.

When you reach the doorway, you pause, hesitating just outside the threshold. The room is spacious and well-appointed, with a king-sized bed draped in a quilted comforter and soft, ambient lighting that bathes everything in a golden afternoon glow. Kyle’s room. It feels intimate, and personal, standing there almost nude, and you can’t help but feel like an intruder in someone else’s space.

Soap gestures to a neatly arranged pile of clothes on the bed. “These should fit you. I’ll step outside while you change,” he says, and with that, he exits and closes the door behind him.

There’s an oversized, well-worn t-shirt sitting at the top of the pile, its fabric soft and familiar in a way that brings a sense of relief. But beneath it, your eyes catch on something that makes your breath hitch in your throat: a set of complex and expensive lingerie, delicate lace in rich, inviting hues that stand out starkly against the plainness of the shirt.

A slow, creeping sense of discomfort trickles down your spine as you take in the sight, your mind racing with questions. How did he get your size? Why is it your style, something you’d choose for yourself? And most importantly, why the fuck do Soap or Kyle have women’s lingerie?

The questions hang heavy in the air, demanding answers that you don’t have, leaving you standing there, feeling exposed and vulnerable. The room seems to close in around you, the walls drawing nearer, the atmosphere thickening with unspoken implications.

Your pulse quickens, and you take a step back, your grip on the towel tightening as though it might shield you from whatever game Soap is playing. It’s a cruel joke, you tell yourself, some twisted attempt to unsettle you, to test your boundaries.

You pick up the shirt and hold it to your chest, feeling a chill run down your spine. Before you can spiral any further into your thoughts, there’s a soft knock on the door, and you jump, your heart lurching in your chest.

Soap’s voice comes from the other side of the door, “You okay in there?”

You hesitate, your thoughts a chaotic whirl. Finally, you call back, your voice trembling slightly. “I’m fine. Just- just give me a minute.”

There’s no sound from the other side of the door. You exhale slowly, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and focus on the task at hand.

You push aside the lingerie, opting for the t-shirt instead. The fabric is soft against your skin, hanging loosely over your frame, its weight offering a semblance of normalcy in an otherwise surreal situation.

With the towel abandoned on the floor, you take a moment to collect yourself, smoothing down the shirt and tugging it into place before glancing at the door. The lingerie remains untouched.

You leave it there, on the bed, refusing to give it any more of your attention as you turn your back on it and make your way to the door.

You’re ready to face whatever comes next, your resolve firm, your mind made up. You may not know what Soap’s game is, but you’re not about to let him get the upper hand. Let them get the upper hand again.

As you step out into the hallway, you find Soap waiting, leaning against the wall with an easy smile, as if he hadn’t just tried to unsettle you, as if he hadn’t crossed a line you didn’t even know existed.

“There you are,” he says, straightening up as you approach. “Feeling better?”

You nod, keeping your expression neutral, not giving anything away. “Much. Thanks.”

You can’t stop the shiver that runs through you when his eyes immediately dart down to your chest, and a furious blush crosses your face.

“They not fit?” Soap hums curiously, crowding you closer to the doorframe. Your nipples are as obvious as day through the shirt, still pebbled from the chill. You hurry to cross your arms and cover yourself. “Kyle was so sure they were the size you picked up.”

“Kyle?” You squeak, stepping back into said man’s bedroom. You try not to panic when Soap closes the door behind him.

“Aye. He bought them just for you. Would be rude of you to turn down his gift,” Soap says, his tone dangerously smooth, a predator closing in on its prey.

Your mind races. Kyle Garrick, the man who had been so kind to you, so friendly, bought you lingerie? The thought twists your stomach. This place, these men - they were playing games with you.

A cold knot of dread tightens in your stomach as Soap leans back against the doorframe, his easy grin now holding an edge of challenge.

"Go on, then," he urges, nodding towards the bed where the lingerie lies like a trap, waiting to spring. "Try 'em on."

You hesitate, the air in the room feeling thin and oppressive. "I really don’t think-"

His expression darkens, and the playful tone is gone from his voice. "No’ asking, lass. It’s what you do when someone gives you a gift. Try it on, show some gratitude."

Your heart pounds in your chest, and your mind races, searching for a way out, a way to maintain some semblance of control. But the weight of his presence, the unyielding expectation in his gaze, leaves you feeling cornered.

With trembling hands, you pick up the lingerie, your fingers brushing against the delicate fabric. It’s a stark contrast to the rawness of the moment, and you swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your breathing steady.

“Alright, alright,” you mutter, trying to project a calm you don’t feel. “Just… give me a minute.”

Soap smirks again, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting.”

You turn your back to him, your heart hammering in your chest as you begin to peel off the soft shirt. Each motion feels like a betrayal, your skin prickling with unease under his gaze. Bills, bills, bills. Loans. The cute red set. You can hear him suck air through his teeth when the fabric rises past your hips.

As you slip into the lingerie, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The sight is both surreal and unsettling, a stranger staring back at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“I’m done,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you pull the oversized shirt over the lingerie. You hope it’s enough, that the shirt can shield you from the scrutiny, from the violation of this moment.

But Soap isn’t satisfied. His eyes glint with something dark and inscrutable as he steps forward, phone in hand, “Off with the shirt, then,” he says, a note of impatience threading through his words. “Got to show Kyle, lovie. He’d love to see you wearing what he got.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, but you don’t protest. Instead, with shaking hands and a pounding heart, you lift the shirt over your head, the cold air biting at your exposed skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms, and you cross them over your chest again, acutely aware of Soap’s eyes raking over you.

The lingerie feels alien against your skin, the fabric both soft and suffocating, as if it’s conspiring with the moment to strip you of your defences. The whole room feels smaller, closing in around you like a living, breathing entity watching the scene unfold with bated breath.

You’ve faced many things before, but none have felt as raw and unsettling as this moment, standing here, caught in Soap’s gaze. You feel like an actor in a scene you never agreed to, playing a role that twists your insides with shame and anger. With Simon, with Price, you were tugged along like a boat at sea, forced to float along the brutal currents they created. You were still an active participant, but you could place the blame elsewhere, direct your shame and hatred outwards because it wasn’t you, wasn’t your choice, you were just doing as you were told. But here, under Soap’s blue-grey stare, you felt alone, judged, isolated and cast under a spotlight. You could tug on the shirt, step past him, grab your keys and leave. But you don’t.

Soap steps closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising a work of art. But there’s nothing artistic about this - only a calculated manipulation, a display of power that turns your stomach.

He reaches out, and you flinch instinctively, your body recoiling from the touch that never comes. Instead, his hand lingers in the air, a silent threat that hangs between you, and then he nudges you gently but firmly backward.

He isn’t rough and uncaring like Simon, the big brute. He isn’t condescending and patronizing like Price, babying you into submission. He is not kind and friendly like Kyle, with his supportive touches and smiles. You know nothing about this man, and that scares you more than anything.

You stumble slightly as the backs of your knees hit the bed, and you sink onto it, the mattress yielding under your weight. Your heart races, your mind a whirlwind of fear and defiance, but you don’t look away, waiting for some sort of strike.

“Go on then,” Soap murmurs, his voice a low, taunting drawl. “Pose a bit, give Kyle something nice to look at.”

The suggestion hangs in the air like a noxious cloud, and you fight the bile rising in your throat. It’s an invasion, a violation that strips away your dignity, your autonomy, and all you want is to claw back some semblance of control.

But you can’t. Not here, not now, when everything is stacked against you. So instead, you hold your head high, meeting his gaze with a steely defiance that refuses to be dimmed.

“What if I don’t want to?” You say, your voice stronger than you feel, a spark of resistance that flares brightly against the encroaching darkness.

Soap’s smile widens, a predatory gleam in his eyes as if he relishes the challenge, the dance of power and defiance. “Then I’ll just have to convince you, won’t I?” He replies, his voice a low purr that makes your blood run cold.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing up your calves, sending a shiver down your spine. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, and bite back the retorts that threaten to escape.

“So pretty, bonnie,” he coos, dancing his fingers up your thighs until you let out a wavering sigh. He drops the phone against the duvet and reaches up to grasp your chin between warm, calloused fingers, forcing you to face him. You hate him. Hate him for reducing you to this quivering mess so easily when just ten minutes ago you thought you had some semblance of control.

Soap leans in, his breath warm against your skin, his lips a whisper away from yours. The room seems to hold its breath, the air thick with tension, as if the very walls are watching, waiting for your next move.

Your mind races, caught between the undeniable attraction and the anger that simmers just beneath the surface. Everything about him is wrong, every touch a violation of your autonomy, yet you can't deny the magnetic pull, the way his presence overwhelms your senses.

The kiss is electric, a storm of conflicting emotions that crash over you like a wave. It's demanding and rough, a collision of desire and defiance that leaves you breathless, your body betraying your mind as it responds to the heat of his touch.

His lips are firm against yours, moving with a confidence that borders on arrogance, a certainty that you'll bend to his will. And for a moment, just a fleeting heartbeat, you do, your resolve wavering under the intensity of the kiss.

But then the reality of the situation crashes down on you, a cold slap of clarity that pulls you back from the edge. You pull away, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath.

Soap watches you, a knowing smile playing on his lips, his eyes glinting with a mix of triumph and something darker, a shadow that lurks beneath the surface. He leans back slightly, giving you space but still crowding your senses, his presence as inescapable as the air around you.

"Smile for the camera, sweetheart," he says again, his voice soft but insistent, a command wrapped in a velvet glove.

You don’t have the time, nor the mental capacity, to react. You feel hot all over, confused, stunned. His lips had brought every simmering emotion to your mouth until it overflowed, out of control.

Your cheeks burned with humiliation and desire as you forced your stare to meet Soap’s again. There was a sick satisfaction in his eyes as he took in the tableau before him. It wasn’t hard to visualise how you must look - flushed from cheeks to chest, hands gripping at the sheets, covered in a sheen of sweat and goosebumps, topped off with spit-slick, kiss-swollen lips.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, dropping the phone again in favour of running his hands over your ribs and waist before following the path with his lips. “Fucking perfect,” he trailed off, cutting himself off with a nip to the sensitive skin of your stomach. Despite your better judgment, his words made something in your stomach clench with both fear and anticipation. It was a feeling you weren't used to, this loss of control.

Soap’s hands and lips continued their exploration, mapping out every inch of skin they came across with an almost feverish intensity. Teeth grazed over your collarbone, causing goosebumps to erupt and spread like wildfire across your prickling skin. His hands cupped your breasts through the fabric of the bra, kneading them gently but with enough force to elicit a moan from your parched lips. You hated him for it - for making you feel like this, for making you want this, for stealing the illusion of control you worked so hard to maintain.

But as much as you hated it, as much as you tried to convince yourself it was just another means to an end, deep down there was a part of you that revelled in the attention. In the heat between your thighs that pooled and throbbed with each passing second; in the way his darkened gaze tracked your every move like prey.

He was quick and uncaring as he tugged down the bra, scooping your boobs from the cups and baring them to the warm air. In his other hand, he held his phone up high, capturing every moment of this humiliating performance.

“Stop- hah, enough, that’s enough,” you babbled nonsensically, writhing against the sheets as his left hand poked and prodded and twisted and toyed with your nipples.

His chuckle was low, dark, and it sent shivers down your spine. “Not even close, sweetheart,” he purred against your skin, his breath hot before he took a peak into his mouth. His right hand trailed down your stomach to the line of the panties. Your body protested every movement but betrayed you at every turn. The heat between your thighs seemed to have been lit on fire now, causing you to moan out in needy agony when his fingers brushed lightly over the damp fabric of your panties.

A low chuckle escaped his lips as he flicked a dextrous finger across your clit, control and lust entwined in the action.

Both hands had ventured southwards, now slipping between your thighs and dipping two fingers inside your slick core without any build-up or warning. Your entire body tensed at the intrusion, muscles clenching around him in surprise and desire. Heat pooled between your thighs and coiled in your stomach, a building inferno that threatened to consume you whole if he didn't stop.

“Fuck me, you’re soaked, bonnie,” he panted out from above, and you couldn’t bare to look at him, couldn’t bare to watch as you heard the rustle of fabric and his fingers returning to your cunt.

The feeling was almost too much to bear, and you bit down on your lower lip to stifle a moan as he thrust his fingers roughly inside you. Any other time, any other place, you would have told him off for being so rough, but now? Now was not the time for protests or modesty or anything else but the burning need that consumed you whole.

"So wet for me," he purred into your ear, his voice barely above a whisper but it still sent shivers down your spine. "Tell me you want it," he demanded, his fingers picking up in speed and intensity, absolutely relentless in their ministrations.

You shook your head, biting back a moan that threatened to escape your lips at any moment. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing those words come out of your mouth. You wouldn't do it. But Soap had other plans. With a swift movement, he crooked his fingers inside you, hitting that bundle of nerves that had been swelling with need since he first took his shirt off.

"Tell me you want it," he said again, this time with more emphasis, his voice gruff with desire.

"I-I," you panted, hips bucking upwards uncontrollably into his touch. "I want it," you managed to gasp out between shaky breaths.

That was all the invitation he needed, roughly pulling his fingers out of you. "That's what I thought," he growled low in your ear before pressing his bare hips against the gusset of your panties, and you whined. He was hard, so fucking hard, and your traitorous body throbbed in anticipation.

You perched on your elbows and craned your neck to look down, watching as he slid his wet hand against his cock. With every stroke of his hand, his cock would bump against your panties, further staining the damn fabric and torturously pressing against where you ached.

One hand on his cock, his other lifted the fabric of your panties, tugging it taut and slipping himself in against your skin, held snugly against your cunt by the damp fabric that was soaked through with arousal.

A moan escaped your lips as he began to move, rocking his hips against yours in a slow, sensual motion that had you clenching around nothing. His cock was blistering hot against your pussy, the shape of it visible beneath the wet fabric, velvety skin rubbing up against you. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat and arousal as he continued to grind against you, teasingly brushing his hardened cock against your swollen clit with every thrust.

It wasn't long before you were meeting him thrust for thrust, every movement of his hips answered with one of your own, eager for more. Greedy, needy moans spilled from your lips, uncaring of who could hear, uncaring about anything but the man above you and the way he was making your body sing.

"You like that, huh?" he taunted, leaning in to bite the shell of your earlobe gently. "You're dripping for me, baby," he growled against your skin before sucking harshly on your neck.

"Yes," you panted out, neck arched in pleasure as he teased your most sensitive spot. “Yes, yes, yes!”

You couldn't believe this was happening. You were at war with yourself, half of you screaming at you to stop, to push him away, while the other half wished he would just rip the damn fabric and plunge himself inside you, consequences be damned.

"Say it again," Soap panted against your ear, his pace picking up in speed as his grip on your hips tightened, rutting against you wildly. "Say you want me inside of you."

Waves of ice crashed over you, and you scrabbled to push against his chest futilely.

"No," you panted through clenched teeth, your orgasm barreling down on you like a freight train. "No, no, no."

The pleasure was blinding. Dizzying. All consuming. You couldn't make sense of anything else besides the want, the need, the cosmos colliding behind your clenched eyes.

And then pain, an ache deep in your gut, the sting of stretching skin, and oh fuck, it was like you were cumming again before the first wave had finished, the feelings compounding together in mindless pleasure-pain, colour colliding until they became white.

Your eyes burst open, the world spinning as Soap let out a guttural moan, your hands flying against his chest and pushing with all of your remaining strength. The pain remained even as the pleasure dulled, but it didn’t grow - Soap was holding himself over you, his hand a blur as it furiously strokes his cock, the tip lodged into your cunt, he was inside of you-

“Fuck!” You screeched, shrill, your fists bashing against his pecs, his shoulders, his arms, but it was already too late - his head rolled back with a loud, guttural groan, eyes rolling in their sockets. His hand slowed its frantic pace. Something deep in your gut burned, a searing heat.

As he pulls out, his cock brushes against your clit and you sob, involuntarily clenching up and digging your shaky knees into his sides.

“Look’it you,” he purred out, voice like gravel, completely unphased by the way you wailed your clenched fists against him.

Your panties were tugged to the side, baring your cunt to his glossy, wide stare. Mesmerised. A warm trickle of wetness slipped down your thigh, and you wanted to die on the spot.

“Fuckin’ so pretty, bonnie,” he breathes out in admiration, causing another wave of sobs to bubble up in your chest. “Guess we owe Kyle a new pair, don’t we, little maid?” You choke back another sob when you see the black case of his phone pointed towards you, capturing your visage. The glass covering the camera reflects your tear-stained face and dishevelled appearance.

He leans back, taking his arm with him, pointing his camera down, down, to where he leaks out of you.

