#and of course once it was on my plate my restraint was out the window

[naomiknight-17]

Oogh the serving of apple crisp mom gave me was too big i'm gonna asplode

[capnmachete]

The Man in the Mirror A Tommy x Alfie/Sholomons short fic

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR An Alfie x Tommy short fic in 4 parts Alfie Solomons' Jewish air of absolute certainty falters in the wake of the shooting at Margate. This has been knocking around in my to-do pile for awhile; it's absolutely self-indulgent and angsty and sappy but c'est la vie. (A bit of this has already been posted as part of Augusnippets 2024.) Posting it here in serialized form; will probably post it over on AO3 as well. Thanks for reading

Chapter 1 The Monster It’s astonishing, yeah?  The things a man learns about himself after being shot in the fucking face, and left for dead.  Recalibrates things a bit, it certainly fucking does.  Alfie Solomons had never been a vain man.  He wasn’t a good man, not even close, engaging in the seven deadlies – avarice, wrath, lust, the whole bloody lot – regularly and with enthusiasm. But he wasn’t vain. He hardly paid a whit of attention to his own appearance, perpetually rumpled and often bloody or sooty or flour-dusty due to his line of work.  .  Wealth and power and territory and mastery over his domain were the only things that mattered; he’d never given a tinker’s dam what he looked like, aside from making sure he was properly attired and decked out in gelt.

Until now. --- Alfie’s first glimpse of his own face, after the shooting on the beach at Margate, had come as a shock. He’d been in hospital, at Ramsgate Infirmary, for quite some time.  For weeks he’d been confined to bed, heavily bandaged and drugged into a stupor, while surgeons wired bits of his skull back together and tried, with limited success, to reassemble the scraps that had once been the left side of his face.  Alfie had drifted in and out of consciousness, talking to people that weren’t there.  Sometimes he grew restless and insisted on getting up – claiming he had work to do, or that the kettle was boiling, or any number of other delusional things that required his immediate attention. And sometimes combative, which eventually necessitated restraints – wrists and ankles manacled to the bedrails – after he decked an orderly while in the throes of a hallucination.

And he'd written letters, apparently.  Or, more accurately, dictated them to Ollie, his longtime aide-de-camp and the only one permitted to visit.  Some were to Rivka, some were to his deceased mother, some were to business associates.  Some were to Tommy Shelby.  Some were to Ollie himself, dictated to him as he sat right there at the bedside.  The letters were complete nonsense, of course – wild, morphine-addled ramblings, interspersed with occasional instructions about how his affairs were to be handled and inquiries about his dog.  A few were sprinkled with things so racy or inflammatory that Ollie – exercising the discretion his fallen boss wasn’t currently capable of – made the executive decision to burn them rather than carry them to the post. Nearly a month passed before the surgeons declared they had done all they could do.  Another week went by before the bandages came off, and yet another before Alfie was lucid enough to carry on a coherent conversation, or feed himself, or do much of anything else.  Finally, to his great relief, he was allowed out of bed for short spells.  Restless, he walked the halls, still a little hazy with laudanum.  And always flanked by either Ollie or an orderly or a nurse, to ensure he didn’t fall or injure himself, since he no longer had any depth perception.

It was during one of these brief constitutionals that he first spied his own reflection, as they passed the plate-glass window of the Infirmary's pharmacy.  He flinched, purely out of reflex.  The image wasn’t very clear – indistinct, wavery and shifting with the light, as reflections in glass often are – but it was enough.  “Oy gotenyu,” he muttered, blinking.  "Fucking hell." And demanded to be taken to the lavatory for a closer look, insisting when the nurse demurred.

In the lavatory mirror, he studied himself carefully, in silent, mesmerized horror, big hands braced on the porcelain sink.  He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly bone-dry.

Alfie had never considered himself any great beauty – unrefined, and neither elegant nor fine-featured.  He was broad and bearlike, plagued by psoriasis and prone to scowling.  Still, he’d been told he was somewhat handsome in a rough-edged sort of way, relatively pleasant to look at.  But now -- well.

What stared back Alfie him was monstrous. Intolerable. The right half of his face was unchanged, still the same Alfred Solomons, Jr. he'd seen in the mirror every day for the past forty years.  The left was unrecognizable -- ravaged, mottled, the flesh gnarled and twisted and laddered with stitches. The surgical incisions, not yet fully healed, were an angry, raw red, painful to look at.   His left eye, once the same clear gray-green as the right, gazed blindly back at him, a sightless milky blue marble, half-buried in livid, swollen flesh.

“Go fetch Ollie, please,” he told the nurse without turning around, good eye still fixed on the ruins of his face.  “Now.”

When Ollie arrived, Alfie demanded his pistol, intent on finishing the job Tommy had botched, putting the wretch in the mirror out of its misery.  And when Ollie refused – shaky, knees turned to water, but steadfast – Alfie roared at everyone to get the fuck out.  And then went on a rampage that left the room in a shambles. And left Alfie himself in a breathless, spent heap on the floor, the outburst having entirely sapped what limited strength he'd regained.

He’d immediately been drugged back into oblivion, and shackled to the bedrails once more.  And there he’d stayed, until he had healed sufficiently, and was declared once again calm and sane and civil enough, to safely be sent home.

[bee-barnes-author]

Writing Share Game

tagged by: @tabswrites

tagging: @johnna-oneal-trash-writer @jezwrites @milkhoney531 @violeaes

fuck it, here's the ENTIRE FIRST CHAPTER of my upcoming book, 'THE BEAST IN THE GLASS HOUSE'.

Anticipated release June 10 2025

Trigger Warnings: Misogyny, gore, body horror, graphic descriptions of murder and violence, abuse through controlling food, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, allegorical rape, abuse of bodily autonomy, rape revenge.

Chapter 1

June

The first time I see you, I fall in love instantly. At the butcher's counter, ignorant to my stare at your back, you ask the clerk, “Can I get a pound and a half of ground beef? Ten percent fat, please.” I can’t pinpoint what it is about you exactly, but I can’t look away.

I’m not finished shopping, nowhere near, but when you take your cart to the cashier, I can’t help but follow along. There’s two couples and their full carts between us, giving me cover so I can watch you. You’re careless with your personal information, and say your phone number out loud instead of typing it into the pin pad. Thanks, in part, to my condition, I have a fantastic memory. This means I don’t need to scramble for a pen to write your number on the back of my hand. 

I pay for the rosemary sprigs and half dozen eggs that are in my cart, and make my way to the parking lot. If you’re still here, I can catch your license plate tag, too, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself by rushing outside. A small part of my brain wonders why I’m so immediately connected to you. It’s not your looks that stole my breath away, though you aren’t lacking in that department by any means.

It’s something about your spirit. Something about the way your energy rolls off of you in waves, and crashes carelessly through others. I swallow down an eager, “Aha!” when I spot you in the parking lot, half folded into the trunk of a white Subaru. You deposit your armload of groceries, straighten, and close the trunk.

The way the sun glints off your hair stops me in my tracks. Then it hits me. You’re my mate. Oh. Of course you are. Finally. I’m on the older end of thirty. Until now, it felt like I would never find my perfect other half. I’m so stunned by the realization that I forget to note your plates as you drive by.

I know how that sounds, okay? It’s not like that—I’m not a freak with ill intent. I am simply a man in love, who has access to a wide variety of resources. One of those resources is a man named Mister Chance. He finds people for me. I don't ask how he does it; I don’t care either. All that matters is that he gets fast results and covers his tracks.

Instead of going back inside the grocery store to get the salmon filets I had originally planned on picking up, I go to my car. Once I’m home, I make two calls. One to Mister Chance and the other to a nearby sushi restaurant. I order a deconstructed sushi bowl with an extra serving of seaweed salad and a large side of fried calamari. My personal chef is off for the evening. I promised Elijah he could enjoy his date without interruption, and I intend to uphold my commitment. 

Mister Chance is quick. Faster than the delivery boy on his moped. I’ve learned your name before I even have my chopsticks cracked open. Freya Moore. It sounds like an alias but Chance promises it’s God-given.

I have your address. The numbers dance across the computer screen as I stare. According to the map, you’re just over thirty minutes away by car. It takes every ounce of restraint I have to stop myself from going to your home right now. I want to discard my dinner and wait outside your window with a boombox like a love-struck idiot.

But I don’t. I eat my dinner and listen to Mister Chance tell me about you. You’re young, but that can’t be helped. Love is love and you’re, quite literally, my soulmate. Fortunately, twenty-two is a perfectly legal age for me to date publicly. I’ll learn to ignore the inevitable ribbing I’m to get from Elijah. Anyone seriously bothered by the age gap can fuck off, for all I care.

Sushi bowl in hand, I pace the length of my third-floor bedroom. My skin itches like it’s the night before the full moon. It’s been a long, long time since I had to battle for control over my instincts like this. I feel like a teenager again. Every nerve inside me screams at the distance between us. I need to be close to you.

My mind keeps rushing to catastrophic disasters that you could suffer while away from the safety I offer. Dozens of irrational scenarios that I can’t stop conjuring. Are you giving me an anxiety disorder, Freya? Is this what loving you feels like? I take a moment to pity your ex’s before I wish death upon them for touching you. No one will touch you but me from now on.

The only exception will be our children. A thrill sings down my spine at the thought. You will rebuild my pack. My perfect human mate. We’ll be the pride of the west coast again. An exemplary family that lycans across the nation will look up to.

My phone beeps. Mister Chance follows up our phone call with an email detailing everything we already discussed and much, much more. Including your work schedule, a digital clone of your phone so I can see everything you do on it as you do it, and access to your desktop computer if I want it. Hell, I can even sit in on your therapy appointments. I shoot a message to my assistant to let him know I won’t be in the office tomorrow.

I’ll be busy learning about you.

I finish dinner reading through medical files from your childhood. You had a suspicious amount of broken bones and emergency room visits all chalked up to youthful clumsiness. Apparently, you grew into your limbs and developed grace around fourteen because those visits stopped. Coincidentally, that was also around the time your father died from taking a nasty tumble down the stairs. They found no signs of foul play. Good for you.

For the moment, I set thoughts of you aside and go take a shower. I do my usual thorough routine, not skipping a step. I’m in no rush. Unless I’ve got a woman with me, I only take cold showers. Men like me, we run hot. Things get sweaty, so I take two showers a day to avoid stinking.

I crawl between my sheets with a smile on my face. Tomorrow, after breakfast, I’ll take a drive to see you.

Goodnight, darling.

***

The next day, blinking against the harsh morning sun even behind my sunglasses, I stand across the street from your place. There’s a Starbucks within eyeshot of your apartment building. I stop by for a black coffee. Of course I pay with cash. The timestamps on your bank statements imply that this is the place you get your morning brew when you’re in the mood for something more complex than black coffee and almond milk creamer.

You’re already two hours deep into your workday at the costume shop by the time I take my first sip. It’s not good but not bad either. I’ve just had better. My machine at home makes a much better cup. 

I’m waiting for your roommate to leave while I read about her on my phone. Cindi Song—twenty-one, about to turn twenty-two in a few weeks—a full-time waitress in a full-time sports medicine program. A hard worker if ever there was one. I appreciate people with work ethics like Cindi’s. Her file mentions she’s in daily contact with her mother. Her mother also regularly sends you two small gifts she finds while online shopping.

I hear the barista's stomach digesting her breakfast. Gas bubbles in her gut. The sound travels like rocks through a tunnel, but I’m the only one that can hear it. Phlegm crackles in the throat of the old woman ordering her drink. The smell of the burned milk invades my nostrils and I take my not-good-not-bad cup of coffee with me to sit out in the sun. Ever since I saw you, my senses have heightened to a painful degree, like I’m subconsciously straining to find you at all times. I feel raw and on-edge. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit about the mild noise inside the shop, but you’ve knocked me off balance.

Before long, Cindi opens the front door to your shared apartment. She’s in form-fitting athleisure wear with her big backpack protruding over both of her shoulders. She’s pulled her shiny black hair up into a high ponytail that bounces rhythmically as she jogs to her car.

I wait twenty minutes before I get up, toss my mostly full cup in the garbage, and jog off in the opposite direction that Cindi drove. A full block down, I cross the street, then make my way through the back of the complex to your unit. Casually, I walk to the sliding glass door on your patio and test the lock. It doesn’t budge. Good. At least you’re smart enough not to leave this unsecured.

It’s easy for me to grasp the handle with one hand, and grip the opposite edge of the glass with the other. Then all I have to do is lift it and wiggle it for a moment. I glance around as the lock pops open to make sure there aren’t any eyes on me. As far as I can tell, I’m in the clear, so I slip inside and slide the door shut behind me. Blinds and curtains closed, I’m left in a dark living room.

Even from out here, it’s easy to tell which room is yours. I recognize your scent from the dozens I came across at the grocery store yesterday. Your sweat smells like onions and musk. I love onions. Your room is tidy, but could still use a good dusting. I spy your bed pressed against the far wall. It’s dressed with a set of spring green sheets and a canary yellow blanket.

You have two pillows, and a giant stuffed husky dog resting at the top of the bed. Laundry detergent wafts up from the cotton sheets. It’s clear you washed your bedding in the past few days. I sit on the edge of your mattress and take the room in. You have two bookshelves. One is chock full of novels, mostly fantasies and thrillers. You’ve organized them by color. You stuffed the second bookcase with manga, and different gaming devices take up the remaining shelf.

In front of your window is your desktop computer. It’s a cheap gaming rig, but you have decent enough monitors that I don’t feel the immediate need to replace them. When you’re mine, you’ll have the best of everything. While I’m thinking of your shopping list, I decide to buy a sliding door lock and ship it to you under Mrs. Songs’ name.

I can’t do that until I have a key, though, so I head out of your room and into the kitchen to search the drawers. The website for your apartment complex stated they give one key per tenant over the age of eighteen, plus one to have as a spare before they charge for extras. I just hope you haven’t already gone through your free copy.

The universe must be thinking good thoughts about soulmates because I find it in the first drawer I open. Glued to the thick cardstock that was stamped with the apartment logo was the very key I wanted.

After I tuck my shiny new key into my pocket, I leave through the same sliding glass doors that granted me entry. With my keen eye for detail, I scan your home one last time to make certain I leave the inside of your apartment as close to the way I found it as possible. Speaking of your apartment, I hate it. As I leave, music pumps from your neighbors' unit, despite it being before noon on a weekday. Marijuana and tobacco smoke stink up the air. You’re surrounded by losers and dropouts. Useless members of society. As soon as I can, I’m moving you into my home. And if I can’t get you to move in with me, I’ll put you up in a penthouse downtown.

Never forget that your mate is a very wealthy man, my sweet girl. I won’t claim to be the wealthiest man in the world, but I know for a fact I’m quite high on that list. That much money gives me access to a frankly obscene level of influence over the world.

And yet my pack is weak.

We are fifteen men strong, but just that- we are only men; even among those chosen few, I’m the only born werewolf. I turned the rest of them over the course of the past decade as they proved their worth. It takes a spectacular amount of self control to turn someone. Vampires have it easy. All they have to do is share blood, stop the initiate’s heart however you please, then bury the corpse and wait for the fledgling vampire to rise in their own time.

Werewolves have a much harder time propagating our species. In order for me to turn a human into a lycanthrope, I must attack them. A single bite won’t do it. They have to be mauled so viciously that their immune systems crash, thus allowing the werewolf virus to infect them. Even then, it’s not guaranteed. The initiate must survive the fever and their injuries.

It’s better to allow the infection to spread over the course of a month, where it will grow to its ultimate form under the light of the full moon. This allows the initiate to adjust physically and mentally to their new bodies and new instincts. As the alpha of my pack, I take the month to bond with my new beta.

I bring them to my family’s estate in the mountains where we once had a very lucrative silver mine. Believe me, the irony is not lost on me. A family of werewolves that owns a silver mine? Ridiculous. Yet, own it we do. Of course, we had none of our kind down in the mine shafts themselves. We kept them above ground where they wouldn’t die of silver poisoning just by breathing the air.

The veins have dried up in the past thirty years, so now the property is used to contain newly turned wolves. Even though it’s only us out there for hundreds of miles, I don’t let my wolves run around, causing havoc. Until they’re under my control, and won’t lose themselves to their instincts, they stay in the mines on full moons.

If they don’t submit by the end of the first night, I break their will before the moon thins. I do not allow any wolf to deny my status. If they are in my pack, they bend to my whim. Loyalty is an utmost priority. If they can’t commit to the pack, I rip their hearts out. Fortunately, I’ve only ever lost one new wolf in such a manner. The fifteen other men I’ve turned so far have become integral to my way of life.

They’re all employees of mine. My driver, my private security team, my home chef, my doctor, my lawyer, and the two groundskeepers that stay year round on the mountain to manage the estate and keep the property in shape are in my pack. 

Born werewolves like me are rare. Our mothers are humans, but come from lycan bloodlines. Meaning they carry the werewolf gene. Then, when combined with our werewolf father's genes, we born werewolves greet the world, kicking and screaming. You don’t seem to come from a lycan bloodline, but deep in my gut, I know you’ll provide me with lycan children.

A handful of blocks away from my destination, I pull a KN-95 mask out of its plastic wrap and stick it on my face. Then I put a plain dark blue baseball cap on. I tie it all together with a pair of thick wire-rim glasses.

As a werewolf, my eyesight is better than the best human's. The lenses are just for show. I don’t want you to recognize me later when I truly introduce myself. I want you to fall in love with a stranger who sweeps you off your feet and leaves you aching for more.

What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.

I park my car outside of the business next to Costume Avenue. You’re visible through the front windows, even though you’re tucked towards the back of the shop. I have a clear line of sight. That must have been on purpose.

Half the reviews on Google are about you, so I don’t doubt that you’re a large draw for business. It makes sense your boss wants you to be easy for customers to find from the front door. Not many places have a full time historical customer on staff and your work is more than worth boasting over. For example, recently, an up-and-coming starlet wore one of your gowns to the Oscars after-party. 

If you hadn't left so fast last night, perhaps we could have hit it off naturally. Your timing is off, is all. I have to admit, as impatient as I am to be with you, I appreciate the opportunity to learn about you. I didn’t become the rich and powerful man I am today by jumping the gun and rushing into things. In business and in love, I need to keep my wits. 

I can’t wait too long, though. If I’m too slow to act on our soulmate bond, the possessive animal in my blood will lash out. I might wake up one day on your porch, naked as the day I was born, my wolf having brought us there to paw pathetically at your door while I was sleeping.

The double doors of the building are wide open to welcome in both customers and the cool late spring air. There aren’t any heads bobbing around inside aside from yours. You get up from your sewing chair to stretch and take a walk around the building, tidying shelves and racks as you pass them. You stand in the doorway to glance at the parking lot and your gaze passes over me as if I’m not even there. Good.

Your cell phone rings and you glance around for customers. Seeing none, you answer it. Your smile makes you look younger. “Hey! I can’t talk for long. I’m at work. What’s up?” I hear you say as a greeting to whoever is on the other end of the call.

A woman's voice says, “I’ll be quick. Shaun wants to know if I can cover his shift Saturday night, so I was hoping we could have girls' night Friday night instead?”

You tilt your head slightly in thought and make a wincing expression. “Saturday is two for one at the Forty-Five, though.”

“Please, Freya?” The woman wheedles, “I’ve been trying to get an in with Shaun for so long! This is my chance!”

You roll your eyes. “You cover his shift at least once a month.”

“But I can feel this time is different! I’m so close to getting into his study group I can taste it.”

You laugh, and it’s musical. “Okay, fine, but you’re buying the drinks.”

“Deal!” Your friend is grinning. I can hear it in her voice. “I’ll see you there at eight?”

“Friday night. Eight o’clock.” You agree, and the two of you exchange goodbyes before you hang up.

I’ve never been to The Forty-Five, but I’ve heard about it from my men. It’s supposed to be a respectable sort of place, and quite expensive, so I understand your hesitancy to agree to full priced drinks. You won’t have to worry about that, though. I’ll take care of you.

I start my car and drive back to my house. I think it’s time we meet face to face, and what better spot to fall in love than on the dancefloor?

[cyancherub]

just saw some art and had a sudden thought but. I think...I think ginoza would absolutely enjoy some blindfolded sexy time wherein he is the one wearing it.

and now thinking about riding him in the office, blindfold over his eyes and hands bound behind his back with his own tie (but somehow I feel like he'd still manage to remain in control of the situation) skfjlskd

lapdog | ginoza n.

PAIRING.  enforcer!ginoza x fem inspector!reader

LENGTH.  13.8k (also available to read on ao3)

PLAYLIST.  eat him up

SYNOPSIS.  poison comes wrapped in pretty pink.

CONTENT.  femdom & role reversal, power imbalance (reader is his superior; he also reveres her), strict / maneater reader, office sex, dubcon (not really, but he asks her to stop because he’s going to cum), accidental creampie.  m receiving / m focused -> [ begging, blindfolding, breathplay / choking (w/ belt), cum in mouth, dacryphilia, degradation (light), edging / orgasm delay, finger sucking, gagging w/ fingers, hair pulling, humiliation (light), impact play (light), orgasm denial, pet names (baby, good boy), praise, restraints (handcuffs), teasing, loss of control ].  body worship (in his thoughts, i also mean this quite literally), breeding / pregnancy kink, cockwarming, ma’am kink, multiple orgasms (f receiving), oral (f receiving), riding, scent kink (slight), spit, very little aftercare

OTHER NOTES.  lots of metaphor relating to dogs (b/c of his position in relation to her), lots of metaphor relating to purity, reader is a bit evil to him but he likes it, self deprecating thoughts, some toxicity / sleaziness (slight obsession, manipulation, mind games), a tiny bit of angst (he pines for the reader)

NOTES.  UMM... i might have missed the brief a bit because this fic is about total loss of control KLALKDS but. here it is .. baby’s first femdom fic!!! some parts were inspired by @venussins sub!choso fic, pls give it a read!! ALSO THE BIGGEST THANK U & all my love ALWAYS to fang @prettyboykatsuki for beta reading this and for listening to me yell about it and encouraging me as always !!!!

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING THE CONTENT STATED IN THE WARNINGS.

It’s late.

It’s been a long day, and Ginoza is tired. But there are just a few more things to do. Double check the reports, add some final notes. The paperwork after a big mission is always a pain. But he’ll stay after you; he’ll finish up the little things before he heads back to his quarters. You have a lot on your plate.

He feels for you. You handle the duties of an Inspector well, but he knows exactly what it’s like.

Well — he knew what it was like, once. So he helps where he can.

But he needs a break before he gets back to it. Even here, away from the desk, his head is pounding. It doesn’t help that he finds the selection of drinks in the vending machine in front of him a little overwhelming. The break rooms are well-stocked; there are more flavors than employees on this floor, probably.

He opts for a ginger ale. This brand is a little bland, but he’s not really craving something with a lot of flavor. It’s just that the water at the fountain always comes out lukewarm, and he wants something that’ll burst on his tongue. Something with carbonation. Something that’ll wake him up, at least for the rest of his shift.

He holds the can in the metal fingers of his left hand and cracks it open with his right, wandering over to the window. The tab lifts under his fingertips before the metal pops down under it — a little jump under his fingers, tactile. Ever since he lost his left, he thinks that his right hand has gotten more sensitive.

A little wisp of something snakes out of the can; beyond the window, the horizon begins to swallow up the sun. He takes small sips, watching night fall. It’s winter, and the sun is setting early.

The metal fingers of his prosthetic grow cold around the can, but of course, he doesn’t feel them. Just the fizzle of the carbonation in his mouth.

“Ginoza.”

He pauses with the can halfway raised to his mouth, ears perking up — a dog attuned to the familiar voice of its owner. His owner’s voice is stern, controlling, but it’s always that way. Somehow, he finds that comforting.

“Inspector.” His tone is formal — respectful. He abandons his drink, lowering the can as he turns to watch you enter the break room. “I thought you were heading out? I’ll take care of the rest of the paperwork.”

“Soon.”

You study the vending machine with a critical eye. He wonders if something there displeases you. If maybe you’re looking for a flavor that isn’t there.

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “Do you need anything?”

“No, no.”

The beep of a button as it’s pressed, the rattling of a can falling through the machine before it’s deposited in the slot. He averts his eyes when you bend over to get it, fixing his gaze on the fake plant in the corner of the room. He pushes the panel of his suit jacket back, slipping his right hand into the pocket of his slacks.

There’s a thin layer of dust collecting on the leaves of the plant; he wonders when the last time was that someone came to dust.

“You did very well today, Ginoza.”

His eyes are drawn to the pink of the can in your hand. A strawberry soda. How odd, he thinks. How odd for you. For a person who’s so formal, so severe, and so strict. Of all the things you could choose to drink, you chose a strawberry soda.

“I was impressed with your performance.”

He’s taken aback, doesn’t know how he should respond. In all the time he’s worked under you, he can’t think of one instance of praise. You don’t compliment him. Or anyone else, for that matter. You treat all of your Enforcers equally. A terse nod after a tough mission, maybe. If you’re feeling particularly generous, they might even receive a Thank you all for performing your duty.

But nothing like this.

Ginoza’s cheeks are hot. He’s flustered, for some reason, watching you take a sip of your strawberry soda. There’s a loose fiber in the pocket of his slacks; he pulls at it until it unravels.

He clears his throat. “It’s always a pleasure to work for you, Inspector.”

You sit on the couch, strawberry soda in-hand, and fix him with a lazy smile. “Is it really?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile on your face.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Inspector.”

As strict as you are, as unyielding, you’re efficient. You get things done. You’re a bit like he used to be, he thinks, but more level headed. Much more capable than he was. The control is out of his hands and in yours completely. Some might call your behavior uptight, but he respects it.

He likes it.

“I didn’t think you would,” you say. “You’re too earnest for that.”

You’re resting against the arm of the couch. He finds your posture almost slovenly. It’s usually rigid, upright. It’s usually tense. You cross your legs and sigh, and he sees your shoulders slump just a little. Then you cock your head to the side and fix him with a smile. Loose, he thinks — it looks unnatural on you.

His fist is balled up in his pocket. Nerves.

“This place is like a ghost town after six, isn’t it?” you muse. “Everyone just clears right out.”

Hunters like you don’t make small talk with their dogs, Ginoza thinks.

After a pause, he says, “It’s quiet.”

It’s empty.

“Am I making you anxious, Ginoza?”

“No, ma’am.”

In the pocket of his slacks, his trimmed nails dig into the skin of his palm. You gesture to the little couch opposite yours with your manicured fingers wrapped around the strawberry soda.

“Sit down, Ginoza,” you say. “You look a little stiff.”

Obediently, he rounds the couch and sits. Facing you, separated from you just by the little coffee table on top of which he sets his can of ginger ale. He hasn’t had even a quarter of it yet. The coasters on the table are gray. A muted earth tone, just like everything else in this room.

Except for the little strawberry soda in the little pink can.

You run a hand absently down your thigh. Your skirt is riding up, but he looks away as soon as he sees it.

“Kougami’s already gone back to his room?” you ask.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you stayed after.”

“Yes, ma’am. I told him to go. That I’d handle the rest.”

Nerve-racking. That’s what he’d call every single interaction with you. He wonders if he’s done something wrong, something to displease you. He hopes not.

“He’s difficult sometimes, isn’t he?” you say.

You lean over to the coffee table, dragging his drink just slightly to the side, with one manicured fingernail on the coaster. He’d thought your nail polish was more muted. Some neutral color, something mundane. Closer up, the color is more pinkish. A trick of the fluorescent lights, maybe.

As he watches you place your strawberry soda next to the cold silver of his ginger ale can, he wishes he’d set his coaster in the right place. He hopes he hasn’t inconvenienced you.

The empty space of the tabletop is vast, broken up just by the two cans. They sit, one next to another — dead center, not even an inch apart.

You rise from the couch; he remembers to answer.

“Difficult?” he says in a small voice.

Watching you pass the coffee table, nearing the couch he’s sitting on, Ginoza feels like the dying sun just before it’s swallowed up by the horizon.

“Disobedient,” you say. “He’s not a team player, is he?”

Your hand trails over the arm of the couch as you pass him. He loses sight of you as you round the back of it. But he keeps his gaze straight as he listens to your footsteps behind him; he doesn’t have the nerve to turn around.

“I suppose not,” he says shakily.

Ginoza feels a hand on his left shoulder first, and then one on his right. Your hands, resting on his body, warm. He feels a chill, even as the heat of your fingers starts to seep through the fabric of his suit jacket.

“But not you,” you say. “You always help when it’s needed.”

The hands on his shoulders squeeze. Ginoza gulps, listening to you speak through a voice that doesn’t sound like your own. This voice is too sweet; the lilt is near-artificial, cloying enough to leave a strange taste in his mouth — a bite of dessert after he’s already overfull, or the lingering flavor of manmade sweetener.

“You’re always there to do whatever you’re told. And so much more. You’re a big help to me. Did you know that?”

The praise makes his cheeks burn, the squeezing of your fingers on his shoulders.

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I just want to make your job easier, Inspector.”

Your hands snake downward. Down, from his shoulders, down, skimming over the plane of his chest. You — his austere Inspector, his strict, unforthcoming Inspector — touching him. You, his withholding superior, bending over the back of the couch, leaning forward to cross your arms over his chest and tilt your head over his shoulder. You — looking into his eyes, with a little smile on your face.

“Ginoza.”

He can see your tongue in your mouth when you talk. Pink, a gradation of the label on your strawberry soda. He can feel your breaths on his jaw. Warm, just as warm as your arms crossed over his chest, just as warm as this embrace from behind — a close embrace, a familiar embrace so terribly unbecoming of his frigid, ungiving superior.

“Inspector,” he says breathlessly.

“If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it just between us?”