The beep of the clothes dryer from the other room jolts you back to reality. Your body feels heavy, weighed down by the burden of what has happened, the sense of betrayal and humiliation gnawing at your insides. You watch Soap move away, casually strolling over to the laundry room as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn’t just shattered your world.

The room felt like it was closing in on you, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You curled in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees, trying to find some semblance of protection, of comfort in the aftermath of the violation.

His phone is thrown face-up against the sheets.

You catch a glimpse of the screen; a messaging app open, photos of you filling the display. Your breath hitches in your throat, a cold shiver running down your spine.

He sent the photos.

You almost sigh in relief when Kyle’s name pops up, followed by a message.

- wouldve been perfect if you werent in it johnny

A cold shiver runs down your spine. If it was a private chat between Soap and Kyle, why was his name above the message? Your eyes drift up, up, to the title of the chat.

‘the roomies’

The reality of the situation slams into you like a freight train, the full weight of it crashing down and stealing the air from your lungs.

You back away from the phone as if it were a venomous snake, your heart pounding in your chest like a caged animal. You can’t breathe, can’t think, your mind a maelstrom of fear and shame. The thought of their eyes on you, their laughter echoing in your ears, is too much to bear.

Soap saunters back into the room, holding your clothes with a broad grin. “‘ere you go, bonnie maid. All nice and toasty for ya.” He tosses them onto the bed beside you, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction.

You force yourself to move, to reach for the clothes with trembling hands. The fabric feels alien against your skin, a reminder of the violation you can’t escape.

You don’t even notice, don’t care, that you haven’t changed out of the fancy underwear, that Johnny still leaks out of you when you make it home.

[cleoluvrr]

high school sweethearts (rafe cameron x reader) III

these are the requirements, if you think you can be my one true love

WARNINGS: mature content; dark!rafe, dub!con, corporal punishment, domestic violence, substance abuse & addiction, controlling behavior, coercion, manipulative behavior, stalking, toxic relationship, attempted suicide, kook!reader

masterlist

series masterlist

in spite of your refusal, rafe decided that the two of you were going shopping. it was the last thing you wanted to do, but rafe had an obsession with showing you off to everyone who had working eyes.

ironically, he didn’t hate when men looked at you–at least not while he was around. he loved it. he got a rush from watching other guys ogle you and know they could never have you. you hated public affection, but he loved to kiss you or walk around with his hand dangerously low on your back wherever you went just for wandering eyes.

fancy dinners, midsummers, the country club, charity events; anything that he got parade you around like a prized showhorse. you were sure rafe only took you to those things just to rub it in his father’s face. the child with a reputation of being a drug dealing deadbeat had a smart, well-mannered, soft-spoken girl hanging off his arm everywhere he went. one with reputable parents and was pursuing a college education. it made ward red in the face to know that someone like you was committed to his son, and it made your boyfriend feel overjoyed.

today was no different–not at first.

the last place you wanted to be was in a shopping center filled with rich kids and tourons, but rafe insisted that he wanted to buy you new clothes for the rapidly cooling weather. fall was in full swing and he refused to have his girlfriend walking around town in out-of-season fashion. it made no sense to you; rafe never cared about fashion being in or out of season, but you didn’t feel like putting up a fight.

the exhaustion of pulling your clothes on and off repeatedly was starting to overcome you. your skin was sticky and itchy from the hot fitting rooms, your feet were aching from the mary janes squeezing against your toes, and all the noise was overstimulating you. 

usually, you wouldn’t complain. you would just suck it up until rafe decided to take pity on you and bring you home with pounds worth of shopping bags that you didn’t even want in the first place. it was just something you had to do and there was no use in fighting him on it.

this time, however, you weren’t in any mood to be pulled around by rafe beneath the fluorescent, sterile lights of a crowded mall. 

after the second hour you began huffing and dragging your feet. you were sure rafe noticed, but he said nothing; you were still going along with it enough for him to leave it alone. it was hour three that you actually began to put up noticeable resistance. still he said nothing.

you hoped that your incessant whining would annoy him enough to take you home, but it was of no assistance.

your shoes clicked against the linoleum floor loudly as you stomped behind your boyfriend, jaw clenched and lips jutted out in a glossy pout. rafe’s fingers laced through yours as he led you around, paying no mind to your silent tantrum. you exhaled again, feet planting firmly into the ground as you tugged your hand away from him.

that was what made the blonde finally turn back to face you.

“i wanna go home, rafe.” you folded your arms across your chest as you said it, eyes wide and glaring up at your boyfriend just a few steps away.

he rolled his eyes in response, tongue in cheek. he was clearly annoyed, but you continued pushing anyway.

“we can leave soon, baby.” he reaches for your hand again but you step back to avoid his grasp. a pair of blue eyes squint at you in reaction to your act of defiance.

“don’t ‘baby’ me.” you snipped at him. “i wanna leave now, rafe. i’m tired–i didn’t even want to come here in the first place.”

he reaches for you again silently, his silent response only managing to irritate you further. you smacked his hand away before it landed on your waist.

“don’t fucking touch me!” a few people nearby turned their heads in your direction, your raised volume capturing the attention of passerbyers. “you’re not even listening! i just said i wanna go home now, we’ve been here long enough and i’m fucking irritated.”

rafe hardly seemed moved by your outburst, but his calmness was deceiving to the average onlooker. looking down at the hand you smacked away, his head slowly raised to meet your eyes with a look that had you struggling to collect saliva to wet your dry mouth.

the two of you held the tense contact for what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds. nodding at you, he moved to walk in the opposite direction towards the mall’s entrance. his strong hand snatched you into his hold as he passed by you, long legs leaving you stumbling behind him as he stalked through the center.

rafe’s anger was radiating off of him in waves, so strong that anyone passing by could feel the heat filling the air. he never looked back at you once, but you felt as if he had a second pair of eyes in the back of his head that left your skin boiling. 

though his demeanor was calm, the bone-crushing grip he held on your hand as he dragged you through the mall was enough to know you were in for it. 

you, on the other hand, couldn’t help the chill that ran through every layer of your being. it was hard to tell if your heart had stopped beating completely, or if it was beating so fast that you couldn’t differentiate each thump of it against your chest. your mouth had gone completely dry and the irritation that once filled you was now replaced with a heavy cloak of dread.

reaching his dark colored truck, rafe opened the back door to place the shopping back in the back seat before slamming it shut. the harsh sound made you flinch but rafe paid it no mind as he dragged you to the passenger’s side. your lips were tucked into your mouth tightly as you eyed him warily, the blond man tugging at the handle to reveal your seat in the car. 

the drive to his house was as uncomfortable as you thought it would be. he didn’t turn the radio on like usual, forcing you to sit in silence as you traveled to your destination. it was five minutes in that you realized you weren’t going to your own house like you requested. the realization made your stomach drop. you knew that it meant nothing good was going to happen once you stepped out of the car.

the driveway was empty when the two of you arrived at tannyhill, neither rose or ward anywhere in sight as you approached the large estate. 

your footsteps were light and hesitant as you trailed behind your boyfriend, shoes barely making a sound as they landed against the old floors of his family’s house. the feeling of dread intensified the closer you got to rafe’s bedroom. you weren't sure what would happen and the feeling of unknowing unsettled your stomach.

“y’know…” rafe finally broke the silence between you two as his bedroom door clicked shut. “i do so much for you.”

sitting the shopping bags down in the corner, rafe takes slow steps towards your frozen figure. you sniffed nervously and cleared your throat in response. he places a warm hand on your face when he reaches you, the soft gesture not matching the fire in his eyes. 

“i do so much for you. all i ask you to do for me…is show some respect.” his pink tongue pokes out the side of his mouth to wet his lips before retreating. “isn’t that right?”

“yeah…” the single word came out just as wobbly as you felt. he nodded at you, eyes flickering down to your bobbing throat as you swallowed dryly. 

“‘yeah…’” he mocked your unstable voice. “so–tell me why you think it's okay to talk to me like that? is it ‘cause you don’t respect me?”

you shook your head against the palm he held against your warm cheeks. his gaze was unrelenting and you felt like you were gonna be sick.

rafe already had you on thin ice from going to the cut last week. he was still mad about you blatantly ignoring his request, and this was only another stroke of a hammer to a frozen lake. he hated feeling like you were questioning his authority, but it felt ridiculous to you that your boyfriend thought he had any authority over you as a grown woman. that never mattered to him though; what he says is law in his eyes and if you disobeyed that then you had to deal with the consequences.

cursing at him in public had to be one of the dumbest things on planet earth, but your overstimulated mind couldn’t handle thinking about what could possibly happen. it didn’t quite dawn on you until he started dragging you through the mall, but by then it was too late to fix it. 

he had a short fuse and you’d lit it with your thoughtless actions. 

“i was just tired, rafe, that’s all.” you pouted up at him in hopes that he’d feel some sympathy for you rather than whatever had his bright blue eyes turn a dark shade of navy. “i didn’t mean to disrespect you. i just wasn’t thinking and it came out mean, i’m sorry…”

“you wouldn’t have to apologize all the time if you just…started thinking, huh?” his hand retracted from your face just a couple inches before reconnecting harshly. his palm stung against your skin, not enough to leave a mark but enough to serve as a warning. “fucking answer me.”

“no, i wouldn’t. you’re right,” the warm tingling of your cheek let you know there was no pouting your way out of this. “i was being dumb. i’ll do better, rafey, i promise…”

manipulation was wrong, but what choice did you really have? despite rafe being quick to anger, his soft spot for you was a weakness you’ve learned to use to your advantage over the years. 

when you looked up at him with pitiful, teary eyes and used that cute nickname for him in that little voice that pulled at his heartstrings, how could he stay mad at you? how could he reprimand you when you were being so sweet, so docile? 

you knew very well that he was wrapped around your finger even if he did have the upperhand in the relationship, and you would absolutely play on that when you needed to. 

like right now.

“baby…” rafe sighed at your wet eyes, demeanor softening at the sight. he thumbs over the skin of your cheek where he struck just you moments earlier in a soothing manner. 

looking down towards the floor you begin picking at your nails, the glossy french tips occupying your line of sight instead. it was something you always did when you were nervous, but this time it was only for show. 

“i’m really sorry.” if rafe were so close he wouldnt have heard the words leave your mouth. you prayed to whatever deity was watching over you to let the act work; rafe’s punishments were nothing you wanted to be on the receiving end of at the moment. 

rafe exhales again before removing his hand from your face. pulling you into his chest, he leans down to place a kiss to the top of your head amidst your embrace. if it wouldn’t completely jeopardize the situation you’d jump for joy. you melt into his arms, your own limbs moving to wrap around his lean torso. his hand reaches up to stroke over your head sweetly as he speaks into your scalp.

“go lie on the bed.” 

you tilted your head up at him in confusion. his softened eyes started down at you expectantly before glancing pointedly at the bed a few feet away. your feet carried you to the frame hesitantly, brows coming together as you pulled yourself up on the mattress. you’d barely settled before rafe was right there with you, his soft lips capturing yours in an embrace.

a sound of surprise on your end was swallowed by your boyfriend as he kept your lips connected. his hand came up to cup your jaw, using his thumb to pull your chin down and give him access to the pink of your mouth. you felt his tongue roll over yours gently a few times, the wet sound of saliva mixing filling your ears. 

there was nothing rough about it. even when he nipped at the flesh of your puffy bottom lip, he would take it in between his own and take away the sting of it. his air mingled with yours, and the taste of him almost distracted you from what got you here in the first place. he was good at that–distracting you.

so good, that you don’t notice the sneaky hand traveling between your bodies.

you jolt when a pair of fingers lands between your legs, ones that were not your own, and traces over the thin fabric of your underwear. rafe stopped you from pulling away, the hand on your chin moving to the back of your head to keep you in place. it was hard to focus on reciprocating the kiss when you were trying to stop yourself from pushing your hips up into his slow moving hand.

the feeling of him ghosting over your panties had you whining involuntarily, face heating up with embarrassment after the sound escaped your dry throat. rafe pulled away at the noise, a small smile grazing his lips as he watched you from above. you didn’t even notice that you were grinding into his barely there fingers, desperate for him to give you something more. it had been weeks since you touched yourself, and the last time rafe touched you was before you tried to break up with him.

“you’re so cute…” rafe spoke softly against your parted lips. a breathy chuckle escaped him when you frowned at him frustratedly. “stop pouting, it’s not gonna make me go any faster.”

despite him saying that, you feel him apply more pressure to your now pulsating clit. the friction of the fabric separating his fingers from your bare skin felt good, but not good enough to satisfy you for long. he stroked you from the bottom of your clothed slit all the way to the very top of your pussy before traveling back down and repeating the action. 

the slow, tantalizing circles around your attention–seeking bud made you feel just as miserable as you felt desperate for him to continue. 

rafe’s eyes scanned every inch of your face; the way you trapped your lip between your teeth to keep yourself quiet, the way your big, glossy eyes stared up at him, how your breath hitches when he applied the smallest amount of pressure. there was no hiding anything from him, not when both of you could feel the arousal leaking through the thin, pink fabric that kept your modesty.

he chuckled breathily when you brought a hand down to meet his wrist. you were sure if you wanted to push him away or pull him in closer.

“what is it, baby?” rafe asks curiously. he raises a dark blond brow at the soft whine that slips from your mouth, the answer not satisfactory enough for him. “know how to cuss me out, right? your mouth works just fine–use it.”

you blinked at him slowly, the snippy response on the tip of your tongue being forced down with the saliva gathering beneath the pink muscle. 

“can you…” the words were shaky as they left you, partially due to the teasing fingers spreading your wetness through your underwear. “c-can you touch me…please?”

rafe never made you ask him for anything. he always knew what you wanted, and he was more than willing to give it to you. you were a shy person and that timidity didn’t suddenly disappear when you two started being intimate with each other. it was hard for you to open up to him in that way, and he always made sure that you felt comfortable with him.

if he asked what you wanted, it was normally just teasing. he never really expected an answer and your mousy whimpers were enough for him to keep going. this was not something you were prepared for.

the blonde tilted his head to the side, feigning confusion. the way his digits were pressing into your entrance over the material made your lips part to allow a puff of air to escape.

“touch you?” he said. briefly his eyes flicker down to the hand between your legs being hidden by the fabric of your skirt before returning to meet your eyes. “am i not touching you?”

“but–i…” he was touching you, so you couldn’t argue against that, but he knew that wasn’t what you meant. “you are but th-that’s not...i mean really touch me.” 

“but i am ‘really’ touching you?” you pouted at him, eyes straining as you tried your hardest to prevent them from rolling. “you want more?”

rafe made no moves to oblige to your request when you started nodding your head frantically. instead he squinted at you, blue eyes burning against your skin fueled by his irritation.

“y’know, you’re being kinda…ungrateful, don’t ya’ think?” his tongue sneaks out to moisten his pursed lips. “i’m being so nice and you aren’t even thanking me?”

the hand not occupying the space between your legs travels to take place on your face, his strong fingers pushing in on your cheeks to squish them together roughly. you could feel the pads of the digits digging into the hardness of your teeth and it made you wince from the pain.

his fingers hook beneath the fabric of your panties and move them to the side. the cool air blowing against your newly bare skin was barely noticeable when all of your focus was on your boyfriend sliding through your slick folds. rafe’s face remained stoic even when you released a borderline pornographic moan from the sudden skin to skin contact, his grip on your face preventing you from hiding the sounds of pleasure.

he’d barely touched you and you were practically leaking; it was embarrassing. it’d been forever since you felt relief and he could tell, especially when the sticky mess was all over his fingers. you wanted so badly for them to sink inside and graze against your sensitive, gummy walls, but they never went any deeper than grazing against the entrance.

“i know what m’girl wants, what she needs–” rafe’s voice is soft but he looks the very opposite. the one-eighty almost gave you whiplash; he was being so sweet just a few minutes ago and now he looks just as agitated as he did on the ride home. “i know what you want, baby, i promise…”

you have to force yourself to not chase after his retreating hand with your hips. the loss of contact brings your mind out of its fuzzy, dazed state, bare pussy exposed to the blasting air-conditioning.

his thick digits are glistening in the light and covered in your arousal, strings of the sticky substance connecting his fingers together as he examines them in front of your face. with the hand on your face he forces your mouth to open wider, the flavor of your excitement coated the pinkness of your tongue. the sudden intrusion makes your mouth water reflexively and a sound of protest makes its way out.