On the table — as close to your soda as you are to him — his ginger ale sits, warming slowly. A droplet runs down the side, slow at first, then quick, cutting a line of dark gray through the silver condensation. The path goes cold again a moment later; the droplet splatters onto the coaster.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything.”

He can smell the strawberry on your breath. He can smell your shampoo. Something sweet, with chemicals underneath.

“Of all my dogs,” you say with a lazy smile, “you’re my favorite.”

Your favorite. Ginoza’s heart pounds in his chest. The sweetness masks the chemicals until he can barely smell them at all.

“You know what I like about you, Gino?”

He smells toxins again; they prickle in his sharp nose. The nickname is foreign in your mouth. Hostile, almost. Off-putting, awry, like that little smile on your face — just the slightest bit crooked. You drink strawberry, but you’re oleander — a pretty pink flower in the middle of an unassuming forest. Beautiful, but lethal.

“What is it, Inspector?”

You tighten your arms around him.

“You’re so obedient,” you say. “You’re so good.”

Maybe he likes the proximity.

“You know just what I want. I never have to tell you twice. Sometimes I don’t even have to tell you at all.”

He does like the proximity, he decides. Maybe he likes the smell of chemicals, too, of toxins. Maybe it’s the combination of toxins that make you sweet.

“No one understands what I need like you do, Gino.”

The sweetness is that enticing; it makes his mouth water. He’ll ingest your poison even if it kills him.

“Anything for you, Inspector.”

And he means it.

“Tell me something…” you’re drawling.

He wants to shudder — pulse pounding, suddenly fearful. Your lips keep getting closer to him, and he thinks you might consume him, might eat him whole here in the middle of this bleak breakroom. You’re so blinding that he can’t even look at you; everything else is gray in comparison — wilting. On the table, your drink is still cold, condensation beading on the bright pink can, but his has gone warm; it’s too late, it’ll be flat soon, the carbonation bubbling down to nothing —

“Is there anything I can do for you — for my favorite — to make your job easier? More enjoyable? As your Inspector, it’s my responsibility to ensure that your working conditions are good. You can ask me for anything you like.”

A privilege. Special treatment. Gratitude, bubbling up, from deep in his chest, like carbonation.

Still, the answer is shaky. Demure. He wants to ingest your poison, to take it like medicine, but he’s afraid that it’ll hurt.

“Nothing at all, ma’am. I - I’m perfectly happy. I love working under you. For you.”

Your face twists into a pout. “Hm.”

The disappointment on your face makes his stomach drop, makes him sick. The thought of displeasing you makes something in his chest twist, and when you withdraw the warmth of your arms from around him, the twist becomes an ache.

He stands as soon as you’ve left him, turning to watch you pace to the window. You stand in front of it, arms crossed, looking outward — downward. The city is far below. Little dots of multicolored light, and you, standing far above it all.

“Inspector,” he says.

He approaches you the way a wounded animal might approach a human with a hand extended — keeping his distance, unsure if the upturned palm will wound or nurture. In the window, his reflection lingers far enough behind yours that, even though he’s much taller than you, he looks small.

At least, compared to you.

“Go ahead.”

“Is there anything I can do,” he ventures, clearing his throat, “for you?”

He thinks he can see you smile in the reflection. But he can’t really tell, because the fluorescent lights cast a strange shadow on your face.

“There is.”

His relief is multiplied when you turn to face him with a pleased expression.

“I need a favor,” you say.

“What is it?”

“Don’t be shy, Ginoza. If you want to help me, you need to come here.”

And even when he’s directly in front of you — even when he’s looking down at you — he feels small. He wonders if the smile on your face is genuine. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter, because he finds it pleasing to the eye either way. The alluring, unnatural, too-bright pink of an oleander flower. Just a single leaf will kill.

He loses sight of it as you round his body again. Circled by a great white, he thinks, treading blood-baited saltwater in a rusting metal cage. He’s read about people doing that for fun: apparently, some people pay to be lowered into the ocean in a little cage. Chum is thrown in the water, and sharks circle. People do it for the thrill.

He’s never seen the appeal of an adrenaline chase like that. He’s never been one to get off on a racing heart. Until now, maybe.

You grip his wrist from behind. Your hand on his, the little squeeze of your fingers on his veins. Pressing into his racing pulse.

You draw his hand behind his back.

“The Bureau has been issuing us new equipment,” you’re saying. “You’ve already worked with the improved Dominators, but, you know, I haven’t had the chance to try these yet.”

There’s cold metal on his wrist. A snap. Handcuffs closing. You grab his other wrist, fingers on the metal of his prosthetic as you draw it behind his back, too. The click of metal on metal — his left wrist restrained next to his right.

“These new handcuffs are supposed to be even stronger. Strong enough that even augmented prosthetics can’t break through.”

Your hand rests on the small of his back, just above his bound wrists. He watches you come back into view with ice shooting up his spine.

“How are they? Any give?”

He pulls his wrists apart, or tries to. The cuffs catch on the metal of his left wrist with a clink, and dig into the skin of his right. Unyielding, just like you.

“No, ma’am.”

He’s rewarded with a little smile.

“Ah,” you say. “That’s perfect.”

“Do you have the…”

“The keys?”

Ginoza nods. But he’s cursing himself. He’d stopped himself mid-sentence for a reason. It’s because he doesn’t know if he wants you to unlock the handcuffs.

A click of your strawberry-pink tongue. “Ah. Not on hand, I don’t think.”

Maybe it’s twisted, but Ginoza feels relieved.

He feels thrilled by the look on your face. It isn’t the look of someone who’s forgotten their keys. And, besides, you don’t forget anything. Every single thing you do is intentional.

“Is that a problem?”

He laughs nervously. “Of course not. We can always ask…”

He flounders. He’s in that little shark cage under the surface of an endless ocean. His oxygen tank is running low. The bars on the cage are flimsy. They’re placed too far apart, and the great white is starting to ram against them. The bait in the water isn’t enough; it craves something larger. Something whole.

Ginoza was afraid of the ocean as a child. He liked the shore, but there was always the nagging feeling that something was waiting in the depths. He remembers learning once about female great whites, and how they dwarf their male counterparts by several feet.

You cock your head to the side, eyes widening. Mocking.

“Who? Who can we ask, Ginoza?’

When something sharp enough lacerates the skin, the initial cut isn’t felt. There’s no sting until seconds after. Ginoza wonders how sharp your teeth are. How many rows you have. How long it’d take you to eat him whole, and if it’d start to sting before you devour him completely.

Even if it were to sting, he thinks, that kind of pain might be pleasant.

“Well…” he says.

“There’s no one here, Ginoza. It’s quiet. Like you said.”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“It’s just you…” you say, placing one perfectly manicured finger in the very center of his chest, “...and me.”

You smile. His heart jumps under your fingertip. And then you push.

A small push, just with the tip of your finger to his chest. Barely any pressure. But at the same time, there’s so much. He finds himself stepping backward with each step you take forward. He finds himself pushed back and back and back, until there’s the soft impact of the wall behind his shoulder blades, the little thunk of the handcuffs behind his back hitting it too.

Maybe it’d knock the breath out of his lungs, if he had any left. He’s already struggling for air — taking short gasps with his back to the wall. He’s supposed to be your hunting dog, but your teeth are so much sharper than his.

“Inspector?” he asks, face hot.

Your critical fingers come to his tie. They run down it, flatten it, neaten it — as if something about it is out of order. Just the slightest bit crooked, and you’d be displeased. He knows that. You don’t like things to be off. You put him in order with your fingers just over his pounding heart, and then look up at him. Right in the eyes.

Holding your gaze makes his head swim. It makes his knees weak.

So when you place your hand on his shoulder, when you apply the slightest bit of pressure, when you command him — Sit down, Ginoza. You look a little stiff. — his knees give with no resistance.

He yields under your palm. It’s so little pressure, but somehow, it’s so heavy. His back slides down the wall, metal cuffs scraping downward, until he’s seated on the floor, looking dizzily up at your towering form. To him, your presence is larger-than-life; your personality expands until it takes up the entire room, a stifling blanket nestled even in the corners, where dust collects. And his personality — it’s tiny, meager, folds in on itself, over and over and over, until it becomes infinitesimally small. No bigger, no more significant, than one of the dust motes floating through the air.

But his eyes are large and fearful.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Ginoza?”

A shaky breath. A dry swallow. A good boy. Praise from you is so scarce that just the slightest amount makes his chest ache.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why are you so good for me?”

His head is floating — full of so many reasons, too many reasons. I respect you. I admire you. I like you. I want you. But there aren’t enough reasons, because there’s not one that he has the nerve to say. Because here, between your legs, level with your crotch, looking up, at the underside of your tits, and the upward curve of your little smile — he feels too weak. Out of control.

And that makes him feel…

Good.

“Hm?” you prompt.

He feels too weak, but if you insist —

“Don’t make me wait for a simple answer to a simple question, Ginoza.”

If it would please you —

“Because,” he stammers, “because I like you, Inspector.”

“Is that all?”

“Because… ”

He gulps, eyes on the bottom hem of your skirt, eyes on your thighs, where the fabric is riding a little high.

“Tell me,” you say. “I’m waiting.”

“Because,” he says breathlessly, “because I want to please you, Inspector.”

“Because, because,” you tease, putting a finger under his chin and nudging it upward.

He looks into your eyes again, nearly flinches when your finger pushes his hair gently out of his face, nearly flinches when he suddenly detects the smell of something sweet — strawberry.

Strawberry lotion, on your bare, slightly spread legs. He imagines his bound hands free, running over your calves, spreading lotion over your skin.

Your heels press against the outside of his thighs, caging him in.

“Because you want to service me?” you smile lazily down at him.

A hazy nod, slow blinks up at you through long, heavy eyelashes. His head is spinning; the fingers of his right hand tingle, crushed into the cold metal of his left hand. And then —

“Because you want to pleasure me?”

To like you. To please you. To service you. Appropriate for a pet to its master.

Ginoza’s sharp nose detects another smell from between your spread thighs, a smell that’s equally as sweet as the strawberry on your legs and on your tongue.

To pleasure you —

It’s not right, it’s not appropriate, it’s not his place. Ginoza thinks he might soil you — might dirty you with his hands. With the paws of a dog. They’ve been in the dirt, doing your bidding, and your fingers are clean. Like they should be. Your hands are pristine, sullied only by the indentations of your dogs’ leashes on your palms. But those indentations are temporary; they fade away, don’t stain the fingertips like iron in soil does.

“Because you want to make me feel good, Ginoza?”

Pleasuring you. Making you feel good. His cock stirs. It’s been growing for a while now, stiffening against his thigh. Slowly, because he’s been trying hard to curb the rush of blood between his legs. He’s too afraid he’ll disgust you.

But he just can’t help it anymore. The prospect of this — the privilege of being able to pleasure you — is too much. There’s an image of you whirling in his mind, a pretty one, an approximation of how he thinks your features might contort. He shouldn’t be imagining that, but it makes the blood rush to his cock, makes it stiffen. Fast, this time.

Your cold eyes are fixed on his crotch. It embarrasses him. It makes him harder.

“Yes or no, Ginoza?”

He’d die for it, he thinks.

“More than anything, Inspector,” he chokes.

You fix him with a woeful expression. An expression that makes him want to fix anything in the world that displeases you.

“But it looks like your hands are tied,” you pout.

His response is hasty. It’s pleading. “I can help you. I want to help you—”

But the words die on his tongue, go flat like soda, as he watches your fingers trace the bottom hem of your skirt. Fingernails lacquered in pretty pink slip under the drab gray, lift the drab gray, hike the drab gray up, revealing skin. Pristine skin, lovely skin — the skin of an untouched fruit before it’s broken by the teeth. Skin exposed to someone as undeserving, to someone as dirty, as him.

A treat dangled in front of a panting, sharp-faced shepherd. This shepherd is his master’s most obedient; this shepherd won’t move a muscle, no matter how close the treat comes. Not even if it bumps against his nose.

But he’ll track every single movement. Vigilant. A watchdog, a hunting dog, any kind of dog his master wants.

A lap dog, even. Something easily distracted, easily entranced. Hooked on every new glimpse of your skin as you hike the skirt up and up and up, until he can see the pretty curve of your spread thighs in front of him. Their apex, and the sweet space between them.

And the strawberry pink of your panties.

In the midst of all the dull gray in this break room — the gray carpet, the gray couches, the gray curtains, everything so gray it’s almost greenish under the fluorescent lights, greenish and cold — there are three points of warmth.

The first — that can of strawberry soda, long since warm.

The second — your neatly lacquered fingernails.

The last — your little pink panties. Your little pink thong.

Pink, the same pink as the inside of a ripe strawberry. Your thong is tiny like a strawberry, tight. And sheer.

Ginoza can see your pussy through the lace.

Damp lace grows wet, a dark spot spreading on the crotch of the fabric right in front of his face. The smell of strawberry spreads in his nose, the smell of pussy — the taste of anticipation for one or the other on his tongue. His mouth has gone dry, but his cock is leaking all over his leg.

You hook your pretty fingernails over the sides of your panties. He gulps, he watches, as you shimmy them down your thighs. Ginoza thinks he should look away; he thinks he shouldn’t sully your perfect body with his impure gaze. But he can’t look away. He has to watch — eyes stuck to you like the little gooey line of arousal that sticks to your panties before it breaks.

He has to watch you pull your thong all the way down our thighs, has to watch it drop down your strawberry-lotion-covered calves, has to watch it fall to the bottom of your heels. He has to watch you step out of the garment with your right leg, lift the left, and pull the damp fabric away from your heel.

You tuck your panties away into the band of your skirt — hiding the pretty pink in the gray. That point of warmth is gone, is out of sight, but there’s something much hotter in his vision. Your dog’s object permanence is fickle; he’ll forget about a hidden treat as soon as you brandish a bone.

Sleepy eyes, framed by long, feminine lashes. Dilated pupils, fixed on your bare pussy. His tongue itches for a taste, and his mouth is no longer dry; it’s watering — wet enough to match your glistening pussy. He sees soft, wet flesh; he sees flesh full to bursting with juices.

A fruit that’s plucked from its stem in the dead heat of summer, perfectly ripe.

Something a bad dog might devour with teeth bared. But obedient dogs don’t bite when they’re not supposed to; obedient dogs are gentle with toys their owners give them. Obedient dogs lick, don’t bite, at least not until their owner sics them.

Ginoza watches his owner play with the toy — watches your manicured fingers slide through the wet skin of your pussy, watches your fingertips brush over your seeping hole and gather up all your wetness right in front of his face.

Like a drooling dog, Ginoza waits for his owner to say fetch. In his slacks, his cock throbs, dribbles, gets his thigh slippery.

But he’s patient; he’s intent, concentration unbroken. He’d stay here forever in limbo — would never leave, if he had a choice. Maybe it’s not limbo, he thinks, but heaven, or maybe even the second circle of hell — the circle of lust, ruled by a pink-horned devil in gray clothing.

He’d stay here, patient, but his fingers don’t have the same restraint; they’re filthy, overwhelmed by the dirty instinct to touch. His wrists test the bounds of the handcuffs, pulling outward until the metal of his left hand clinks against the restraints.

“Are you trying to get away from me, Ginoza?”

Voice breathy in his sharp ears. He loves that sickly-sweet tone, the toxicity layered right beneath.

“No, ma’am,” he says hastily. Never, ma’am. He slackens his hands. “No. I just… I just want…”

To pleasure you. To make you feel good. To touch you, for you, so you can rest your pretty hands.

Pretty hands, he thinks, pretty fingers, suited to touch a pretty pussy. He licks his lips while he looks at it — at how wet it is, watches your fingers get slick and shiny with your own juices.

“You want what?” you tease, using two slippery fingers to spread yourself open in front of him. “This?”

A wet dream, he thinks. This is a wet dream — you above him, with your skirt hiked up around your waist, fingers sliding over your pussy before teasing little circles into your clit. Breathy moans float in the air, tumble down to him, fill his ears, make his cock pulse.

“Yes,” he says, “please.”

“Well,” you say, breaths hitching, “see, there’s a problem, Ginoza.”

“Let me help you,” he pleads. “What’s the problem, Inspector, what can I do—?”

But he’s cut off as your wet fingers leave your pussy to rest on his lips. He parts his mouth, takes them in immediately, with a needy whimper — a grateful whimper. He’s lucky, he thinks, lucky that you’ve finally blessed him with a taste. And it’s even better than he expected, tastes even sweeter than it smells; it’s a taste that makes his eyes go soft. Your towering presence above him blurs as he sucks your fingers clean, gets drunk from the taste.

You watch him through eyes slightly narrowed with amusement, your tone woeful — false — as you push your fingers a little deeper into his mouth.

“I just…”

You sigh.

“I’ve just been so busy, Ginoza. And I really, really,” — you pause, to push your fingers to the back of his throat; they hit his gag reflex, and the taste of you is deep in his mouth, is dripping down his throat, is coursing through his body, until it reaches his cock, making it so hard that his head spins — “really need to cum.”

Another whimper around your fingers — this time at the thought of making you cum. He’s so desperate that as soon as you take your fingers out of his mouth he’s already pleading, through lips covered in his own spit —

“Let me help you, Inspector, please.”

“Oh, but you already do so much for me. Staying late all the time. Always going out of your way. Taking care of all the paperwork without being asked. The least I can do is give you a break, right? Do you think… Kou would be willing to help me instead, maybe? I could always pay him a visit.”

“No.” Desperate, needy. Possessive — the bark of a guard dog.

You raise your eyebrows and smile down at him. A cruel smile, a severe smile, a smile that’s much more like you. But he’s already correcting himself.

“I’m sorry. Please let me…”

Pretty fingers swipe the spit from his lips. The action is soft, tender, full of warmth — so much warmth from his cold Inspector that his heart melts in his chest. His eyes drop back to your pussy, where you press your fingers to your clit again, massaging his spit around it. His spit, rubbed into you, deemed good enough to lubricate your pristine body, allowed to aid your fingers, allowed to please you and make you moan.

“Let you what, Ginoza?” you ask through a breathy sigh.

“Let me help you.”

“Be more specific.”

“I want to…”

He trails off, shaky. He can’t say it, not to you. You’ll think he’s filthy, you’ll think he’s disgusting, because he is.

“You’re not going to get anything if you can’t even say it,” you tease.

He takes a shaky breath. “I want to… I want to make you cum.”

His cheeks burn hot. Saying that outright to you is awful. It’s embarrassing. But something about it all — the words, the shame they bring him, the cruel smile he can hear in your voice from above when you laugh a little — makes his cock twitch in his slacks. They’re painfully tight; he’s painfully hard, soaking through the fabric over the tip.

“Mm…” Amusement and pleasure in your voice as you rub your clit lazily in front of his face. “...Do you really?”

“Yes. More than anything.”

It’s not even a want, Ginoza thinks. It’s a need. He needs to make you cum.

“How do you want to make me cum?” you muse.

He can’t meet your eyes. He can’t look at you when he says it, so he looks at your hand instead, watching you rub yourself. Hiding from you under long, heavy eyelashes, he forces it.

“I want to lick your pussy,” he says, voice sheepish and fast and trembling, “I want to make you cum in my mouth. I want to make you feel better.”

A soft laugh from above. He trembles, wondering if you’re disgusted with him.

But your touch is fond when you brush the hair out of his eyes. Fingers carding through, pushing strands backward, then tightening just above his hairline to tug. His chin lifts, head jerked back, eyes forced upward, meeting yours. And he groans. Maybe from the pleased look on your face, maybe from the sharp tug, maybe from your words —

“You’re so sweet. That’s why you’re my favorite, baby.”

Baby. He’s undeserving of the praise, of the honor of being your favorite, and especially of the nickname; the familiarity makes his heart swell.

“Thank you,” he chokes.

“Get my pussy nice and wet with your mouth,” you say from above. “Maybe I’ll ride your cock if you make me feel good enough. Understand?”

His heart races, the throbbing between his legs intensifying — his body responding as he imagines your pussy wrapped around him. Just the thought of being buried inside of you makes his mind go so blank he can barely even manage the breathy, desperate little Yes, ma’am, I understand.

“Good.”

Another tender touch — your fingers tucking stray hairs behind his ear before skimming around to the back of his head, where his hair is tied up.

“Are you good at eating pussy?” you ask.

He takes a shaky breath. He’s had several long term relationships; none that worked out, but over time he’s learned how to use his tongue. He’s never left a woman unsatisfied, because he’s patient, because he knows his priorities.

But he’d never build you up to disappoint you. And, besides, he doesn’t think that anything he could do would be good enough, if it’s done for you.

“I don’t know,” he stammers.

With a critical look on your face, you grip the rubber band holding his hair up and use it to tug his head back more. He whimpers, feels like a helpless animal — head pulled back, neck exposed, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you.

He’s going to eat you, but he thinks you’ve already devoured him.

“Keep your mouth open.”

The closer you get, the stronger the smell of you grows, the sweeter. The scent of your pussy spreads, intoxicating — fills his sharp nose, fills his open mouth. He can taste the tang of you on his tongue and you’re not even in his mouth yet. More than anything, he wants to please you. He’s desperate to make you feel like the women who came before you.

No, he thinks, that’s not right. You’re nothing like the women who came before you. You’re better. So he has to make you feel better.

But does he know what to do? For some reason, in this moment, he can’t remember what to do. He feels like a virgin again: clueless, fumbling and unsure. He can’t remember anything from his past. He can’t remember anyone who came before you. What they were like, what they tasted like.

But, he thinks, nothing from his past could ever compare to his first taste of you.

The first lick to your clit is light, timid. But then he really tastes you — sweeter than strawberries, juices on his tongue, juices dripping from your entrance onto his chin. Then he really hears you — moaning, Can you make me cum, Ginoza? I really need to cum.

The request makes his eyes go hazy. The need to service you takes over; trepidation gives way to instinct, instinct gives way to hunger. His mouth waters for your pussy while he laps at it.

Even with his head in the clouds, even with his hands restrained, his tongue itches to service you. Muscle memory comes back; he knows what to do. He experiments with the placement first — starts with his tongue flat on your clit when he licks. And he keeps moving it slightly, changing the angle just the tiniest amount until he finds the spot that makes your moans sound the sweetest.

Every single moan is sweet to him, but he can hear where it feels best.

And once he’s found the right spot, he experiments with the speed. Starts slow, then builds up, until you give him the signs he’s looking for. He’s attuned to your body, always attentive, alert, will pick up on cues no matter how small. A relieved sigh, the slight tremble of your thighs. Hitching breaths, fingers tightening in his hair.

The right spot, the right pace, and consistency. He gives you that, and in return praise pours from your lips the same way arousal oozes from your slit into his waiting mouth.

Right there, baby, just like that, you’re being so good for me, keep going.

Sweet words get him high until he’s a mess for you, falling apart — more precum soaking through his slacks, more blood rushing between his legs. He’s so hard he’s lightheaded, but he’ll keep going, he’ll be good to you, he’ll do anything you ask. For as long as you need him to. For as long as you let him.

And it seems like the longer you let him give you that consistency — a steady pace on the same spot — the better your moans sound. Everything’s redolent, aromatic; juices burst on his tongue, pleasured sighs fill his head, and he can’t help but moan with you: soft, needy, open-mouthed whimpers against your pussy while he licks your clit.

He’s rewarded. More tension as you tighten your fingers in his hair, more of your juices dripping into his hungry mouth, more sweet words —

You’re good with your mouth, you like making me feel good, don’t you?

He moans, hazy, wishes he could get the words out to tell you that he does. He does like it. He likes it so much that his cock is aching to do more for you. He’d serve you with his entire body if he could; he’d give you more pleasure, make you feel even better. But he’s bound — hands held in place by the cuffs, head held in place by your hand. But even if there were no restraints, he wouldn’t dare move an inch. There’s no place he’d rather be than here, where you want him, servicing you with his tongue.

He thinks his tongue must be getting tired by now, but he doesn’t feel it at all; he’s too wrapped up in your body. Living to serve you, senses fixed on every part of you — ears up, eyes up, blinking at you through long lashes while he licks you.

He feels every change with every one of his senses, hears it clear as day when your moans get particularly lewd. Heavier, more breathy, longer-lasting. He feels his own stomach tightening in response, pleasure coursing through his untouched body.

A side-effect of the juices dripping onto his tongue.

Sweet nectar of a deadly flower, full of toxins. He’d been afraid to ingest your poison, afraid that it’d hurt. But it turns out that it feels better than anything.

There could be no death sweeter, no death more delicious.

There could be no sight more delicious than the one above him: pink fingernails skimming up your blouse, up to your chest. Your hand squeezes, kneads at your tits gently through your blouse while he eats you. His hands are so much larger, but he thinks they could be just as gentle. They could make you feel just as good, if you wanted. If they weren’t bound behind his back.

But maybe it’s good that they’re bound. Because to touch would be to defile. To touch would be to bring night to a day-blooming flower. He’s lucky he hasn’t already defiled you with his eyes, the impure gaze that observes every contortion of your face as his tongue massages your clit. Somehow, you’re still so pristine, even when you’re moaning filth downward.

Do you want to make me feel even better? Do you want to make me cum?

That you’d let him — that you’d give him the privilege — leaves him reeling. He’s so desperate to please you, so hooked on the sight of you feeling good above him, that he could cum just from eating you.

Just from watching you, from hearing your cresting moans. Just from your words and from the anticipation they bring.

Do you want my cum in your mouth, baby?

A hazy groan, an open-mouthed whimper against your pussy with his tongue still lapping at your clit — that’s all his mouth can manage. But his head is full of things.

Anything, he thinks, I’d do anything for it. I want it. I need it. I need you to cum.

But it’s not about what he needs. It’s about what you need, and he knows what you need. The consistency of his tongue on your clit, just a little more to make you cum; all the cues are already heightening. Your hand tight in his hair, your thighs trembling, your breaths picking up until each exhale is a moan.

Each moan is more lewd than the last — a cresting voice full of pleasure filling his ears, more of you seeping into his mouth. Everything that leaves you is sweeter than strawberries in the summertime.

You’re so good for me. I’ll give you all my cum, baby.

But nothing sweeter than that. A promise that makes his lower stomach twist and tighten up so hard he’s just a few moans away from cumming in his slacks. But he crushes the pleasure down, endures it, because this is about you. It’s all about you, about licking you until it’s enough to make you cum. He wants to be enough to send you over; he’d do anything to be enough.

But he can’t believe it when he is.

It starts like a sudden thought that occurs to the unoccupied mind on a lazy, humid summer evening. A thought that gnaws, that expands until it consumes.

Like something out of a fever — that final strangled moan fills his foggy mind, and then it starts.

You tighten your hand in his hair first, tugging his face forward against your pussy, And then he feels your clit pulsing on his tongue, juices flooding from your contracting slit and surging into his mouth. You allow him to indulge, allow him to lick your pussy through your orgasm, allow him to taste while you cum into his mouth.

More and more of you bursting on his tongue. Every drop feeds him, makes him moan. But he’s greedy, and every drop makes him hungrier, until he’s so desperate that little tears bead at the base of his long lashes — dew on grass. He’s not sated, doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of you.

You’re too intoxicating. Even when it’s done — when he’s licked all of the pleasure out of you, consumed it all — it’s not enough. He’s even worse off now that he’s tasted your cum, he thinks; his cock is harder, the tip wetter, his stomach so tight that he could cum without a touch if he had the permission to.

But he doesn’t have the permission. So he’ll accept what you’re gracious enough to give him — your cum, and the sight of you when you pull back: your pretty pussy in front of him, dripping wet with his spit and your slick arousal.

Desire and tears hang in his fluttering eyelashes, weigh his eyes down; they’re sleepy, heavy, but they’re still fixed between your legs. Your skirt is still hiked up around your waist, your pussy is still bare, and his gaze is still hazy as he watches you drop down.

Down, until you’re crouching over his lap with your weight resting on your heels and your pussy hovering just a few inches above the tent in his slacks. You’re dripping onto the fabric, but it’s already wet, soaked through with his precum.

He doesn’t think his heart can race faster until he looks up at your face. You’re right here, right in front of him, so close to him. You belong so far up, but you deign to stoop to the level of a dog like him. Put yourself on his level, and he’ll worship every detail up close: the perfume lingering on your throat, the pleasure lingering in your voice, the condescension that takes its place.

“Sweetheart,” you say, “you’re crying.”

Your voice is as cloying as your touch — fingers coming up to cradle his face, soft eyes on you when you swipe your thumbs under his eyelashes, wiping the tears away. But you balance the tenderness with cruelty right after; you suck his tears from your fingertips — you consume.

You feed on Ginoza, you eat him alive — you chew him up and spit out cruelty in return. But when it’s your cruelty, he enjoys it. He’s grateful for it, groaning through gritted teeth when you finally grip his cock through the fabric.

“Do you really need to cum so badly it makes you cry?”

He shakes his head, panting. With each breath in, he can taste you lingering in his mouth.

“It’s not that,” he murmurs.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s that—” he says breathlessly, “—you taste so good.”

“Really?”

He nods, watching you settle onto his lap. He feels your pussy on him, pressing down on his cock through the fabric. The warmth bleeds through first, the wetness a moment later, and he throbs under you.

“Then let me taste it,” you say.

Your mouth on his, your tongue parting his lips; you’re too good for him, he’ll ruin you, he’ll cloud you — this intimacy is selfish, like plucking the petals of a flower only for the fleeting beauty before they wilt. But he can’t say no to you, not when you’re kissing him so deeply, licking the taste of yourself from his lips.

He’s so desperate that he thinks he could cry when you pull away.

“Did you like servicing me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, “so much.”

His voice goes breathy when you grind your hips down on his lap. Your pussy is so close to him, separated from him just by a few layers of fabric. He can feel it. The heat, the wetness. And the tension in his stomach is still so high.

“But you didn’t cum?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It sounded like you were going to. So why didn’t you? You weren’t enjoying yourself enough?”

His heart drops, his cheeks burn — he’s displeased you, he’s ruined his chance.

“I wanted to cum,” he stammers. “I wanted to. But I was waiting… for you to cum. For permission.”

“Permission?” you laugh. “How obedient of you.”

He winces. But you’re smiling, fingers brushing over his chest, slipping under his tie to play with it lazily. He’s woozy, too aware of your weight on his cock, nestled tight between your body and his. It’s throbbing, aching, especially when you start to rock on it — moving your hips forward on his lap, then back, giving him friction.

Obedient dogs get treats, you say.

He’s so sensitive from holding out for long that it’s unbearable.

“But how am I supposed to give you permission to cum,” you smile expectantly, nimble fingers undoing his tie, “if you don’t ask me for it?”

It’s good that you’re loosening his tie, he thinks; it’s good that you’re pulling the ends apart, that it’s not so tight around his neck anymore, because he’s suffocating. The prospect of you letting him cum while you’re rubbing your pussy over his cock makes his breath come ragged. If you give him permission, he’ll shoot his cum all over his thigh as soon as you say the word.

“Can I,” he chokes through hitching breaths, “can I please cum?”

He feels selfish for it.

But you shake your head. And in some strange, twisted way, he feels relieved.

“No,” you smile, “I don’t think so.”

Tears fill his eyes again, his vision going foggy as you continue to move your hips in his lap. He won’t cum without permission, but your denial makes his own agonizing — your cruelty makes his cock throb.

And when you pull his tie loose from around his shoulders, when you hold it up in front of his face length-wise, and say —

“I want to fuck you blind, Ginoza,”

— he can barely keep himself from spilling his cum in his slacks.

Please, he says, please fuck me.

Good dogs don’t beg, but he just can’t help it — he’ll whine for the smallest scraps you have to give.

You pull his head forward and knot his own tie around his head, blinding him. The last thing he sees before the fabric obscures his vision is the smile on your mouth.

And then all he can do is feel. Out of control — his vision black, his head resting back against the wall, his hands bound behind his back. Everything in your hands. And it feels so good that way, it feels right that way, with everything in your hands. With his zipper in your fingers, pulled down until his cock is finally free from the tension of his slacks.

He groans a little, feels a little relief now that it’s free. It’s still constricted by the damp fabric of his boxers, but now that you’re pulling his slacks down his thighs, he’s so much more sensitive.

So when you wrap your hand around his cock and squeeze him through his boxers, a blind man sees god in white flashes behind the blindfold, like fireworks. He inhales, sharp, bites into his lip so hard that his teeth tear through the skin. A little blood spreads on his tongue. The rest rushes between his thighs.

Ginoza whimpers. You rub his cock through the fabric, move your hand up and down the pulsing length of it, and he aches for you in many more ways than one.

I’m so wet, baby. I need you to make me cum again. Can you do that?

Ginoza’s barely hanging on — but he aches to do whatever you ask.

“Anything,” he pants. “Anything you want to do to me.” Anything to make you cum again.

“I told you I’d ride you if you got me wet enough,” you tease, grazing your thumb over the leaking tip of his dick. “Should I?”

“Please,” he begs.

“Let me be clear. I’m gonna use you to cum. I’m gonna use this—” you pause, and there’s a hard squeeze to his cock that makes him whimper, “—to cum. Understand?”

His head spins. He wants to be of use to you; he could cum in your palm at the thought, spurt sticky liquid out all over his boxers, but he has to stay hard for you.

“Yes, Inspector,” he chokes.

“You can hold off, can’t you?”

Ginoza’s never been a liar. He’s not one to promise things he can’t follow through on. But he’s not thinking when he says, Yes, yes, ma’am, I can.

He’s blind. To himself — to his own needs. Blindfolded and bound, he can’t see you, can’t touch you. But every remaining sense is fixed on you. Heightened.

He can hear your grin. He can smell your pussy getting wetter. He can feel the little pattern on your fingertips as you pull his boxers down around his thighs, freeing his pulsing cock to jump up against his stomach. That little swirl on your fingertips. Unique to you, yours and yours only — just like him. Minuscule to most, insignificant. But to him, the pattern against his skin is a blessing. The touch of a deity.

A big glob of precum seeps from the tip of his bare cock and runs down the underside of the shaft. Your touch meets the trail of slick liquid starting at the base of his cock, fingers running upward to swipe it up.

You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.

He twitches at the touch. At the praise.

And it’s a quiet sound, but his senses are sharp; he hears it — the little pop of you sucking his precum off your fingers. And then a louder sound, the jingle of his belt as you pull it free from the loops of his slacks. Your hand on the back of his head, gently pushing it forward, so you can slip the leather of the belt around the back of his neck.

“Can I choke you, Ginoza?”

He could cry. His words come out like a sob — Please, ma’am.

The belt wraps around his throat: center flat on the back of his neck, two ends pulled tight around the front and held closed — held tightly together — in your fist.

Pulse hammering against the leather, he whimpers, quiet and needy.

“Do you like being choked?”

“Yes,” he says hazily.

“Does it make you wet, baby?”

Breathlessly — yes, yes, more, please, tighter, please.

The pounding of his pulse is everywhere: in between his legs, in the crook of his wrist against the metal of the cuff, at his throat against the leather of the belt. More pressure on his neck — his master is so good to him, he thinks — and more precum dribbles down his cock.

Everything’s lubricated, wet; where you’re straddling his lap, your pussy is dripping onto his thighs. And when you wrap your fingers around his bare cock and squeeze the tip, everything gets wetter.

You slide your fist down the shaft, your palm tight and slippery with precum — a quick jerk downward.

That’s all it takes to make his eyes roll back under the blindfold. He strains against the handcuffs and bucks his hips up desperately, fucking once into your fist. He’s whimpering, panting, begging, but his voice sounds strained in his own ears. It sounds small, strangled by the belt around his throat.

“Did I say you could move?”

Scorn in your voice; his cheeks burn. “No, ma’am.”

“I guess I should stop. Since you’re being so selfish.”

Tears bead on his lashes behind the blindfold; you’re right here, right in his lap — you’re so close to fucking him.

“No, please,” he stammers. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me. Use me.”

“Are you going to be a good boy?”

“I promise. I promise.”

Suspended in anticipation, in darkness, he waits. He doesn’t know if the promise is enough until he feels you adjust on his lap, lifting your pussy from his thighs — leaving them wet. And even then, he doesn’t know if it’s enough until he feels you wrap your pretty fingers around the base of his cock.

He pulses in your palm, waiting. You hold him in place.

A second of blackness, painfully empty — occupied just by his shaky breaths, the tingling of his fingers behind his back, and the warmth of your fingers on his leaking cock.

A dog waiting for its owner to drop a treat.

And then, he feels it.

He feels your pussy. Your hot, wet, tight little slit on the oozing head of his cock. His eyelashes flutter behind the blindfold; a breathy moan spills from his mouth just from the contact. He moans more, louder, as you give him more of your pussy — walls expanding just enough to fit him and then hugging him tight as you slide down the length. You’re gripping him tight, squeezing all the precum out of him, but it’s already so wet inside of you.

All for him, he thinks, before correcting himself — he’s all for you. Made to be swallowed up by you, encompassed, owned. You own every moan that’s choked out, every inch of him you sink down on.

Every inch is sensitive, hugged tight by soft walls, and he can feel all the ridges in your pussy leaking around him as you swallow him up. His head lolls back on his shoulders, but you tighten the belt, tug it toward yourself — forcing his head forward as you sink down past the halfway point.

Ginoza groans, gritting his teeth. His head is floating; it’s so foggy that he can’t think. But he doesn’t need to think. He just needs you. You, and the feeling of your pussy on him. But even as you give him more of yourself, you withhold. You deprive him of air, take more and more away from him.

But the more you take, the better it feels.

Ginoza’s a good boy; he doesn’t want to do anything to displease you. But the instinct in his trembling body is strong. It’s overwhelming and desperate; heels digging into the floor, he pants through gritted teeth, and jerks his hips up. It’s just a tiny movement to bury himself just a little deeper inside of you. It’s barely anything, but the fast friction on his aching cock brings him so much relief.

It feels good, he mumbles. It feels so good.

And then, immediately, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

But you’re already stopping, fingers pinching his cheeks together, and he’s whimpering a garbled, distorted apology.

A slap to his mouth, not hard — but it makes him jump, makes his lip sting, makes him moan. The belt tightens around his throat; he chokes out another pleasured sob with you hovering a little more than halfway down his cock.

“What makes you think you can fuck me, Ginoza?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I don’t. I don’t. It just feels so —”

Your hand on his pelvis, forcing him down, back into place. He yields under your touch, thighs trembling.

“I don’t care how it feels,” you say. “Stay down and sit.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I promise I will.”

“I’m going to use you to cum, and you’re going to stay right there while I fuck you.”

He sniffles, babbling in agreement, desperate to service you. To him, nothing sounds better — nothing could make his dick harder — than you using him to cum.

“That’s my good boy.”

Yours. The praise feels good; the ownership feels better. But nothing can compare to the feeling of your pussy, especially now that you’re sinking down all the way, sitting on the full length of his cock. Wrapped all the way around him, hot and slippery, gripping him tight.

Being buried inside of you, being yours — it’s unreal, it’s too sweet. It’s too tight in your pussy, it feels too good; pleasure swirls, heavily, in his lower stomach, in his upper thighs. The tension is high; he’s desperate.

He pants, open-mouthed, like a dog.

He’s tense everywhere — muscles clenched, tremors running through them. If he’s not careful, the tension might snap. If he’s not careful, he might cum inside of you.

And the thought of that — of you draining him of all his cum until your tight hole is pumped full of it — is too much. The way you’re slurring to him is too much.

Does it feel good, Ginoza? Do you like it when I give you my pussy? Do you like being fucked by your boss?

Your voice thick and sweet in his ears; he’s drunk on a nectar full of toxins. He’s drunk on your pussy, cock twitching inside of you with every lilting word.

Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am, thank you.

A little laugh in response. Delight in your voice, in your fingers, the belt tightening around his throat. With enthusiasm, this time. And that enthusiasm feels euphoric, sends his eyes rolling back under the blindfold. His face knits up: brows furrowing, mouth dropping open.

You’re so pretty, Ginoza.

Pretty — his cheeks go hot.

You look so pretty when your cock’s getting fucked. I could cum just from looking at all the little faces you make.

He gasps, but there’s barely any oxygen to take in; the belt’s too tight around his throat. The lack of oxygen dulls all the sensations in his body except for the spot between his thighs, where the sensitivity keeps growing, especially now that you’re grinding your hips with him buried deep inside.

He’s trying to focus on any other feeling — the sweat dripping down his chest, the ache of his arm behind his back, his fingernails digging into his palm — but it’s too intense. He’s so deep; he can feel the head of his cock pressing up against your cervix, and he can feel you squeezing your pussy around him, walls wrapped tight all the way around him.

“Does it feel good when I take you this deep?”

“Yes, ma’am. So good. It feels so good.”

“Does it make you want to cum inside me?”

Ginoza sniffles, gritting his teeth. He knows he can’t. It’s taking all the willpower and self-restraint he has, but he’ll hold off; he’ll do anything you ask. He’ll do anything to stay hard for you so he can be your toy.

“Answer me,” you press. “I want to know. Does being inside of me make you want to cum?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chokes. “So much.”

“Do you want to fill me up? Do you want to pump my pussy nice and full of your cum?”

Ginoza groans; tears wet the fabric of the tie over his eyes. He wishes he could see you, see those filthy words leaving your pretty mouth. But maybe it’s good that he can’t. Because if he could —

You tighten the belt around his throat. “What, baby? Yes? Or no?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he stammers finally; the words spill out with desperation, the only release he’s allowed. “I want to fill your pussy up so much, I need to give you all my cum, I need to fuck it deep, I need to —”

He cuts himself off. He’s getting too close — toes curling in his dress shoes, cock throbbing against your snug walls. He has to dig his heels into the floor again; he has to tense his trembling body, because every desperate fiber is telling him to move, to pump his hips up and fill you. But he can’t.

“You need to what?”

He can see it in his mind — what he needs: his cum spilling out, deep inside of your pussy, each spurt coating your cervix in white. The thought makes his head spin; strong instincts are overwhelming him, he needs to —

“I need to get you pregnant,” he stammers without thinking, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

“Oh.” He can hear the grin in your voice — cold amusement that makes him whimper. “But good boys don’t get their bosses pregnant, do they, Ginoza?”

“I know,” he pants, “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t — I didn’t mean it.”

You laugh. “Yes, you did. Would you really jeopardize my job to dump your cum in me? Are you that much of a filthy dog?”

His cheeks burn. “No, ma’am, I’d never—”

He’d never dream of jeopardizing something for you. Especially not this job. Not this position you hold over him.

“Do you like working under me?”

With gratitude in his voice — “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you won’t cum inside me when I move, will you? You’ll sit there and take it like a good boy, won’t you?”

“I’ll take it,” he whimpers. “I promise.”

Then your lips are on his — a tender kiss that tastes like strawberries. His heart pounds against the leather of the belt like it could escape, but he would never dream of escaping you. He loves it right here: bound, choked, blind. Buried deep in your pussy, with your tongue deep in his mouth.

Suffocating on you feels better than anything.

“Are you ready for me to fuck you?” you ask with your mouth against his.

One hand squeezing his shoulder, one holding the belt tight on his throat.

“Please, please, I…”

He’d beg some more, but the words catch in his throat; he feels you lift yourself up on his cock, your pussy tight and wet on the shaft as you glide upward. Friction, finally, that makes him groan. You drop back down on it, taking it all the way to the base — one deep, slow stroke before you start to bounce in his lap.

His breathing is ragged; he’s out of control, he’s used, owned, all in your hands. And he’s so hard because of that, because of you, and the way you ride him — fucking him hard, choking him so hard he can barely even hear his own desperate moans through the fog in his head.

It feels so good, please. It feels so good when you fuck me like that. Keep fucking me. Harder, please, harder.

“Like this?” you tease, bouncing harder, taking him deeper, pulling the leather even more taut. “Does this pussy feel good on your cock, baby? Does this belt feel good on your throat?”

“Yes, ma’am, yes.” And Ginoza knows this isn’t about him, but he can’t help but beg at your table like a selfish dog whining for its master’s food. “Can you choke me harder? Please, please.”

Somewhere in his hazy mind, he knows he’s being selfish — that he shouldn’t be feeling this good. But you’re being so good to him, so obliging, giving him more than he deserves even though this is all supposed to be about you.

You’re cooing to him so sweetly, even though he doesn’t deserve it — Anything for my good boy. You ask so nicely. Choking him harder, fucking him harder, squeezing around his cock until his thighs tremble with the effort of holding his orgasm back. You glide up, drop back down, take it deep every time — pussy swallowing him up, getting the entire shaft wet until you’re clenching on the base. It feels best when he’s nudged up against your cervix, a pressure on the sensitive head of his cock that makes the tension in his stomach knot up.

Oh, god, please.

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for; he knows he’s not allowed a release, knows that no matter how much he wants to he’s not allowed to buck his hips up. He’s not allowed to fuck you, to fill your pussy with his cum, but the urge is so heavy. His moans heighten, needy, breaths hitching as you ride him. He wants to be obedient, he wants to be a good boy, he wants to be your favorite — but it’s all too much; his senses are overwhelmed with you.

Your fingers leave his shoulder, and he can hear you start to rub your clit, the wet sounds of you sliding your fingers around your pussy. He can hear it getting sloppier, messier, and he can feel you getting wetter around his cock, your walls dripping wet and fluttering on the shaft. It’s unbearable: the sounds of your breathless moans, the feeling of you pleasuring yourself while you’re fucking him.

Liquid drips down his cock to the base, a mixture of your wetness and his precum resting there, warm, until your fingers swipe over it and collect it.

Then your fingertips are on his lips again, forcing their way into his mouth. He accepts them like he does everything else from you, obligingly — sucking the fluids from them while you bounce on his cock, your pussy getting wetter each time it parts around him, greedy.

His mouth is greedy too, ravenous for the taste of your fingers. A mixture, your fluids and his; desperately, he wants to be mixed with you.

His head is clouded by thoughts of giving himself to you — of pumping all his fluids deep inside of you until the two of you are combined. There’s no thought more enticing in this moment, no instinct stronger, than to give you all of his cum. He wants to fill you, over and over and over, until he’s sure that it takes.

His seed in your womb, you pregnant with his kids — he groans around your fingers, spit dripping down his chin. If he keeps thinking about it, he doesn’t know if he’ll last.

But he has to, so he resorts to begging around your fingers, words garbled and small — Please cum on me. Please. I need you to cum.

He’s losing his composure, panting with his mouth full, trembling as he tries to stay still. It works for a little; he thinks he has himself under control, that he can hold off, until he feels you adjust. You reach behind your body, snake a hand downward, cupping his balls while you bounce on his lap.

They’re sensitive, heavy. They’re tight, and when you squeeze them, he whimpers.

“Do you need my cum, baby?” you tease. “Do you want me to cum all over your cock? Do you want me to get it all wet? You’re so needy, just look at you.”

He’s trying to hold off, but it feels so good — the way you ride him, the way your hand squeezes with just the right amount of pressure. He chokes out a groan around your fingers, loses his composure for a fraction of a second — just long enough to buck his hips up again. A quick, shallow thrust into your pussy, immediately followed by a shudder and a helpless sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I promise.”

You’re stern; you’re cold, unforgiving. “What did I say, Ginoza? I told you to sit down and take it, but you keep disappointing me, over and over.”

He hates to disappoint you, and he knows it’s wrong, but the scolding leaves him in even worse shape. And when you squeeze his balls again, he can’t help but jerk his hips up a second time. He’s throbbing, panting, trying to stop the feeling from building.

“Please, please, no,” he babbles around your fingers, “I can’t, I think I’m — I’m going to —”

You lift off his cock right before the coil snaps, leaving him panting as you remove the belt from his throat and your fingers from his mouth. The same fingers come to the back of his head, nimble, to pull the knot of his tie free.

He’s still murmuring apologies and blinking tears from his eyes as you remove the blindfold.

A tender touch first; your fingers brushing the hair away from his flushed, tearful face. And then a cruel one — your hand tightening in his hair, pulling his face back. He looks up at you through lashes still wet and heavy with tears, sniffling.

He’s still throbbing, still close. But some of his desperation is quelled, at least, by the sight of you on his lap. After being deprived of you for so long, it’s the first glimpse of the sun after a long winter.

But your voice is still frigid.

“Listen. You’re servicing me. What don’t you understand about that?”

His lips tremble. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I just want you to cum.”

“Good.”

A little softness in your voice — more mercy than he expected, more than he deserves. You really are so good to him, he really is glad to be your hound; he wouldn’t trade this position for anything in the world.

His eyes on you, his attentive gaze coming to your fingers, looking for cues. Your hands tug at the loose collar of your drab gray blouse, stretching it until it’s pulled under your tits. Underneath the blouse, your chest is framed by a skimpy pink bra — the same warm color as your skimpy pink panties. You tug the cups of your bra down too, and put your pretty tits on display for him.

His eyes linger on your tits even as you grip his dick and adjust on his lap. He doesn’t look away from them until you’re starting to sink down on the length of him again.

He bites his lip, moans through it, soft. Watching. Now that he can see — now that he can watch as your pussy takes him in — it’s so much harder for him to hold back. He can see how much you want him now, how wet and puffy your pussy is as you slide down his aching cock. The length glistens when you glide up, coated in more slick with each bounce.

Weight on the balls of your feet, heels on the ground while you fuck him. If his hands weren’t bound, he’d run his fingers up the patent leather of your stilettos, up the thin heel. Classy, he thinks — even when you’re fucking him raw there’s something about you that makes him feel so dirty in comparison.

He’s something that belongs under your heels. Maybe, if he were a little braver, he’d ask you to put the point of your stiletto on his chest.

But, for now, he’ll be a good boy and take it. You ride him deep, fingers laced around the back of his neck. He’s never seen something prettier, eyes drawn everywhere — your contorting face, your bouncing tits, your dripping wet pussy. Slippery juices smear all over his thighs and collect, thick and gooey, around the base of his cock.

He can see how good you’re feeling, but you’re vocal anyway.

You’re making me feel so good. This dick is just what I needed, baby, it’s gonna make me cum so hard.

It’s too much; he feels it building up again — balls tightening, thighs trembling, toes flexing. Nothing in his mind except for your soft, sweet moans and the little wet smacks of your skin on his. You fuck him harder, and harder, and harder, until he can hear the desperation in his own hitching breaths.

He has to take it, but he doesn’t know if he can. He thought he could endure it for you, last long enough to make you cum — he thought he could be a good boy. It’s a simple task. But it’s not an easy one. And if you keep moaning filth to him, if you keep looking at him like that while you ride him — mouth open, pretty face knit up, he’ll —

“Please,” he whimpers, “please, no, I’m trying — it’s too fast — it feels too good —”

His eyes roll back; his head lolls forward, sweat snaking down his temples. His hands are balled up into fists behind his back, and he groans, but you keep torturing him, keep moaning as you drop down on his aching cock.

The words blur together. Filthy, tempting.

Oh, you’re gonna make me cum, right there, this cock feels so good, it’s so good when you let me fuck you, baby, I need to cum again, baby.

He can’t last like this; he doesn’t want to do anything without your permission, but if you don’t stop —

“Please,” he begs, tremors in his voice, “I can’t take it, please, I can’t hold it, if you don’t stop I’m gonna…”

“Gonna what?”

Another tease as you fuck him, and he sobs.

“I’m gonna cum,” he chokes, “I’m gonna fill your pussy if you don’t stop.”

The release hangs heavy, ready to burst in his lower stomach.

“Did I give you permission? Be a good boy, Ginoza. You’ll be good, won’t you?”

He squeezes his teary eyes shut, panting, Mhm. Mhm. Every ounce of willpower, but it’s not enough. He’s doing his best for you, but it’s not enough.

And you’re doing your worst to him — you’re being so cruel, making him feel so good. You keep fucking him with your fingers laced behind his neck, bringing your thumbs to the front of his throat. You press them into his pulse, suffocate him.

He groans, feels his cock pulsing, feels more precum oozing from the tip. It’s so wet inside of you, so soft and so tight — you’ll milk him dry, if he’s not careful.

“Don’t close your eyes,” you coo to him, “look at me, baby. I want you to look at me while I fuck you. Let me see your pretty face.”

His eyes flutter open and then, confronted with your euphoric face, watching the pleasure mounting in your expression, it feels like torture.

“Please stop,” he chokes, “please, I’m so close, you have to stop before —”

He lets out a needy whine, and right before he crashes over, you lift off of him, leaving his cock flushed and twitching. As soon as you’re off of him, he jerks his hips up desperately, thrusting into nothing.

“God,” he groans, vision swimming with tears, sweat dripping down his temples, “thank you, thank you.”

“You can take it, can’t you, baby?” you tease, squeezing the base. “You can take it until I cum. I’m so close. You’re doing so well.”

He nods hazily, but he doesn’t even have the chance to catch his breath before you level yourself over him and sink down again. More than anything, he wants to take it until he gives you what you need. He can see you getting close. The pleasure is right there in front of him; it’s everywhere — in your moans, written all over your face. You keep getting wetter and wetter around him, keep clenching, keep dripping all over his thighs.

And it’s all for him. All that relief, all that pleasure — face knit up, insides tensing around his cock — is because of him. Because he’s servicing you.

And in return for that he gets to hear your pretty moans lilt and get more urgent as you approach the edge. He gets to hear you moan, You’re gonna make me cum, you’re gonna make me feel so good, baby.

A few more desperate bounces, a few more lewd moans, and then you’re dropping over, moaning for him — I’m cumming, I’m cumming. It’s his privilege to feel you take what you need — fingers digging into his throat, walls spasming and dripping on his cock while you glide up and down.

It’s too much, it feels too good, it looks too good. He chokes on a sob, stomach knotted, pressure building up between his thighs, higher and higher with each bounce. You fuck him through your orgasm, and he wants to hold it, but it’s just too much.

“Please, please, please,” he murmurs, “I can’t—”

But you’re wrapped up, moaning while you use him, and he can’t take it — can’t be good for you anymore, no matter how much he wants to. One more attempt to snuff out the pleasure, but it doesn’t work; his cock is twitching, and each spasm of your pussy feels like you want to suck the cum out of him.

So he murmurs one more desperate plea — please, please, oh god, I’m sorry, it feels too good, I’m gonna cum — and lets it go.

It feels so good — an instant high to let it go after holding off for so long. He thinks the sudden burst of pleasure is more intense than anything he’s felt before; the tension in his muscles releases, and deep inside of you, his cock throbs. He feels the cum spurting out, shooting up into your contracting insides and coating your pulsing walls.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this; he’s babbling incoherent, breathy apologies, but he just has so much cum for you, so much to give you. And it feels so strong, so good to cum inside of you, where everything’s so hot and wet. He gives you so much cum that it drips out of your pussy, coating the shaft of his dick, collecting around the base.

And you’re letting him cum inside of you — you’re still fucking him, still cooing to him. You look him in the eyes, with your fingers pressing into his throat, while you take him deep. Over and over and over, until your tensing insides milk every last drop out of him.

You collapse onto his lap with a heavy sigh.

Face on his shoulder, breathing against his neck. It takes him a few moments to catch his breath. His arms are aching behind him, but the pleasure persists. He’s still inside of you, feeling your walls spasm every few seconds — velvety, warm around him, full of his cum.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” he stammers, “I really didn’t mean to—”

There’s a disappointed sigh against his throat, and his heart drops.

“Did I say you could cum inside me?”

Ginoza feels his cheeks burn. Embarrassment, regret. He had you for a moment, and now he’s ruined it.

“No, ma’am,” he sniffles, “I promise I didn’t mean to.”

The silence is heavy. He thinks you must hate him, that you must be disgusted with him, that he’s not good enough to even be your dog. He’s sick to his stomach.

But when you pull back, your face is soft. Your hands are soft when they move his hair out of his face. They’re warm. You’re warm. The only warm thing in the middle of this cold, gray office is you.

Your pretty hands cradle his face gently, tilting it upward; he feels your thumbs on his cheeks, brushing his tears away. With tenderness. With the warmth of summertime. Summertime sweat lingering on your skin, in the dead of winter — you’re a flower blooming at the very end of fall, after all the others have withered.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I’m really sorry.”

Ginoza wonders if animals can comprehend the concept of deities. He thinks that dogs might view their owners in the same way humans might view a god. As something inexplicable but perfect. As something to be revered without comprehension.

“Will you make it up to me?” you ask. Sweet, soft.

Maybe you’re not the lethal oleander flower, he thinks, but something harmless blooming in an identical shade. A lookalike without the same poison.

He supposes there’s only one way to find out.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll do anything.”

[spencerreidsconverse]

Connection

summary: When Spencer and Reader meet, they connect almost instantly. When she is kidnapped later that night it's up to Spencer and his team to find her.

word count: 3.9k

warnings: criminal minds style violence, swearing, brief mentions of parental issues.

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Female Reader

A/N: I got hit with a massive block halfway through this so it took forever to finish. I hope you all enjoy it!!

The lights were dim when you finally managed to pry open your eyes. You felt a splitting ache in the back of your head and your hands were tied tight behind the back of the chair you were restrained to. A feeling of panic rose through your chest as you pulled at the restraints, ripping  the skin of your wrists as you struggled. You gave up after a few minutes when you heard movement from above you. It was then you began to truly examine your surroundings. You were in a basement of some sort you decided. It smelled of mildew and the only light was from the small hopper window to your left.  Too high for you to get out of, even if you used the chair you realized with a grimace. Still, it would help you keep track of time. It was pitch black out save for the streetlamp a few feet away. You shuddered at the thought of being here for days or weeks.

You tried to think back on your day, and how you ended up here. As far as you knew, nothing unusual happened that morning. You remembered the two FBI agents, a small blonde woman and a tall lanky man with light brown curls and a beautiful face. who stopped by your cafe to ask you if you had seen a man they had been looking for. They told you he had been targeting women business owners around town. You looked at the few images they had, most of which were blurry enough you had trouble making out his features. Still, his face didn’t ring any bells. You apologized for not being able to help and the blonde agent whose name you couldn’t quite recall (Jergen maybe?)  encouraged you to be safe before they left. The rest of your day continued as normal, until that evening. Your employees had left for the night and you were finishing up your inventory when you heard a knock on the glass.

You turned around to see the tall agent from earlier waiting outside. You rushed to let him in and he gave you a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were closed. I’m desperate for some coffee other than the burnt pot at the station. Is there any chance you have some left?”. I nodded and stepped aside to let him in relocking the door behind him. “Yeah, come on in. Is there anything in particular you’d like? I can make you something with espresso if you’d prefer” “Oh no, I don’t want to inconvenience you any further” Your smile grew at his politeness “It’s no trouble! I still have the machine open since I’ll be here for a while.” he nodded at that and copied your expression. “Alright, can I have a double shot latte with extra chocolate and vanilla syrup?” You shook your head and let out a small giggle. “Do you actually like coffee? Or are you just desperate for energy?” He laughed at your question “You caught me. I like a little coffee with my sugar. I usually just drown the police station coffee with stevia but I need something good.” You nodded along as you steamed the milk for his latte.