“but what you need, is to learn how to be fucking grateful for what i give you.” rafe drags his fingers in and out of the moist coven of your mouth, making sure to thoroughly cover your tongue in the slick that was collected on his fingers.  “you should be grateful that i even touched you at all instead of shoving my cock in that nasty fucking mouth.” 

you almost gasped at the vulgar language but it was interrupted by his fingers shoving themselves deep into your throat. he was unmoved by your gagging, his face getting so close to yours that your noses touched. you could feel stray tears starting to run down your face and leave wet trails in their wake. 

watching as he gathers a pool of saliva in his cheeks, you could do nothing to stop him from allowing it to fall into yours. you feel it land in the back of your throat where his fingers were and flinch. the taste of him joins your pre-release in being fucked down your clenching throat by his fingers, your incessant coughing and gagging no deterrent to him. 

in fact, he finds some joy in it. he chuckles at the sound of your struggling, eyes focused on the wet mess created by your mouth.

“but you don’t even deserve that…my dick is too good for you. filthy ass mouth needs to be cleaned before i’d ever give it to you. ” his blonde locks fall in his eyes as he shakes his head in disapproval. “you know what–get the fuck up.”

pulling his fingers out of your mouth completely and releasing your face, he snatches you up to your feet. he drags you to his bathroom, one of his hands flicking on the lights while the other digs into the flesh of your bicep. 

you watch as he opens the medicine cabinet above the sink and slams it back shut, a white box visible in his hand from the mirror. he releases you for a moment to rip the packing open and reveal a brand new bar of soap. a state of paralysis overtook you from where you stood, eyes following him silently as he cut on the faucet. his gaze is fixated on you through the reflection of the mirror as he allows the bar of soap to foam up underneath the water.

rafe pulls you close, not giving you any chance to escape as he traps you against the bathroom counter with his back against your chest.

“open your mouth.” he says sternly. when you don’t follow instructions, his free hand reaches up to force your jaw open. “i said open your mouth!”

the bitter taste of dial disturbs you, the oval shaped bar scraping against your teeth as it’s shoved into your mouth. a muffled sound of rejection is silenced by the soap occupying all of your senses. you watch in the mirror as rafe holds both you and the foamy bar in place. 

“‘i just wasn’t thinking, rafey, i’m sorry.’” the mocking words were a repeat of what you said earlier. “yeah, you are sorry–but i bet you’ll start thinking now.” 

it felt like an eternity that he held the bar between your lips. when he finally pulled it away, you immediately leaned forward to spit out the substance. rafe was quicker than you, though, his large hand smacking against your lips to prevent you from ridding your mouth of the residue. your hand flew up to his wrist in an attempt to remove it but he doesn’t budge, his palm firm in its placement.

“no, you’re gonna keep it in that dirty fuckin’ mouth.” his voice was harsh in your ear, more annoyed than empathetic towards your desperate squirming. “you think some tears are gonna save your ass? not this time, baby…bet you’ll remember to watch how you talk to me, huh?”

nodding frantically, you plead with your eyes in the reflective glass before you. it was getting hard not to swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth and you weren’t sure how much longer you could handle the harsh taste of filmy, anti-bacterial suds. 

you filled your mouth with handfuls of water as soon as he released you. no matter how many times you brought the liquid to your lips to rinse the residue away, it was all you could taste. rafe remained stiff at your back, the heat of his body radiating against yours as he observed you judgmentally.

“remember how that shit tasted before you ever talk to me like that again, alright?” rafe all but spits the words out at your hunched frame over the faucet. “next time…i won’t be so nice.”

you glance up into the mirror and follow his back as he exits the bathroom. straightening up to your full height you’re met with the disheveled state of your reflection, dry tear stains over your cheeks and chapped lips left behind to show for the mercilessness of your boyfriend. the counter beneath fell victim to the crushing pressure of your fingers as your knuckles strained from the tightness of your grip.

sniffling, your tongue lolled over your chapped lips to moisten them before retreating back to its place. your throat bobbed as you forced the saliva down your throat, the sound of your gulping audible in the silent bathroom. you could hear rafe was shuffling around the bedroom a few feet away, footsteps traveling back and forth as he went through the shopping bags to presumably separate his stuff from yours.

rafe hadn’t done something like that in…in forever. 

the last–and only–time it happened was because you called him out of his name. you could suddenly remember the taste of lavender scented hand soap being scrubbed across your tongue by his angry fingers as he cleaned the words out of your mouth. the way your stomach turned when you would accidentally swallow the liquid every time he pushed too far down your throat. how he treated you like a petulant, misbehaving child deserving of corporal fucking punishment like it was the 1950’s.

you’d nearly forgotten that even took place–maybe because your brain decided it was a memory that had to be blocked out in order for you to stay with rafe after it occurred. you wish it had remained at the forefront of your mind so you wouldn't end up in the position again.

splashing water onto your tearstained face, you wipe away the mess before warily joining rafe in the bedroom on the other side of the doorframe. the end of the mattress was occupied by his body, the back of his head being the first thing you see. 

“come here.” his voice was softer than it was earlier but it still startled you, heart beating through your chest as he beckoned you towards him.

you were suddenly reminded of the wetness between your thighs as you approached him. the way your folds slid against each other beneath your ruined underwear as you took hesitant steps in his direction. it made you feel dirty–even after being gagged with a bar of soap.

pulling you between his legs, rafe rests his arms around your waist as you stand before him. he stares up at you apologetically, almost, eyes soft and bright as he toys with the hem of your sweater. your arms hung awkwardly by your sides, stiff and unsure of where to go.

“you know i just want you to do better right?” he asks. “i’m going to marry you one day, y/n, and my wife can’t talk to me like that…especially not in public. you understand why i had to do that right?”

you say nothing. it feels as if you’re on autopilot the way your head nods, the movement almost a reflex you’d learned just to appease him.

“i can’t keep letting it slide anymore, baby. you’ll just keep doing it and i can’t let everyone think i’m–i’m a pushover…’cause i’m not. i don’t want people thinking i can’t handle my girl–you get that, right?” he nodded his head and you followed his movements, still on autopilot. “you help me be better too, y’know…i just wanna do the same for you, okay?

“okay.” the single word came out so softly you weren’t sure if he heard it. your hands came together to pick at your nails, the slightly grown-out french tips falling victim to the nervous habit.

rafe unwrapped his arms from around your waist and pulled your hands apart as he took them into his own. the warmth of his palms thawed out your freezing fingers, blood rushing back into the tips. his lips ghosted over your knuckles as he blew hot air over them and rubbed the coldness out of them. your body had focused on keeping your organs warm over your extremities, poor blood-circulation a symptom of the persistent anemia you just couldn’t seem to get rid of.

“i love you so much that…th-that i don’t even know how….” he stumbles over his words. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, collecting his thoughts before speaking again.  “i do what i do because i love you, not because i wanna hurt you. i’d never do anything to hurt you on purpose, so don’t ever think that…okay? do you understand?”

you believed him, even though it was the last thing you wanted to do.

truly, you believed he didn’t do anything to hurt you. you knew that he never really had any bad intentions with his actions. rafe was irrational, short tempered, and had never seen what a healthy romantic relationship looked like in his life.

even with all of his flaws, has never hurt you just for the fun of it. he was mean sometimes, sure, but he was like that with everyone. actually hurting you has never been on his agenda, which is probably why you allowed yourself to stick around so long before. however, most of the things he did were reactionary to losing control. it was one of the few things he lacked in his life and he hated when the little he had was taken away from him. 

you were, quite frankly, the only stable thing he had.

if anything were to threaten that stability he would lose his mind. he would do whatever it takes to eliminate that threat; even you. he couldn’t lose you, not when you were all he had. his dad treated him like a disgrace, sarah barely liked him, and sure he had friends–but if he didn’t have money or status, would they stay with him?

you’d seen rafe at his absolute worst, but you never left. when he barely treated you like a human you stuck around because you saw something in him that no one else did. he knew that even if he left, you’d still take him in with open arms and love every part of him. you understood him in a way nobody else could, and he so desperately needed that.

violence and wealth is what his father uses to maintain control over him and everyone else, so that’s all rafe knows how to do. that’s what he was taught, and it’s hard to unlearn when it works so well. 

you’ve seen the things he has done to other people that have crossed him, and though he loved you to the ends of the earth, he would have no problem doing the same thing to you. he made good on his threats to the people that have done him wrong. you knew this first hand because it was you that washed the blood of his hands and bandaged his knuckles. you’d seen the dents in his golf clubs and the scratches in the paint of his car that looked an awful lot like fingernails. you never question it because getting involved in the world of drug dealing rich kids isn’t something on your list of priorities, but you were well aware of what he did to people.

he knew scaring you would keep you around, so that’s what he does. keeps you in a constant state of fear. even if it meant giving you a mouthful of soap.

“i understand.” you dropped your chin lower to look him directly in the eye. his long lashes brushed over the tops of his cheeks as his eyes fluttered open and shut. “i know you’d never hurt me on purpose, so don’t worry about that. i love you…and i’m sorry.”

rafe sighed heavily–out of relief or exhaustion? you weren’t sure. 

opening up your hand to reveal your palm, you watched as he brought it close to his face to place gentle kisses over the skin. you felt him press his lips against each section of your hand from the bottom to the top, no area left untouched. turning it over, he repeats his previous actions. each knuckle on your right hand is left tingling by the pink, pillowy flesh.

“you’re so perfect for me…my perfect girl.” he whispers loud enough for you to hear, eyes opening up to stare back into your watchful gaze above him. “you’re gonna be my perfect wife, too; i know it. gonna put a ring on this finger right here–”

taking a hold of your forefinger, he places a kiss there in the same manner he did your other fingers. he keeps his lips there longer; the intimate action makes your stomach do a flip and your heart swell. you’d felt so many emotions today that you wanted nothing more than to turn your brain off–but he made it so impossible.

“and make you mine forever.” rafe finishes the sentence after pulling away. he laces his fingers into yours and pulls you in with his freehand on your lower back. “everyone’s gonna be so jealous because they can never have you–could never be you.”

even though it killed you to admit it; you wanted it just as much as he did. well, probably not as much–but you’d be lying to yourself if you said you couldn’t see yourself with him forever. the idea of him putting a ring on your finger put a smile on your face even when you tried your hardest to suppress it.

fear wasn’t the only thing keeping you around.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Deal With The Devil[***]

Dark!Rhysand x Reader

a/n: Another little drabble to add to the Desk Pet series

warnings: Dark!Rhys, fingering, collar/leash, Court of Nightmares, smut, noncon

word count: 5,096

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Put this on.” 

You stare at the dress he has over his arm, unable to fully understand what you’re looking at. After having spent so long being denied your own clothing, for him to now offer it to you, no— order you to wear it…alarm bells are chiming in your head, body frozen as he throws off your habits, succinctly disrupting your routine. Rhysand raises a brow, free hand sliding into his pocket as his cruel lips curve, an amused glint in his violent gaze. “I would have thought you’d jump at the opportunity to hide yourself from me,” he drawls, and you swallow thickly at the implication, eyeing the dress warily—it must be a trick of some kind, but he never doesn’t have you backed into a corner. As usual, you have no choice when it comes to him. Hairs rise at the nape of your neck—you have to approach him. 

He enjoys playing mind games like this, the subtle manipulation of forcing you to come to him, to put yourself more at his mercy than you are already, naturally and through his own machinations. Steeling your spine, you keep the tremble from your fingers as you walk forward, every sense on high alert as you get closer, and closer…personal circles overlapping as you cross into his space, hastily reaching for the dress, practically snatching it from his arm before making to hurriedly get away.

Rhys grabs you, hand gripping your waist as he tugs you into him with a force you can’t resist, internally recoiling as the finely tailored fabric of his shirt grazes against the bare skin of your breasts, pressed flush to his upper body as he towers over you. You crane your neck, giving yourself no choice but to meet his intense gaze, to force yourself to look him in the eye with every ounce of hatred you can pull together. His lips curve, a look of approving amusement on his hell-hewn features. “I would tell you not to misbehave tonight,” he murmurs, lowering himself so his mouth brushes the sensitive shell of your ear, hand settling with revolting entitlement on the bare skin of your waist, able to feel every finger, every joint as they curl into you. “But I think you know I quite enjoy it when you try to be fierce. When you try to fight back.” 

You twist your head away from him, feeling as your hands begin to shake as you dig the heels of your palms into his chest, trying not to push him away but to keep him from closing the little distance there is left—not openly fighting back, but trying to preserve what space you have. The low drag of his chuckle sends a shiver down your spine and you wonder if he intentionally chooses clothing that’ll feel abrasive against your bare skin. “Now be good, and go and put this on for me, or would you like me to do it for you?” He muses, mouth lowering so his lips brush against the intimate slope of your throat, your breath hitching. “I can’t promise to keep my hands to myself—I’m sure you already know that, though.” 

Then he releases you, and you step out of his immediate circle, holding his gaze for a second before turning away. Any chance you have to show defiance, you need to take. But it’s difficult navigating your own emotions. At times you’re so tired, so worn down you don’t want to protest, want to fall into unconsciousness while he puts his harsh touch over your body, want to obey and please just so it might pass more swiftly—even if you know he would never let you get away with it. He would find a way to make it last regardless of how you act. It feels so pointless—even when you’re completely immobile, numb to him as you spiral he finds a way to wring pleasure from your body. It’s unfair. 

“You have two hours,” he says, both hands now settled in his pockets, and you’re unable to suppress the blink you give, the sign that he’s caught you off guard again. A cold feeling licks over your skin. What’s he planning?

But he only smiles slightly. “I’ll come and find you when your time is up,” he says, violet eyes gleaming with that almost constant hunger. “It’s going to be a long night.” 

————

You’re surprised by how claustrophobic it feels to have your skin covered, in spite of the lightness of the material, its thin breathability. He probably factored that into the dress’ design though, and you dislike the amount of thought he’s given. 

The neckline is wide although surprisingly not particularly low as it sits just shy of your shoulders, offering an elegant view of your collar bones while keeping your chest covered by the way the two pieces of fabric overlap when joined to the seam of the skirts. Another surprise there. The skirts are made up of four long, rectangular panels of pale fabric that also overlap, and while you’d like to think it’s to keep it from being too restrictive of your movement you know it’s made that way to facilitate his ease of use. It’ll be less trouble to get the skirts out of the way, if he wants.  

You glance over to the wardrobe, knowing it contains a full-body mirror on the inner door. You don’t want to look though. 

You don’t want to see how much you’ve changed. 

———

The floor has fallen out from beneath your feet, skin slicked in a cold, slimy residue as you recognise the darkness of these hallways. You’ve never been in person before—never had a reason to, nor has he ever allowed you to—but none of that prevents you from understanding where he’s brought you to. To the deepest part of his Court, rife with evil and oozing malice. 

Why are you here?

The sounds of voices grow louder, and your stomach drops, figuring out what will happen. He’s told you of the person he becomes here, what he’s like when he’s sat on that throne—with hindsight you know he doesn’t become anyone. The mask is simply removed. 

He rounds a corner, and you can see the double doors at the other end of the hallway, can hear the muffled voices from behind it, and fresh fear saturates your skin. You’d grown accustomed to the touches he’s infected you with, had grown used to his kind of inflictions that leave bruises aching within your body, teeth that mark and bite mercilessly for the sake of his own twisted pleasure. 

Your feet stop of their own accord, staring ahead to the doors, unable to make your body move like it should, like you’re commanding it to so he won’t figure out how terrified you are. He’ll only exploit your weakness, and he’s taken advantage of you enough, you can’t do anymore. You really might fall apart this time. 

Rhys pauses, glancing back at you with that look on his face that’s a mix between hunger and amusement. It feels like he already knows what you’re thinking, the desperation that’s rapidly taking over your body, overwhelming your mind, pulse increasing in frequency and weight as you look at those doors, then to him. “What’s…what’s behind there?” You ask, hating how weak you sound. 

“My Court,” he answers simply, turning so he’s facing you, cruel silver-ringed hands sheathed in his pockets. “Why…why are you—…” you choke on the rest of the question, unable to help the small retreating step, the way your legs tremble and your arms raise up to cross over your body as if it will serve any kind of protection. You can manage in solitude. When it’s only him who’ll witness your degradation. Your humiliation is kept secure within a vacuum, strange and out of context in the horrid privacy of his home. Between two people, there’s no real confirmation, no reason to believe one over the other. But if he takes you into that room…takes you in front of his court…you can’t fight against the beliefs of so many people. 

If they believe you to be his whore, you’ll become it. 

“I’m not…” you whisper, subconsciously taking another half-step back, fingers trembling as they curl over your shoulder, grip around your waist. “No…” you breathe, shaking your head. Violet eyes gleam, hunger deepening as he takes a step toward you. Then another, and another after that. He’s getting closer, long legs effortlessly covering the ground between you, and you can see as time slows the way his hand raises from his pocket, reaching to grab you. To drag you before his court, and shove you to your knees at his feet for everyone to see. To your knees…

It’s the only pathway you can find, one that might keep you safe, so as Rhys’ hand reaches for you, you lower your head, one leg bending at the knee before the other is following, lowering yourself into a kneel. Hands tuck into your lap, trying to calm their shaking as you keep your head cast downward, feeling humiliation settle on your shoulders, breathing shallow and uneven. “Please,” you whisper, brows pulled tight together in regret, ashamed you can’t summon the courage to fight him. That you have to beg. Yielding to the cage he’s been trying to put you in for…you don’t know how long it’s been. 