He had a troubled look on his face. He seemed far away like his brain was disconnected from his body. “I know we just met but are you okay? You seem kinda zoned out.” He locked eyes with you and it was silent for a moment before he answered. “Yeah… I just feel kinda burnt out I guess.” You sat the mug down in front of him, along with a large double chocolate muffin. He eyed you, but before he could argue about it you spoke “You seem like you need it. I really don’t mind.” He quietly thanked you before sipping the drink. He let out a soft sigh and he looked genuinely content for a few moments. He looked at you again and you suddenly felt like you were being examined. “Sorry”, he said noticing your discomfort, “You’re just interesting to me.” “Interesting how?” You felt your cheeks heat up. His gaze still didn’t drop but a soft smile met his eyes. “You’re kind but still stubborn. When we were here earlier you were insistent on answering our questions in your office only. When we told you that the man was going after women business owners you were genuinely concerned, but now you’re here alone at almost 11 at night. You let me in immediately when I showed up, but locked the door and reset your security alarm behind me. You’re worried about your safety but still here, alone.”. You pursed your lips at his analysis before letting out a long breath. “Yeah, I guess I care about my business more than my own life.” You laughed awkwardly at your failed attempt to lighten the mood. He continued to look into your eyes and you were hit with a deeply intimate feeling. It felt like he was staring into your soul and instead of running away, he was running towards it. You internally scoffed at your emotions. This strange man comes into your coffee shop and you start to fall for him and instead of changing the subject, you told him the truth.

“I didn’t want my employees to overhear us. I don’t want them to worry about anything, most of them are college kids with enough on their plate as it is. Plus it’d give them another reason to be on my case about staying here so late.” You did genuinely laugh at that. “We’re like a family here. Half of them call me mama. More than once I’ve opened my door to them and helped them get back on their feet.” He smiled with me at that. “I’m usually here this late. I suppose you could consider me a workaholic but I think any good business owner has to be. This cafe is my first baby. I’ve put blood, sweat, and tears into it. To be honest, it’s probably more secure here than it is at my apartment.” He looked at you with what you thought was admiration. Maybe it was concern. You talked for a while longer about your lives. He was from Vegas but lives in DC now. You told him you had moved to DC on a whim. You needed a new start and DC held a lot of promise in the form of an abandoned building with a low down payment. You talked about his work as an agent and his love of literature.

You asked about his parents and he grew quiet. He asked about yours and for the first time in what felt like hours, you dropped my head and avoided his eyes. He sipped at his coffee for a minute while you sat in silence until a shrill ringing made you jump and he reached into his pocket, “Hello? Yeah, Emily... Okay. Okay, I will. Yeah.” He hung up his phone and returned it to his pocket before catching your eyes. “I have to go but I really appreciate you letting me in. Thanks for the coffee.” He stood,  made his way to the door quickly unlocking it and letting himself out, leaving you to wonder what he meant by letting him in. You packed up after that and a few minutes later you started the quick walk to your apartment.

You tried to remember past that. You never made it home. You cursed yourself for deciding to not waste the money on the cab. The sky looked like it was starting to lighten. Again, the noise started from upstairs and you heard a door swing open. A man came down a set of steps and flicked a light switch. You shut your eyes and slowly reopened them as they began to adjust. You tried to recognize the man in front of you but still came up blank. He matched the guy in the pictures but other than that you couldn’t place him. “It’s nice to see you Y/N. I’m glad you’re doing well.” His voice carried a condescending tone, and it mde your stomach lurch. “How do you know my name?” You demanded. You refused to show fear to this poor excuse of a man. “What, you don’t remember me? I wish I could say I was surprised. You never did care though so I suppose I knew that was coming.” You strained your brain to try and remember this kid. And a kid he was, he didn’t look any older than 20.

“What’s your name?” you tried again with a softer tone. “Jacob. Jacob Knighter.” He watched your face for any sign of recognition and when he didn’t see it, he rolled his eyes. “Of course you have no idea who I am. I’ve been leaving you clues and everything. I tried to tell you I was coming and you completely ignored it.” “Wait, you… killed all these women because of me?” “Oh don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t just to warn you. I needed the practice. This had to be perfect and there was only one way to better my skills.” His words made your stomach turn and you could feel the bile rise in the back of your throat. You choked it down and stared back at him. “Jacob, I don’t know what I did to hurt you but I’m sure we can talk about this. Let me make this right, you don’t have to do this.” He scoffed before stepping towards you, getting close enough the tilt the chair back. You wrinkled your nose as you smelled the alcohol on his breath. He was so close you could almost taste it yourself.

“You don’t have to do this” he mocked you in a high-pitched, whiny voice. “You know nothing about what I’ve had to do. This is your fault. You could have helped me and you chose not to.” He wrapped his hand around your throat and you felt the heat rise to your face. You jerked against him trying helplessly to get away before he finally let go. You let out several sputtering coughs, trying desperately to catch your breath. He laughed at you and your brain swam with rage as fought against your restraints, ignoring the sting of your skin. “Let me go you piece of shit! I didn’t do anything to you! I don’t know you!” His face quickly turned dark and you felt your adrenaline fade and panic begin to set in. You were in real danger here and no one knew where you were. “You’re going to regret this Y/N. You’re going to wish you had helped me when you could have. Now it’s too late and you have to suffer the consequences.” He turned and shut the light back off before storming up the steps and slamming the door. This time you heard the click as three separate bolts were locked into place.

Even with the light off, the room was brighter than it had been. The sky had turned a light grey and soon the sun would rise. You should be opening the shop right now. In twenty minutes or so your morning shift employees would arrive to a locked door and hopefully be reaching out to find out where you went. All you could do now is wait. Your head was still pounding and even though you had just woken up a few hours prior, the sudden lack of adrenaline left you unable to fight the urge to close your eyes, and in a few seconds, you were out cold.

“Spencer, would you please relax? We will find her.” Emily was doing her best to comfort him but spencer continued to pace the room, trying to make sense of it all. “Emily I hadn’t even been gone 15 minutes. In the fifteen minutes between me leaving and her leaving she was kidnapped and now we have no idea how to help her. We don’t know where she is or how to find her.” Spencer had told the team about the late-night conversation you’d had after he’d come in from a break to find Penelope reciting information about the latest missing person. He told Emily about the connection he felt and now he was watching it all fall apart in front of him. Emily tried to calm him down enough to be able to pick his brain but with every breath, he just kept ranting. “She’s such a kind person too, her employees care about her. She said she’s even housed a few of them from time to time. She talks about them like we talk about each other. They’re family!”

Emily froze. “She’s housed them? Is that a well-known fact?” Spencer stared at her for a few seconds before shrugging. “Probably. She didn’t say it like she was revealing anything. Why does that matter? The unsub’s not taking them to their own houses.” Emily shook her head, shocked that spencer was unable to connect the dots. “No, but we did say we thought the unsub was targeting women for reasons other than sexism. What if they’re surrogates? The criminal sophistication matches the average age of Y/N’s employees. Maybe she turned down an applicant who was in a rough spot and now he’s seeking revenge.” Spencer’s eyes widened as he followed Emily’s conclusion and they both rushed to Garcia. “Penelope” Emily called “Can you pull up recent applications for Y/N’s business? We think the unsub might have been rejected and now he’s going after her.” Penelope nodded and began typing, her fingers flying too fast on the keyboard for even Spencer to keep up with. “Here we go, the recent applicants for Cherry Juice, which is an odd name for a coffee shop if you ask me.” “Actually, it makes sense given that the fruit of a coffee tree is known as a cherry. Each cherry contains two coffee beans or a peaberry.” Emily ignored Spencer’s facts and reclaimed Penelope’s attention. “Penelope, can you run background checks on all of the male applicants? See if any of them had filed for unemployment or applied for housing in low-income areas.” “You got it!”

Spencer wandered off towards the break room to pour himself another cup of bitter coffee, feeling pain rip through his chest as he stared down at the dark liquid. He was completely off-put by the intensity of the feelings he had for you. He had just met you! Why was he so concerned for your wellbeing? Emily had told him that it was from being the last one to see you, but he knew it was deeper than that. Had he really managed to fall for someone in two hours? He ran out of time to ponder the idea any further because JJ stuck her head in the room. “Spence, we got the guy. You coming?” He turned towards her and nodded once, rushing out of the room, the mug of coffee abandoned on the counter.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you awoke to a man yelling upstairs. A few seconds after you opened your eyes, the door swung open and Jacob rushed down. “Shut up. Don’t say a fucking word, you hear me? I’ll fucking kill you.” You widened your eyes and nodded in agreement. You were confused but complied. It wasn’t until you heard the front door bust open that you realized what was happening. Someone had found you. “Y/N?” You heard spencer shout your name. You opened your mouth to scream when you felt Jacob close his hand over your mouth and nose. You panicked and fought against him struggling for air. Your vision began to go fuzzy around the edges. You thought you heard the door open but before you could tell the world went dark.

When you woke up, you were on the floor in a different room of the house and an EMT was wrapping your wrists while another was checking your vitals. “Spencer..” You tried to twist your head but the EMT stopped you. “Ma’am we have to finish checking you over.” You were annoyed but allowed him to finish his job. The sooner they were done the sooner you could attempt to find him. After your wrists were bandaged and they were sure you hadn’t suffered from any respiratory damage they helped you slowly to your feet and told you that if you had any problems to visit the emergency room. You agreed and thanked the two men before making your way out the front door. You tried to move faster but your legs felt like jelly after being tied up for so long. When you made your way to the front yard you saw two black SUVs that screamed government official. You scanned the small crowd of agents and officers who stood in between the vehicles before your eyes found the back of his head.

You began your half-limp walk over when a woman with a dark bob cut and bangs nudged Spencer’s side. He turned around and a look of euphoria washed over his face when he saw you. He ran over to you, saving your legs from the strain of the uneven ground. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. Even though you felt like you were hugging a brick because of his vest, you tightened your own grip around him. He smelled like stale coffee and sweat but to you, it was the smell of relief. You finally felt safe, you knew nothing could hurt you while you were in his arms. After several seconds, he loosened his grip on you just enough for you to pull your head back to meet his gaze. “I’m so sorry Y/N. I should have made sure you had gotten home safe.” “Spencer, you have no reason to apologize. You were just doing your job, and you saved me.” “Well, actually that was my team. I was too worried to be much of a help.” he admitted sheepishly, his cheeks turning a dusty pink. “Spencer, without you talking to me you wouldn’t have known anything about me except for my legal forms. You knew who I am.”

Spencer’s eyes lit up but before he could say anything else, a man from the group cleared his throat causing Spencer to look back to them. “Um Y/N would you like to meet my team?” You were startled by the question. However, you knew they were all close and if you had any hope of seeing Spencer again, his team might be a good way to start. “Yeah, sure. I’d love to.” He half supported your walk as you made your way down the driveway. Your legs felt like jelly and you couldn’t decide whether it was from being tied down or if it was nerves. You reached the group of agents and you were a little taken aback. Was it a requirement of the FBI to be dropdead gorgeous? You barely had time to process it when the dark-haired woman reached her hand out and you took it. “Hi Y/N. I’m Emily Prentiss. This is JJ, Luke, Matt, Tara, and Dave.” You smiled and waved politely as she introduced each of the team’s members. “And of course you’ve already met our resident genius.” You looked up to the man beside you who was once again blushing and scratching the back of his neck. “It’s nice to meet you all. I’m incredibly thankful that you were here. I mean obviously, you just saved my life..” you trailed off and shook your head a few times. You felt insanely flustered trying to thank them. “It’s our job Y/N, you really don’t need to thank us. Are you feeling okay?” The blond woman, JJ you now knew her as reassured you. Her nurturing tone was almost enough to reduce you to tears but you choked it down. “Thanks to you all, I am.” They all smiled, and Emily told Spencer they were going to wrap up back at the station.

“Y/N would you like a ride home?” I was shocked but grateful and accepted Emily’s offer. I told her the street address and a few minutes later we had arrived at my building. I thanked them again and climbed out of the SUV. I made my way towards the entrance when I noticed Spencer climbing out of the vehicle. “Spencer, shouldn’t you be helping them finish up the case?” “They’ll be alright without me, I wanted to make sure you got settled in alright.” You blushed and nodded, buzzing into the building and leading him to the elevators. “Are you sure you don’t need to go? I’ll be okay.” Spencer shook his head. “No, really it’s okay. I want to make sure you’re okay.” You were touched by the sentiment and tried not to feel guilty about pulling him away from his work. You reached into your purse that he had returned to you and dug for your keys. Once you got the door open, you led him into the living room where you set your bag down and pulled your sneakers off.

You watched Spencer as he slowly moved throughout your space, committing everything you owned to memory. After several minutes of watching him, you broke the comfortable silence with a yawn. He immediately turned to you as if he was just reminded of your presence. “You need to rest Y/N. You’ve been through a lot.” “I don’t want to sleep.” “Why not?” You pondered the question for a second before you decided to tell him the truth. “I don’t want to wake up and have this be a dream…” You trailed off sadly, imagining going the rest of your life without him. You had only known him for a few hours but it felt like a lifetime. “Y/N… I’d like to see you again if that’s alright - I mean if you’d like that.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at you. You nodded enthusiastically. “I’d love to see you again Spence!” You scrambled around before you found your notepad and scribbled your phone number down on the top page, adding a heart at the end. You walked over to where he was stood studying the photos hanging on your wall next to the door.

“Here you go, call me sometime when you’re free okay?” He smiled and folded it before placing it safely in his pocket. He stared into your eyes, brushing a strand of your hair back behind your ear. “Y/N… You’re really beautiful, you know that?” Your cheeks tinged with pink and you tried to look away but his hand held you still, lingering on your cheek. “Aphrodite would be so jealous she’d smite you where you stood.” You giggled and before he could overthink, he touched his lips to yours. You wrapped your hands around his neck, pulling him closer. After a few minutes, he pulled away and smiled at you. “I have to go now, unfortunately. The team will hate me if I write off a cab on FBI money. I’ll call you okay? Soon. Get some rest, you need it.” You nodded and leaned up to brush your lips against his once more. “I will. I’ll see you soon Spence.” He kissed your cheek as he opened the door behind him. “Sweet dreams Carissima. I’ll see you soon.” He shut the door behind him and you locked it before making your way to bed. You stripped off your clothes and left them in a pile on the floor. You climbed in between your sheets and closed your eyes, quickly drifting off and into dreams filled with Spencer.

[bitchassbucky]

.zip

Word Count: 2k

Warning/s: toxic/abusive relationship dynamics, gaslighting and manipulation, abduction, injuries were mentioned, stalking, dark!bucky x dark!reader, emotionally/mentally unstable!reader, dismemberment (not gore-y but still), three very special character mentions, shady corporate stuff, career sabotage?, food mention, sedation/drugging, f-words.

A/N: oh my god, this is the final chapter of CTRL. to all who read from the start, thank y'all so fucking much - from the bottom of my big-ass heart, thank you so much for coming along with this journey. this is my first FINISHED series, oh my god. to @babyboibucky (CTRL's number one fan), @sarge-barnes-sir, and @borikenlove thank you so much for indulging my inner degenerate GHJSDFG and for screaming (affectionately) at me when i first let y'all read the finished draft.

BUT THIS IS NOT THE END (just yet), i will be uploading TWO epilogues very soon: the explicit version and the not-so-explicit version. stay tuned!

follow the CTRL series:

i - .exe

ii - .avi

iii - .raw

iv - .png

v - .zip

epilogue:

.eps (explicit)

.eps (cut)

CTRL playlist CTRL moodboard

Your demeanor, character, even tone, changed.

Calculated, cold, unnerving.

But you sat there like a housewife in front of her husband, eating spaghetti and meatballs. Acting all dandy like there isn’t a man strapped onto the chair four feet away from you.

“C’mon, darling, eat! I made your favorite,” your eyes twinkled as Bucky helplessly tugged on his restraints, “oh, sorry, you’re tied up.”

Hm, sick in the head, bad for the heart.

“What do you want?” Oh, wow, even talking hurts for him. His throat is all dried up, he tasted something bitter under his tongue.

You chuckled, moving half a meatball around your mostly empty plate, “for you to stop treating me like I’m stupid.” You spear the meat with your fork, swirling it in the sauce, “I know you’ve been… checking in on me, Bucky.”

Oh, fuck.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was-- I mean, look at you--” He’s making it worse. You’re mad. You’re angry because he was being a good friend.

He only did that because you were lonely and he’s right: you are lonely.

So lonely that you’re willing to kidnap a grown man to keep you company, “I’m so sad for you.”

“You’re aware you’re the one’s been tied up, right?” You’re curt as you should be, scooting over near Bucky to feed him.

“I can’t eat that—” If he wasn’t sitting down and tied, Bucky would’ve vaulted over you and called the neighbors, she’s fucking crazy!

You giggled, rolling your eyes as if he had the freedom to make a choice right now, “if you’re thinking of screaming… More than half of my neighbors are felons or on parole, I doubt that they’ll call 911.”

Jutting forward the fork, you let the prongs gently touch Bucky’s lips, “now, eat! We have so much to talk about.”

“No. I don’t-- I’m not hungry.” He shakes his head, the fork hitting his chin and clanking down the floor.

“Just eat the fucking food, Steve!”

Bucky flinched at your sudden outburst. The words—the name—seeping in a moment later. Steve? Who the hell is Steve? Was he your husband? Boyfriend? His head throbbed again, his mouth filling with saliva like he’s about to throw up.

You kneel down, pulling a napkin from the table to wipe the meat and the sauce from the floor.

“This better not stain.”

—

He promised thrice.

Once over pasta and meatballs, once over dessert, and once when you were clearing the table.

You relented, of course. Half because you love him and half because it’s getting annoying.

“As long as you don’t leave me, okay?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t leave you.”

Bucky’s still seating on the dinner chair, slightly slumped without the ropes holding him up, “look, I’m really sorry about the anesthetic, I went overboard with it.” You look over to him—at least he’s regaining his fingers and arms again.

“It’s okay, babe, I wouldn’t trust me either.” If he could stand up, he’d go over and hug you. Helping with the dishes, peppering you with sweet kisses.

A genuine laugh slips out of your lips, “ugh, still… I’m really sorry.”

The last of the plates were neatly stacked, cups and cutleries were placed gently on a drying rack. It was getting late, you could tell.

“I’m not mad, by the way.” You muse, prompting Bucky to lean forward, listening to you.

“What do you mean?” He takes your hand into his, ever so gently.

“You did that,” you squeeze his hand back, gazing into his soulful eyes, “because you love me.”

Did you know that some people could read microexpressions well? Bucky went through a whole lot of them before answering, “of course, I do.”

Contemplating whether you call him out on it or not, you hum, placing a gentle hand on his jaw, “it’s okay, you’ll learn how to love me.”

He has to. He has no other choice.

Bucky clears his throat, “have you seen my phone?” His tone was hopeful, upbeat, maybe he can reach out to someone, anyone, before you can do any more damage.

“Yeah, ‘s on the couch.”

He tried to move, he really did. Bucky’s fairly strong, he can bench an easy 140 on a good day. But even the beefiest motherfuckers have no match for Propofol.

“Don’t worry about your friends, they’re not worried about you, Buck.” The coolness of your tone sends Bucky into a panic—again. “D’you wanna check your messages though? There’s a lot of ‘em.”

Grabbing his phone, you asked Siri to read him his latest notifications.

Urgent: Notice of Immediate Termination

From Joaquin: Where are you, man?

From John W.: Do you have copies?

Urgent: Notice of Immediate Termination

Urgent: Gross Misconduct

From Joaquin: Bucky, what the fuck?

From Samuel Wilson: Pick up the phone, Barnes. You’re fired.

17 missed calls from an unknown number

From John W.: I knew you were a freak but holy shit, dude!

72 text messages from an unknown number

Bucky never really liked horror movies. It made him jumpy and anxious. Too paranoid, even. But now? Now he’s sure that people have never experienced sheer fright before.

His toes cramped inside his boots, his feet were cold, sweating. The little hairs on his legs stood up, goosebumps littering the entirety of his body. If he held his breath, he’s sure he could hear his heart hammering out of his chest. The blood rushes past his ears and onto the base of his skull—he’s gonna be sick.

“What,” he gulped back the saliva pooling in his mouth, “what did you do?”

You’re irritatingly calm, “well, I mean… We’re already together, what do you need those for, right?”

Putting a warm hand over his forehead, you cooed, “poor thing, you look sick.”

—

Bucky thinks it’s well past midnight when the anesthetic wore off.

His limbs were heavy, he had to lean on the wall every couple of steps to regain his balance. Helpless. He’s helpless and you both know it. As if it’s a bear trap, Bucky carefully took his phone from the coffee table.

Why would you leave it unattended?

The screen lights up as soon as he picked up, his lock screen littered with ‘fuck yous’, ‘sicko’, and his personal favorite, ‘motherfucker.’

Ignoring the glaring messages, he went straight for the emergency dialler and—you took out his SIM card, snapping it into two neat pieces, placing it beside the phone.

Bitch.

The golden surface of the card was scratched too, he can’t do anything, use it as a toothpick, maybe? His phone was just as good as a paperweight.

He looks out of the window, limping towards it. Even if he could climb over, it would take him forever to get onto the street. Your neighbors would probably think that he’s just on a bad trip.

“It’s bolted shut. Perks of living alone as a single female.” Your voice made him flinch back, like a kid whose hand was halfway down the cookie jar.

Bucky plays it off with a cough, he can’t be weak now, “no, babe, I was checking out a noise. You ready for bed?”

You smiled softly, taking his hand and draping his arm on your shoulders as you prop him against you, “almost, big guy. Gotta get you settled in bed first. Are you tired?”

Nodding, Bucky kisses your temple, “yeah.” He just needs to play with your sick little games until he regains his strength.

Where would he go? His reputation and his job are besmirched, his apartment is probably crawling with forensics too.

“You fell down and banged your head earlier. Nasty cut on your head too. I told you to not tire yourself much.”

You hit and drugged me but I digress, “Yes, darling. ‘M sorry.”

“You scared me, Buck. I thought you were dead.” Are these tears forming in your eyes?

“I’m not leaving you, not by any chance. I promise.”

He promises a fourth time.

—

Your bedroom was bigger than he thought. But of course, he only saw your desk and your bed through the webcam.

Save from the Ted Bundy-esque corkboard you have in front of your workspace, he feels weirdly at home. You tucked him in, reminding him to wake up every two hours for the painkillers.

“You’re not going to bed?” He muses from behind you, all cocooned in your blankets.

“Just need to take this phone call real quick, babe.” Your back was turned from him as you work on your company laptop. He noticed that the webcam is covered with white tape.

The sound of an incoming call filled the room before you quickly answer it, your voice turning hoarse and raspy as if you’ve been crying.

Hi, Mr. Wilson. I’m so sorry for the late call. Do I- do I need to come in tomorrow? I just... I don’t feel comfortable facing everyone—I used all my home hours this week and—

Miss L/N, I’m glad you reached out to me. Is it okay if I record this call for security purposes? It’s just for you, me, and the HR department.

You turned to Bucky, your face is stone-cold but your voice belonged to someone so utterly helpless.

No, you don’t have to call into work tomorrow… Or any other day.

A dainty gasp and a fucking sob comes out of your mouth, your eyes were telling a different story.

Am I fired?

God, no. Please, Miss L/N, don’t worry about that. We want you with us through this entire debacle. We want you to take some time off—paid. We’ll also grant you… a grievance package.

You could almost hear what he would say next.

As long as you don’t talk to any members of the press or any journalists until our friends in the PR department can clean this up.

A triumphant smile creeps on your bare features, putting a finger in front of your lips, you mimic a ‘shh’ gesture to Bucky.

You round up another mirthless sob as the CEO drones on about the bureaucracy of this whole thing.

He was really nice to me, you know? He took me out on dinners and lunches. He even brought me to his place and I– nothing happened but I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’m really sorry, Miss L/N. I thought he was…

A good guy? I really thought so too.

Please stay offline for a bit, just for the weekend, alright? Someone from the HR department will be in touch with you for the process. We don’t wanna be a hassle more than what Barnes is. On our behalf, please accept our deepest apologies.

Jesus, this guy had the PR department cook up an apology letter.

Thank you—thank you so much, Mr. Wilson. I’ll keep in touch.

You burst out in laughter a second after the call ended. Hearty laughter, the one where you can feel your belly tightening.

“Did you hear how good I was, baby? Oh my god, we had them fooled.”

We? Fuck your ‘we.’

You slide over the covers, propping up yourself with your elbow as you turn to face Bucky, “don’t worry, you don’t need them anymore. You have me, yeah? We have each other.”

—

Out of the most bizarre things that happened to him last week, finding dismembered fingers in the fridge was the least of his concerns.

“Honey!” Bucky calls out, holding the ziplock bag with a pair of tongs.

You bound down the stairs, your laptop in hand as you squint, “what am I looking at?”

Bucky hesitated, maybe he’s going insane too, “fingers. Dismembered fingers—are these yours?”

Setting down the laptop onto the table, you peck him on the cheek, smiling as if him holding a baggie with human remains is just your Sunday normal, “god, I hope not. I need my hands to do things.”

As soon as you look back at him, you dropped the facade: “those are Steve’s. Well, used to be.”

Bucky’s afraid to ask the question where’s the rest of him?

“You know the term pinky promise, right? Well, it has a dark origin.”

Just as fast as a bustling train, Bucky rakes his brain for all the times he promised you something. Hoping that he won’t end up with a stump for a hand.

One vividly bright memory is seared into his brain though, the days blurred together with sharp edges and mismatched colors: we love how we were taught to love.

So, who taught you how to love like this?

[wayward-dreamer]

Life’s Lessons - Be My Valentine?

AO3 Link: Read here

Square Filled: Squirting

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean x Female!Teacher!Reader

Word count: 8,770 (oops. Sorry).

Rating: Explicit 18+!

Summary: It’s Dean and Y/N’s first Valentine’s Day, and he has a romantic evening planned, with surprises which he can’t wait to share with her.

Warnings: So much fluff. Like, so much. Dean being sweet and romantic (yes, that’s a warning). And then so much smut. Swearing, Dirty talk, D/S elements, Dom!Dean, Sub!Reader, Oral Sex (Female receiving), Vaginal fingering, Squirting, Gags, Brief impact play (belt), Restraints (belt), Brief spanking, Unprotected sex (wrap it up before you tap it, guys), Rough sex. More fluff.

Music: Wonderful Tonight by Eric Clapton (Dean and Y/N street scene)

Life’s Lessons Spotify Playlist 

Created for @spnkinkbingo

A/N: The first time stamp*! Wooo! I’m so excited for you guys to read it, I really hope you love it, because I sure had a great time writing these two again, all loved up and ready to celebrate Valentine’s Day! Happy reading and enjoy! :)

*This is a time stamp for my series Life’s Lessons so it’ll make more sense if you’ve read that first, but I do think it can enjoyed as a sweet and smutty Valentine’s Day fic! ;)

Dividers by the wonderful @firefly-graphics

Dean stood at the kitchen bench and smirked as he stared down at the date on his phone. The coffee brewed in the machine behind him, as sunlight streamed in through the little picture window. It the most important date on the calendar that all couples go through, and he was excited.

It was February 14th. Valentine’s Day. The designated day you show the person you love most how much they mean to you. This time around was going to be the most special this little holiday had ever been for him, because this time around he had a woman who was truly, undoubtedly, his.

Y/N was the woman he had been waiting for and he couldn’t wait to make tonight a great night for both of them.

As he poured himself a cup of coffee and some for her in a travel mug, Y/N walked into the kitchen, dressed in a tight, high-waisted pastel pink skirt and white shirt, with a small white with pink polka dots scarf tied into a bow under the collar of the shirt. Her hair was in a high ponytail and she had her red glasses on. Dean felt his body heat up, knowing how much he enjoyed her fulfilling his teacher fantasy, so much so that whenever she got dressed for work, he always needed to calm himself down.

Y/N smiled at him as she walked over, kissing him softly as he slid a plate across the bench, some toast and a little bacon which he had already made, ready for her.

“Thank you,” she said, kissing him again before digging into her breakfast.

“No problem.” He smiled as he leaned against the bench, facing her. He continued to drink his coffee as she ate, both of them in content silence.

“I’ve got a half day today,” he informed her. “Ready to take you out tonight and tomorrow off, too.”

She smiled, unable to hide how excited she was for their night out. He was being incredibly secretive, and she was dying to know.

She ate quickly, washing up her plate once she was done. As she walked away from the sink, she laughed as Dean took her hand in his, pulling her against him. Whenever they had a few spare moments in the morning, this is how they spent it.

“So… what are you planning?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck as she looked up at him.

He smirked, shaking his head as his hands rested on her hips. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out later.”

She frowned, a small pout forming on her lips. “There’s no such thing as secrets on Valentine’s Day.”

She knew it wasn’t true, but she just wanted him to tell her what he was planning so that she could coordinate her lingerie accordingly.

“Babe, don’t start making crap up just because you’re curious.” He called her out, throwing his head with a boisterous laugh as she stared at him, wide-eyed and mouth hanging open in shock.

“Well, then I guess it’s just going to be you and your hand tonight,” she threw back, feigning upset.

“Hey,” he warned, staring down at her as he pulled her closer. “Do that and you won’t find out what I have planned.”

“Fine,” she sighed, as she rolled her eyes. Looking at him, the frown returned but with a playful glint in her eyes. “You’re really annoying, sometimes.”

“I know,” he shrugged with a grin. “But you love me.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, unable to pretend anymore. “Fortunately.”

“Very fortunately,” he said, leaning down to kiss her softly. He bent down further, kissing her neck which made her groan, sadly.

“I’m going to be late for work,” she said, pushing him away slightly.

He moved back down, attaching his mouth to her neck again. “I was about to give it to ya good and proper, sweetheart,” he mumbled against her skin, between kisses.

She laughed as she lightly pushed him again, kissing him softly on his pout. “You can do that tonight. A good, proper,” she kissed him again, “hard, rough,” another kiss, “fucking of a lifetime.”