Dark leather shoes step into your vision, and your eyes briefly close, wanting to shut him out. “Please…what?” He asks, voice a touch fainter than you’re accustomed to. “Please, not in front of them,” you whisper, nails beginning to press into the tops of your thighs, not at all certain your gamble will even pay off. If it’ll make a difference, or if it’ll be all for nothing. 

Quiet pulls between you, Rhys remaining silent as you keep your head bowed. 

“How about a bargain?” He murmurs, but you’re so overcome with fear you make nothing of the lack of cruelty in his voice. “I’ll keep you to myself, no one will see you, and in return, you will do as I say, without complaint, for one night.” 

Ice filters directly into your blood, a cold sweat dripping down your back as you register the offer. But is there anything he could ask of you that he hasn’t made you do already? “As long as no one will know what you ask of me,” you whisper in reply, putting what little faith you have left into the Mother, trusting she will hear this final, desperate cry, and at last have mercy on you. “Then I agree.”

“Very well,” Rhys answers quietly, and you flinch as the bargain inks itself on your flesh. His hand comes into view, silver rings twinkling in the low light as he holds out his palm for you to take. You fight against the shaking of your body, but you tremble nonetheless as your fingers slide over his own, letting him pull you to your bare feet. 

His violet eyes gleam, and then he’s guiding you towards those doors at the end of the hallway, keeping your arm linked with his own. He’d said no one would see you, had felt the bargain on your flesh, and know he’d spoken true, and yet you can’t help the instinctive resistance as he guides you to his Court. 

The mouth that will lead you to the belly of the beast. 

————

Rhys had already explained how no one could see you, how he had worked his way into the minds of his subjects, and erased you from their sight, and still you doubt.

You suppress a flinch as his palm grazes up your waist, nerves on edge from being surrounded by so many people after having spent so long with just him. It’s almost overwhelming, in a way, and you have to wonder if he intended this. 

You’re sat on his thigh, hands in your lap to keep from having to touch him any more than you need to, shoulder perpendicular to his chest, head turned away from him to keep an anxious eye on the writhing crowd before you on the floor below the raised platform of the dais. Violet eyes brush over your cheek, his attention stroking over your exposed skin and you’re horrified you’ve become so attuned to him you can recognise when he’s watching.

His hand rises, knuckles brushing below your breast, and your breath catches, body turning rigid with apprehension as his hot lips graze your throat. “You’re still anxious, aren’t you?” He muses just shy of your ear. “They can’t see you,” he says, mirth clear in his voice as his palm moves slowly to cup your breast intimately. “You’re all mine.” 

You swallow thickly at the reminder, that he’s manipulated it into being you desiring only his attention, that he’s so gently twisting the narrative you can hardly tell what the original was. 

His lips curve, then his touch is receding, instead pushing you to your feet between his legs and you turn to look at him warily, distrust blatant in your eyes as they meet his own, amused set. 

“Go play,” he tells you, mouth quirked, brow raised slightly. “You can see for yourself—I don’t mind. Just don’t touch anyone.” The curve of his mouth shifts into a slow smile, barely restrained violence glinting beneath the darkness of his eyes. The threat is clear enough. It takes a few seconds before you’re turning away from him, slowly making your way step by step down the dais, slowly getting further and further from his presence. Nothing significant, though. You’re not sure if any distance would be significant enough to have you feeling safe. 

Gathering courage, you make your way over to a male who’s sipping on his drink, eyes wearily cast in the direction you’ve come from, glancing up at the High Lord who’s sat on his throne atop the dais. He doesn’t even look at you as you approach, and your throat rolls as you pause before him. Hesitantly, you wave your hand in front of his face, a few inches from him, and yet there’s not even a single sign he sees you, or is even aware of your existence.

“I told you,” Rhys’s shadowy voice calls from the dais, amusement clear. “Are you satisfied now, little lamb?” You grit your teeth, pulling your hand back to your body before turning to face him, the writhing crowd at your back as you look up at him on his throne. “Why do you call me that?” Rhys smirks, leaning into the support of his thumb and index finger, middle digit curved to slightly obscure the sinful quirk of his lips, as if trying to keep his amusement to himself. 

Your brows narrow slightly, resentment pushing through your features that you usually try to keep neutral for the sake of not stirring anything in him. He seems most interested in you when you’ll give him reactions of some kind. Not that being numb and expressionless, or even asleep has ever given him pause. 

His eyes run over you with interest, but you can’t quite regret the question. It wasn’t like he was going to bring you here without violating you in some way. Putting his defiling touch into your body with those cruel, elegant fingers. 

“Why—”

“Crawl to me,” he orders softly, that soul-deep hunger pinning you to the ground with its quiet ferocity. A starvation so deep it has your legs trembling slightly. You have to make a decision here, antagonise him further by refusing to do as he says, or undertake the humiliation of crawling back up the dais to him, where he’ll likely keep you knelt between his legs like a pet, occasionally running his fingers through your hair soothingly. As if to thaw out a beast. 

“I have to admit,” he says, drawing your attention, his silky voice cutting through the generic noise of his nightmarish court. “Out of everything I’ve had you do, every position I’ve put you in and every angle I’ve fucked you from, I liked it when you knelt for me. When you did it for yourself.” You freeze, staring at him, horror unspooling in your gut at the soft drawl of his confession. “I think it’s an avenue I’d like to explore with you,” he muses, and that cold sweat returns. 

His eyes close briefly, lips curving as he smiles to himself, offering you precious seconds to regain composure before they’re opening again, previous…something, gone, replaced by that familiarly cruel, cold glint. Hungry and merciless. “Now come here,” he commands roughly, and darkness shoves at the back of your legs, shoving you to your knees as it wraps around your throat like a collar. “I’ve given you enough time to work yourself up, so crawl.” 

Rhys’ fingers flex as a leash of darkness appears in his grip, a dark, shadowy band wrapped firmly around his knuckles as he tugs on it punishingly, forcing you to fall forward onto your arms. Fear springs up in your flesh, as you face what you’ll have to do. You swallow once, before regretfully bringing your knee forward, hands moving distantly as your body starts into resentful motion, movements forced to be somewhat exaggerated to avoid kneeling on the fabric of the dress he’d put you in, the cold, unforgiving stone biting into the bare skin of your palms. 

“I think I quite like it when you’re obedient,” he muses, tugging lightly on your leash, encouraging you to raise your gaze to meet his once you’ve reached the foot of his throne though he doesn’t allow you to sit upright, forcing you to remain on all fours as you look up from between his long legs. “I’m sure you do,” you reply, trying to keep your expression neutral but unable to keep the bite form your tone. “Does it make you feel better?” 

Rhys blinks, violet eyes running over you with a foreign look in his features—interested and…anticipating…? But it’s gone as quickly as it came, vanished in less than a fraction of a second, leaving you unsure if you’d even seen it in the first place. “You’re rather talkative,” he muses neutrally, gazing down at you. You hold his gaze, trying to remain steady without showing too much resistance, hold your ground without being too compliant. 

His lips curve, “are you in a good mood?” 

You’re a fucking piece of work, you think vehemently, not quite possessing enough restraint to muffle your thoughts. His eyes twinkle like he’s heard it, but makes no comment on it, instead pulling on your collar. “Up here,” he instructs, and your heart drops. 

He guides you into his lap, and you fight against the urge to squirm as he pulls your back against his front, then, with sickening tenderness, gently hooks your legs either side of his thighs, pushing them apart. It’s exactly as you predicted, and you watch from somewhere far off in your mind as his hand trails across your stomach, keeping you slightly slouched against him. “You know what’s so wonderful about this dress?” He asks idly, fingers trailing up between your breasts leisurely, like he isn’t actively violating your body. 

Violet eyes glance sidewards to you, your head resting reluctantly against his shoulder, feet hooked around his calves to keep from sliding down his body. You know he won’t let you back up if you fall, and you hate it when he uses your mouth. When he finishes down your throat. Coating your tongue. Sometimes your face if he’s feeling particularly perverse. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway,” you mutter softly, trying to keep the shake from your hands. 

Rhys hums amusedly, pressing a small kiss to your temple, your body wishing to recoil at the twisted display of gentle affection. “Why don’t I show you, instead?” He asks, hearing the resigned sigh that breathes from your lips, eyes sliding shut briefly as you brace for his touch. His lips curve because they have to, and then he’s guiding the panels of your skirts to the sides so only one lays between your legs. 

Pressed so intimately against him, he can feel the slight flinch you give as his fingers dip down, running almost experimentally over your bare cunt, pressing lightly to your entrance. You grit your teeth, keeping your eyes shut as he drags them back up, settling over your clit, unable to help the way you wind your feet a little closer around his calves, to assure you of some kind of stability as your body becomes more rigid. 

“You should open your eyes,” he muses beside your ear, fingers leaving you to press up against your lips, pushing lightly against your tongue. “It’s not everyday you’ll get to sit upon a throne like this.” 

I don’t want to sit on a throne, you think, eyes remaining shut as he coats his digits in saliva before circling your entrance again with those delicate, teasing fingers. An image of you sat neatly in his lap close to how you are now except his cock is buried inside of you pushes into your mind, your eyes shut, lips parted and brows curved in needful pleasure, and you startle. Rhys’s arm bands across your waist to keep you from jerking upright, and you can hear his dark laughter brushing softly against your skin. 

His digits rub over your entrance lightly, before again raising to circle your clit, and you hate how heat is beginning to gather in response to his touch. The pads of his fingers circling lightly as the arm across your waist raises to grip your jaw, turning so your head is facing forward. “Open your eyes,” he commands lowly, digits continuing with the horrid movements. Trying to steel yourself, you follow the order, gazing across the crowd that has no idea you’re even up in his lap with Rhys simply feeding them an illusion of something else. Do they even know their High Lord is here, or has he removed himself from their minds too? 

“See all those people?” He asks, digits slowly sinking into your heat as your gaze follows his direction, scanning across the crowd. “All those people, and none of them have a clue what you’re doing.” 

“What you’re making me do,” you correct resentfully, but quietly. 

“Not for much longer,” he counters, lips parting in a secretive smile beside your temple, curling his fingers against one of those spots he’s become sickeningly familiar with. They scissor inside of you, and the image returns to your mind, how your back had curved, his hands on your hips while yours rested on his thighs, your legs spread over him as he kept you facing his court, forcing you to look at them—how oblivious they were to your suffering. 

He pushes you so you’re upright, and you swallow thickly, knowing his hands have moved to the ties of his trousers, working himself free. 

Rhys’ hands return to your hips, dark magic moving the back panel out of the way as he guides you against him, lining himself up with your cunt. 

“Sit down,” he orders quietly, and your hands tremble where they’ve settled on his thighs. Slowly, shakily, you settle in his lap, shuddering as he fills you up, spine curving a little as his cock pushes inside of you until you’re pressed tight together. 

Heat flushes your skin, head lowered at how good it feels to have him inside of you, how easy it’s becoming to fall into the pleasure just to escape from hatred and disgust. To give into heat and touch and physical stimuli in favour of waging this psychological war. You can’t help how you squeeze him, cunt tightening as you pant heavily, feeling as his fingers trace up the curve of your back—absently, idly, as if he’s waiting for you to adjust to him before he starts with his torturous ministrations. 

Teeth bite hard at your lip—why is it always him giving the orders, always him in control, always him surprising you and catching you off guard. You hate it. 

But earlier, when you’d gone to your knees, there had been a second there where he seemed taken aback. Even though it had been you yielding power, it had felt, for a moment, as though you had control. 

Rhys’ hands stutter over your skin as you raise your hips, then slowly settle back down. Repeating the minimal motions, the slight circles as you wind over him without him having said anything.

Violet eyes are glued to the sweep of your hips, the fluid movement of your spine as you roll against him, nails piercing into his flesh, hands nearly fumbling, overcome with an intense sensation in his muscles, like he’s paralysed as he watches you move of your own accord. 

At your back, you can feel his attention but his grip has lightened almost entirely, practically having fallen away and you wonder what he’s thinking, what’s going through that dark mind of his. You wish you didn’t spend so much of your time pausing on that, wondering why, trying to figure him out. It should be as simple as he’s evil—cruel, selfish, and utterly monstrous—but he’d managed to worm his way into your heart before he’d revealed his true colours, and you haven’t been able to entirely remove him since. The contrast between the male you knew and the male his is, is startling; jarring. Unresolvable. 

But why does it have to be about him? Why do you have to care about what he thinks of you still? He’s proven to be a monster—why should you care what a monster thinks of you? 

His cock touches a part inside of you, just grazing it lightly, but it’s enough to have you searching for it again, shifting your hips in attempts to have him rubbing against it, but—you’ve lost it. A huff wants to work its way up your throat, but you keep it down, head raising upward, eyes closed as you try to continue searching for it, rocking your hips over him, grinding against him, raising up and down…

Surprise filters through your blood as Rhys’ hands find you again, holding your waist as he directs you, and your eyes peek open, fluttering around him as he shows you where that spot is, a rich moan falling from your lips as satisfaction fills your chest. A pleased feeling improves your mood, and you follow the motions, lids tempted to shut again to bask in the sweetness of the heat. 

Why hadn’t you done this sooner? Ignored him entirely and just taken what you could get? A tiny part of you whispers her doubts at where those thoughts have come from, but the pleasure softens her too as she liquefies without much resistance, melting into the pleasured chambers of your mind. 

When Rhys guides your hips higher, you follow thoughtlessly, his grip sliding you up and down the thick length of his cock and your lips part on a sharp breath, chasing after the pleasure that’s swiftly building in your lower abdomen, breathing becoming shallow with every touch of his cock. His hips buck suddenly, and your eyes fly open from the sharp spike of pleasure. 

Thoughtlessly, you resign yourself over to him, and he wastes no time in taking advantage of your lapse in judgement, his grip tightening on your hips as he effortlessly leverages your hips, slamming you back down on him in a way that repeatedly knocks the breath from your lungs. 

Doesn’t this feel good? He asks into your mind, a shiver running down your spine at the low caress of his voice. Doesn’t it feel so much better when you aren’t fighting against me? 

I thought you liked that, you think, having no control over what crops up in your mind, the vulnerability not nearly as terrifying as it should be, though. And I thought you didn’t care what I liked, he replies, darkness gathering at your shoulders, pushing the overlapping panels of fabric away so the sleeves fall over your arms, baring your breasts to the cool air of the underground court. 

True, you think, unable to push him away but not really wanting to. 

True? He repeats, a strange note in his voice but you’re not really concentrating on him as darkness swirls at your breasts, grazing across your sensitive nipples. That you don’t care what I like, or that it’s better when you’re good? 

Both.

Rhys’ breath hitches, grip momentarily fumbling at the sharp belief of the word, but you continue, chasing the high you’re approaching, soft moans spilling from your lips and he feels his mask slipping, panic rising in his chest as the desire to turn you around, to take you away from this court, to take you back to the safety of his house in Velaris, grows with startling strength. 

Your eyes slide shut as the orgasm blossoms throughout your body, breath catching at the intensity of the pleasure. “Rhys…” his name flutters from your tongue, pouring from your mouth as heat swarms your mind, muddling your thoughts further, forgetting time and context. “Fuck, Rhys…”

The High Lord regains his control, slamming you down on his cock as he hears his name pronounced in your lovely voice, soft and delicate despite the brutality of his bruising touch. 

“Fuck, say my name again.”

Say my name again.

The command comes from both sides, external and internal, the soft order whispering up your spine as you shake and tremble in his lap, overwhelmed. 

“Rhys…”

Rhys…

He groans roughly, and you feel as he spills inside of you, touch softening ever so slightly as he shifts behind you, brow resting on the back of your shoulder, feeling as his breath fans across your skin. Your spine curves, darkness still lightly playing with your breasts, more soothing than teasing now.

You glance down at yourself, and catch sight of jet black ink in your skin, the bargain mark stamped between your breasts, and you recall, not entirely fearfully, the deal you’d made with him. 

He had forced you into a position of compromise, and as usual you feel you were manipulated into yielding more than him. 

An entire night, under absolute obedience. 

What will he ask for? 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[euphoricfilter]

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

how another little bit of hope dies

tags/ warnings: game designer! jungkook || non-idol au || established relationship || angst || hurt and no comfort || bad communication (womp womp)

length: 1k

notes: no taglist! no taglist!!

☆ collaboration with: @bonny-kookoo 💕 ☆

☆ series masterlist

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

You’re sprawled out on the couch when he gets home, something he has told you not to do time and time again. Because although you’re taking time off work, he knows how grouchy you can get after staying up as late as he usually does.

Because as much as he would love to indulge you tomorrow morning, with breakfast in bed as you complain about how much your head hurts from sleeping in longer than you’d have liked, he simply won’t. He can’t.

“Baby?” he throws his jacket over the back of the chair.

You tilt your head to look at him slightly, though only for a moment before your eyes are flickering back towards the TV. Another silent act of defiance. Though you doubted he would do much about it, each small little thing you know he hates slowly whittling its way into your life, anything for him to just… realise your existence.

Just to know you’re still there, that you understand work is important but surely you should be important too. The both of you had fragile human hearts, and for the longest time you were convinced his held more empathy than yours ever had. And maybe in all those quiet intimate moments, it had leaked from every crevice of his body, absorbed by you until his heart lay a little wearier of your existence. The low hum of love only buzzing in the back of your mind as his life is consumed by what you can only assume are more important things.

“Hey, I’m talking to you” he says, moving your legs over his lap when he sits down, “Why’re you still up?”

You swallow, every morsel of your entire being telling yourself not to snap. Not to have a go at him and start a fight when really you wanted to be in bed, where it was warm and safe, yet ever so lonely. Even as he clings onto you, hours later from when he’d gotten home and yet you still couldn’t sleep.

‘Just not tired’ it hadn’t been more than a whisper, slipping off your tongue like you’d practiced for hours while he was gone, ‘where have you been?’

He’d only shrugged, sheepish little smile on his face that had your heart tugging in your chest, mind whirring with what it could be.

‘Just out’

You wanted to ask where, who he was with, why he was out longer than he’d promised, all the silly silly little questions that would make you sound like a jealous girlfriend, nit-picking at every little part of his life. Simply because it felt like you didn’t know him anymore.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

“Jungkook?” you call from the kitchen, knife still in your hand as you peer out into the living room, eyes catching on the closed door of his office, “Jungkook” you call a little louder. Bitter frustration tickling the back of your mind at his silence.

You slam the knife down on the counter harder than intended, awful little clatter ringing in your ears as you storm over to the closed door. You don’t bother knocking, tell-tale signs of anger slowly working their course through your body as you step into the room.

His eyes are wide when they meet your, echo of him slamming his laptop closed sinking into the walls. He drops his phone, scrambling to pick it up when the screen falls face-up, harsh glare of whatever website he was looking at stinging your eyes momentarily as he shoves it into his pocket.

You pause for a moment, mush of words pinching between your eyes, so much to say clawing up your throat and dissolving on your tongue.

Jungkook stands up, and you take a step back when he steps towards you.

“Y/n?” he asks, eyes still a little wide. And maybe if he wasn’t stepping towards you, dull thump of his feet against the carpet, you’d be able to hear his hammering heart.

“What were you looking at?” you ask, eyes glancing over at his closed laptop, eyebrows furrowing as you look back at him.

It comes out in one breath, so quick in defence that ugly feeling in your chest seems to blossom that little bit more.

“Nothing”

“It didn’t look like nothing” you shake your head, exasperated at his answer, “Jungkook what was it?”

“Really” he laughs, “It’s nothing to worry about”

“Show me then” you say, tongue wetting your bottom lip.

He sucks in a short breath, “I can’t”

“What do you mean you can’t? If it’s nothing, then why can’t you show me?”

He winces at the raise in tone of your voice, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re being unreasonable” he shakes his head.

As soon as the words leave his mouth it simmers over, so much pent-up frustration seeping through every pore of your body. Absolute rage knocking at your brain.

“You know what?” you point at him, “Fuck you”

He opens his mouth, but you stop him, “I’m being unreasonable? Me?”

He steps towards you, utterly baffled as to where this was coming from, the pure unbridled rage in your eyes, cheeks warming up to the tips of your ears. You pull your arm away from him when he tries to hold your hand, his eyebrows furrowing in hurt as you try and push him away.

“Y/n” he says, tone low, “Hold on a moment”

You take a step away from him, “No, you can’t do that”

You swallow down the tell-tale sign of tears, “I’m leaving”

“Where are you going?” he follows you into the bedroom, stood in the doorway of the bedroom as you rummage around for your own hoodie, tugging his one you were wearing over your head.

You ignore him, tugging clothes out of the closet, left in a pile over his clean washing he hadn’t put away yet, another job you’d started refusing to do.

You duck under his arm, slipping your shoes on.

“Y/n, come on” Jungkook says, hands hovering, unsure what to do with himself, “Let’s talk about it.”

You pause for a moment, “No” you shake your head, turning to him with narrowed eyes, “Go back to whatever you were doing”

You nod towards his office, “And make your own fucking lunch for once!” you shout before slamming the front door.

You release a long-drawn breath, rattle of the door ringing in your ears. You don’t hear his footsteps, nor another call of your name.

Wretched disappointment clawing at your insides, another piece of fragile blossomed hope wilting.

[radioactiveparker]

The Breakfast Club - Eddie Munson X Fem!Cheerleader!Reader

Part Four - Hand Over The Purse

Summary - The kids get high and share a little more about themselves. Some more than they probably wanted to. (A retelling of The Breakfast Club, written and directed by John Hughes).

Warnings - Strong Language / Drug Use / Kleptomania / Abusive Relationship / Dysfunctional Families / Child Abuse / Sexual References / Pyromania and Fire

Word Count - 5.4k

(Series Masterlist) (Masterlist)

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five)

~~~~~

Saturday.

October 25th, 1986.

Hawkins High Library.

2:00pm

~~~~~

Eddie sat on the beanbag chair, putting the finishing touches on a joint as long as a dictionary page. You sat down beside him, squeezing to fit on the chair together, and laughed at the size of the joint. He smiled proudly. He licked the blunt all over to ensure that it stayed together, keeping his eyes locked on yours. He held it up to your mouth and blindly fished his lighter out of his pocket, not once taking his eyes off you. You tried not to act nervous, but if you were unconvincing, Eddie didn't say so. You wished he'd say something to ease whatever this tension was between the two of you. The chocolate swirls of his irises were making your mind go blank. He struck the lighter and held it under the end. You closed your eyes to shy away from his attentive stare and moved in on the joint. There was a brief pause, and you were hyperaware of Eddie's presence beside you. With a shuffle of his jacket, you could feel him moving closer to place the blunt to your lips. Eddie couldn't help but stare at you like this. Your eyelashes resting softly above your cheeks, and your lips pouted ever so slightly in such a kissable way.

Eddie smoothly replaced the joint with his lips.

You unknowingly pressed your lips to his and sucked. Your eyes snapped open to see Eddie, lips against your and his eyes delicately closed. Despite all of the alarms ringing in your head, you didn't move away and instead close your eyes again. Eddie smiled against your lips. In reality, the kiss only lasted about five seconds, but it felt like time had come to a stand still. The kiss made your stomach drop. Not necessarily in a bad way. It's kind of like when you hit the first drop of a rollercoaster; terrifying but thrilling all the same. His lips felt like the inside of a rose petal. It was a bit unexpected from a guy like Eddie, but you weren't complaining. Billy's lips were always chapped, and he used far too much teeth and tongue for your liking.

Billy.

You pulled away abruptly.

You swiftly wiped your lips on the back of your hand, praying that Eddie couldn't see how they were shaking and gave him an unamused look. He just laughed at his little prank, loving how flustered he made you. If your mind was blank before, it was the complete opposite now. You were practically drowning in your own thoughts, struggling to keep your head above them all as more and more weighed you down. You thought of Eddie and how much you had come to tolerate him over the course of a few hours. You thought of the kiss, albeit it was barely more than a quick peck, and how much you had actually enjoyed it. Then you thought of Billy. You thought about how he would react if he found out you had kissed Eddie. Had you technically cheated? Eddie kissed you, not the other way around. But you enjoyed it. The fluttering butterflies Eddie had given you quickly turned into a nest of guilty spiders crawling under your skin.

You rolled your eyes and handed out a hand for Eddie to pass you the blunt, not trusting him to give it to you properly this time. You felt like you were more desperate to smoke now than ever, if only to clear your mind. Eddie passed it to you with little defiance over your new found trust issues. You held it to your lips and took a puff. It wasn't so different than smoking a cigarette, which you only did socially, so the initial inhale wasn't so bad. But your eyes closed as you struggled to keep the dope in your lungs. Your cheeks puffed in and out, and you gaged. Your lungs expelled the smoke out, leaving you coughing and choking. Eddie laughed beside you, patting you on the back in an effort to help clear your airways.

"You good, Sweetheart?" He chuckled.

You continued to cough, only holding a thumbs up sarcastically.

Once you had finally collected yourself, you bravely tried again. You went to put the joint to your lips again when Eddie stopped you. You looked at him confused when he took the joint from your hands.

"Let me try something I think would help."

"What are you going to do?" You said cautiously. After that kiss, you weren't sure you liked him being so vague.

"Shotgun."

"Shotgun?"

"You'll see. You just gotta breathe in the smoke, okay?"

This all sounded a bit sketchy to you, but Eddie knew what he was doing. 

You hoped.

He took a hit and held it in his mouth. He tenderly placed a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. Your hand rested on his chest, so you didn't topple on top of him. He lightly pressed his lips onto yours and opened his mouth, exhaling slowly. You caught on quickly, despite the shock of Eddie practically kissing you again, and began to suck the smoke in. It was far easier this time, the smoke feeling far more diluted than when you drew it from the source. Your eyes fluttered closed at the feeling of Eddie's lips brushing against yours, and resisted temptation to lean in and kiss him again. You inhaled as slowly as you could to keep Eddie close for as long as possible, but your lungs were reaching full capacity, and you had to pull away to release the air from them. Eddie looked pleased when you didn't have another coughing fit.

You bravely reached for the blunt and took it from his hands, suddenly feeling the urge to please and impress him. You wrapped your lips around the end of the blunt and inhaled once again. The hit wasn't so bad this time. Now you were more prepared. Your lungs surrendered to the smoke and allowed it to fill them up. You exhaled a lot smoother this time, feeling a little disappointed with the lack of effect the weed seemed to have on you. You didn't feel any different, aside from your heart hammering in your chest. You couldn't decide if that was from the joint, Eddie, or the guilt creeping through your system.

Eddie had an impressed smile on his face. He took the blunt from you and took a hit himself, a lot more expertly than you had. He lay back on the bean bag and blew the smoke upwards towards the ceiling. The movement had you sinking into the chair until you were practically cuddled up into Eddie's side. He placed an arm around your shoulders as he got himself more comfortable.

You shared a few more hits when Robin approached the two of you gingerly. She felt like she was intruding, but she felt in dire need of a smoke. She sat on one of the single sofas beside Eddie and asked to join in. Eddie felt satisfaction that he had been able to influence the others to join him, just out of spite for Steve and Nancy. He wondered if they would join in, too.

He passed the joint to Robin, who took a hit effortlessly. He wasn't as shocked as you were at her mastery of smoking. Eddie knew Robin from band and had managed to convince Robin and a few others to smoke with him and the other guys from Corroded Coffin. It wasn't a common occurrence, but whenever he offered, Robin was always the first to say yes.

"You know, my cousin Si, he's from Canada." Robin rambled. "He got high once, and he started eating like really weird foods, and then he just felt like he didn't belong anywhere. Kinda like 'Twilight Zone', you know?"

You took another hit after her. When you passed the blunt to Eddie, the world was moving frame by frame. Your head began to feel lighter and lighter until you felt like you were floating. Eddie watched you with numbed concern and started laughing. At first, you thought you must have said something funny, but Robin started laughing too. You realised you must have looked completely off your face, and soon, you were laughing too. Your eyes squinted shut with laughter. Coloured patterns moved across the insides of your eyelids. Lots of slowly rotating geometric shapes in multicolours floated in all directions, crossing and colliding with each other. When you opened your eyes again, you stopped acknowledging where you were. You felt like you were high on a cloud with your friends laughing beside you.

~~~~~

2:30pm

~~~~~

You didn't remember when Steve joined in, but he appeared from one of the seclusion rooms without his pants and began running around the library. You all watched in bewilderment as he continued his wild, uninhibited race around the bookshelves. He finished outside of the office he had come out of and went back inside without a word.

Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose at his behaviour. She couldn't believe he had managed to convince himself to smoke weed, despite her pleads not to. She was the only one completely sober. She sat by herself in one of the listening rooms, away from the others but close enough to keep her eye on them. It was a small room with a turntable, speakers, a panel of controls and switches, and racks of records. She fiddled with the record jacket in her hands. She took the record out of the sleeve and placed it on the turn table. The music came out louder than she was expecting, and she scrambled to turn it down. Much to her disappointment, she had managed to alert the others.

Eddie waltzed in, looked around, and began going through the records. The others follow loosely behind, thankfully Steve with his pants on this time. Soon, Nancy's small means of escape felt like an overcrowded borstal.

"What a bunch of shit records." Eddie complained and moved to another row.

Eddie saw a cover that piqued his interest and replaced the record on the turntable. He set down the tonearm, and the record hissed and popped before playing some German folk song. He moved his arms far too enthusiastically for what was playing, mocking some air drums.

"Nice beat."

"That is the worst sound I ever heard." You complained with your hands coving your ears.

"What else is there?" Robin chimed.

"Not much."

Eddie turned back to the racks. He started thumbing through the records again. The others joined in. Eddie pulled out another choice selection and put it on, ripping the old record off the turntable. It was opera. A prima donna started shrieking. Eddie mocked her by singing in a ridiculous, high-pitched voice. You laughed before joining in, then Steve and Robin joined too humorously. Even Nancy had to crack a smile at that.

"Wait! I have something we can listen to." You exclaimed and rushed out of the room once the laughter had died down.

You fished through your bag and came back with Prince's Purple Rain album that you took earlier.

"Where did you get that?" Eddie questioned.

"Took it from the teacher's lounge when Steve and I used the drink machine."

Eddie was impressed by that. He took it from you and put it on the turntable. Prince's 'Let's Go Crazy' played, and his voice drifted from the speakers, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Electric word life. It means forever, and that's a mighty long time..."

Eddie turned the volume up as loud as he could without Principal Higgins hearing it, as the drums set in. Everyone, bar Nancy, filtered out of the room to began to dance. Eddie leaned against the doorframe, tapping his foot to the beat as he watched the others. They jumped and swung their arms, rocking to the strumming of the guitar. He took particular interest in you. You were standing in a shaft of sunlight streaming from between the blinds, head bowed as you twirled and pranced on your feet. You were vaguely aware of Eddie watching you. You found yourself concentrating a lot harder to stay on your feet. You spun and swayed your hips, interpreting the music with your body. You glistened with perspiration as you lost yourself to the music and set your inhibitions aside. Eddie's eyes widened as he carefully studied your body, subtly adjusting his pants. He tried not to think about the way you had wiggled out of your turtle neck, leaving yourself in just your cheerleading top and cardigan when you began having a hot flush.

The next song played until completion, and you finished your dance with a sensuous flourish. You look to Eddie, who gave you an applause. Your cardigan was half hanging off your shoulders, exposing the soft flesh of your upper arms, and your skirt had managed to hike itself further up your thigh. You blushed, hoping that you hadn't given Eddie more of a show than you had intended. But it was nothing that he hadn't seen before.

Perv.

The drums tapered off to a slow dance type beat, giving you a chance to catch your breath. You extended a hand out to Eddie. He had been so engrossed in checking you out that it took him a second to realise you were asking him to dance. He smirked and stalked his way over to you, clasping your hand in his. You tried to fight any intimidation as he towered over you. He was at least a whole head taller than you. The two of you stood a few inches away from each other, holding each others hands in front of you as you slowly started swaying to the beat. Eddie tugged on your hands to pull you closer until you collided with his chest. You rested your head there, hearing the rapid beating of his heart as you wrapped your arms around his waist. He embraced you in his, relaxing his cheek on the top of your head. The smell of your shampoo clouded his senses. He could feel the tension shifting from your bones, and you cuddled him closer. You fell in step together, letting the rhythm control your movements. Your entire body was in tingles, like someone had taken your bottle cap off and was filling your body with fizzy soda. The scenery surrounding you dissolved until it was just you and Eddie. He brushed a hand against your cheek, his body acting on his own. You lifted your head, and Eddie guided to look in his eyes. Your hands move to wrap around his neck, pressing your chests together, giving him no choice but to become one with you. You were in pure paradise. Your fingers played with the stray strands at the nape of his neck that had fallen out of his loose bun. In that moment, you were completely his.