He groaned, closing his eyes as he thought about what he had planned for them. She really had no idea what was going on and he was excited for her to find out.

“You’re so on, baby,” he muttered, before pulling her into a searing kiss.

She reluctantly pulled away from him, frowning. “I better go.”

“See you tonight,” he said, smirking at her.

“I can’t wait,” she smiled, leaning in and kissing him again.

Dean watched on as Y/N picked her bag and slung it over her shoulder, grabbing her keys in her hand. She slipped on her nude heels as she picked up her fawn coat, turning and blowing him a kiss before walking out the door. He smirked as he thought about what she just said, and how he could incorporate it into the night he had planned. After she had made his birthday one that he would never forget, he didn’t want to wait for so long until hers to do the same.

Luckily, the most romantic day of the year was upon them, and it was the perfect opportunity to make it a memorable night for both of them. He had never really believed in a day to celebrate love, considering he never had much luck with it in the past, but now he was thankful to whoever decided to profit from February 14th and made it a big deal.

Dean got ready for the day and headed to work. He was happy knowing there wasn’t much to do that day with his half day of work. He was relieved when Y/N had managed to take leave for the next day just like him, knowing that his plan would succeed. After the big restoration job that he had told her about months ago had been paid them in full by the customer, they were doing amazingly well at the garage. It had been a lot of money and there was more than enough to go around. Dean was able to pull out all the stops for the night. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face at work, getting questioning looks from Benny, Garth, some of the other guys and even Ellen. The guys teased him all day, but he paid no attention to it. If they had a woman as wonderful as he did, they’d have a huge smile on their face all day too.

Y/N smoothed down her maroon, velvet, off-shoulder, knee-length dress as she looked at herself in the mirror. She had contemplated the style for a long time in the store a few days ago, wondering if she should go for a brighter red or shorter, but this caught her eye straight away. She just hoped Dean would like it. She also hoped he would like her strapless bra and panties set, of the same dark colour. She kept her eye make-up simple but went with a slightly dark red shade for the lipstick, and gave her hair a slight wave, sweeping it over one shoulder. She gave herself a nod as she smiled at her complete look in the mirror.

Y/N heard the front door opening, signalling that Dean had arrived, even if he was a little early. With one last check in the mirror, she picked up the gift she had for him from her bed and walked out of her room, her black heels clacking on the wooden floors. As soon as she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. He wore black dress pants and loafers, with a maroon sweater. He looked so unbelievably gorgeous that she just had to stand there for a few more seconds to appreciate him. He had his hands behind his back, and she knew it had to be something for Valentine’s Day.

“Who clued you in on maroon?” she laughed as she approached him.

“I… may have snuck a peek in the bag when you brought it home,” he replied, smirking as he took her in. She looked incredible and he was going to have a hard time keeping things PG for the first part of the night. “You look amazing.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” she whispered against his lips as she leaned in and kissed him, softly. “This is very couple-y of us, though” she joked.

He shrugged, laughing. “It’s Valentine’s, baby.”

With that, he brought his arms forward, showing her the bouquet of lilies (she wasn’t a fan of roses; too overrated) and the heart-shaped box, no doubt filled with little chocolates.

“Be my Valentine?” he asked, chuckling.

She shook her head, laughing at his goofiness. “Of course.” She took the items from him and handing him his.

He smiled as he took it, quickly unwrapping the red wrapping around the small box. Opening it, he lifted the coffee mug out, smirking at the design. It was him and Y/N in animated form, with her leaning in to kiss his cheek, a little heart above their heads.

“That’s cute,” he said, smiling at her.

“It’s not too cheesy, is it? We said things that didn’t cost much, and this was relatively inexpensive. All I had to do was give the artist a picture of us, and she did the rest,” she explained, wondering if he really did like it and wasn’t just making her feel better.

“No, it’s not. I love it, really,” he reassured her.

She leaned in, happily letting him cup her face in his hands and pull her into a steamy kiss. It was over quicker than she would’ve liked, but as she looked into his eyes, she noticed a spark that wasn’t there before.

“Okay… put those in water and then pack a bag. Just essentials, clothes for tomorrow, that’s it” he instructed, rubbing his hands together.

She frowned, blinking a few times as she made sure she heard him right. “What?”

“Part of the surprise,” he said, not giving her anything else as he gestured to his watch.

“Okay…” she huffed as she snapped out of her trance, her mind reeling as she tried to figure out where he was taking her.

After putting the lilies in a small vase with water, Y/N went into her room and quickly packed a bag. Just her skincare and clothes for the next day were all she needed. She really had no idea what Dean was doing or where he was taking her, but she was now even more restless to find out.

Walking back into the living area, she saw Dean waiting by the door. He smirked as he reached for her bag, dragging it out for her as she picked up her purse and put on her black coat, locking the door behind her. Dean put her case in the trunk and then proceeded to open the passenger door for her. She snuck a quick kiss before she sat, putting her purse in her lap. Dean was on the driver’s side in a flash, quickly taking his seat and starting the engine.

“So… still no hint?” she asked, smiling through her impatience.

“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘p’.

“Fine,” she sighed, sitting back in her seat properly as Dean pulled away from the curb.

She decided to stop asking. He always said he wasn’t great with romantic gestures but that he was trying with her, and she really appreciated that about him. He was expanding his comfort zone even though he didn’t have to. He wanted to.

They asked each other about their days as Dean drove towards the city. The anticipation for their night was overwhelming, and he was glad that Y/N kept talking. No doubt distracting herself just as much as him. As they reached their destination, he saw her eyes light up as he parked the car outside the restaurant, their first stop.

“Dean!” she exclaimed as she turned to him. “This is already too much! More than what we agreed on!”

He smirked, knowing that the fancy Italian place was one that she had wanting to go to for a while. It was definitely pricey, but his latest customer was making tonight possible. He really had to find a way to thank the guy.

“Not tonight it’s not.” He winked at her as he opened his door and got out of the car, a squeak coming from the hinges as he shut it.

He walked around the front and to her side, opening the door for her. Y/N couldn’t believe her eyes as she stood up and looked at the building, suddenly launching herself into Dean.

“I’ve told you before; I don’t need all of this to make me happy. You know that, right?” she asked, frowning slightly. She was worried that he may feel like he needed to do this just to make things special.

“Yeah, I do, sweetheart,” he replied, as he pulled back slightly from their embrace to look at her. “But if I can afford it, then why the hell not?”

“And you’re sure you can?” she asked, a frown still etched on her face.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Yes! Y/N, we wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t. We did fucking great because of that big restoration job. Trust me.”

He had to wonder how she would react for the next part of the surprise if she was already shocked by the restaurant. Hopefully once he reassured her it was fine, and that he wasn’t doing this when he couldn’t afford it, she would relax.

“Okay.” A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before it grew.

Dean smiled wide as he saw her face light up. He held out his hand for her, ready to start their night. “Let’s go.”

Y/N took Dean’s hand instantly, linking their fingers together as they walked to the entrance of the Italian restaurant. As they made their way in and Dean gave them his name, they were immediately led to a table in the back, away from most of the chatter of patrons. Dean helped Y/N with her coat, draping it over the back of her chair, doing the same with his. She smiled as she sat down across from him, causing him to smile back. His eyes wandered up and down as he looked at her, taking in her beauty. She always looked stunning, no matter whether it was casual or a bit dressier.

A waiter brought over the wine list, which Dean discreetly handed over to Y/N considering that wasn’t something he knew anything about. She gave him a wink as she looked over several pages before deciding. Dinner was far more delicious than either of them were expecting, so between the great wine and even better food, Dean was very happy he brought her here.

Once dinner was cleared, and the chocolate cake they ordered to share for dessert arrived (after he lamented that there was no pie), Dean let her dig in first as he folded his arms on the table, watching her. He smirked as she stabbed a piece with the fork and held it out to him. He winked at her as he took the bite, seeing her visibly shiver. He chuckled to himself as he chewed, watching her drop her head and focus on the cake.

“Stop,” she laughed, trying to avoid his intense gaze. He was trying to kill her; she knew he was.

“Can’t,” he said, joining in with her laughter.

They both continued to devour the cake until there wasn’t even a crumb left, both sitting back as the waiter cleared the plate and glasses.

After paying, Dean took Y/N’s hand in his and left the restaurant. Their walk down the street turned into a relaxed stroll, enjoying the glow of the city lights despite the cold weather of February. As they continued towards the car, a group of street musicians was playing, also not bothered by the chill in the air. As they continued to play, Dean slowly spun Y/N around, causing her to laugh in surprise at his sudden gesture. His hands slipped down to her waist and pulled her close as he began to sway them to the music, looking into her eyes. She wrapped her arms around his neck, refusing to break her gaze away from him. The slow melody of the familiar song caused them to get lost in each other, blocking out the noise of the street and cars rushing by.

In his arms, Y/N felt safe. She felt as if nothing bad could happen to her, ever again. She felt like Dean would always be there to hold her up and never let her fall. He would never hurt her, knowing her past and making sure she never felt that way ever again. She thanked all forms of a higher power every day for bringing this man into her life.

In her arms, Dean had never felt more loved. With her, he had everything he ever wanted in life. Love, comfort, passion – feeling wanted. Someone who would never make him feel any less than he was. He knew how lucky he was to have her.

Dean leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, the kiss becoming deeper and more passionate as he pulled her a little closer. Y/N’s hands combed into his hair at the back of his head as she kissed him. After a moment, Dean pulled away from her caress, his breathing slightly heavier.

“Come on,” he grinned, moving away from her and taking her hand in his again, leading her down the street.

As he drove, Dean’s mind kept swimming with possibilities of what would happen next. He looked over at Y/N, smiling at her as she gazed up at the city lights from the window, completely oblivious to the thoughts that were going through his head. He watched as she frowned, the destination now right in front of them. She looked up at the sign, gasping loudly. He had brought them to one of the best hotels in the city and her heart began to beat just a little faster.

“Oh my god!” she yelled, looking at him as he pulled into the valet parking of the hotel. He got out and walked over to the trunk, taking out her small suitcase and pulling it for her, as she got out of the car.

Y/N stood in shock as she watched him warn the valet about the car, and then hand over the keys. As the Impala rolled away towards the main parking, she looked at Dean and shook her head as she walked over to him.

“Dean, this is-” she started but he stopped her as he took her hand and tugged on it, softly.

“Save it for upstairs, sweetheart.” He smirked as he brought her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles.

They walked towards the entrance, a doorman opening the glass door for them.

“Where’s your stuff?” she asked, as she suddenly noticed he lacked an over-night bag.

“I checked us in during the day after work, before I picked you up,” he replied, as he walked them through the huge lobby and towards the elevators.

Y/N marvelled as she looked around. Her stomach flipped as she couldn’t believe she was in such a swanky place.

The elevator arrived; announced by a soft ding as the doors opened. Dean stepped in with Y/N by his side, pressing the button for their floor. Y/N looked over at him, unable to contain her smile as the elevator moved up the floors. Dean leaned over, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her, passionately. She hummed as she grabbed the lapels of his black coat, pulling him closer. They broke away from each other, however, when the elevator stopped, letting in another couple. They were slightly older and both of them grimaced as they witnessed the young couple with their lips locked. It was the clichéd scene you would see in every rom-com or steamy romance, but neither of them cared.

Once they reached their floor, they left the elevator and walked down the hallway. Dean walked a little ahead of Y/N, wheeling her suitcase behind him. He reached their room, taking out the room card and sliding it in, the beep and green light signalling he could open the door. Y/N walked in, as he held it for her and quickly slipped the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign onto the handle, closing the door behind her.

If Y/N was smiling before, then she was practically beaming as she walked further into the room. The big window overlooked the gardens outside, and the room held a chic armchair with Dean’s brown leather duffle sitting on it, a round ottoman in front the armchair, a large bed with crisp white sheets, big pillows and royal blue cushions. Rose petals were scattered over the sheets with a tray that held little chocolates, an ice bucket with a bottle of Champagne and two champagne glasses on it, at the centre of the bed.

Y/N’s felt Dean’s arms wrap around her waist as he stood behind her, pulling her close to his body. She sighed contently, leaning her head against his chest.

“I know you’re not a fan of roses, but this is all they had,” he informed her, softly in her ear.

She shook her head, turning around to face him and instantly wrapping her arms around his neck. “It’s perfect. I love it so much.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a small smile on his face.

“Yes,” she sighed, smiling up at him. “I love you so much, Dean Winchester. Thank you for tonight. Thank you for loving me.”

“Well, you make it real easy, sweetheart,” he said, smirking.

“You make it easy to love you, too,” she whispered against his lips, and kissed him once, twice.

“So… champagne?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes,” she replied, without missing a beat.

Dean moved away from her, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the armchair. Y/N took off her coat and hung it up in the closet, taking a chance to look around the room. She wandered into the bathroom, biting her lip to keep from grinning as she saw the bathtub filled with water and rose petals along the surface. She fully intended to make use of it later. The bathroom also had another ice bucket and champagne with glasses kept near the tub, along with some chocolate covered strawberries, making her shiver at the possibilities of what could happen.

Y/N walked back out to the main part of the room, watching Dean open the wrapping from the top of the champagne bottle. He held the bottle carefully as he twisted the cork, letting out a “son of a bitch!” when it popped loudly. He poured some in each glass and handed her one as he took the other, his other hand slipping into hers. They looked into each other’s eyes as they clinked their glasses together.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N,” he said, smirking.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dean,” she sighed, her eyes sparkling with love as she looked at him.

As they both took a few sips, it was clear that no matter how great the champagne was, that wasn’t where their focus was at that moment. As Dean looked at Y/N, he knew he couldn’t waste another minute not touching her. In one big gulp, he downed the champagne and placed the glass on the tray. He moved it off the bed and placed it on the ottoman, turning back to her to see she had emptied her glass as well. She walked over to the ottoman slowly, the swing in her hips seductive and teasing him. As she bent down to put the glass on the tray, the curve of her ass looked glorious in her tight dress, leaving him powerless to resist.

Dean walked up behind Y/N, his hands slowly moving over the curve, feeling the soft velvet of her dress. He moved them up to her hips, swiftly pulling them back to meet his. Y/N bit her lip as she pressed her back to his chest, feeling his cock begin to stir through the fabric of his pants.

“You have no idea what I’m gonna do to you,” he whispered in her ear and placed a small kiss behind it.

She shivered as she felt his hands move up her body, lightly grazing over her breasts before moving back down to her hips. She took his hands and moved them up again, cupping her breasts and causing a soft moan to leave her lips. She smiled mischievously as she began to grind her hips back into his, feeling him become more aroused. Dean had instant flashes back to their first date, the night she did exactly the same thing on her front porch.

He suddenly flicked her hands off his and moved them down, grasping her hips and halting them. “You think you can do that again, sweetheart… you’re wrong.”

“Dean,” she whined, her frustration getting the better of her. She squeezed her thighs together, feeling herself getting wet between her legs already.

“Tonight, is all about you,” he told her as his hands moved to the back of her dress. He grasped the zip, pulling it down at a teasing pace. “Tonight… you’re all mine.”

A whimper left her lips as the dress opened in the back, and Dean’s pace suddenly changed. He roughly pulled at the dress, shoving it down her body and letting it fall to pool around her feet.

Turning them around, Dean faced Y/N towards the large mirror on the wall. He admired her dark red, lacy push-up bra, matching lace panties and black thigh-high stockings, as his hands roamed her soft skin. Their eyes met in the mirror, causing Dean to smirk at her and give her a wink. His right hand travelled down her body and over the lace of her panties, his fingers lightly teasing over her skin and the seam of the fabric. Her breath hitched in her throat as her left hand moved forward, trying to reach for his. She gasped as he roughly grabbed it and held it down by her hip, wrapping his fingers around her wrist to keep from moving.

“Only I get to touch you, Y/N,” he said, not breaking eye contact with her in the mirror. His hand moved down between her legs, his fingers rubbing along the lace and feeling her wetness through the material. She moaned, pressing her lips together to keep herself quiet.

“Already so wet for me,” he groaned, continuing to move his fingers in a moderate pace. “But… I want you practically dripping.”

Y/N moaned wantonly as Dean removed his hand and made quick work of taking off her panties, bending down behind her as they slid down to her feet. He helped her step out of each heel and her panties, smirking as an idea came to him once the fabric was in his hand. He quickly slipped them into his pants pocket as he took her hand and guided her towards the bed. Staring into his eyes, she saw them darken even more as he lifted his hands to her shoulders and pushed her, a squeal leaving her as her back hit the bed. The scattered rose petals bounced around, breaking the even pattern, as she moved up slightly on the bed and pushed herself up on her elbows to look at him.

Y/N smiled as she bit her lip, her eyes never leaving him as he lifted up his sweater and pulled his arms through, throwing it on the floor. He did the same with the white t-shirt he wore underneath as he moved closer to the bed. She reached over and hooked her fingers into the top of his pants, desperate to feel him against her. Before she could start working on the belt, he grabbed her hand with a firm grip.

“What did I say about touching, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice rough and authoritative.

A shiver ran down her spine as she looked up at him, unable to speak. His eyes were dark, and his face was unreadable, a commanding air around him. He was dominating in bed but never quite like this, and that had her excited to see what he would do.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he looked down at her, unbuckling his belt and sliding it through the loops. He gathered it in his hand and waved it at her. “One more time and I’ll have to use this.”

She nodded, still too stunned at his demeanour to speak. She breathed heavily as the anticipation got to her, wondering what his next move would be.

Dean placed the belt on the bed, close enough to reach for it when he needed. He quickly rid himself of his shoes and the rest of his clothes, pulling down his pants along with his boxers, dropping them on the edge of the bed. His cock twitched, hard and leaking pre-cum which she desperately wanted a taste of. He knelt on the bed, swiftly picking up both of Y/N’s legs and holding them up. He made quick work of taking off her stockings, rolling them down her legs and pulling them off, before leaning down and kissing her, roughly. She moaned into his mouth as she fisted the sheets in her hands, knowing she couldn’t touch him or herself. Dean continued to roughly kiss her as he reached under her and unclasped her bra, pulling it away from her body and flinging it across the room without looking.

Dean made a rough path of kisses down Y/N’s jaw and neck, reaching her breasts. He took a nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the nub and pinched the other between his fingers. She moaned, throwing her head back, incredibly desperate to lift her hands and place them on his head to bring him closer. He continued his path down her body, finally reaching between her legs. She looked down to see him wink at her, his tongue slowly flicking out as it grazed her sex.

“Dean” she whimpered as she tried to move closer to his mouth.

Before she could say anything else, his head dipped down, his mouth covering her folds completely. His hands grabbed her legs and threw them over his shoulders roughly, causing a shocked huff to leave her lips.

“Oh my god,” she gasped loudly, her fingers clenching the sheets. “D-Dean, yes.”

His tongue moved over her clit in tight circles as his fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs, pulling her even closer. He moved his tongue up and down her folds, her juices coating his mouth as he moaned at the taste of her. She choked out a whimper at the vibration that ran through her as she looked down at him, their eyes meeting.

Pulling away slightly, he looked at her as he sucked at her clit. “Taste so fucking good, sweetheart.”

“Dean, please,” she begged, looking into his eyes. “Please, more.”

“Patience, Y/N,” he playfully scolded, smirking at her.

He continued to lap at her folds, the sounds of his moans and her wetness getting to her. She needed to touch him, but if she did, he’d restrain her. She wanted nothing more than to risk it and tug on his hair like she loved doing, but she couldn’t. He smirked against her as he continued his ministrations, lifting his right hand and inserting a finger into her wet canal.

“Shit, yes” she cried loudly, unable to stay quiet despite being in a hotel room.

“You like that, gorgeous?” he asked as he pulled away briefly, inserting another finger. He thrusted them in and out, his pace quick as she became wetter.

“Yes,” she gasped, nodding frantically. “Yes, I-I love it.”

He gave her a cocky chuckle as he took her swollen nub in his mouth again, his eyes never leaving her. He continued to thrust his fingers inside of her, his tongue licking at the bundle of nerves. He watched as her hands left the sheets and cupped over her mouth, her moans muffled under them.

Dean kissed and sucked at her clit, his fingers sliding in and out of her as he moved them along her walls quickly. Y/N’s hands barely covered her mouth, her moans loud as she couldn’t control herself anymore. He reached for his pants and quickly took her panties out of the pocket, knowing that if she got louder, she would need them.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he said as he placed the lace near her lips.

Y/N opened her mouth and let him slowly work the material in.

“Good girl,” he groaned as he looked down at her. His cock throbbed at the sight of her mouth stuffed with her dark red panties. He continued to work his fingers into her, picking up the pace. Her moans came out stifled around the fabric in her mouth, as she urgently grabbed at the sheets again.

Dean worked his fingers into Y/N, his pace getting quicker as they began to hit her g-spot with precision. He lifted her leg onto his shoulder as he sat up on his knees, his fingers never slowing. Y/N got louder despite her panties acting as a gag, her eyes shut tightly as she let out a string of muffled moans. He could feel her getting wetter with every passing second.

“You look so fucking beautiful like this, sweetheart. All spread out for me, desperate to cum,” he grunted as he worked his fingers at a faster speed. “You wanna cum, don’t you?”

She nodded wildly, too scared to open her eyes and look at him. She could feel something building inside of her, the coil in her stomach tighter than it ever had been, as if it was holding something at bay. She could hear how wet she was as he worked the digits inside her at a frantic speed, the squelching noises louder than her moans.

“You’re gonna be a good girl and cum for me, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

She cried out around the fabric in her mouth, the only way she could communicate at that point. Hearing him call her that always drove her crazy. He felt his fingers getting wetter, knowing she was closer than ever.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned; his fingers moving so quickly he could barely see them. “Fuck, cum for me, sweetheart. Fucking soak my fingers.”

Y/N threw her head back, her neck straining as she let out a stifled scream of his name around the material of her panties. One of her hands left the sheets as it latched onto his arm around her leg, needing to hold on. The damn within her broke, Dean pulling his fingers out as jets of liquid spurted out of her, drenching his hand. The vision behind her closed lids turned white, as a wave of the purest release she had ever felt washed over her. Her body shook as he held her, making sure she didn’t hurt herself. Her muffled scream turned into whimpers as she continued to come down from her high. She had never felt this way before as she continued to shake, unable to stop the waves of pleasure coursing through her.

Dean bit his lip, watching as Y/N slowly began to come down from the peak he took her to. That was a surprise, even for him. He didn’t know she was capable of that, but he was a little proud that he was the one to make it happen. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light in the room. She rolled her head to the side, looking up at him as her chest heaved, her breathing erratic. He leaned forward, taking her panties out of her mouth, a harsh sigh leaving her.

“Oh my god,” she exhaled, still trying to catch her breath.

“It’s actually Dean,” he joked, a wide grin on his face.

She lazily lifted her hand and tried to hit him but couldn’t even manage that.

“You…” she trailed off, shaking her head as she still couldn’t believe what just happened. “You made me squirt.”

“Sure did.” He nodded as he looked down at her, the smirk not leaving his face. “That was awesome,” he stated.

“It was.” She hummed as she smiled up him. That was first time anyone had managed to do that, and she was happy that her first experience of that was with someone who loved her so much. Someone who wanted to bring her pleasure before himself. His pleasure came from hers. She had never been with someone who cared like that.

“Shit,” she sighed, closing her eyes. Her whole body felt like it was buzzing. “I’ve never… done that before.”

“That was so fucking hot, sweetheart,” he declared, smirking as he looked down at his lower body and his hand, both wet from her unexpected release.

She stared up at him as she bit her lip. The fact that he found it hot had aroused her even more. The fact that he was so completely turned on by her and her body, gave her a confidence in herself that she never had before.

“You’re definitely trying that again, sometime soon,” she laughed, winking at him.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” he stated, putting her leg down.

“Really?” she asked, amused by his eagerness.

“Yep,” he replied, popping the ‘p’. “Oh and Y/N…” he trailed off, gesturing to his arm that had been wrapped around her leg.

Y/N looked down and cursed inwardly, seeing her hand wrapped around his wrist. However, a small smile spread across her lips as she looked at him, trying to act innocent. “Oops…”

Before any more words could leave Y/N’s lips, Dean tugged on her hand and flipped her over, pushing her down on her stomach. He groaned as he looked at her ass, running his hand along her skin, grasping it in his hand. He picked up the belt, folded it and held it tight in his hands. Lifting it, he twisted his wrist and flicked the loop lightly across her right cheek, gaging her reaction. She moaned as her head dropped forward onto the bed, her hips wriggling, taunting him. He couldn’t see her face, but he was certain she was wearing the little mischievous smile of hers that he loved so much.

“Harder,” she told him, her voice firm. No hesitation.

That was the only confirmation Dean needed. He lifted his hand again, bringing the belt down on the same area, slightly harder than before.

“Fuck,” she moaned, humming at the slight sting.

Dean leaned down, placing a kiss and small nip on the cheek. “Love this ass.”

Dean held Y/N’s hands together and wrapped the belt around her wrists, making sure it was tight enough so that she couldn’t get out of the binds. He buckled it, tugging on it a couple of times to test it. She whimpered softly as she laid the side of her face on the bed, excitement coursing through her. She felt him grasp her hips and pull her up onto her knees, her bound hands on her back. That feeling of thrill rose within her as she sensed him move behind her.

Dean stroked his cock as he lined himself up to her entrance, Y/N’s hips levelled with his. He entered her swiftly, a strangled moan leaving his lips as he felt how wet she was, his cock easily sliding all the way into her. A choked cry left her as she tried to move her hips back, but he grabbed them in his hands to stop her from moving. He slid out and back in, then quickly began to thrust in and out of her at a fast pace.

“So fucking tight and wet, sweetheart,” he groaned as one hand came up to hold onto her bound hands. “So perfect… like you were made for me.”

With each thrust, she moaned louder and louder. Dean wondered whether he should gag her again, but quickly thought against it. Everyone else in the hotel be damned. He needed to hear his girl.

“How does that feel, Y/N?” he asked, as his hand on her hip grabbed her flesh tight, his thrusts relentless.

“So fucking good,” she moaned loudly, her mind delirious with pleasure. “Your big cock feels so good inside me, Dean.”

“I’m the only one who can make you feel this.” He let out a grunt, feeling her walls clench around his cock with each thrust. “Tell me.”

“Oh fuck” she gasped, unable to think clearly. “Y-You-”

Suddenly, a hard, resounding spank landed on her right cheek causing her to jerk forward as she yelped in surprise.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he growled, his grip tightening on her bound hands.

She huffed a small laugh, completely overwhelmed by what she was feeling. He was hitting that sweet spot inside her so perfectly with every thrust. His words had her spiralling by the second, and his grip on her, both mentally and physically, had left her completely at his mercy. It was an experience unlike any other; one that she had expressed she wanted just that morning, but she had no idea the delivery would exceed her expectations.

“You’re the only one who can make me feel like this,” she moaned, loud and shameless. If someone else in the hotel was getting railed as thoroughly as she was, they’d be shameless about it too. “The only one who can make me this good… so fucking good, so full.”

She struggled against the belt around her hands, the leather digging into her skin in a delicious sting. Her legs felt weak and limp under her, quivering as she could feel herself quickly losing resolve.

“Fuck, Y/N.” His undulating hips picked up speed, as he grasped hers tightly.

Her walls continued to clench around him, signalling she was close. The only other sounds that could be heard apart from their moans and groans were the smacking of skin as their hips met, and wet, squelching sounds of her sex as he continued to pound into her.

“De… fuck, I-I I’m close,” she cried out, lifting her head to try and look back at him. The same feeling that she had felt before had returned, as if she was holding something back. “I-I think-” she shook her head, unable to speak.

Dean’s hips started to falter, his release fast approaching. “Cum with me, Y/N.”

“I-I-I’m,” she stuttered. She felt lightheaded, overstimulated and overcome by the pleasure coursing through her.

“It’s okay, Y/N,” he reassured her, his left hand leaving her hip and moving down between her legs. He rubbed her clit in tight circles, bringing her closer to her release. “Let go for me, sweetheart… soak my cock like you soaked my fingers.”

“Oh god… Fuck! Dean!” she screamed.

All concern for the people in the other rooms went out the window as they both reached the peak of ecstasy.

Y/N’s whole body convulsed as Dean let out a roaring moan, quickly pulling out as her release gushed out of her, drenching his cock as his cum spurted over her folds. Her legs gave out as she fell forward and flattened out on the bed as she tried to catch her breath. His chest heaved as he leaned forward, carefully unbuckling the belt around her hands, releasing her from the restraint. Her arms moved up the bed weakly, one hand cupping over her eyes as she began to chuckle. He looked down at her with a quirked eyebrow, confused as to why she was laughing.

“Y/N?” he called her name, getting no response.

She descended into a fit of laughter, slowly turning onto her back as she cupped both hands over her eyes.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on?” he asked, his mouth lifting up slightly into a smirk. He was amused by her reaction.

“That was… that was amazing,” she said through laughs. “I just… I can’t believe you did that. Not just once but twice!”

Y/N continued to laugh, causing Dean to join in as he leaned down and gave her a kiss. She lifted her shaky hands and cupped his face, kissing him deeply and moaning at the taste of herself that still lingered on his tongue. Pulling away, his legs almost faltered as he got up from the bed, but he held himself steady as he moved towards the bathroom. He wet a washcloth and then walked back out to the bed. He cleaned between her legs, the warm cloth ridding her of his release and her own. As he did, he was relieved to see they hadn’t ruined the sheets from both of their orgasms, his lower body taking the impact of hers. He cleaned himself off and got up again, discarding the cloth under the sink of the bathroom.