You felt like there was a hole in your heart being filled. You never had this with Billy. He was too forward and fast-paced. He didn't take the time to love you, to appreciate you. Instead, his version of proving his love to you was by not starting a row. The only time you felt like you were in a normal relationship was when he wasn't yelling at you. But recently those times proved less and less. You hid your face in Eddie's shoulder to conceal your teary eyes.

You blinked your tears away when he nudged you with his nose. You looked at him again, his eyes swimming in concern.

"You good?"

You nodded, giving him a pitiful smile. He didn't believe you, but he thought it best not to press. He took a deep breath and pulled you into a much needed hug. You found it hard to believe that Eddie had this side to him. His walls were always up so high, but maybe you were enough to trigger the cracks to bring them down.

Just as they started to crumble, the song came to an end. The two of you tensed, suddenly aware of how close you were. Eddie cleared his throat and took a step back. You felt cold. The others sat on the beanbag chairs, watching you with raised eyebrows and smirks on their lips. You could feel yourself flushing but moved to join them. Eddie followed behind with an exaggerated swagger, as if nothing had happened. You all sat in a loose circle, stoned and relaxed. They included you and Eddie in their conversation.

"So, you got a middle name?" Nancy asked you. It seemed that, after being together for about six hours, they finally decided to get to know one another.

You gave her a sly, I'll-never-tell look.

"I'll bet you can't guess my middle name." Eddie said cheerily, wanting to play along.

"Wait, so your real name isn't Eddie 'The Freak' Munson." Steve faked surprise.

Eddie sent him a glare, about to open his mouth before Robin jumped in. "It's Waylon."

"Your birthday's October 31st, you weigh 178 pounds, you're five feet, eleven inches, and your social security number's 027-03-8619."

Everybody looked at her as much for her entering the conversation as for her correct guess. Eddie was completely stunned.

"Are you a psychic?" Steve gasped.

She rolled her eyes with a shake of her head.

"Then do you want to tell me how you know all of this about me?" Eddie didn't seem as impressed as the others.

Eddie wasn't one to tell his personal information to a bunch of strangers. He had spent a lot of time carefully engineering the walls he built around him. He was aggrieved to find that he had managed to slip up. You saw shoulders tense, and you knew that the wall you had managed to break into was building itself back up.

"I stole your wallet, dingus. While you were slow dancing with your 'Sweetheart'."

Eddie slapped his pockets. Sure enough, his wallet was missing.

"Give it, thief!"

Robin chuckled, taking his wallet out of her pocket. She chucked it to Eddie, who quickly opened it and checked through to see if anything was missing.

"Give me a break. What's there to steal? A couple of bucks and a beaver shot."

"A what?"

"He's got a nudie picture in there, I saw it."

"Let's see." Steve reached out, but Eddie pulled it back.

"I want to see Eddie's wallet." You suddenly felt jealous. Who was this nude woman? Did he know her? Was it his girlfriend? Would Eddie keep a nudie picture of you in his wallet?

"Hand over the purse." Eddie countered.

You paused as you quickly tried to remember if there was anything embarrassing in your purse. Eddie dug his wallet back out. You reached for your bag. You held them out for each other. Eddie yanked the purse from you at the same time you took his wallet. Steve offered his wallet to Robin in exchange for her bag and then exchanged Robin's bag for Nancy's purse.

Steve opened Nancy's purse carefully, as if it held a treasure. He pulled out makeup container after makeup container, eyeliner tubes, lipstick tubes, gloss pots, tiny jars, brushes, pencils, combs, hairbrushes - a ridiculous amount of stuff. You fished through Eddie's wallet. You took out his license, his social security card, and a Mastercard.

You studied the Mastercard. "Who's Myron Lee Fong?"

Eddie pulled out your Walkman and tangled headphones from your bag, studying the tapes you carried with you. He was surprised by your mixed taste in music; Madonna, Beastie Boys, Michael Jackson, Journey, and David Bowie.

"Got me." He shrugged, trying to refrain himself from unwinding your tapes.

"Is this a stolen card?"

"No, it's a found-in-the-parking-lot card."

"Isn't it illegal?"

"Only if I use it." He winked.

"What do you have it for if you don't use it?"

"Status."

His answer confused you. You would have asked him what he meant, but with his lack of response to your questions, you didn't think you were going to get much of an explanation.

"This is the worst fake ID I've ever seen. Do you realise you made yourself 68?" Nancy giggled as she searched through Robin's bag.

She passed the fake ID around, and everyone chuckled at it.

"That was supposed to be the year I was born." Robin sighed, snatching it back, not enjoying everyone laughing at her, even if she had found it funny herself. "I goofed it."

"What do you need a fake ID for?"

She looked at you like it was obvious. "So I can vote."

Everyone shared a laugh. Nancy dumped the rest of Robin's bag in front of her on the floor; traveller's checks, a birth certificate, socks, a baggie of underwear, spare t-shirt, toothbrush and toothpaste, a tiny Teddy bear and a scad of tampons.

"You always carry this much shit in your bag?" Eddie picked up a tampon, examining it as if he was debating whether or not it would fit up his nose.

"Yeah," Robin's demeanour suddenly turned sombre. "You never know when you have to jam."

"Run away?" Nancy asked, eyes big with pity.

"Run away."

"For good?"

"For good. As far as I can get."

"No matter how bad things got, I'd never run away from home. Living with assholes is preferable to living on the street." Steve interjected.

"That's your opinion."

"Are you gonna be like a shopping bag lady? You know, like, sit in alleyways and like talk to buildings and wear men's shoes and that kinda thing?" Eddie asked.

You gave him a nudge. He obviously wasn't reading the room. It wouldn't be the first time. Any moment you were expecting Robin to tell some big secret about herself, or even just break down crying. Eddie wasn't exactly making things any easier for her.

"I'll do what I have to."

"Why do you have to do anything?" Your question was more of an encouragement, letting her know that she was in a safe place. There was no judgement coming from you.

You had thought about running away before, every kid probably had at some point, but you knew that you wouldn't ever actually do it. Robin, however, was primed and ready to go at any second. The thought made you sad, and you remembered how she had looked when you first walked into the library this morning; red eyed and sniffle nosed. You wondered what had happened to her.

Robin turned to Steve. They shared a look. Something told you that Steve already knew what was up with Robin and why she wanted to run away. But how? They were the most unlikely duo ever. Surely Robin didn't know Steve well enough to open up to him.

"I don't think my parents accept me for who I am."

"You'd subject yourself to the violent dangers of the street because your parents don't accept you?" Eddie scoffed. "Welcome to the fucking club."

"Rob, everybody's home life is unsatisfying." You continued as if Eddie hadn't spoken, trying to reason with Robin. "If it wasn't, people'd live with their parents forever."

"No Sweetheart, I think hers is beyond what people like us think is unsatisfying."

Robin shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with all of the attention to her problem. "Never mind. Everything's cool."

"What's the deal?"

"There's no deal, dingus. Forget it. There's no problem." Robin didn't want to talk about it anymore. "What do you care? Leave me alone."

"You're carrying all that crap in your purse. Either you really want to run away or you want people to think you really want to run away."

"Eddie!" You gasped. You couldn't understand why he was having such a big reaction to what Robin had said.

"Eat shit!" Robin threw Steve's wallet to the ground and stormed off.

Steve picked up his wallet. He didn't look offended that she had thrown it, he just made sure that everything was still in there before looking longingly at Robin. You could see the gears turning in his head as he debated whether or not to go after her. He rose from his seat, but Nancy held onto his arm, shaking her head.

"I think it would be best just to let her cool off."

You turned to Eddie, a confusing mix of fury and sympathy churning in your stomach. "You shouldn't've said that."

"Whatever, Buckley's got a fucking stick up her ass."

"Go apologise to her."

Everyone stilled, turning to you with wide eyes, shocked that you had the balls to boss Eddie around. You felt yourself buckle slightly under Eddie's stare, but held your ground.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Eddie. You should go and apologise to her." You looked up at him with big puppy dog eyes. "Please."

Fuck.

Eddie shifted under your gaze. He was torn between keeping his stance and yielding to your orders. Something about you looking up at him like that did something for him. He tried his best not to, but he couldn't help but think about you looking like that on your knees for him. He shook the thought from his head before he conjured up too many salacious details. With a deep exhale through his nose, he reluctantly stood and made his way over to Robin. The others watched with open mouths. Nobody tells Eddie what to do, much less Eddie doing what he's told.

He reused to admit he had some sort of soft spot for you, instead he decided that he was doing this because he wanted to. He knew Robin. She was one of the few who actually treated him like a human being. He walked into the seclusion room to see Robin sat at the table with her head in her arms.

"Hey, Buckley, can we talk?"

She lifted her head from the desk, eyes red and blurred with tears. Her lip curled angrily. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Eddie shook his head in offence. "Okay, fine. Do what you want. Sorry to disturb your self wallowing."

He turned to join the others. Robin watched as he started back towards the door and a realisation flooded her. She didn't want him to go. She just doesn't know how to accept help.

"Wait!"

Eddie stopped abruptly and did a 180 back to her. She struggled to meet his eyes. Her mouth bobbed open like a fish as she raked her brain for the words to say. Help me. Listen to me. Say something so I don't have to. For once in her life, chronic rambler Robin Buckley had nothing to say.

Eddie moved towards her carefully like he was walking towards a lion rather than a sad teenage girl. He calmly sat in the seat opposite her, fiddling with the rings on his fingers awkwardly as he waited for her to speak.

"So what is it?" Eddie couldn't wait any longer. "What's wrong?"

There was some sympathy there, but to her, he didn't really sound like he was too concerned. But he was willing to listen and support and that was enough for Robin.

She lowered her head. She wanted to let it all out, but she just didn't know how to present it. Eddie could see she was struggling. He couldn't stop the pity swirling in his gut.

"Is it bad?" He offered.

Robin nodded sadly.

Eddie grimaced expecting something horrible. He suggests the worst to get it over with. "Child abuse?"

Robin nodded again.

"What do they do to you?" Eddie braced himself for a horror story.

"They ignore me."

Eddie stared at her, too startled to say anything helpful.

His sympathy seemed to melt away at her confession, replaced by incredulity. That's it? He thought to himself. The shit he put up with from his parents, he wished that they had ignored him. He opened his mouth to rant and rave about how bad his life was, but he paused when he finally met his eye. This wasn't about Eddie. Right now, this was about Robin. She was brave to confess something like that. Heck, Eddie hadn't even managed to work up the courage to express any of his true feelings.

"I'm sorry that you have to go through that, Rob."

What else could he have said? He had never been ignored a day in his life, always being yelled at or heckled, or punched, or kicked. He couldn't tell her that everything was going to be okay because he didn't know if it would be. He had never been in that situation before to tell her. But apparently that was all he needed to say.

She gave him a weak smile and wiped her eyes on her jumper sleeve with an appreciative nod. "Thank you."

He fidgeted a bit and tried to alleviate the awkwardness. He looked back and forth between Robin and the door, itching for the lighter in his pocket. He wished he could do more to comfort her, but the silence was eating him alive.

"You don't have to stay, dingus."

He hid his relief and with a quiet 'I'll leave you to it' he headed back to the others.

You and Nancy were sat chatting while Steve fiddled with one of Robins tampons. He looked carefully to see if the girls were watching him, then he peeled the wrapper off and examined the contents. He checked it out very carefully. An idea occurred to him. He put the tube to his lips and blew. The tampon fired from the tube and halfway across the room.

Eddie caught a glimpse of your conversation before you noticed he was there.

"But do you like him?" Nancy whispered.

"I don't want to."

"But do you?" 

You sighed, fighting a smile. "I do."

Steve's exclamation had startled you and successfully drew your conversation to a conclusion. Eddie's ears had perked up while his heart deflated. There was someone you liked. Someone that most definitely couldn't be him. Why would you like him? He's been nothing but an ass to you for the past seven hours. And even though it was his own fault, Eddie couldn't help feeling disheartened by that.

"How is she?" Steve asked before Eddie could think any more of it.

He took a seat beside Steve. You had to resist a frown when he did. He had practically been glued to your side all day, what was different now? You shuffled awkwardly, moving to fill the empty space you had left for him.

"She'll be fine." Eddie brushed him off spitefully, pulling his knees to his chest and crossing his arms, pouting like a toddler who hadn't got what they wanted.

"What's up with you, face-ache?"

"Piss off." 

He stood up harshly, stomping his feet as he walked back to his seat at the desk. But not your desk, where he had been sat all day, the desk he had originally sat behind you. He put his feet up on the desk, ripped his lighter and the few pencils he had stolen this morning out of his pocket and began to try and burn them.

You all shared a confused stare, when Robin caught your eye. She walked out of the seclusion room, her eyes red from crying as she wiped her nose on a tissue from her pocket. She sat back down with you all and shared a smile as if nothing had happened.

"What did you say to him?" You asked, wanting answers about Eddie's sudden change in behaviour.

"Nothing. He did most of the talking actually." She shied.

"Then what's up with him?"

"No idea, he seemed fine when he left."

That was the truth, but upon over hearing your most recent confession, Eddie's heart had turned stone. The small hopeful part of him, a part of him he didn't even know existed, had thought that maybe he had a chance with you. He was proud of himself for finally growing on you, but perhaps it was more of a spread - a disease like some kind of fungus that you wanted rid of. Why would you, Cheerleading Captain, like someone like Eddie. You were on two completely different levels, way out of his league.  You hung out with Jason Carver and Carol Perkins, Tommy H and Chrissy Cunningham. He hated those guys. But why were you so different?

 He hadn't realised until hearing how you liked someone else, just how much he actually liked you.

Maybe more.

~~~~~

<<<Previous // Next>>>

~~~~~

Taglist: @cruwushes @the-ch0sen-on3 @namelesshumanperson @ali-r3n @cadence73 @munsonssweets @ahoyyharrington @mewchiili @yourdailymemedelivery @httpsunflowers @b-irock @coolglittercornbae @sav12321 @cumslutforaemond @siriuslysmoking @learninglinesintherainn @peaches-roses-sins @lodeddiperrodrick @catherinnn @lilocapoca @minniedreamers @melaninjhs @chaosfrogsonfire @levylovegood @bowsforsienna @rcailleachcola @spookysace24

[mytaiyakeylover]

i just want to cuddle.

synopsis: all your super clingy and adorable boyfriend wants is for you to give him some attention.

pairing: mikey x gn!reader

a/n: this is my first time writing something on tumblr. i’ve only recently begun to use this platform, but i hope you’ll like this little one-shot🥰

warnings: none, just plain fluff and mikey being his usual overly dramatic self.

word count: 1.1k

series masterlist | next

Manjiro sighed, a pout slowly forming on his lips. It had already been four hours. Four goddamn hours and you still haven’t as much as glanced in his direction. He just couldn’t help it. Did you not love him anymore? It sure as hell seemed to be that way considering the amount of time you were willing to spend doing math.

The boy groaned loudly, hoping to get your attention. He then closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh that conveyed his utter agony. Two minutes passed, then five, and finally six.

Manjiro peered at your silent figure through his lashes, his right eyebrow twitching in annoyance at the lack of attention he was receiving. How could you be so indifferent? After all, your boyfriend was lying sprawled on your bed in the same room where you were doing homework, and all you had to do was ask him if he was okay.

The blond puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at you. Another set of five minutes went by without any progress. You just continued to stare at that stupid, demon-like book, filled with evil spells and, perhaps, even guides on how to steal a gang leader's lover.

“(Y/n)-chan~!” The boy whined, hitting his knuckles against the soft cushion, looking very much like a five year old. You hummed in response, not quite acknowledging him so it seemed.

That’s it. Manjiro couldn't tolerate it anymore. It was seriously starting to get on his nerves. All the blond wanted was for you to come and cuddle him, not lying on this cold and empty bed as some cursed book was stealing all your attention from him. It was about time you made a decision.

Muttering a few curses for having to leave the comfortable bed, he quietly padded towards you, who seemed far too occupied with studies to acknowledge him. Carefully placing his chin atop your shoulder, he wrapped his arms around your waist and peered curiously over the worksheets. Don't get him wrong, he wasn't interested in the content in the slightest. The blond simply wanted to know what could have been so interesting that it made you ignore him for several hours straight.

He nudged your cheek, quite similar to the way a dog would whenever it wanted some attention from its owner. However, his nudge seemed to be a bit more awkward since his nose wasn't as long, causing his forehead to hit you slightly as well. You sighed at his stubbornness, tilting your head slightly to his side to make eye contact.

Manjiro was sporting his famous puppy dog eyes, a look reserved only for you and Ken. He released his grip on your waist and reached for the fabric of your hoodie, giving it a gentle tug. His pout deepened, and his bottom lip jutted out to make his point.

“Jiro~,” now it was your turn to whine. “I'd love to cuddle with you, but you know how important school is to me.” You blinked your eyelashes at him innocently, trying to coax him into waiting just a few more minutes. Manjiro could easily tell by your expression, as well as the lilt in your voice, since it was just slightly more sugar-coated than usual.