As he walked back out, he spotted the ice bucket and quickly swiped a cube out before he laid down next to her, both of them on their sides. Picking up her right hand, he smoothed the ice over the angry, red lines across her wrist. She hissed slightly at the chill on the heat of her skin but sighed as it cooled the sting. He looked at her as he did, smiling softly when her gaze lifted up to meet his.

“I… that wasn’t too much, was it?” he asked, his voice low and calming, but slightly nervous. He hoped that he hadn’t gone overboard.

She smiled, shaking her head. “No. It was perfect.”

She leaned forward, kissing him deeply. She sighed into the kiss, feeling more content than she ever had in her life. The feeling of being safe with him had been there throughout, and she loved him even more for being able to make her feel that way as he dominated her.

“You sure?” He needed to be certain. “I just gotta-”

She cut him off with another kiss, before pulling back to look at him. “Yes, I’m absolutely sure. It was everything I wanted. A good, proper, hard, rough… fucking of a lifetime.”

He smirked, satisfied with her sincere answer and leaned forward, kissing her once, twice which led to them giving each other small kisses on every bit of skin they got reach. Dean gave her other wrist the same attention, before the cube could melt into his hand.

“Now I can’t wait for you to fulfill another fantasy” she smiled, a naughty glint in her eyes.

“Yeah?” he grinned, wagging his eyebrows at her. “What is it?”

She hummed as she moved forward, pressing her body into his as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Maybe I want a certain mechanic to tell me there are other ways of payment when I can’t afford for him to fix my car.”

He groaned as his eyes shut tightly, feeling his cock begin to stir again. “Fuck, sweetheart. I can’t wait for that either.”

He leaned in, kissing her passionately. His hands smoothed down her back and softly soothed the sting on her ass from the brief belt treatment and spanking she got.

“Bath?” he asked, tenderly as he pulled away from her lips and nuzzled his nose against hers.

She nodded with a small smile on her lips, feeling the mattress dip as he got up first.

Dean offered his hand to Y/N which she took instantly, allowing him to lift her up from the bed. Her legs shook as she stood, still weak from the amazing sex they just had. Suddenly, he leaned down and placed his arm under her legs, the other around her and lifted her up, a little laugh leaving her as she wrapped her arms around his neck. As he walked past the ottoman, she reached down and grabbed the champagne bottle from the ice bucket and the glasses, placing them in her lap and holding the bottle so it didn’t fall. They looked into each other’s eyes as he carried her into the bathroom and over to the tub.

Y/N slowly dipped her toe in, sighing in relief when it wasn’t searing hot. She held the bottle and glasses as Dean slowly placed her in the water, the petals dispersing once she was in. She took out the other bottle of champagne from the ice bucket in the bathroom and put the open one in, after she poured a generous amount into each glass. Leaning forward, she smiled as he got into the tub and rested against it, allowing her to lay back against his chest. Clinking their glasses together, she took a sip and sighed as she made herself comfortable against him.

“I’m half expecting someone to come knocking on the door about the noise,” she told him, laughing.

He shook his head, chuckling. “Nah, no one’s coming up here to warn us on Valentine’s Day.”

“I sure hope so,” she said, taking another sip of champagne.

“I did put the “Do Not Disturb” on the door on the way in, though,” he grinned, leaning down and kissing her cheek. “Just in case.”

“Always prepared,” she joked, turning her head up to look at him.

“You know it, baby.” He smirked as he leaned down, kissing her softly.

“Thank you so much for tonight,” she whispered against his lips as he pulled away from the kiss. “It was perfect.”

“No problem, sweetheart,” he whispered back, pressing his lips to hers again. The kiss deepened, causing a small moan to leave her as she reached up and ran her hand through his hair at the back of head.

She pulled back, slightly out of the breath as she bit her lip, looking into his eyes. “I don’t think I can manage it tonight, but you can expect me to ride you into oblivion tomorrow as a thank you.”

His eyes widened as he nearly choked from the shock of her statement. He shook his head as he looked at her, wondering once again how she could be so innocent one minute and turn into a vixen the next.

“You better not threaten me with a good time and then not deliver, Y/N,” he warned her, a small smirk playing at his lips.

She shook her head, her gaze flicking between his and his lips. “It’s a promise which I absolutely intend to keep.”

“Shit,” he hissed, putting his glass on the ledge behind him. “Thank fuck I got a late check-out.”

He took hers and did the same and then moved his hands under the water, turning her around so that she was facing him and straddling his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed into his chest as she leaned in and kissed him, passionately. She pulled away after a few moments, looking into his eyes.

Y/N reached over to pick up a chocolate covered strawberry on the tray behind Dean and held it to his lips. Smiling at him as his plump lips closed around the fruit and bit into it, the juice ran down his chin as he moved his head back, trying to get the bite completely into his mouth. The fire that burned for him within her, that never extinguished, flickered at the sight of his beautiful, sinful mouth slightly stained by the sweet. She leaned in, kissing and licking the remnants of strawberry and chocolate from his lips. As he looked at her, he felt that feeling of being the luckiest guy on Earth wash over him again.

“I love you,” she whispered, a big smile spreading across her face.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back, his smile as big as hers as he pulled her back into their impassioned embrace.

They stayed that way until the water turned cold, and Dean carried Y/N back to the bed. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, their slumber peaceful as they both knew they were in the arms of the person who loved them unconditionally.

The next morning, Y/N kept her promise. Once they came up for air, they enjoyed a wonderful breakfast at the hotel before they finally made their way back home.

The rest of their day continued the way it began, locked in each other’s loving arms…

With promises made that they absolutely intended to keep.

-x-

Tags: @deanwanddamons @winchest09 @downanddirtydean @jensengirl83 @wonder-cole @that-one-gay-girl @flamencodiva @ellewritesfix05 @roonyxx @akshi8278 @hobby27 @michellethetvaddict @spngirl05​ @kyjey​ @halesandy​ @440mxs-wife​ @stoneyggirl​ @deanswaywardgirl​ @redbarn1995​ @marianita195​ @babypink224221​ @deans-baby-momma​ @parinarain​ @thoughts-and-funnies​ @mandalou29​ @jerkbitchidjitassbutt​ @supraveng​ @supernatural-love14​ @vicmc624​ @prettyboyswow​ @lunarmoon8​ @supernatural-bellawinchester​

[itadorisgf]

AAAAAAAA! CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE I’M SO PROUD OF YOU AND YOU DESERVE EVERY BIT BECAUSE YOUR WRITING IS WONDERFUL! ✨💛 for a tulip/date night(?) I was thinking about a road trip date with Gojo Satoru? Like, it might be unrealistic since 1. He’s probably really busy, huh? 2. I don’t know if he can even swap places to drive because blindfold, and even his sunglasses were wack (Gege said something about ‘em somewhere). But the of dorking out during sightseeing and blasting tunes in the car with the fun-loving teacher is just very appealing to me. Also congrats again!! qwq

— gojo satoru + road trip

⤷ anonymous asked: AAAAAAAA! CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE I’M SO PROUD OF YOU AND YOU DESERVE EVERY BIT BECAUSE YOUR WRITING IS WONDERFUL! ✨💛 for a tulip/date night(?) I was thinking about a road trip date with Gojo Satoru? Like, it might be unrealistic since 1. He’s probably really busy, huh? 2. I don’t know if he can even swap places to drive because blindfold, and even his sunglasses were wack (Gege said something about ‘em somewhere). But the of dorking out during sightseeing and blasting tunes in the car with the fun-loving teacher is just very appealing to me. Also congrats again!! qwq

note: thank you so so much for the kind words!

ft. gojo satoru

warning: gn!reader, fluff, gojo being gojo (aka an insufferable but loveable menace)

⤷ the flower shop

It’s incredibly rare for Gojo to get any time off from work. He’s always needed here or there —for “difficult” missions, which really aren’t all that difficult, or boring obligatory clan meetings — that he doesn’t have much free time. But Gojo somehow manages to weasel his way out of some commitments, which might earn him a lecture from some higher-ups later, and proudly proclaims that you’re going on a road trip together.

It’s not that you’re not excited at the prospect of spending time with Gojo, but a little heads up would have been appreciated. But Gojo is Gojo and he exits your shared bedroom with a grin and informs you that you have an hour to gather all the stuff you need before closing the door shut behind him. The dumbass barely gives you any details of where you are going so you tear through your room, searching for whatever you think you’ll need for a day trip.

It actually doesn’t take you too much time to pack everything you think you’ll need, but you still scowl at Gojo when you exit your shared bedroom to see him lounging with his legs spread out across the couch. He jumps up the moment he sees you with the complaint of you taking too long on his tongue. You just elbow him in the chest and roll your eyes when it doesn’t connect since Gojo turned on his infinity before you could actually hit him.

Gojo takes the bag you’ve packed from your hand and you’re quick to snatch the car keys off the counter before the two of you exit your home. You may love Gojo immensely, but you’d be damned if you let him drive. You’re not even sure if he has a proper license. With the way he drives, speeding and swerving, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t.

Gojo pouts when he realizes you’re going to be the one driving, but gets in the passenger seat regardless. Once you’re all buckled up, you flip your palm up for Gojo to entwine your fingers together. Sometimes he likes to fiddle with your fingers or to compare your hand sizes instead of actually holding your hand.

He always pretends to be astonished that his hand is bigger than yours despite doing the same thing every single time he rides in the passenger seat. You just roll your eyes in fond amusement.

You let Gojo control the music you listen to. He queues up a lot of upbeat pop songs and throwbacks that the two of you can belt out together. He’ll turn up the volume obnoxiously loud and sing as loudly as he can, so his voice won’t be drowned out by the music. His voice is actually not bad, so sometimes you’ll stop singing along to the lyrics just so you can devote your attention to listening to him, eyes darting to the side every so often to get a glimpse of him from the corner of your eyes. When he feels your eyes on him, Gojo makes a whole performance out of his singing, going so far as to use your hand as a pretend microphone before littering kisses all over the back of it.

Although Gojo didn’t give you any details of where you’re going before getting in the car, he takes charge and directs you when to switch lanes and when to turn as you drive. Sometimes, though you believe he’s doing it purposefully, he’ll give you a direction a second too late, forcing you to find your way back to where you were before so you can resume the path Gojo has laid out in his mind.

You haven’t been driving for too long when Gojo tells you to exit the freeway and park in a lot that he points out to you. Looking around when you exit the vehicle, you’re unfamiliar with your surroundings. When your eyes land on Gojo, it takes all of your restraint to not facepalm.

“Ta-da!” His aggressive jazz hands would be much more embarrassing if there were more people around to witness it. He gives you a dazzling smile, tilting his head down slightly to look at you over his sunglasses. “Let’s go explore!”

With that comment, Gojo grabs your hand, barely giving you enough time to make sure your car is locked and drags you off in the direction he’s chosen. You guys aimlessly wander around, pulling one another into random shops that catch your interest. Of course, Gojo is pulling you into bakeries and shops that are selling sweets, insistent that he needs to try them. He has you taste-test them with him, buying all the treats that you both enjoy.

You pull him in the direction of some shops that sell cute touristy things, thinking that it would be nice to bring something back for his students. Gojo beams when you suggest that, swooping down to plant a kiss on your lips, and agrees that as a great sensei, it was his duty to get his cute little students something. So you guys peruse around until you find something that you both think his students would appreciate.

After walking around for so long, you’ve worked up an appetite. Gojo too, since right when you’re about to open your mouth to suggest that you find someplace to eat, he complains out loud that he’s hungry. You guys choose to eat at a cafe you spotted a while back. Once seated, you’re both quick to order your meal. While waiting, Gojo passes the time by playing footsie with you, despite the fact you’re full-grown adults. Thanks to his stupidly long limbs, he wins, much to his glee and much to your disappointment.

When your order arrives, you both dig in. Gojo swipes some food off of your plate when he thinks you’re not paying attention. You’re not that unaware so when you catch him red-handed, he lets you taste some of his food as well. Gojo pays for the bill and throws his arm around your frame when you exit the cafe.

You’re much more subdued than you were previously, stuffed full of delicious food. A little sleepy now, you give in and hand the keys over to Gojo so he can drive. You curl up in the passenger seat, leaning over the console to get closer to Gojo. He lowers the volume of the music and entwines your fingers together as you doze off for a bit.

The ride is much more smooth than it normally is. Gojo tries his best to be extra cautious when driving since he doesn’t want to jostle you around too much when you’re resting.

When you open your eyes again, the sun is much lower in the sky and when you look out the window, you realize you’re far out from the city.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” You snuggle back into the seat, squeezing Gojo’s hand that’s in yours.

“Where are we going, Satoru?” You’re still blinking the grogginess away as you turn your head to look at Gojo. He’s always been unfairly gorgeous, but in this light, Gojo looks positively ethereal. You don’t say it out loud, though. You’re not trying to give the man a bigger head than he already has. But by the grin he shoots your way, you have a feeling he already has an idea of what you’re thinking about.

“Somewhere.” You roll your eyes at your boyfriend’s purposeful vagueness.

“Mhm, okay. Wake me up when we get there.” You close your eyes once more, a faint smile on your lips when you feel Gojo press his lips to the back of your hand.

You’re roused from your nap by Gojo gently shaking your shoulder. The car is parked now, your car door ajar with Gojo standing over your still seated body. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” He laughs much too loud when you sleepily pout at him.

“Aw, does my baby want me to carry them?” Gojo teases. He’s surprised when you actually nod your head and lift your arms up. You must have been sleepier than he thought. His grin widens as he swoops down to scoop you up in his arms, openly cooing when you snuggle your head against his chest.

You don’t know how long Gojo’s been walking for when he pretends to drop you, causing you to yelp. “Lost my grip,” he explains with a disingenuous smile when you crane your head to look up at him. Before you can huff and complain that he’s such a shithead sometimes, he happily exclaims: “We’re here now!”

He helps you ease down onto your feet, wrapping his arms around you from behind and tucking his head into your neck as you look around to figure out where exactly “here” is. You quietly gasp, eyes widening in awe, as you soak in your surroundings. You’re far away from the city in someplace along the coast. The sunset beautifully illuminates the waves crashing below you, setting the sky ablaze with a melody of warm and vibrant colors.

When you tilt your head to look at Gojo, he’s already observing your profile. His sunglasses rest low on the bridge of his nose, granting you a clear view of his crystal blue eyes. His smile is not as wide as it usually is, it’s a bit softer, a bit more genuine.

“You like it?” He squeezes his arms tighter around your middle, nuzzling his cheek against yours.

“I love it, Satoru. It’s beautiful,” you assure him, awkwardly tilting your head so you can press a kiss to his skin. You place your hands over his own, tangling your fingers together. You stand like that for a while, enjoying the view until the sun inevitably dips below the horizon.

As you’re driving home, you sneak a glance at your boyfriend. His long limbs are bent at awkward angles as it’s now his turn to rest his eyes as you drive the two of you home. Your lip curves up into a fond smile. You won’t lie and say that it isn’t difficult dating a man like Gojo Satoru, but moments like these make it all worth it.

[ephemeral-sorrow]

My 'friend' (Jake x MC)

Dedicated to Duskwood and all people who love this incredible game and support it, creating their own unique and breath-taking content, which results in Duskwood fandom being the greatest one I`ve ever been in.

Please leave feedback if you like!    ლ(╹◡╹ლ)

summary: Jake detested being just your friend.

warning: unrequited love

important: mc moved into Jake's city in this oneshot and is helping him doing errands. Jake is not pursued but still leads somewhat discreet life. Their relationship is established, they know each other for a long time already

There was one painfully obvious thing Jake came to realise after laying low and going into the life of shadows: no matter how independent and skillful he was, he couldn`t overcome loneliness that crept inside his soul every grey evening, spent in his masterfully equipped room, which seemed even drearier as twilight descended upon the 'big anonymous city' he lived in. At these times, more often than not, he found himself stratching in his chair like a large cat - his fluffy unruly hair and sleepy astute eyes truly made him look like one - walking up to the blinded window and carefully removing the cloth to scan the lively street.

All these people were hurrying somewhere, being a fleeting, blurry memory to the passers-by. He wondered where. Perhaps, it was home to some or a welcoming circle of friends after work to others. He spotted a lot of couples hugging and talking each other`s ears off as they leisurely wandered around. What was the appropriate word for this... lovely?

Maybe. For now, he felt only irritation at the sight.

Jake snorted at his own foolishness - how could he be happy for someone else when he was deprived of such cute nothings? Thoughts of different kinds swarmed in his head - whether he was unworthy of such indulgence or it was his own fault for being not charming/handsome/talkative enough. He couldn`t help but feel egoistical, desperately wanting to know what was wrong, why the person he adored just couldn`t simply fall for him, grant his deep wish and give him some warmth.

Every time he asked himself this, he kept looking at your photo for a long time, observing the features of your pretty face and imagining how it`d feel to walk under the umbrella with you, hand in hand.

* * *

"Don`t you like it, Jake?" your innocent voice snapped Jake out of his head. Just the sound of his name from your cute lips made his heart squeeze bittersweetly and feel strange emptiness in the pit of the stomach. He still couldn`t get used to coming to your apartment as he lost his confidence rather quickly, surrounded by your friendliness and the enveloping comfort of your home. Had you met up outdoors or at least somewhere with a tiny group of people, he wouldn`t have been so timid, so scared to make a mistake, to appear repulsive or stupid in front of you.

Hacker clenched his trembling fists under the table, focused his gaze on the plate with a home-made meal before him and then looked up, wearing an apologetic expression.

"S-sorry... Of course I do like it very much, MC. You`re the reason I began to eat properly and broke this cycle of take-out. Everything is great".

He watched as relief washed over your features, as you put a hand over your chest.

"I was starting to get worried I might be feeding you forcefully and you`re just too polite to say no. Is it really okay? Can`t finish it?"

"N-no, that`s not it. I spaced out a little", Jake lowered his head in attempt to come up with a believable excuse for his distraction. "I am just feeling a bit under the weather, probably that`s the case..." he regretted saying that immediately.

"What?" You came fast, appearing twice more concerned than before, and carefully placed your delicate long fingers over his forehead, trying to spot the slightest shift in the temperature.

... Please don`t be so kind to me. I might...

Despite Jake being tall even while sitting, you still were leaning over him, his shoulder slightly touching your upper arm. Your sweet, fresh scent invaded his senses, and he secretly breathed in more, not being able to hold back. His blue irises darted upwards to your face, which was intoxicatingly close, and that action alone was almost dangerously crossing the line of his self-restraint. He allowed to admire the smoothness of your skin, the gentle fluttering of your eyelashes, the silky hair he wanted to thread his fingers into and finally, those gorgeous plump pink lips, begging to be covered in sensual kisses--

You pulled away.

"Weird. You don`t seem to be hot".

"Indeed", the hacker tried not to sound dissapointed, biting the inside of his cheek.

* * *

After dinner both of you were lounging about on the couch - you hugged the pillow and pulled your knees to your chest, while Jake leaned back, nestling into the softness. There was some popular detective-drama movie you wanted to see, so you practically pleaded with him to watch it together, explaining this as an opportunity to build some theories - which was your incontrovertible forte. Jake complied to your request with a teasing smile.

Little did you know, that this peaceful activity would finally determine the course of your relationship, once you were surprised to feel Jake's hand cover your own in the middle of the movie.

P.S.: Please tell me if you want part 2

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Drowning Part 7

I felt like writing today, so you guys have two Drowning parts today. Enjoy, but beware that I did not edit this.

Masterlist

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate

Warnings: possessiveness, medical whump, odd medical practices, anesthesia, major descriptions of vomit, striped of clothing (not sexual), restraints, IVs, needles, knives, surgery (intense descriptions)

~

Hero blinked her eyes open, taking in the scene around her. She wasn't in the chair anymore, she could move her arms and legs and there wasn't the consistent beep of the monitors hooked up to Supervillain's skin.

Her hands must've have recovered some of their strength for she dug them into the object she was laid upon. It sunk down, but rebounded when she released pressure.

A bed.

Her head was also set gingerly upon a soft pillow- caressing to give her optimum comfort.

Light streamed in through a window, landing on her torso. Hero stiffened, noticing a shadow pass through her abdomen where it stopped.

"Look at me."

Hero hesitantly brought her head up to meet Villain's blue eyes. Memories of their encounter streamed through her head, blocking any other thought process.

"There we go now dear," Villain sat on the foot of the bed, tracing some form of shape into the ruffled covers with a smug smile on his tanned face.

"What do you want?" Hero asked, though she halfway knew the answer.

"You, of course, my dear," Villain said with such confidence that it almost sounded arrogant, cocky...

Possessive.

"Well, now you have me," Hero stated, her tongue feeling bitterly dry. "Where's Supervillain?"

"You still care about him? I thought the doctor- oh sorry, your friends- did a pretty good job of taking those feelings away," Villain tutted. "What breakfast? I made a smoothie bowl." Then he added with a twinkle to his gaze, "Your favorite."

"Hmm no thanks," Hero smiled, still glaring at Villain as if that would remove him from her sight. His whole fit body was a vulgar sight.

Villain sighed dramatically. "Can't I do anything right for you?" He asked, voice in a bitter snarl. "Nope," he answered himself. "No because Hero is too righteous to take anything from a villain..."

"Quit with the guilt tripping. It is not working," Hero informed him, rolling her eyes. "I don't want anything because I don't need anything."

"You can't walk."

"Can to," Hero retorted, crossing her arms, relieved that those at least had some strength in them.

"Try it," Villain dared, leaning against the bed with his palms dug deeply into a mattress, a twinkle in his eyes. Hero vaguely noticed the decrease in swelling, the near fading scar on his right temple- a reminder of how long she had been caged up.

Hero swung her legs to the other side, dangling them down before putting all her weight on the shaky muscles. Gripping the sides of the bed, she pushed herself off and...

She fell, only to be caught by strong arms.

"There now. Proved you wrong dearie, now how does breakfast sound?" Villain asked, smiling down at his little captive.

Hero snarled, tucking her chin to her chest, before nodding subtley. Villain grinned even wider and carried her to the kitchen where she was sat down at the table.

"What are they doing to Supervillain when I'm not there?" Hero asked, looking down at her hands.

"Probably healing him up," Villain replied as he dished flax meal and chia seeds on the berry smoothie bowl. "And then do who knows what."

"We should rescue him," Hero said, nearly a whisper. Villain cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?" He asked nonchalantly. Hero nodded and took the cold metal spoon and began to eat the more than delicious breakfast.

"That is, hmm, not happening," Villain scoffed, crossing his arms.

"Why not?" Hero asked, pausing her eating.

Villain didn't answer. He just left and began to wash the dishes.

"Hello?" Hero called, but received no answer in return.

Within the next fews days of movement, Hero built up enough strength in her legs to carry herself across the house without as much as breaking a sweat.

"I want to watch a movie tonight," Villain said once when Hero was helping clean up after dinner.

"What movie?" Hero asked, never giving him an joy-filled statement once in her stay.

"Thor," Villain replied. "The first one."

"Why don't we watch Iron Man? The first one. Or whichever one Tony gets drunk at the party and fights Rhodey."

"Because Stark sucks, Loki is the best."

"Uh, nooo. Loki is the definition of bad acting," Hero rolled her eyes as she set a dirty plate into the sink.

"Stark is the definition of a crappy character," Villain retorted as he handwashed a knife. Hero studied him, watching as the soapy water drenched his long sleeve shirt. His soft blonde hair trickled into his icy blue eyes as his pink lips were pulled tight into a concentrated purse.

"Or maybe we watch the Kissing Booth," Hero murmured and joined Villain to rinse off the plates and utensils to put them in the dishwasher.

Villain smiled, but it wasn't his usual broad, creepy smile that made shivers run down Hero's spine. It was a smile one, a contented embarrassed one. Tied with his blushing cheeks, Hero would've even called it cute.

That was if he never betrayed her, or never kidnapped her.

If he never kept her from rescuing Supervillain in that wretched place.

Yes, Hero noticed that doors that could only be unlocked by Villain's fingerprints. The sealed windows that refused to budge.

And the fact that the one story trailer house was different from Villain's previous home that consisted of three stories with a gym room and a gaming room.

He was moved, or moved himself, specifically to keep Hero locked in.

Not even his charisma could change that foreboding fact.

《~~》

"Welcome Supervillain to the lab."

Supervillain blinked slowly as LED lights brushed past tender eyelids. The rolling floor memorized him slightly as he watched the equally placed lines fall under the gurney's wheels.

The gurney took a turn, causing a nauseating lurch of vertigo to pass through his stomach. He held back the urge to gag and instead burped repeatedly until he tasted the beginnings of vomit.

Tossing his head over to the side, Supervillain opened his mouth a threw up. He wanted to lurch, but the restraints around all points of movement other than his head and neck forbid that. He was left to allow the puke to streaming down his front, landing on his bound hands.

"Look at you!" One of the heroes chastised, slapping Supervillain hard across the face with a backhanded slap. The world around Supervillain whirled and he nearly threw up again if it wasn't for the gag- no, metal bit- shoved into his mouth, hitting his teeth and sending yet another gag reflex through his esophagus. But this time, he was forced to keep the vomit within and threw up inside his own mouth. Groaning and eyes rolling up slightly, Supervillain laid his head back against the thin pillow that protected his head against any form of head injury. Eyes fluttering closed, he tried to draw more sleep in.

Only for a sudden release in pressure to wake him up from his momentary slumber. The bit was removed and his body was held under a faucet for his mouth to be washed out. Someone came behind him and dumped a bunch of listerine into his unsuspecting mouth. Sputtering from the numbing taste of strong original mouthwash, Supervillain allowed his head to dangle- black hair wetted by the flowing hot water.

Next, his soiled clothing was removed- even his pants- and replaced by a faded pair of shorts. His torso was left bare.

The next movement was of him being laid across a metal table, his limbs once again being held in place by the four-point restraint system- padded metal contraptions barricading any form of movement or escape from the inevitable pain that was to come.

"Patient is restrained, begin procedure."

Nurses bustled around, two on each side of him, one by his feet, and one by his head.

"We are going to force the water out of his lungs," another voice, one that was not owned by any of the nurses surrounding him. Out of the corner of Supervillain's eye, he saw the doctor. The doctor, pacing around not even once looking at the stretched out patient before him.

"This will be painful, but we need the patient entirely conscious for this to work," the doctor instructed. "We are going to insert a tube directly into his lungs- on both sides-, piercing them, and using a sort of plunger instrument to force the liquid through his trachea. To ensure he does not choke, Medic and Nurse, once the plungers are released, you ladies need to unrestrain him and roll him over to his side. We go slow and the second all the fluid is expelled, we need to anesthetize the patient to due emergency surgery to stitch the lungs back together. Estimated recovery time is a couple days with the rapid-healing drug we will administer. Any questions? Prep the IV, Nurse2 be ready there."

The hairs on Supervillain's arms stood up and goosebumps picked his skin. The order from the doctor made him struggle against the restraints, pulling aggressively against them.

"Oh please don't do this," he blubbered, tears spilling from his ducts. "Don't do this. I can't do this. Oh please, please, please, please." He started sobbing, terrifed, as a nurse stuck his elbow with a needle.

"Prepare insertion."

Two sharp metal pieces found their home right below Supervillain's rib.

"Ultrasound."

A cool gel was squirted between the two sharp pricks before a rectangular object was placed upon it.

"Ultrasound ready."

"Begin incision."

A buzzing sound, right before a knife cut in his skin. No, not once, that was a lie, but two.

Two sharp, agonizing knives.

Supervillain screamed, wailed pitifully, as his body thrashed around.

"Stop, stop!" He begged, picking his head up only for hands to shove it back down. His fingers stretched out, clenched, anything for the torture to end.

"Left, move yours towards the ribcage a bit so you don't cut the liver."

Supervillain tensed, clouded thoughts coming to the surface. Cut my liver..., he thought before attempting to evade the knives cutting into his body.

"Don't, don't, don't!" he screeched. "Please."

"Prepare to pierce the lung."

Supervillain shoved himself downwards, but it did nothing with the unrelenting cuffs keeping him close to rock still.

The pure agony that he felt when the knife pierced the lung, then the way the knife evolved into a plunger, was indescribable.

Supervillain screamed. Screamed so loud that even the practiced nurses flinched. The doctor though stayed still, watching the procedure with his authoritive gaze.

"Release the patient."

His wrists and ankles were quickly let free by the wave of a card. He tried to curl in on himself to avoid the operation, but professional hands kept him stretched out.

"Start pumping at Level One to begin."

The horrendous feeling of the machine inside of Supervillain changed into a coveted one when the same machine started to pump. A plunger hit the liquid, sending it up and into his trachea.

Supervillain coughed, rolled over to his side. At first, he imagined that the left plunger would quit working as if it was kinked, but found out that it must've been electrically powered.

Mucus, blood, and water shot up through his trachea. Pain forgotten, Supervillain gagged and coughed the abhorrent liquid out until blackness began to crawl at the edges of his vision. It clouded his thoughts, but he body still involuntarily gagged, coughed, and spat all of his lung's content out.

"Stay awake," a rough voice sounded as his body was shook. Supervillain complied and returned to his coughing fit, agony once again returning to his veins and muscles.

Then, as soon as it started, the pressure ceased as soon as it started.

"Administer the anesthesia promptly."

A dial clicked, though Supervillain hardly registered it. Even before the sedative started pumping through his veins, he was losing consciousness.

A mask was placed above his mouth just as the world descended into blackness.

[riversofmars]

Back to Halifax fam! Part three of four. Here comes the angst and a little bit of smut. Enjoy! Rated M (language and sex)

Home Is Not A Place - Part 3: The Mistake

“Caroline…“ Gillian whimpered, her voice far more shaky than Caroline would have expected.

“Yes?“ Caroline hummed against the soft skin at the base of her neck, delighting in the breathless moans and gasps her kisses drew out of her.