The boy shook his head in defiance, refusing to fall for that act again. You literally said the same thing an hour and a half ago. Did school really mean that much more to you than him?

“Forget school (Y/n)-chan,” he huffed, ignoring the appalled look you gave him as those words left his mouth. “Am I not more important?”

Manjiro was looking at you expectantly, eyebrows arched as he awaited your reply. The fact that you took so much time to answer did not deter him whatsoever, as he found the confusion in your pretty (e/c) eyes too adorable to make him angry. You were obviously taking his question very seriously, which you should, as Manjiro himself was not joking around. He did, in fact, want an actual answer from you.

“Of course you are, Jiro,” you spoke softly, eyes tinged with a hint of guilt that made Manjiro’s heart skip a beat. Perhaps you had taken his question a bit too seriously. Your hand went up to cup his cheek, eyebrows furrowing while doing so.

“I just want to achieve a stable future. I'm sorry if I've accidentally neglected you,” you said as the blond leaned into your soft, yet cold palm. He sighed contentedly, despite the coolness of your fingertips against his warm skin. Your hands always seemed to be so cold, even during the hottest days of summer.

A smile soon grazed his lips, onyx eyes twinkling with mischief. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, peppering it with kisses as his hands once again snaked around your waist. Giggles escaped your lips as the boy suddenly lifted you, forcing a squeak out of you in the process.

Manjiro laughed at your reaction, finding it exceptionally cute. The blonde continued swaying with you back and forth until you both ended up falling onto the mattress. Snickers filled the room, your cheeks equally flushed as if you were completely drunk on each other.

Then he tightened his arms around you slightly. His forehead resting on yours as he held you trapped against the bed. “Jiro, get off, you’re heavy,” you gasped, words mixing with giggles.

“No more school, you got me?” He asked instead, that same pout from before reappearing on his face. Then, the boy repositioned both of you on the bed, laying you down more comfortably beside him. His arms were still securely wrapped around you, preventing any escape.

Manjiro closed his eyes after that, sighing dreamily as he inhaled your heavenly scent. Lips quirked up slightly as he felt your thin nimble fingers stroke his long ash blonde locks. Your angelic voice reached his ears as you started humming some song you had recently heard and grown to love.

As your lovely singing began to fade, Manjiro’s heart finally found a steady pace. For the first time since he had entered your room, did he realize that those four hours were worth the wait. Well, as long as he would get to keep you in his embrace afterwards.

[mojogojocasahouse]

Just in Time Part II

Satoru Gojo x f!reader (Principal Gakuganji's daughter)

On the eve of a wedding of your father's arrangement, you call upon your reliable yet agitating old flame Satoru Gojo in an act of desperation and defiance

words: 6.5k series content: infidelity (in an arranged marriage so does that even count?), angst, smut, unprotected p in v, oral m & f-receiving, face fucking, rough sex, minor choking, spit kink, creampie, jealous!Gojo, protective!Gojo (moreso in part ii), minor degradation 18+ only

Part I

You follow the sound out into the cool summer morning, Satoru leaning back against the railing with his head hung. He’s in shorts and an unzipped hoodie, his snowy locks still mussed from his pillow. He raises his eyes when he hears the door opening, blinking the agony from his eyes away before he smiles. Had you not been paying attention you’d have missed the switch. 

“Go sit in the bedroom and stay there,” Satoru instructs, turning you by the shoulder and gently shoving you toward his room, “Actually, lock yourself in the bathroom or something…Okay, or just stand there…”

Fear has frozen you in place, but when he pushes down on your head you drop to the floor in a heap, leaning back against the counter in the middle of the kitchen as a call of your name on the other side of the door signifies the worst has come to pass. You hear Satoru mutter ‘Good enough, I guess,’ before he snaps his jovial, mischievous persona back into place, his sing-song greeting to your father outside barely audible just as the hinges close behind him. It takes you too long to drag yourself across the sleek wooden floor and hover your ear against the same place you’d been pressed to in very different circumstances earlier that night. 

“I know she’s in there you insolent brat!” That’s your father’s voice, sounding as furious as you’ve ever heard him.

“Are you going senile in your old age?” Satoru’s wit never fails him, “We’re gonna have to strip you of that fancy position if you can’t keep your thoughts straight. I think I could be a principal, don’t you? Not that I really want to go to Kyoto but…”

The sound of blood spattering against a wall proves there’s a third out there with them, Satoru’s taunting laugh confirming he’d been the target of a blood manipulation technique. 

“Woah, woah, woah, hang on, Gramps. Call off your little attack dog, you know it’s pointless. Unless you forgot that too…”

“She’s getting married tomorrow and this nonsense that’s gone on for too long already is finished! Stop harboring her like there’s anything you can do, what’s done is done.”

“But it isn’t done, is it?” The change in his tone is almost jarring. It’s menacing now, low and rumbling even through the barrier you're still pressed against.

“You have nothing to offer–”

“Ha! Don’t I? Does that shriveled raisin rattling around inside your skull not remember? I AM the Gojo clan. It’s all me! And no offense to Kamo’s cute little squirt gun technique, but we all know who’s winning this fight, right?”

It’s all murmurs that follow, the wood too thick to allow any legible words no matter how hard you press your ear against it. You fight the urge to wrench open the door…

“You know, Gakuganji,” you can hear Satoru respond after 30 seconds of eternity, his tone once again light and carefree, “A smart man would have tried to bleed me dry as a 15-year-old kid when you caught me sneaking out of her room at that first Exchange Event.”

“It didn’t matter. What could you give me, Gojo?”

“Now? Not a damn thing! And let’s be honest, probably not back then either. You’ve always been a slimeball. Go home, old man. You lost. No seat for you at the round table.”

“There’s nothing you can do-“

“You have ten seconds to leave, I don’t think I need to warn you about what happens if you don’t.”

The door knocks you flat onto the floor when he reenters the house, his hands quickly coming to right you as he drops to his knees. You’re just trying to keep yourself from crying, the pale stretch of his bare chest at your eye level and it takes every ounce of your waning self-control not to break down into him. His hands are warm and the arm’s length distance feels like miles, and he’s the only thing you want. But he’s something you can’t have.

When he’s certain you’re steady he jumps back to his feet, grabs his phone, and walks to peek out the window to ensure your unexpected visitors are gone. A flash of headlights flickers against the wall and you sigh in relief, your body still frozen in place.

“Nanami!” Gojo greets, phone pressed to his ear, “Yeah…yeah…No, I don’t need a ride … That happened one time six years ago! … Shut uuuup…No…Wai-wai-wait! I need something! … It’s important! … Is that apartment in your building still available? … It’s not for me…It’s not for me! … I got baby Gakuganji out, she needs a place… Okay, what about that other place… Uh-huuuh… Yes… No, I’ll just cover the year… Yeah, upfront… Here tonight… No, my place in the city… I’m staying up… Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“You’re not paying for-” you begin to argue when you’re certain he’s hung up.

“I didn’t ask,” he quickly cuts you off, “Take the bedroom, I’ll stay out here. One of good ol’ Kento Nanami’s suit buddies is a building manager, says he might have a place. No promises the Kamo clan will let me into their little fortress to get your stuff, but I’m gonna call Yaga to see if he can swindle a deal.”

The typically childish, flippant Satoru was gone, and in his place was the intelligent, efficient man that so very few saw, including yourself. He was a strategizer, calculating and quick-witted not only with his sarcastic words, but solutions, too. In ten minutes he’d already freed you of your shackles and found you an alternative path; could you have just asked him for help years ago and gotten this same response?

“Get some sleep,” he urges again, lifting his phone back to his ear for his next call, “Nothing will happen tonight… Yaga, need a favor!”

His bed feels like quicksand as you settle beneath the silky sheets and plush blankets. Everything smells like him from the pillows and the shirt you wear to your skin that he scrubbed clean with a touch so gentle it had sent ripples down your spine. You can hear him still murmuring in the living room, the conversation growing heated and you want to run to tell him you’re not worth this trouble. Nine years as an intermittent visitor to his bed doesn’t qualify you for this, he should have just surrendered you to the men at the door. 

“They tracked her phone!” He’d said that loud enough you were able to hear it clearly. 

Has there been any one moment of your life where you had control? All this time you’d thought your moments with Satoru had been yours and yours alone, a secret kept between the two of you, but it wasn’t. Your father had known all along and let it continue, and you knew that it wasn’t for your benefit. The trip down memory lane leaves you sobbing into your hands, all the emotions of the night cresting over your weakening composure. You do all you can to keep quiet, choking and sputtering on the wails that want to break free, you can’t show weakness. Not now, not ever. 

Even in your best attempts at discretion, you’re still too loud to hear the door slowly open, so when a long, slender body curls behind you it comes as a complete surprise. Satoru’s arm wraps tightly around your middle, his face notching into the curve of your shoulder.

Tears of despair turn into those of relief, your fingers threading with his on your stomach before you clutch his hand to your aching chest like a child’s teddy bear. It’s big enough to be one. Your muscles ache from tension, your resolve beginning to crack, and when he nuzzles his thin, pointed nose against your skin you finally lose the battle. 

He holds you as you sob, the embarrassment, shame, and fear you felt running down your face. You can’t make out whatever he’s whispering in your ear but you swear it sounds like a pleading ‘stop’, and you can feel the way his arm pulls you even closer, your knuckles going white as you tighten your own grip. The burning in your throat is made worse with every gasping breath, and you can’t tell if it’s your body quivering or his until his palm swallows your jaw whole and pulls your chin up to face him.

The salt of your tears is bitter in a desperate kiss, his tongue coated with what had soaked your lips. There’s nothing gentle about his movements, they’re frantic and hard, the shock of his desperation enough to snap you back to reality. It’s him who’s trembling, his brow knit tightly for reasons you don’t and will likely never know. 

“Stay…” you choke, throat thick with sorrow and strife, the thought of him leaving you in his bed alone dropping heavily into your stomach like a stone, “Please.”

“Sure,” he agrees, pecking at your lips again at a drastically softer pace.

Despite your turmoil, you doze off quickly. His embrace is an oasis, the feathering kisses he leaves along your neck, shoulder, and in the hollow behind your ear blooming like flowers and spreading their vivid warmth until you slip beneath the weight of sleep. He greets you here as he often does, the life you’d built in your dreams welcoming you. 

It’s still dark when your eyes snap open, an arm pulling you tighter into a searing cocoon when your body jolts. Your long-held fantasy has burned to ash and crumbled into a nightmare, the image of white hair billowing in the breeze as tears ran from crystal blue eyes still painted behind your eyes. 

“Toru?” you whisper as your fingers graze along the soft, smooth skin locking you in place.

“Hmm?” he hums, his tired voice like a balm. 

“Are you here?” It’s delirium fogging your train of thoughts, words your mind has fabricated still echoing. 

“Where else would I be?”

“Please stay…” You’re not even responding to him at this point, exhaustion has taken hold once again and thrown you right back into the fire. “Toru…”

The sun is blinding when you wake again, the bed cold and empty. A toothbrush is sitting on the bathroom counter when you wander in, a fresh set of shorts and a shirt that will be far too large for you perched on a shelf. Who knew Satoru could be such a gracious host?

There’s no sign of the man in the question even when you make your way to the living area save a mug of half-drank coffee sitting on an end table near the sliding glass doors leading out to a balcony. When you turn towards the kitchen, you spot another mug set out by the coffee maker, one for you, and that sinking feeling in your chest that had woken you up in the early hours of the morning returns.

“Then do something!” a distant voice shouts, “Do something!”

You follow the sound out into the cool summer morning, Satoru leaning back against the railing with his head hung. He’s in shorts and an unzipped hoodie, his snowy locks still mussed from his pillow. He raises his eyes when he hears the door opening, blinking the agony from his eyes away before he smiles. Had you not been paying attention you’d have missed the switch. 

“Morning,” he greets in a jovial tone you know is a lie, “I left you a mug—“

“I know,” you cut him off, and here in the light of a new day, you realize something you’d known all along. 

You’re in love with him.

The pain of that admittance is freeing. He’s cast in a warm orange glow looking every bit as ethereal as he was, and you press your cheek to the patch of sun shining on his chest, wrapping your arms around his slim waist and stealing this moment with him knowing it very well may be the last. His arms lock around you faster than your hands can knot at the small of his back, there is no hesitation, not even enough time to consider a different course of action, and when he notches your head beneath his chin and sighs, your mind goes quiet. 

You’ll stay here as long as he allows it. Five minutes, an hour, it doesn’t matter. This feels good, it feels safe…

I love you, I love you, I love you… It’s like a mantra, and while you don’t dare speak it you hope the message gets to him somehow. Maybe in the tightness of your hold, the tension from your efforts, or the shallowness of your breath. The world is still quiet, giving you enough peace to soak this in. There’s no blaring of car horns or busy conversations floating into the sky to disrupt you, it’s just the steady thrum of his heart beating. You’re positive this is the first time anyone has just…held you like this.

When he pulls away you try to hide your disdain for the distance he creates, your eyes are still closed when he tips your face up towards him with the side of his pointer finger. 

He catches you mid-breath in a kiss harder than you expect after just waking up. You can feel his failed restraint, it’s been years since you’ve welcomed a new day together, lonely nights after long taxi rides home have been the norm. Two hands grip behind your knees and hoist you upwards, your arms slipping around his neck as his tongue drags along your lower lip, urging your mouth open and a whine to slip free. 

There are a thousand reasons to stop him, but none of them matter right now. He’s so warm and solid, his jaw slightly rough with stubble too pale to see. A smile spreads across his face when he finally catches himself in his frenzy, slowing his frantic pace to something much more gentle and languid. 

“What do you want for breakfast?” he purrs into your mouth, sliding his tongue over your own before you can respond, “I want crepes.”

The sun disappears from behind your eyelids, and you feel the cool surface of his kitchen counter as he sets you on top of it. With free hands, he explores the soft stretch of your legs, slipping between them as you continue to tug at his lips greedily. The clock hasn’t even hit 9 AM yet, but the ache settling into your core is beginning to burn. There was something so pathetically irresistible about seeing him so comfortable, so unguarded, it felt like you weren’t just a visitor to his bed. And that was a dangerous precipice to be standing on. 

“Are you always so needy in the morning?” he laughs against your throat, a whine slipping free from his tease, “This what I’ve been missing out on?”

When his tongue swipes over your searing skin, your fingers lock into his hair as he explores the throat you bare to him. It’s those open-mouthed, lingering tastes that he tortures you with that have your hips flicking in search of friction, so he gives you his thigh, pulling you down to perch on it and dragging you over the slim, firm muscle. You know you look desperate and unkempt, but he keeps you moving enough to have you spasming as you find release and go lax in his hold. 

“So…” he practically sings, a lilt of conceit in his tone, “Crepes?”

“It’s too early for crepes,” you pant, confused by his choice of a morning meal.

“Pfft, for you maybe! You want any or no?”

After dressing in a hoodie and sweatpants, Satoru leaves with a quick peck to your forehead, promising to be quick before the door clicks and locks behind him. Seconds later, a fluffy head of white hair pokes back in, his keys still rattling in the lock.

“Don’t use your phone,” he instructs, “Or open the door.”

You passed the time tidying the space up. There isn’t much that needs to be done, but you get into a steady rhythm that you’re all too familiar with, wiping down counters, picking up laundry, and you almost make the mistake of leaving the apartment to take out the trash before remembering his warning to not open the door. 

As you begin to wipe down the bathroom, the sharp scent of the cleaner burning at your nose, you realize the ease he’d infused into you this morning has all but dried up. You watch as your hand trembles around the rag, a terrified reflection coming into view as you circle the white foam off the glass, revealing the truth of what lies beneath the crumbling facade. 

“What are you doing?” a smooth voice asks from behind you, causing you to yelp and your heart to skip a beat, “Are you cleaning my bathroom?”

“Uh…” you stammer, still reeling from the shock, “Yeah.”

“Don’t… You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh. I’m sorry–”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry.”

With that he walks off, yelling over his shoulder that food was here and to hurry up before it got cold. You’d become so accustomed to being scolded for not being busy tidying something up that having him go and do the opposite had thrown you for a loop. When your own house had been too clean to keep you working, you’d been sent somewhere else to help, your existence nothing more than a housemaid for the Kamo clan. You’re own fault, you’d been told, with such a useless cursed technique what else would there be for you to do? 

“C’mon!” he calls, “I’m being nice and waiting!”

Where a pile of cream-filled crepes sat in front of Satoru, a much more normal option was beside his on the table, a paper bag sitting on the couch in front of it. He paid you no mind as you cautiously pulled the bag towards you, peering inside to find a dress and jacket that cost far too much money.

“Satoru–” you scolded, squashing the leap your heart did into your throat, “I can’t pay–”

“Didn’t ask you to,” he cut off again, “You can’t go out in that.”

Right. You’re going to see an apartment today. Suddenly, what little appetite you’d mustered was gone, but you slink down onto the couch anyway, trying to eat as much as you can with a boulder in your stomach. 

“What’s a’matter?” he asks with a full mouth, “I thought you liked that place.”

Adding a heaping pile of guilt to what you were already carrying threatened to shatter you, but you set a smile on your face and force the food down. His knee rests against yours, his long legs spread wide, his focus honed on his phone as he types away with one thumb. The furrow of his brow has you wondering if it’s just more trouble you’re causing him, technically now with clothes proper enough to be seen in public wearing, you could leave him free of whatever burden you’d inadvertently placed on his shoulders.

When his phone begins to vibrate with a call, he throws his overly sweetened crepe back onto its wrapping and wipes his hands on his shorts, greeting whoever it is with a cheekful of whipped cream and dough.

“If you’re calling me with more shit news…oh really!? So kind of him…I’d love to hear how that conversation went…Tell me…It is important…It is…Because I said it is…God damnit, Yaga!...”

The next bit of the conversation even you could hear thanks to tempers flaring and voices rising: “He said she’s your problem now.”

You can’t leave the apartment fast enough, even in nothing but Satoru’s baggy clothes. He yells at you to wait as you run to the door, circling down the stairs as fast as you can with tears dripping down your face. When you make it out onto the sidewalk, a solid chest and two long arms pull you in immediately, and you don’t need to see the person’s face to know exactly who it is. It’s easy to forget what he’s truly capable of. He probably leapt right off the balcony.

“I’m too tired for this,” he sighs, the agitation he was masking slipping through, “Go inside. Please.”

“No,” you argue, trying to shove him away, his hands easily catching yours and trapping them in cuffs of long, dexterous fingers.

“I just want to sleep for two fucking hours! Please, go inside!”

“You’re free to go–”

“Oh my God! Shut up already!”

It’s embarrassing how easily he hoists you over his shoulder like a tantruming child and carries you inside, sitting you on the couch and flopping down beside you, his head falling into your lap like it was a pillow. 

“You piss me off,” he mumbles, curling an arm around you as his eyes drift closed, “I never do anything I don’t wanna do. Thought you knew that by now.”

A lingering drop falls from your cheek into his still tangled hair, your fingers instinctively moving to swipe it away but instead digging deeper, scraping against his scalp soothingly. He rumbles in appreciation, already drifting off, and so you continue. The steady, slow breaths exhaled through parted lips assure you he’s getting the sleep he desperately needs. You know he’d stayed awake all night anticipating another uninvited guest to his door, and who knows if he’d even managed the night before. He claimed he never slept on missions, unable to relax enough to find even a semblance of peace away from home.

Three hours later, he hasn’t moved. A small braid sits across his temple, keeping some of the strands that had been falling into his eyes neatly twisted away. You’ve barely been able to keep your eyes off of him, your wandering touch having moved from his hair to trace the sharp features of his face ever-so-gently to not wake him. 

“I love you,” you whisper to ears that can’t hear you, hoping it alleviates the weight bearing down on your chest. It doesn’t. 

You can’t see him again. At this point, being with him only has the potential to throw you deeper into this void you’re hurtling down. After seeing this apartment, you’ll find a hotel and take the weight of your problems off his shoulders. You know he has more than enough of his own to handle, sometimes you can’t help but think it’s a miracle he’s still standing. 

The thought makes your chest tighten, and it’s simply more evidence this cord needs to be cut. He’s got his little black book and you’re simply just another number. You’re not even fun anymore, the baggage you carry is too much to bear to still be considered a good time. Whatever responsibility he feels for you is displaced, just because it all blew up right outside his front door doesn’t make this—you—his problem. 

“Hmmm,” he hums twenty minutes later, his face nuzzling down into your legs as his arms around you tighten, “What time is it?”

“Two-ish…” you reply, trying to keep your voice level, but when his fingers pull up the hem of his shirt you’re wearing and his lips press softly against your stomach there’s no helping the sharp gasp that betrays you. 

Within seconds he’s twisted you onto your back against the armrest, greedy hands tugging your borrowed shorts still loosely hanging off your hips down and off. White hair fills your fists as your spine arches off the couch, Satoru’s lips locking around your clit and suckling hard. All thoughts of never seeing him again are quickly thrown out the window. His palms hold your thighs spread wide as his silver tongue finally tastes what you’d denied him last night. He’s the only man who ever has, and he’s the only one you ever want to.

His thin, sharp nose drags over your clit as he laps at your entrance, your legs begging to clamp down around his ears as searing heat boils in your belly. It’s pathetic how you’re already trembling, but it only spurs him on, your eager response to his affections is always his greatest motivation. Despite his tongue being buried deep, it isn’t enough. You still feel so empty and your body instinctively asks–begs–for more by rolling your hips over his face, searching for anything to satiate the hunger. There is no surrender in his appetite, however. In a battle of wills, he always comes out on top, and today is no exception.

“You taste so good,” he hums against your soaked core, half-drunk on nothing but you.

“Please,” you whine, keening when he teases your back entrance with a taunting flick. 

“M’gonna take care of you.”

Something foreign and tranquil washes over you in a steady wave, and Satoru immediately pauses when you go slack beneath him and sink into the plush material of the couch. As he presses his lips in a reverent trail from your hip to your throat, pushing the baggy shirt you’re wearing up to clear his path, you relax even further.

You trust him. You love him. 

Your fingers are still locked in his hair when you hear his quiet request beneath your ear: “Can I?”

It’s such a stupid, juvenile thing, but it’s something you’ve been denied in all the years of this… situation, so you nod, taking a deep breath in a poor attempt to calm your nerves. Your pulse is thrumming with anticipation beneath his mouth, and the moment he clamps down hard enough to sting, he thrusts into your wet heat as blood pools beneath the fragile skin his tongue soothes over. 

He does it again, decorating the dip of your collarbone as the spongy head of his dick kisses your cervix, and you’re limp, taking anything and everything he’s willing to give. Let him decorate you, claim you, fuck you until you’re incoherent, it doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s him and he doesn’t stop.  

“So wet…” he praises, groaning when his words cause you to tighten around him.

Always for you, you think as his tongue dives between your parted lips, the taste of yourself still lingering. The gentle way he cradles your jaw is the complete opposite of the speed of his hips battering into you. He’s chasing something he can’t quite reach, whether that be a sensation or an emotion you can’t tell, but he’s looking, willing himself to find this answer even if it kills him. Every stolen kiss seems to connect his wayward thoughts, but when he starts to whimper into your mouth and his pace begins to falter, you know the friction of his cock dragging along your walls has consumed him.

“I can’t–” he stammers when you lock your ankles on his lower back, tightening around him further, “Fuck, baby, that’s n-not helping.”

“Give it to me, Toru.” One last time. “Pl-please, I want it.”

There’s barely time to take a breath before you’re on your stomach, ass being pulled straight up into the air, his shaft filling your gaping hole so deep you can feel the pressure in your chest. Long, slender fingers find your swollen clit and being moving in steady, quick circles, and at this point all you can do is scream and cry out until he’s shooting hot, thick ropes of cum into your spasming cunt, your own orgasm ripping through you, leaving you boneless and drooling.

“Shit…” he pants, his phone vibrating on the table in what has to be a third attempt at a call in the last two minutes, “Gimme a second.”

The bedroom door closes as you slump down into a heap, the mess between your thighs getting sticky and uncomfortable as you adjust to the emptiness returning. It’s tempting to sneak out now, if it wasn’t for your current debauched state. You’re still so surrounded by him, the couch smells like his stupid cologne, your thighs are quivering, and you can still feel the tips of his fingers digging into your hips. Maybe you’ll never be free.

“Okay, princess,” he coos, lifting you off the couch bridal style and carrying you to the bathroom, “Quick shower then we gotta go.”

By four o'clock, you’re heading out the door, donned in a new dress accompanied by Satoru in sleek black pants and a silky black button-down, bag in hand. It’s an overnight bag, you can tell from the size and also because you caught him packing it in a rush. He hadn’t seen you, well, at least as far as you could tell, and as much as you wanted to believe he was heading out on a mission, you couldn’t convince yourself of it. The phone call he had to talk out of earshot, the fancy clothes he wore just to go tour some shitty apartment, the bag…you’re well aware of what it all means. You don’t even let the fact he’s opening your car door for you distract you from the knowledge he’ll be doing the exact same gesture to another tonight.

“Okay,” he sings out as he slides into the driver’s seat, “Ready to go?”

All you do is nod, keeping your eyes focused out your window. 

“Why’re you so quiet?” he complains–whines–five minutes into the drive, “It’s boring.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “Where is this apartment?”

“What apartment?”

“The one we’re going to see?”

“Oh…riiiight. That apartment. You don’t really want to go look at that, do you?”

He can sense your anger bubbling in the cramped space, but he laughs when he looks over to find you staring daggers at him, nostrils flared.

Relax!” he chuckles, “So worked up over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Satoru!” you yell back, groaning when your body betrays you for a moment and relaxes when his hand falls to your inner thigh, his thumb rubbing softly up and down over your exposed skin, “My life is a wreck!”

“When hasn’t it been?”

“You arranged that apartment. And now we’re not going?” You have to change the subject before you combust.

“Well, you said I couldn’t pay for it, and you can’t pay for it. Not yet anyway–”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder. So, what now then!?”

“Dinner!”

The car comes to a screeching halt outside of a ramen place, and you burst into tears.

“Hey…” He’s frantic, leaning over the center console to take your face in his hand, “Hey…no-no-no. Don’t do that.”

“What am I supposed to do?!” you scream at him, your cheeks already soaked and eyes swollen, “Just go in there and eat ramen like nothing is wrong!?”

“I mean…yeah. Why not?”

“Fuck you!” 

It’s a battle when you try to get out of the car, his left hand continuously locking the doors as his right attempts to stop you from pulling at the handle at all. He’s grunting ‘stop’ and ‘listen’ and ‘calm down’ but his words fall on deaf ears. 

“Why won’t you just let me go?!” you finally sob, both of you panting and flustered.

“Because…” he replies quietly, threading his fingers with yours, however unresponsive they are, “Will you stay in the damn car?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t move to leave either, and he takes that as confirmation. With a heavy sigh (and an empty stomach) he takes off down the road until you’re outside the city, finally pulling into a large gated property. Flowers surround you on all sides, and the sound of a fountain in a pond pairs serendipitously with the birds singing the sun away as it begins to dip closer to the horizon. The house nestled amongst the gardens is massive, winding paths of stone leading through the rainbows of blooms, and you can’t help but be entirely awestruck for a moment before confusion settles. Satoru opens the door with his keys, pulling you inside the manor that’s every bit as impressive on the inside as it is outside.

“Where are we?” you ask harshly, pulling your hand free of his.

“The Gojo Estate,” he answers so casually you want to throw a shoe at the back of his head.

“What are we doing here?”

“I’m showing you around. It beats Kento’s buddy’s apartment, dontcha think?”

Not even the coldest winds could have frozen you in place so quickly. He’s brought the overnight bag from the back of the car in with him, tossing it onto the kitchen counter before opening the fridge and grinning when he finds a bottle of strawberry soda waiting for him on the shelf. 

“There’s more to the place than the foyer!” He’s moved out of sight now, but not far judging by how close he still sounds, “C’mere! Don’t be shy now.”

He’s waiting on a porch overlooking the pond you’d heard earlier, koi fish gently swimming in the clear water without a care in the world. If you’d thought the city suited him before, it was nothing compared to the sight of him framed by lush greenery and the unhindered glow of sunset. He looks every bit the part of clan head here, oozing authority and confidence as he leans with his back against the railing, smirking as you cautiously approach.

“What are we doing here?” you ask again, meek and quiet, all signs of anger gone.

“Giving you options,” he answers, gloating almost, but trepidation is still laced with what you recognize as false conviction.

“I can’t live here.”

“Why not?”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I mean, you wouldn’t be living alone. No one should live alone here, that’s why I don’t. What if I slip in the shower and no one finds me for days? Ha! Could you imagine…”

“Satoru!”

Does he know what he’s asking? Does he know what it means? If it means nothing to him, fine, but you? The idea of it has you tensing and pushing back tears, your bottom lip trembling as you allow the fantasy of a home and a life to slip through the cracks forming in your barriers you keep it behind. His fingers are chilled from the glass bottle he’s been holding, the sharp contrast against your burning cheeks causing you to gasp and you’re met by infinite blue eyes staring down at you. 

“Look,” he begins, his tongue darting out to wet his perfect pink pout, “I…” He sighs, closing his eyes to gather his thoughts, “Why didn’t you ask me to get you out of there sooner?”

The question hits you like a ton of bricks. You’d been asking yourself the same thing since it all blew up last night. 

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” you answer truthfully, “If it’s not me, you have someone else–” “There is no one else. There never has been.”

“What?”

“There is no one else.”

No one else? His lips press softly against yours as you stand in stunned silence. All these years thinking you were second to twenty, and there had never been another? 

“Say it again,” he breathes into your slackened jaw, and your brow furrows in confusion.

“What…” you blubber, meeting the galaxies living in his gaze once again.

“Tell me again.”

A tight grip on your wrist tugs your hand up to what remains of the braid still twisted in his hair from his nap earlier, you hadn’t realized it had survived both the shower and what transpired before it, but it had clearly held on tight. Too many thoughts buzz around in your head for you to comprehend what the hell he's asking for until he requests it one more time, his voice cracking like his life hinges on knowing if what he’d heard was real or a figment of his overactive imagination.

And then it clicks. Your heart comes to a skidding halt as fear runs cold through your veins, and you try to run but his arm curls around your waist, holding you in place.

“I…” your tongue is paralyzed, a phrase you’ve never uttered to another person knotting and twisting, “You were asleep.” It’s such a cop-out, and the way his face falls shatters your heart.

“Right, thought so,” he concedes, “Okay. Well, do you want to see–”

“I love you.”

The words spill out so suddenly you’re clasping your hands over your traitorous lips, the urge to flee burning in your legs, and he smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he leans in, pulling your wrist to free your shock-slackened lips from their cage, and kisses you. 

This kiss is different. It’s softer, lingering, it’s the kind of kiss that welcomes you home after a long day and melts the toils and tribulations you faced away. While your hands shoot to the kitchen counter behind you and your knuckles go white in an iron-like grip, the tips of his fingers brush down your cheek so gingerly a shudder shoots down your spine. You’ve never been touched so softly, with so much…you can’t think it. 

“Again,” he whispers, and you reply with those little three words in just as hushed a tone, “Again.”

With every repetition, the words fall with more grace and his smile grows. Your cheeks are burning, nerves fluttering to life in your belly, but when he asks for the fifth time to hear you say that phrase, you close the distance between your bodies, grab his jaw in both hands and finally with conviction you tell him the truth: “Satoru. I love you. I don’t kn—mmph!”

As quick as it is, the force of his lips crashing into yours is bruising. There’s nothing tactful about it, he just needs contact and he needs it now. 

“Love you,” he murmurs, and you understand immediately the incessant nagging to hear those words over and over. 

You know someone, at some point, had said that to you, but time has robbed you of the memory. This is the first time you can ever recall hearing it, and something breaks down inside of you faster than you can keep up with. His chest is there to collapse into as the tides roll in, tears pouring from your eyes as relief washes over your storm-stricken shores. The space carved out in his embrace fits you like a glove, your head tucked neatly below his cheek as he leans down to swaddle you in tight. You’re shaking and sobbing but this time he doesn’t ask you to stop, because he understands. It’s the same for him.

“Can we go to dinner now?” you sniffle, wiping your nose on the back of your hand, gazing up at him with glassy eyes.

“Nah,” he brushes off, “I’ll order something. There’s a shirt for you in the bag, take your pick.”

Donned in a t-shirt that hangs down to the middle of your thighs, you’re perched on the couch beside Satoru with a spread of food on the table before you once again. He puts on some movie but you aren’t paying attention, all you can concentrate on is trying to convince yourself it’s over. It’s done. You’re home. But too many years have passed, and it’ll take time.

“What, Yaga?” Satoru barks into his phone, “I’m not going…I’m not going…Find someone else.”

“What was that?” you ask as he tosses it away, looking over at you with eyes glowing in the dim light.

“Oh, a mission abroad. It usually goes to me but…”

There are more important things now. 

“They can figure it out,” he chuckles with that signature aloof, pompous lilt, slinging his arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. 

Maybe it won’t take as long to get used to this as you think.

Sorry this took so long!!!

{{Masterlist}}