“Don’t stop…“ Gillian practically begged, as she arched her body against her.

“How could I…can’t keep my hands off you,“ Caroline growled, tracing lines down her body, to the waistband of her pants.

Gillian bucked her hips to meet her.

Caroline awoke with a start, disoriented, sweaty and frustratingly aroused. As her room slowly came into focus, she realised she had been dreaming. The body pressed to her belonged to her dog Ruth and she rolled away from her.

“For fuck’s sake, Caroline, get your shit together,“ she groaned to herself as she rubbed her face and threw her covers off. She was feeling far too hot, despite the bitter cold outside that the poorly glassed windows barely kept at bay.

Bloody Gillian Greenwood. Caroline stared up at the ceiling, trying to banish the image of Gillian from her mind. Gillian, stripped to her underwear, panting, holding her close… Caroline rubbed her face more firmly, just short of slapping herself. It wasn’t really Gillian’s fault, was it, that she was lying here thinking of her. The sheep farmer was completely oblivious to it, or so Caroline hoped. Gillian would hardly have got soaked in the rain on purpose, just to have an excuse to strip in the lounge, could she? That would imply that she knew of Caroline’s attraction for her. That was highly unlikely, as Caroline had always been careful not to let on too much. It would also imply that she wanted to encourage her for reasons of her own; and there could be no plausible explanation for that.

No, Caroline would have to accept that this was a very one-sided attraction and she would simply have to wait for it to pass.

And yet… Gillian had admitted to having been with a woman before. Why would she do that if not to drop a hint? Caroline implored herself to stop thinking about it. She couldn’t risk how well things were going, it would be ruinous and downright stupid.

No, Caroline would wait for this crush to pass and that was that. But how was she to do that with Gillian right there? Her witty snark, her heart-warming smile, and her great arse? Through no fault of her own, Caroline’s mind conjured up the image of Gillian bending over to rummage through the pile of washing… Caroline pressed her thighs together, her body tense with arousal from the dream she had just woken from.

Was it disrespectful of her to think about Gillian like this? It was becoming clear that she couldn’t stop her thoughts going there. Perhaps, playing it out in her mind would help her get over it, she mused. It would never happen anyway so what was the harm in it? Caroline’s mind was screaming with ludicrous justifications as to why it wasn’t bad to imagine shagging her step sister. The most convincing argument was - of course - that this was the privacy of her own mind. Gillian would never know, and Caroline knew she wouldn’t be able to go to sleep any time soon unless she did something about the state she was in.

Fuck it, she decided, and pushed her hand between her legs. She groaned, frustrated with herself over how wet she was. There was nothing for it, she pushed away her self-consciousness and instead imagined what the sheep farmer could be doing with that talkative mouth of hers. Perhaps she’d be quite eager to please her. She remembered the way she had looked at her during their “thank you“ dinner the other night, reminiscent of a puppy dog looking for praise… A nice way of saying “thank you“ would be on her knees between Caroline’s legs… Caroline bit back a moan as she imagined Gillian’s nails digging into her thighs.

Or maybe, given how headstrong Gillian was, she wouldn’t be submissive at all. Maybe she could have fucked Caroline on that very kitchen table, or the kitchen side, or the sofa, or the bloody wall, any wall, pushing her up against it and Caroline would only be wearing a skirt and…

“Fuck…Gillian…“ Caroline gasped as her fingers did the work she so badly wanted Gillian to do. She wished she could find out what it would be like, really like, to be with Gillian. It was a privilege far too many men had had for Caroline’s taste and she couldn’t believe the injustice of it. She knew she was worth a thousand Robbies, Pauls or Johns. She would not treat her the way they had, she would look after her, care for her, love her…

“You’ve got issues, Caroline, honestly…“ Caroline breathed into the darkness and wiped the sweat off her face.

——

“There you are.“

Gillian looked around when she heard Caroline’s voice. Her face brightened immediately.

“Storm’s cleared,“ she smiled and waved for Caroline to come and sit with her. She was perching on the wall outside the house, looking out onto the fields beyond. The sun was just coming up, it would be a clear day, apart from the fog that was coming up from the damp ground after yesterday’s storm. It was Sunday morning and everywhere around them was quiet still.

“I’m never gonna get used to this view,“ Caroline commented as she came to sit next to Gillian. She hugged her warm mug and pulled her coat tighter around her. It was very chilly, but Gillian didn’t seem to notice. She was drinking her own tea and smiled, looking out into the valley herself.

“Be a shame if you did,“ she chuckled into her drink.

“Is it bad that I’m dreading everyone coming home this afternoon?“ Caroline asked, after a moment of comfortable silence.

“Nah… I’ve been enjoying the peace and quiet too,“ Gillian admitted with a smirk. “Let’s enjoy it while it lasts…“

“We’ll have weekends like this more frequently once Ellie and Raff move out properly…“ Caroline mused and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She wanted to spend as much time alone with Gillian as she possibly could, but she was worried it would only make ignoring her feelings harder. Particularly when Gillian looked as peaceful and content as she did right now.

“Hm,“ Gillian hummed thoughtfully and Caroline frowned.

“What?“

“I just… I was just thinking, after all this… shit. Eddie and John. My numerous misadventures, Robbie! God, Robbie… and you losing Kate, that… after all this, we do deserve something nice, don’t we,“ Gillian didn’t look at her at first, she looked out into the valley, a soft smile playing on her lips that the morning sun lit beautifully.

“If there is any justice in the universe…“ Caroline mumbled, struck by how beautiful she looked in that moment. So utterly at peace and it defied her understanding that she played a part in that.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been as settled and… happy… as this…“ Gillian confessed and looked at Caroline with a smile that made the headteacher’s heart nearly jump out of her chest.

“Me neither…“ Caroline admitted and it was true. Not even when she had been happy with John or in the short but lovely time she had had with Kate, had she felt so complete and content. It was that realisation that made her throw caution to the wind. Surely, Gillian wouldn’t be saying these things if there was no deeper meaning behind it all. Maybe she had been dropping hints on purpose all along… Caroline stopped thinking, she just leaned forward and kissed her.

For one beautiful moment, Caroline’s world shrunk to the feeling of Gillian’s soft lips against hers. It felt liberating and right and even better than she had imagined. At least until Gillian pushed her away.

“Caz! What are you…“ The sheep farmer exclaimed, eyes wide with shock. It was like a sobering slap in the face, only, a slap would have probably hurt less.

“I uh- I’m, oh my God, I’m so sorry, Gillian, I just… I got caught up in the moment and…“ Caroline stammered, disoriented, she struggled to grasp what was going on and she cursed herself for her lack of restraint. She had spent all of last night telling herself how she would never ever act on these feelings and here she was, ruining everything! She stared at Gillian who was at a loss for words herself, she had blushed deeply, tensed up, and wild panic was painted all over her face.

“I uh- I’m gonna just… sorry.“ She jumped off the wall and fled, rushing off to God knows where, around the corner of the barn. It took Caroline a good minute until she recovered from her shock and when she did, her emotions broke out of her. She chucked her mug across the yard and broke it on the barn door. That bloody barn. She imagined Eddie watching, laughing at her.

“Fuck,“ she groaned and buried her face in her hands. She took a deep breath. “Well done Caroline, really fucking well done, you just had to go and ruin everything, didn’t you…“ She looked out into her valley, her vision blurring with tears. She was not prepared to give up this new found happiness. She would have to find a way of making things right with Gillian. How could she have made such a crude lapse in judgement? Slowly, she slid down the wall and started gathering the broken china of the mug.

——

“You alright mum?“ Raff asked, eyeing his mother across the dinner table. The rest of the family had returned in the afternoon as predicted. First Raff and Ellie with the kids, then Greg had brought round Flora. Now, the kids had gone to bed and the grown-ups were having their tea and discussing how the house hunting was going. At least that’s what Raff and Ellie were trying to do but neither Gillian nor Caroline seemed to really be listening.

“Hm? What?“ Gillian looked up from her plate, confused.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,“ Raff observed, exchanging a glance with his wife,who gave him a shrug.

“Maybe I was just thinking how I’m missing the f-bloody peace and quiet from before you all piled back in 'ere,“ Gillian snarked, far harsher than she probably meant to. Fortunately, they were all used to Gillian’s moods by now so Raff just turned to Caroline:

“Caroline, what’s wrong with me mum?“ He asked, as if she wasn’t even there, in response to which Gillian just chucked her cutlery onto her plate like a stroppy teenager.

“What’s wrong with her? Nothing’s wrong with her. Maybe she’d be better if you weren’t pestering her,“ Caroline’s response was snarky as well, she wanted to be left alone to her own thoughts, as she presumed Gillian did. They hadn’t spoken for most of the day and sitting next to each other at dinner now was harder than she would have imagined.

“Not you too,“ Raff groaned.

“You had a fight or summat?“ Ellie asked, looking between the two women.

“What would we possibly fight about?“ Caroline shot back, twirling her pasta around her fork.

“Would you like a list?" Ellie chuckled and Caroline shot her a look that would have shut up anyone.

“Everything’s perfectly fine, eat your tea,“ the headteacher instructed and Raff was quick to appease:

“It’s lovely, this, Caroline.“

“Thanks love.“ She managed a thin smile as they all returned their attention to their plates.

“I’m not feeling too good, I’m gonna get an early night,“ Gillian announced and got to her feet abruptly. “Can you check in on sheep later, Raff?“

“Sure.“ He nodded quickly and the sheep farmer practically fled the table. There was a moment of tense silence with only Gillian’s footsteps, rushing up the stairs to her bedroom.

“You not gonna go after her?“ Ellie asked once they heard a door slam upstairs.

“Why would I?“ Caroline asked, bewildered at the very suggestion.

“If something’s happened, you’re better off clearing it up sooner rather than later,“ Raff agreed with his wife.

“She doesn’t want me talking to her,“ Caroline huffed, moving her pasta around the plate that she - despite going through some pain to make it - didn’t fancy at all.

“So something did happen!“ Raff exclaimed as if her statement was proof to that effect. “What’s she done? Did one of sheep get into the house again?“

“Nothing happened!“ Caroline shook her head. She wanted to laugh at how he naturally presumed it had been Gillian that was at fault. Nothing could be further from the truth but she couldn’t tell them what had happened. It would only make things worse. The best course of action would be to ignore it had ever happened. “Just give her some space,“ she advised, which was exactly what she planned on doing herself. With any luck, things wouldn’t be as tense tomorrow and they could forget about the whole thing.

——

Caroline was engrossed in a book when Gillian reappeared. Raff and Ellie were watching telly, while Caroline had retreated to the other sofa. For a moment, Gillian lingered at the top of the stairs, probably wondering if she dared be among them again, but as it turned out she had no intention of that anyway. She crossed the living room without a word and headed for the front door.

“Thought she said she were getting an early night…“ Ellie commented when the front door slammed shut.

“Caroline…“ Raff looked over to the headteacher. “If you won’t tell us what happened, can you at least…“ His voice was almost pleading and Caroline couldn’t refuse, not when she knew this was her fault. Perhaps talking it through would help…

“Alright…“ She closed her book, threw the blanket aside and got to her feet.

Caroline wrapped herself up warm and stepped out of the farm house. The night was clear as the day had been and yet, she couldn’t see Gillian anywhere, she seemed to have made good use of her head start. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and made her way down the path. The Landrover was still there so she couldn’t have gone far.

That’s when she heard her, her muffled voice and she spotted the flickering light of a torch in the barn. Reluctantly, self-consciously, Caroline stepped closer.

“I bet you’re fucking loving this, aren’t you.“ It was definitely Gillian’s voice, louder and more pronounced now and Caroline stopped by the door of the barn. It wasn’t entirely shut but it wasn’t open and inviting either. “I could be so happy if it wasn’t for everything you’ve done to me.“ Gillian’s voice was distraught, worked up and angry. Caroline knew who she was talking to. Part of Gillian still believed that Eddie was still, somehow, present in that barn where he had died. And it seemed like she was shouting at him now. “I could be whole and together and worth a bloody damn. You satisfied?“ She was yelling from inside and Caroline couldn’t bring herself to walk in. She didn’t want to intrude, it wouldn’t be fair. She really ought to head back inside, allow Gillian this moment of privacy to work through her feelings. “Even after all this time, I still can’t f-bloody get anything right!“ Her words didn’t quite make sense to Caroline, but she got the gist. “I deserve to be happy, I do! Even after what I did, I deserve to move on. You put me through hell and I came out the other side and I deserve something good to happen and I thought it had and now it’s all fucked up again!“ Caroline’s heart sank when Gillian’s voice broke with sobs. “So congrats, you’ve fucking done it again.“

Caroline didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go in, it was too much, too personal. She felt guilty for even listening in, but the sound of Gillian crying broke her heart. She realised she had messed up big. Gillian had been happy and she had forced her out of her comfort zone to where she didn’t want to go. Of course she would blame Eddie for it, like she did with most things in her life when they went wrong. Like she had blamed the accidents that had happened to Robbie on him too… Caroline knew it was her fault this time though, Eddie was well and truly gone. The only hold he had in this world was the one he still had on Gillian and Caroline cursed him for it. She wished she could just be free of him. She wanted nothing more than for Gillian to be happy, she knew she had to find a way to make things right with her. Ignoring each other as they had done for the most part of the day, just wasn’t an option. She wanted to be content and happy like they had been the past month, she had to find a way of restoring that balance and reassure Gillian she had no expectations of her. She stepped away from the barn, heading back to the house, but it was too late.

“What’re you doing out 'ere?“ Gillian exclaimed and Caroline looked around.

“Just uh… Raff asked me to come look after you…“ she answered slowly, shifting uncomfortably. She should have left sooner.

“Raff can fuck off,“ Gillian huffed, locking the barn door behind her.

“He’s concerned about you, I am too…“ Caroline said slowly as she realised they were heading into a stand off. Gillian kept her distance, crossing her arms as well and staring her down with an uneasy air about her.

“Were you listening?“ Gillian’s voice swung between accusatory, distressed and insecure.

“No, I…“ Caroline broke off because the lie would be so incredibly hard to maintain. How was she supposed to pretend she didn’t know how distressed she was?

“Cause it’s none of your f-flipping business,“ Gillian snapped in an angry outburst that made Caroline flinch and feel all the more guilty.

“I know that…“ she said softly. “I just… are you okay?“ The bright moonlight illuminated the sheep farmer’s face just enough to reveal her damp cheeks and puffy eyes. Gillian must have noticed her staring because the response was quick and harsh:

“Do I fucking look okay to you?“

“No, that’s why…“ Caroline winced, struggling for the right thing to say. It was a minefield, one that she had set up for herself. No matter which way she turned, compassion, remorse, admitting to listening, pretending she didn’t know why she was upset, apologising for a mistake or admitting to the depth of her emotions and motivations… with Gillian every course of action could blow up in her face and make things even worse than they already were.

“Leave me alone, Caroline.“ Gillian seemed to think it best not to give her an opportunity at all. She strutted past her, back towards the farm house.

“Gillian…“ Caroline couldn’t let her go, she had to try something, anything, so she reached out, grabbed her arm to hold her back. Gillian’s reaction was more violent than she could have anticipated.

“Get your hands off me!“ The sheep farmer yelled and ripped her arm away, cradling it against her like she had been burnt, she stared at Caroline with a turmoil of emotions in her expressive eyes. Caroline’s heart sank, she crossed her arms again.

“I’m not gonna do anything, I got the message loud and clear…“ Caroline mumbled, self-consciously.

“Yeah, well- You better not,“ Gillian’s sharp reply drove the matter home and Caroline didn’t look up, not until the sheep farmer had disappeared inside the farm house.

The headteacher turned away and looked out into the valley. She felt numb.

[akutagawasbitch]

Aku, Atsushi, Chuuya, Higuchi, and whoever u want--how do they act when they're black out drunk??? Absolutely shit faced?

Of course my love, I had so much fun writing these. Let the crack commence <3

Chuuya

As we all know he can fly but when he's drunk he'll fly into shit all the fucking time. The side of a building, random walls, the window of his penthouse. You name it he's probably flown into it and face planted it while drunk

He also suffers from short man syndrome and will not hesitate to punch anyone. He has been kicked out of many bars for throwing the bartender when they cut him off

He likes to flirt but when drunk, he turns into a mess. Slurring his words, mixing up pickup lines and or just forgetting how to speak. It's all happened to him before but if dazai is around? He turns into the best womanizer in all of Yokohama for the sake of his pride

His favourite drunk food is ramen, he'll make shitty 99 cent ramen in his penthouse and devour it

His normally refined palette goes out the window

While he can be aggressive, if you're friendly to him, Chuuya will be your friend and be an absolute sweetheart back. He's made many a friend on drinking nights who he never remembers but they remember him

Amazon and drunk Chuuya are his wallet's greatest enemy

He will spend hours scrolling through and buy himself the stupidest shit ever

He once bought a massive playhouse because he wanted one

He'll also buy himself hats

Buys ridiculous shit and has it delivered to Dazai's apartment

One time he had hair removal cream disguised as shampoo order and dazai used it

Loves to dance while drunk

He will fucking get down with any song and is amazing at dancing

Loves going to karaoke bars, gets super into it. He will sing any song and is always surprisingly good at it. 

Passes out super quickly and easily so he never stays out too long 

Dazai 

Doesn’t like drinking too much as it reminds him of when him and Oda would go to Lupin together.

When he’s drunk, he swears he can hear Oda talking to him telling him what an idiot he’s being. 

He’s either an incredibly happy and elated drunk or a horribly suicidal depressed drunk. It depends on how much he has to drink. If he’s tipsy, he laughs a lot and feels a genuine sense of happiness, not the fake happiness he feels most of the time. If he is blackout drunk, he’s depressed and highly suicidal but in a more serious way. No more mushrooms or trying to drown himself, he goes for knives and pills but he always wakes up.

He will trip a lot and be incredibly clumsy when drunk. His bandages come undone which he doesn’t notice causing him to trip on them. This happens regularly 

When drunk he’s more prone to bumping his head on things since he isn’t paying attention. Ceilings, fans, lights, door frames. No matter what drunk dazai is a tall bastard with no spatial awareness

His flirting goes through the roof when drunk. He will flirt with anything that moves, he does not care. 

You know what else goes through the roof when he’s drunk? His d- appetite. This man can rival Kenjii or Atsushi in how much he can eat when drunk. He orders 6 different plates of crab and devours them like he’s never eaten in his life. 

His self restraint goes out the window and he’ll go break into Chuuya’s apartment just to mess with him and steal his hat or something along those lines. Drunk Dazai loves to fuck with people. 

He’s also more relaxed and will happily let Naomi or Yosano do his makeup if they asked nicely enough. He’d brag about how he’s the “prettiest princess of them all” before passing out

Aku 

You think Akutagawa has no filter? Wait until you meet drunk Akutagawa. This man doesn’t even know what a filter is. 

He deadass looks at Chuuya and stares at him before commenting “You’re short” with a deadpan look. 

He also has a surprisingly high tolerance and enjoys strong alcohol over wine. 

His lack of filter gets him into trouble more often than not and he gets into fights a lot. He actually uses his fists while drunk over using Rashomon mainly because he can barely speak a word without hiccuping 

He has trouble speaking, he either hiccups through every sentence or slurs his words to the point where they are unintelligible 

He is more chatty than normal but don’t expect a Dazai or Chuuya level of chatter. 

He likes to drink spiked teas 

He does enjoy drinking with others and enjoys accompanying Chuuya on nights out

He will devour a massive bowl of curry while drunk. He rarely eats when sober but when drunk? He’ll eat anything put in front of him

He is still pretty quick on his feet and agile but he is prone to falling over

He literally once woke up Gin because he fell over their couch when walking into their apartment and he just lay on the floor cursing out the sofa

He’ll roast the fuck out of Dazai and Atsushi while drunking and make various death threats

Aku ends up being rather protective of others while drunk and has scared of a number of creepy men making advances on uninterested women, he’s like a guard dog in that regard 

He will pass out fairly quickly once he gets home, refuses to pass out anywhere other than his bed 

Higuchi

As we found out in the PM Onsen CD, Higuchi cries when she’s drunk. She’ll cry over a cute puppy or cry over a mission going wrong or she’ll just cry because she got praise from Akutagawa. 

She also will talk for hours on one specific topic. Either its Akutagawa or something completely random. She’ll rarely talk about her sister but when she’s drunk she’ll open up more about her and tell everyone how much she loves her sister. 

She is also a lightweight and will pass out fairly quickly 

She likes sweet things when drunk and will eat something sweet that’s near her. 

She also has to hold Akutagawa back from fighting people or prevent him from getting punched because his no filter talk insulted the wrong person 

She isn’t an aggressive drunk but an emotional one. 

Gin

Gin isn’t a big talker, but she’ll talk more if she is drunk drunk and comfortable enough with the people she is drinking with 

She will laugh a lot while drunk and smile but it's hard to tell with her mask on 

Gin as we all  know is insanely fast and agile but when she’s drunk? All her agility goes out the window and she will face plant the floor if she tries any of her tricks.

I think she has a sweet tooth, so I can see her enjoying mochi ice cream while drunk

She also would love to watch people do karaoke, she won't participate since she’s too shy but seeing Chuuya and everyone else do it makes her laugh so hard her sides hurt

She lets out her more soft side and tries to pet all animals she sees

She once stole a duck and brought it home, Akutagawa wasn’t happy 

Atsushi

He will be a mess

100% a giggly drunk, he’ll find everything funny, even Kunkida’s dad jokes.  

He’ll accidently activate his ability and be walking around with a tail and not even notice it. 

Speaking of his tail, when drunk he likes to chase it as he gives into his more cat like tendencies, Dazai has a video of Atsushi chasing his tail for a good 20 minutes  

This boy will devour an entire restaurants worth of chazuke, if he could while drunk 

He likes to climb trees and he’s good at it, Kunida once found him at the top of a tree curled up asleep 

He’s also more blunt and will roast the fuck out of Akutagawa 

He also roasts Dazai a little bit but not as much as Akutagawa

He likes to transform into is tiger form and nap when drunk

He’d probably curse and then say fuck because he cursed and then just spiral into a stream of fucks 

He will try catch cats to cuddle, he once followed a cat two blocks just to pet him

I imagine him enjoying amusement parks so he’d go to once while drunk and have the time of his life until he got nauseous on the rides 

I also imagine he like play video games so when drunk he’ll do that and have the time of his life

Suddenly sweet baby atsushi is cursing and swearing like a sailor

He’ll pass out pretty quick and once he’s passed out, he’s out like a light for the rest of the evening.

Junchiro 

He likes his alcohol delivered in baked goods

He will try drunk bake/cook

He will pass out quickly and just cuddle his own sweater

He tries to flirt with women but naomi does not like it

My man will be shirtless trying to make a souffle at 2am

This was so fun to write, I’m sorry it took so long but I hope you enjoy this crack <3 

[savnofilter]

Another Year Together

Todoroki x 『GN』Reader

↬ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ(s): intoxication, mentions of partying too hard, injuries and cleaning said injuries, crack (?), fluff.

↬ᴡᴄ: 2.5k [10 mins].

↬ᴀ/ɴ: ahhhh i was bummed that i dont have any sfw shouto reqs *cough cough* send some- *cough cough* anyways so i made up a scenario of my own! i have more fluff ideas i'd love to put out but this may be the birthday fic or i'll post something else tonight if i can~ every time there needs to be a party, just know either mina or kaminari threw it. also its a little rushed because i wanted to get this out tonight and this is the longest sfw piece ive ever written. ;; pffft hopefully you all will love this as much as i loved writing it, happy birthday shouto!

"Stay still." Shouto muttered to you as you squirmed away from the harsh sting the disinfectant alcohol caused your bruised skin.

"Mmmnhmm... M' sorry." You utter haltingly, your leg jerking once more from the sudden sensation. You look up at him with puppy eyes, guilt-stricken as you have already broken your promise.

He stared at you for a few seconds before his gaze softened as you stuck out your bottom lip with a sorrowful look on your face. As he smooths the cloth over your exposed thighs, he softly sighs under his breath, expertly concealing the roll of his eyes. Todoroki was relieved that your reflexes were still in shape, the abuse of the liquor not interfering much with your cognition... at least not too much. 

You two shared the same birthday. He had no idea that celebrating your big day of turning 21 would've been so hectic. As many things between you and Todorooki, you guys took today as a competition. The day started with you both trying to one-up each other since Todoroki’s lucky day was yours as well. First, your day with a breakfast made by him -- with the assistance of Bakugo of course. You couldn’t help the warm swell in your heart at how much effort he had put into it but it wouldn’t top you! While you two interned at the same agency it was pretty easy to surprise him with a big B-Day lunch and an obnoxious bouquet.

“This is a little too much…” 

“There is no such thing as too much for you, Sho.”

Truthfully, he felt that way because he wanted to wow you as well. He was glad that today was a calm day concerning his patrol watch, giving him time to map up his day today and think about all the other miscellaneous thoughts that roamed his head. The painting he had saved for this momentous day sat in the back of his head as he patrolled the streets, the small accessory along with it sitting next to the rest of his pee-pee pouches making him grow nervous. I had kept the small item with him in fear of losing it, the last thing he needed was it to go missing under his watch.

You on the other handheld no qualms about goofing off for the day. Now, you weren’t entirely wasting away the day, you just simply knew how to let loose. With the great news you’d be staying in the office you had more than enough time to help plan and finalize Todoroki’s surprise birthday party. You bit your lip as you checked in with your longtime friend, Kaminari, to host the momentous occasion. Your mind was mostly occupied with the thought of the party and the small but significant present that you had in your desk draw. You and Todoroki had the same mind, the only thing setting you apart is you somehow being more… airhead than him. 

Impossible, right? Not at all. That’s how it explains why he was busy cleaning up your injuries.

After being sent home early you had taken him out to lunch for some soba and well, boba as a great lunch treat — simple enough. You both were full upon going back home, giving you two a few hours to snuggle up and nap to rejoice with the sleep you two had lost from over the time having part-time heroes. Holding back the excited news of the party was hard to do, the first thing you did when you woke up was jump up and usher him to get up as well.

“What -- why??” Shouto glared as he was forced to sit up, rubbing his eyes with the free hand that you didn’t use to pull him up.

“C’mooonn! I just have one more thing to show you for today!” You beam brightly. Your facial expression was as bright as ever like you hadn’t just slept for 4 hours before that. Everything in his body wanted to resist but he couldn’t as he wouldn’t bring himself to. It took but only an hour for the both of you to get ready, sending Kaminari a quick text to make sure that everything was set for sure. 

“Honey, I know this might sound a little odd but I need you to put this on.” You hand him the blindfold once you find him dressed and ready. You couldn’t help but grin at his confused face when he stares at the piece of fabric.

“I thought you said we were going out?” He asks mildly confused, taking it and putting it on anyway.

You paused and gave yourself a moment to think about his response, your cheeks feeling hot at the insinuation. Todoroki’s small giggle makes you feel better about your flustered words, rolling your eyes annoyed when he teased you like that. “Just hold onto my hand okay?” You instruct, hand coming up to hold him as an example. He nods his head as he follows your lead, more excited than what he led on.

The trip from your apartment down to your car didn’t take too long, the assistance of helping him not trip over his shoes harder than you thought. It was hard to keep back your laugh as he fumbled here and there, the most highlight of your experience was helping him in his care (like he usually did with you) and even buckling in his seat (not something he did for you). You were practically buzzing in your seat in excitement as you took off as soon as you were ready, the journey to his place not too far from your own. You bobbed your head to the music of the radio as you vibed along with the beats, fingers tapping the steering wheel as you mumbled the lyrics to whatever song played. Had it not been winter time in Japan you would’ve had the windows down, but you had to settle with the subtle and gentle breeze of the heaters on your skin instead.

“We’re here.” You announced your arrival. You used the keycard Kaminari had given you as the entrance to his apartment complex and zoomed-in irresponsibly. It was easy finding a parking space on the higher levels conveniently the same as his home. You hopped out and helped Todoroki out from his seat and helped him to the elevator. “Promise me to have fun, okay?” The question was simple enough, but your level of fun always exceeded his. 

The sentence made him turn in your direction with confusion heavy on the top of his head. You took out the key from your pocket and jiggled it into the lock. As soon as he was about to open his mouth you yoinked the blindfold off his eyes, the first thing his eyes seeing your cheerful grin and everyone popping up from their hiding places and throwing the decorations up that they held in their hands.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” 

Todoroki was taken back from the whole thing. How many people were there, the familiar faces, the decorations, and just overall effort that was put into this. He couldn’t help but look over at you with the same adoration he normally did when you looked the other way. He was greeted by so many of his friends and mutuals, the overwhelming amount of gifts that sat on the table, and the arrangement of food and drinks that sat up in the spacious room. In the back of his head, he knew he would have to keep an eye on you, and he was right.

The group had gathered to get some cake to get it out the way, the bonus of ice cream filling your tummy with happiness. As soon as you had finished your dessert plate, you declared everyone should loosen up; since no one objected, you went straight for shots. First, it was one, two, then it was two at once, then it was some straight from Mina’s belly button. You held no restraint at your alcohol intake, taking the immature opportunity to drink to your heart’s content. While you were liberal with your amount, Todoroki decided to take in practically none. The verses of your habits are almost amusing to watch like your two contrasting but similar personalities.

Later in the night when the mayhem had started. You and a few friends decided to dance on a few more dangerous surfaces, guaranteeing the sacrifice of one of them being Kaminari’s glass table. 

“Holy shit—” Mina quickly rushed to your side, the same drunken posture and smile on her face as she tried to help you up, careful not to get the same glass shards that scattered the floor. “Are you okay-?!”

“YO Y/N WILDING!” Denki tries helping you up too, the help of the duo helping you somewhat.

You stumbled to get up, the flashlight of other people’s phones making you weary. “I-I’m fine-” You managed to let out, standing as you tried to clear your head and drink the water handed towards you. Either the H2O in that cup gave you courage or you simply went crazy. “let’s go again!” 

Todoroki was left speechless upon watching you continue to party on, knowing damn well he'd have to stop you soon. He wasn’t one to attend parties, and most times when he did they always ended up like this. It seemed after your fall that the knock had given you a sign to calm down at least, deciding to drink more beverages that didn’t hold liquor in it. After some time he had managed to get you in his lap, holding you as he monitored your well-being. 

As much as your reckless behavior would have annoyed someone else, he found it almost endearing. Well… not really in the sense you were drinking yourself silly, but in the fact that you still had the spirit to keep up and party even after the effects of your last hour of madness. It wasn’t long till you had gotten comfortable in his arms you had successfully partied yourself to sleep. Todoroki was careful in lifting you, thanking everyone from attending before quietly slipping out from the apartment. 

He took a deep breath as he somehow managed to find your car, maneuvering to get you into the car and hopping in on his side to drive you home. Todoroki made sure to drive carefully in hopes that you wouldn’t barf all over his car that you had used to get there. The drive back was much quicker than when you two had headed up since it was practically dead at night and the streets empty. He liked drives like these. A part of him was sad that you weren’t awake for it.

Your boyfriend repeated the same process when he had pulled into your apartment complex, picking up your body and bringing you up to your shared home. He was dedicated to getting you situated, prepared to take care of you as much as he needed to. That’s how he found himself tending to your scrapes and bruises right now.

“You know I’m never going to let you drink again.” Shouto teases you, smirking lightly at your sad expression.

“You’d never!” You argued back with the same teasing tone, moving to cross your arms, stifling the pain as you did so.

Todoroki snorts at your dedication to hold up the act, nodding his head as he finished cleaning up your legs. “You’re right. But don’t expect me not to monitor you from now on.” 

A smile tugs at your lips at his words, uncrossing your arms. The lingering drunk feeling still played in how you thought and spoke but not managing to affect how effortless it was to talk to Shouto. You blushed when he picked up your hands, kissing the back of your hands as he spoke to you once again.

“I have a present for you.” He mutters against your skin, eyes trained on the fresh bandages before looking up at you. He wasn’t looking for an answer and he didn’t wait for one either. He hoped that you couldn’t tell that he was weary, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small velvet box. 

Your eyes widened at the realization of what he held in his hand, your heart beating faster as you sat up in your chair. “Sh-Sho?”

“It’s not what you think.” He responds almost defensively. Shouto bites his lip in anticipation, fiddling with the little box. “... it’s a promise ring,” Todoroki concludes. He felt like he had to explain himself for the slightly expensive jewelry. “If you don’t want it-”

You had engulfed him in a hug, pulling him tight against you as you had started to sob. You couldn’t think of words for how happy you were. The only thing that had taken over your body was actions. You nuzzled your face into his neck once his arms wrapped around your shaking your body. His hands soothingly rubbed your back, letting you get out what you wanted. He couldn’t help but laugh when you pull away with the most love-filled face he’d ever seen you make.

“You okay?”

“I’m perfect!” You hastily wiped your face with the help of Shouto, shakily laughing once he leaned into pepper your face with kisses. 

“I was afraid that I scared you,” Shouto admits. You shake your head as you grab his hands, placing his palms on your cheeks, appreciating his soft palms.

“No… your hands are really soft…” You mumble. Your mind went blank as you tried to remember the next line you were going to speak, pouting as you looked around for the answer. The shock of him handing you the ring has successfully shaken you into processing your brain a little better, the heavy impacts of your drinking still lingering on.

“Are you okay?” He asks, worried. You nod your head in affirmation. 

“A kiss could cheer me up.” You give him the same puppy eyes that you used before, weaponizing your cuteness to your advantage. He slightly cringed at the thought, hesitating before leaning in and placing a soft kiss against yours. He prepared himself to taste the alcohol against his lips. He pulled away once he deemed it ready, wiping his mouth and getting the ring he kept in his hand the whole day.

“I think you owe me by wearing the ring for making me kiss you.” He huffs, slipping the ring on your finger, his heart beating at the sound of your giggle.

“Nah you love me without the ring~”

“Yes, but I’d prefer you with it on.” He stands up and holds his hand out for you, taking you into his arms once again for the night and carrying you to your room. “For now get some rest, okay?” He sat you down on the bed and got you changed out of your clothes, sneaking in a few playful kisses here and there to make you laugh. Shouto’s main focus was just to get you situated to sleep peacefully for the night. 

“G’night, Sho…” You mutter to him as you got comfortable in the sheets. Although the returning soreness didn’t go away you had managed to close your eyes and get comfortable.

“Goodnight.” He watched you until you fell asleep before leaving the room to prepare for you the pain medication you’d need in the morning for your impending hangover. 

You never needed the promise ring to let you know he loved you; his actions always told you so.

[bigkyloenergy]

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕: 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃.

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead. 18+.

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back.

read on ao3.

Empty mugs piled the tables faster than you could keep up tonight, collecting them in your arms and being forced to inhale the putrid smell of ale that should’ve gotten familiar by now. You wrinkled your nose, hoping no leftovers would splash on your clothes as you journeyed to the kitchen. The first snowfall had hit, and it was heavy, the windows covered in blankets of fluffy white curtains. Men huddled near the fire, booking more days than normal, waiting for it to pass. While your impatience wore differently. 

Subconsciously, your mind could conjure the exact days since you’d seen him. 

But the last few days have been check in, check out — change sheets, check in again, check out early — is that person even still here?... and repeat, your body was a machine catered to serving. 

Seemed like useless tasks now that you knew what it was like to awaken every nerve ending that you possessed. For what seemed like millionth time, you damned the Viper who had found routine passing in your workplace, leaving you with this cursed form, like leftover ash from a campfire.

You counted the keys gone when you slinked back behind the counter, wiping your forehead on the back of your sleeve, grateful when you found only a few missing. The last week they’d been emptied, along with your sanity. 

  “Pst, missy,” Ruek whispered from behind you, and you turned to see his fuzzy face peeking from behind the heavy kitchen door, “you got anymore orders?” 

  “No,” you gave him a tired smile, “just checked out ten guys in a row, who I swear were the same person.” 

  “Beards’ll do that to ya,” his kind eyes squinted as he emerged, and you leaned against your station, giving your feet a slight break, “they make us pretty. Here, close your eyes and open up. I’ve got a surprise.” 

Hesitating, you gave him a look, tipping your chin as you tried to see what he was holding behind his back. He clicked his tongue, “Come on, your cheating nature is showing, close your damn eyes it’s not gonna kill ya.” 

Finally, you sighed, doing as he said. You could use a bit of a distraction from work anyway, all you did was go home, plant your face into the pillow only to wake up to the same programming. 

  “Open,” he reminded, which only made you more annoyed. It was Ruek, so you inevitably gave in to avoid the argument. You felt something cold on your lip, reaching your tongue toward the ‘special’ treat, and biting into… chocolate? Quickly, juices poured into your mouth, which urged you to finally open your eyes. 

The cook stood, grinning proudly, a dipped strawberry in his hand. “Eck, Ru, you should've warned me, you know how I am about stuff that sweet.” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but what followed was not from him.

  “I used to think this inn had good service,” Kylo’s voice strapped you to an invisible post, straightening your back, choking on the leftover flavors. 

The Viper wasn’t looking at you, he was staring straight at Ruek, exigently demanding a response. 

  “My fault, thought Miss could use a little break.” 

  “Hm.” 

You wanted him to look at you, your very soul was demanding it, to be drowned, the striking yellow in his eyes two suns that burned everything in their path, and you the phoenix who rose under them.

How long had he been here?  

   “Do you need a key?” You finally spoke, trying to sound nonchalant, licking the bits of chocolate off of your lips as you reached for one.

  “No. I already have one.” 

What? Betty wasn’t even here. You had been the only one checking anyone in and out for the last couple days. Your brows furrowed. 

  “There’s a spill near the gwent tables.” He added.

  “Is that why you came over here?” You could feel Ruek looking at you, wondering why the hell you were questioning the man in the first place. Of course, The Viper didn’t answer, nor did he fully acknowledge your presence.

  “I got it. If we have no more orders. No problem. Just — uh let Jerrid know if you need anything from the kitchen.” Ruek shuffled away while you were too busy playing stare off with Kylo’s mask. 

  “You let everyone’s fingers in your mouth, little müna?”

  “What? No. He has me taste test stuff all the time,” gods, this man kept you oversharing at any crumb of attention he gave you, still severely irritated with overgrown mutant though you began to smirk, “is that why you came over here? Are you.. are you jealous?” 

  “You expect me to play cards next to someone’s secretions.”

  “It is, isn’t it? You can play Mr. Keepaway all you want, you think you have this affect on me where you can use me to your will. But you wanna know what I know that you don’t?” 

He didn’t respond, eye twitching, which only aided you, leaning over the counter that Kylo could very easily hop, and this was when he finally met your eyes. Though your traitor of a body screamed with validation, you only grinned.

  “I know this isn’t one sided. What would you do if you knew I fucked him?” You didn’t, of course, but the thought of making The Viper jealous thrilled you to the core, “If I let him cum in my mouth without having to force my jaw open? If he was the one I was fallin—” 

Your chin was grabbed, keeping you still over the counter, your feet almost hovering on the floor. Leather squished your cheeks, his gaze scooping your bravery from you in a single second. 

  “Careful.” The Witcher warned, studying your face, tipping it slightly in his grip, reviving the soreness in your jaw.

  “Or what, Kylo?”

He paused, and for some reason you knew you weren’t going to lack a response this time. Dropping you, he left you to land against the bartop, and his broad shoulders turned toward the small crowd. 

  “Leave.” His voice was a crack of thunder, splitting the customers' relaxation in half.

Most scattered to their feet, afraid of why this King of the Abyss was evicting them, not wanting to take the chance. The men who were brave enough to stay were met with a glint of silver, only to follow, and you heard the silence from valleys away. 

Your eyes darted to find Ruek, there was no living thing in that room except you and Kylo.

If he was even living. 

  “What the hell? What’re you doing? Are you trying to make me lose my job?” He caught your neck again, like it was a new skill he was practicing, then pulled his mask down over his chin.

The whole world stopped. Your breathing was arrested in your lungs, feeling a rush of awareness cut off your circulation and leave you dizzy with the sight of perfect, scarred lips, remembering how earnestly they had caressed your breasts atop of his horse. He was grimacing, wrinkles near his nose as he looked down at you. A lost warning. 

He slammed you into the nearest table, not paying mind to any of the silverware that was under you nor the plates he had just shattered on the floor. Standing between your legs that hung off the end of the it, the fireplace triggered the iridescence of his armor, another engligment to why he wore his title so well. 

You couldn’t stop studying his face, mapping every curve, and you were needy as you leaned up in an attempt to capture his mouth, find every ingredient of what made up this man that haunted you, possessed you. 

Not a ghost, but a demon. 

Just as your lips brushed against the tip of his, your tongue an anxious explorer, he pressed you back down into the oak. 

  “You are mine,” He spat, his lips curling around his teeth as he let the word marinate on his tongue. 

  “No,” you gasped, “f—fuck you, I’m not anyone’s, and you out of everyone has shown me that.” 

  “No? So your cunt isn’t soaked for me right now?” Your thighs pressed together, lips parting just at the words rolled off his venomous tongue, yet you shook your head in pure denial. “Liar. I can smell you. Can practically taste it.” The unoccupied hand ran along the outside of your thigh, under your skirts, til he pinched the fat between his fingers. 

The way his mask hung at his chin was just as sensual as his voice, you didn’t even know how that was physically possible, then again this man broke the rules of reality every time you saw him. He pulled you down further, pressing his hips into yours, “Say it.” 

  “I won’t,” your voice broke with a whine as you felt the bulge in his pants, your legs wrapping around him without a second thought, he smacked your calf, forcing them to hang once more. You groaned, yearning to feel some sort of pressure at your pulsing clit, your body’s temperature spiking by the second. 

  “Hm. We’ll see.” 

The Viper plucked the string that held your bodice together, pulling it until it completely unraveled, your blouse the only thing that hid your perking breasts. You looked down to his gloved hand, then back to him, hair skating over his shoulders, gods-made handles for your undoing. You let out a sigh as he thumbed your nipple through the material, keeping his palm wrapped around your throat. Your hips buckled, finding nothing, the beast keeping his hips perfectly spaced from yours so you couldn’t use him for any sort of pleasure. You felt your blood boiling, and not just from the intricate torture he was inflicting. No man had ever had this affect on you, but he was not any man. 

A low growl came from deep in Kylo’s throat, and your eyes opened, not realizing you shut them in the first place. He was unblinking, watching your reaction as the stitch of his glove rolled around the bud. 

  “Please, Kylo,” you begged, shattering every restraint you had just from seeing him so immersed in you like this, still clothed yet utterly hopeless, knowing he was your only salvation.

  “Say it.” 

You whined, one of your fists hitting the table, not wanting to give into him. But you weren’t the only one suffering. Pulling your top down, he released your tits from their confines, and immediately consumed them. His mouth opened, hot and wet, leaving easy marks as he glided from one to the other, tightening his hand on your neck every time your chittering frame squirmed. 

One of your hands found his hair, and you were surprised when he didn’t pull it from his head. You took the opportunity earnestly, digging your fingers through the raven locks, breaking through knots to find a good grip. He sucked on you like he was getting oxygen straight from your skin, popping a nipple from his mouth only to give the same attention to the other. 

Your cunt was pulsing so badly it hurt, every flutter mocking the emptiness of it, so much that you had to swallow down noises at every flick of the Viper’s tongue. 

Leather fingers danced back down your form, parting your thighs, not hesitating as they peeled your panties from your saturated pussy. The first time you had his cock, you fucked yourself into a rage trying to mimic the way it felt, three fingers wasn’t enough for the fantasy and you knew it. Being so close to that now left you ravenous, forgetting the challenge that was imposed in the first place. 

He ran the tip of his finger down the line of your lips, collecting the juices at the end of it with a single scoop before he pushed it back inside of you. Barely spreading you as he toyed with your entrance, circling and stretching it open, already making wet noises in the emptied inn. 

  “Fuck! I — please fuck me, please. I’ll do anything. Please just — fuck Kylo, please.” The words could barely be made out through insistent whines, he stayed silent, his mouth and finger working diligently to send you over that edge, into the pool of his domination. 

He reached his thumb up to press pressure on your clit, never moving it, while the finger hooked inside of you, and your whole body jerked forward. Kylo quickly put your back in your place, mentally and physically, forcing you to remember his promise. 

  “I’m yours! Okay! I’m yours, puhleaaase, just please…” You couldn’t even properly be convincing, though you meant it, even if you didn’t want to admit it outside of him fucking you sensless. 

He yielded both of his hands, lifting his face from your chest and ridding you of the secure grip you had on his head. Honey yellow eyes surveyed you from your heavy lidded gaze, all the way down to your lifted skirts, then back up again. 

  “Hm. I suppose I need to be more convincing.” In one languid motion, he had your dress above your head, corset falling to the floor with it, leaving you completely bare on top of the main round table in the dead center of your job. Ruek could be watching from the back for all you knew. 

Kylo leered above you, his chest filling, consuming your gaze as much as he did your mind. His teeth pinched the middle finger of his glove, pulling it off with his mouth.

Your stomach flipped. 

He grabbed the amulet that hung at his neck, snapping it off and rolling it around in his hand, examining it the same way he did you. You could swear you saw his eyes glisten with… something, before his focus was back.

The Viper’s large fist started to glow, and soon so did the metal.

Anticipation tickled the back of your neck, your heartbeat similar to an approaching wardrum as it filled your eyes the more you watched, “what’re you doing?” 

  “Showing you.” He didn’t blink.

  “Showing me what?” 

  “Who you belong to.” 

The metal of the viper face was red hot, smoking nearly. He held it between two fingers, grabbing your thigh in one hand and tugging you as you began to crawl up the table. You obediently stilled. 

“Don’t move or we’ll have to do it again.” 

You sucked in a breath of air, senses filling with his scent — pine, mint, leather, the very earth. Just as you did he began to line his cock up with your entrance, rubbing against the folds. He hushed you as you squeaked, and began to lower the medallion down between the hills of your chest. He perfectly lined it up, not having to look twice before he dropped his hand down, and you cried out. The flesh boiled and singed, and the entire map of your skin feeling the aftermath.

The pain was quickly distracted by another as he split you open, a growl being spat between his teeth as his cock sunk all the way into you, giving no time to adjust to the overwhelming size of him. Your nails dug at the stained wood, scratching for some kind of stability as your skin bubbled, painting a gift made by the Viper himself, all while the tip of his dick began to wrack against your cervix. 

Your eyes rolled back completely into your head, nimble fingers finding straps of his armor to hold onto, which only assisted him in beating his hips off of your cunt. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, your knee barely making it to curve, it only helped the Witcher angle you to his pillaging. 

The smell of burnt flesh filled your nose, truly you almost forgot about the branding he had just centered on your torso, meeting euphoria with the way his cock worked inside of you. It sent you to another plane, both of his large hands gripping your hips as he forced your smaller frame to bounce off of him. Forks and other leftover dining ware pinched at your back, ridding them off the table the more he pounded you.

His eyes were blazing carnality, encapsulating the definition of primal. 

  “You are mine,” he spoke through each stroke of his hips, dropping the carved metal to hold your body still with the familiar hold on your neck, “every inch of you… you are a hole for me to fuck. And that is all you are.” 

You whined, specks floating in your sight as you kept alert, eyes so heavy with pleasure it was damn near blinding you. 

  “The next time you let another man touch you,” a sharp smack of his hips, pain crawling up your spine, threatening to quite literally break you, “I will fuck you atop of his carcass.” 

Another plunge of his cock and the table was splintering under you, until it snapped in two. Kylo didn’t care — in fact, it was as if it didn’t even happen, the perfect savage beat he was plowing you with was never broken. 

He just used his own body as a kickstand for your lower half, the persistent assault keeping you where he wanted, finding no need in his hands other than to appreciate your body.

Kylo twisted your nipple, sliding across the spot he had just engraved, your lips parting in return. You heard another grunt from him, forcing your dazed focus on his face, which would forever be your most vivid memory, and you couldn’t even bring warning for the orgasm that he was inducing. 

Just as it creeped up, his bare thumb was circling expertly over your swollen knot, breaking the dam. Your climax poured in, walls clenching and milking his cock in the process. 

A gritty groan was dropped into your ear, and it only served as a catalyst to your silent screams, legs shaking while your cunt became much more sensitive. You tried to pull up, away from his relentless motions, he didn’t let you, just chased you along the broken table, filling you to the brim. 

Lewd sounds began to echo with the crackles of the fire, and all you could focus on was him — he was watching his cock go in and out of you, holding your skirts above your waist to get a good view of his slickened dick, pushing him toward his own finale, using you every inch of the way. 

You could barely tell from his face when he finished, you studied the Viper like it was your true passion, fossilizing his mannerisms, expressions, even his voice. You ate up every moment, the threat of them being memories a looming shadow of presence. The tiny twitch of his nose, deep wrinkle of his forehead, subtle signs he was coming apart for you. 

He pulled out of your fluttering cunt, after leaving a lazy kiss on the scabbing mark of possession he’d left, being more gentle with that than any part of you.

Kylo pulled his mask back over his face before he was tucking his cock away. You were almost sad to see it go. 

If he didn’t come back after this, maybe you’d be okay. You looked down at the piece of himself that he permanently placed on you, your finger running on the curve of its open mouth. It didn’t hurt, maybe due to the adrenaline pumping through your veins. By the time you looked back up, he was turned. 

  “What’re you—”

  “Sh.” 

Your lips pressed together, wanting to reach for your dress, yet something about him told you not to move a muscle. 

The door pushed open, a panicked villager entering, tripping over themselves at every step.

  “Help, a monster is attacking the town! It’s killing everyone, my family, please!” 

[purplesauris]

Let The Universe Go Red

Din doesn't know what to do without his son and a broken creed- how does he pick up the pieces scattered among the stars? 

This is entirely dedicated to @frostedbasilisk who not only got me into the Mandalorian but held on while I ranted and raved about these idiots

Read on AO3 here!

He’d broken his Creed. He’d told himself, reminded himself that he’d done it for a far less selfish reason than his brain supplied. That he’d done it for his ad’ika, to save him. He would do it again a thousand times over, no matter how the outcome remained the same. 

The recycled air on his face felt as much a betrayal as the influx of light that blinded his sensitive eyes. But the small clawed hand that smoothed over his cheek, touching with the same gentle insistence as he did when he wanted dinner or a snack or just to be held, that didn’t. It felt like a homecoming, like a part of his soul was finally settling after drifting aimlessly for far too long among the stars. Grogu stares up at him, dark, bottomless eyes wide and enraptured by the way that Din’s brows twitch, lips twisting as nerves strangle his heart.

“It’s okay, kid. You can go with him. He’s your kind.” A large, soft ear brushes against his chin as Grogu tucks his head against the fabric of his bodysuit, right above where his chest piece begins. Din lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes and tucking his nose against the top of Grogu’s little green head, hugging him a bit closer. The back of his neck crawls, jitters making his fingers twitch as he straightens up again, aware that every moment he spends with his helmet off is another he can never reclaim. “This isn’t goodbye, I’ll see you again, okay?”

Grogu coos sadly, ears drooping, and Din runs a finger along the bottom edge, trying to smile and unsure of whether he succeeds. He glances up toward the Jedi- Luke, he’d supplied, and finds his head turned away, gaze respectfully pinned on the distant stars through the windows of the bridge. His head tilts, birdlike, toward his stoic form, and Din watches the way that the corner of Luke's mouth quirks up in a smile, easy as breathing. 

“Of course.” Luke’s voice surprises him- strong and unwavering, refined in a way that makes him feel rough around the edges. It takes a second for Din to realize that he isn’t being spoken to, and that Grogu has turned in his arms to regard Luke with open, childlike curiosity. The kid gurgles quietly, tilting his head much like Din and giggling all of a sudden. Luke’s smile grows, and he turns then, eyes downcast as he walks over and holds his hands out. “I’ll hold him a moment. Your helmet, Mandalorian?”

Din hands Grogu over with jerky movements, unsure, but Grogu grabs onto the folds of Luke’s dark cloak, settling down and getting comfortable. Din stoops, scooping his helmet off of the floor and hesitating once again. It’s- not allowed. For him to put it back on, to pretend, but Luke waits patiently, gaze averted so as not to look. The crawling on the back of his neck overpowers the logical part of his mind, and he slips on the helmet, sighing as the lock snaps into place, sealing around his jaw and equalizing the pressure inside. Din feels like he can finally see again, vision tinted by the visor, and he drags in a breath. The modulator in his helmet distorts his voice, making it rougher, but it’s a comfort to hear the feedback from his own voice rather than the echoing silence of the bridge. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. Walk with me a moment?” Luke finally looks up, blue eyes curious, and Din stands under his scrutiny as he looks over the contours of the helmet. Each look is a brand on his skin, knowing that whatever Luke is looking for he’ll find. Din dips his head toward the door, motioning, and Luke turns in a swish of fabric, hopping easily over the discarded pieces of the dark-troopers that his saber had cut through like butter. Din skirts around them, kicking a few pieces out of his way, and stares helplessly as Grogu peeks over Luke’s shoulder, giggling happily at the way that Luke boosts him a bit higher. His little hand waves, the corners of his eyes crinkling happily, and Din feels like his heart will beat out of his chest. 

“You’ll protect him?” Din asks, not expecting the way that Luke stops and turns to him, blue eyes steely as he holds his hand out. Din reaches out automatically and Luke grips his forearm tight, pulling him a bit closer, Din biting down on the rising panic to shove away, to put distance between him and Luke. 

“He’s my student now, Mandalorian. My life without him is forfeit.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.” He replies, uncomfortable with the thought, but Luke only laughs, as if seeing the way that Din’s thoughts mirror that sentiment so close. 

“He’ll be safe under my care, Mandalorian. That I can promise.” Luke nods his head, releasing Din’s arm and dropping his hand. They continue their trek back to the hanger, where an old, battered x-wing idles, an R2 unit poking out of the top. Its head piece swivels toward them on approach, whistling merrily at the sight of Luke coming back. Luke pauses by his ship, turning and considering Din for a moment as Grogu balances on his shoulder, a tiny hand gripping a handful of Luke’s sandy blonde hair tight. Luke doesn’t seem at all concerned, and doesn’t wince even when Grogu stretches to touch the side of the ship, pulling on his hair. “Have you said your last goodbyes?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Din stands, awkward under Luke’s observant gaze, and Luke sighs softly. He waits a moment more, as if expecting Din to speak before hoisting himself up onto the wing of his ship before slipping into the open cockpit. Grogu holds on tight as Luke climbs, and he disappears from view momentarily as Luke pulls him down off his shoulder and into his lap. Grogu pops back up once the cockpit has lowered, sealing them in, and Din raises a hand, waving weakly as Grogu wags his little arms in goodbye. Heat burns at the back of his eyes as the ship maneuvers back and out of the airlock, momentarily drifting unanchored before the ship turns with a deft movement and zips off, disappearing rapidly into the inky black of the sky. 

The others find him there, standing so close to the airlock that one stray movement would send him plunging into the cold crushing abyss of space. He doesn’t move when they approach him, though his fingers twitch toward the holster of his blaster on pure instinct alone. 

“Hey, Boba’s on his way. Once he gets back we can take off, get back to Nevarro.” Din doesn’t reply, and his head jerks toward Cara when she places a hand on his upper arm. “The kid’ll be fine, Mando.”

“I know.” He looks back toward the airlock, ignoring the heavy sigh that Cara lets out. He knows that Grogu will be fine- that was his quest, after all, to deliver him to his kind, but the signet on his arm, the vicious, graceful curve of a mudhorn seems like an empty promise now. He’s a clan of one again, with his kid gone, and he doesn’t know what to think about that. What he’s supposed to do, now that he has no home, no clan, only a broken creed left for him to cling to. He’s nearly knocked over when Boba comes sailing into the airlock, the waves from his engines buffeting Din in forceful waves that push him further away from the air lock, displacing him. 

Cara and Fennec stand off to the side, well away from the landing area, and only move closer when the door to the ship drops, allowing them access. Din is the first one in, stalking up the small ramp and climbing with smooth, determined movements up and into the cockpit where Boba lays, strapped into his chair. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Din swings himself up into the adjacent chair, laying back and strapping himself in. The last thing he wants is to be down below, with others who will drag words out of him he doesn’t want to say. Boba though, is silent as he slips back out of the hangar bay, calling out a warning for the ladies to settle before he tips, taking off like a shot. Din watches the stars shoot by the glass of the cockpit, hands itching to take the yolk from Boba and make them go faster, further and further away from the cruiser and Bo Katan and the memory of holding his child for an instant before losing him again. 

“Where’s the kid?” Boba’s voice is low, melodic compared to his, and still it takes him off guard whenever he chooses to speak. 

“I didn’t come up here to talk.”

“Too bad, Mand’alor.” Din jerks in his chair, the restraints digging the plates of his armor mercilessly back into him. 

“Do not call me that. I’m not-”

“You carry the darksaber.” Boba points out, head turning toward him, and Din’s hand reaches to pull the handle of the saber from his belt, staring. He’d tried to hand it over to Bo Katan, didn’t want the responsibility, but she’d refused. He’d have to be defeated in battle in order for her to take it, to truly rule, and she hadn’t seemed inclined to try while they were stuck in the bridge of a ship she found useful. Maybe she had less of a death wish than he’d first been led to believe. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“I told you I didn’t come here to talk.” Boba hums next to him, unconvinced, but Din sits resolutely beside him, turning the darksaber over and over in his hands, memorizing the pattern etched in the dark hilt. The longer he stares, the more he finds that he does want to talk. “A Jetii showed up. I let him take the kid.”

“Which Jetii?”

“He said his name was Luke.” Din catches the way that Boba’s hands tighten around the yolk, the ship jerking forward a bit with the extra pressure, and he lets out a sharp breath, relaxing. “You know him?”

“Might have captured him a time or two.” That draws a startled laugh out of Din, and he can practically hear Boba grinning behind his helmet. Din finds himself smiling back, but it falls quickly, fading as he looks over his shoulder for Grogu, remembering that this isn’t his ship, and that he’s gone. Din turns back, hoping that Boba didn’t notice, and presses back into his seat as they slide into hyperspace, headed for Nevarro. Boba reaches up, clicking on the autopilot, then unbuckles himself, turning his chair to face Din fully now. Din unbuckles, mirroring him, though he can’t quite meet his gaze.

“I broke the Creed.” Boba crosses his arms over his chest, bobbing his head in a gesture that tells Din to go on. He feels like he’s choking, the smooth fabric of his bodysuit pulling in tighter and tighter, and he gasps in a breath before he finds the words to speak. “I took my helmet off.”

“Who saw?” The bounty hunter in front of him is a quiet, deadly force, and Din can feel the simmering rage that so mirrors his own. But while Boba’s is noble, turned toward whoever saw, Din’s turns inward, toward himself. Toward the weakness that had him break his creed not once, but twice. For his inability to let go, to leave that day that he’d dropped the kid off with the Imperials. 

“The kid. A few Imperial soldiers.”

“Are they dead?” Din nods, and Boba relaxes a bit. “That leaves your ad’ika. Did you claim him as your own?” Din looks up then, helmet raising, and his eyes close despite knowing that Boba can’t truly see him. Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Grogu. He’d said it so long ago, when the signet on his armor was still fresh and gleaming, and hadn’t looked back since. He’d been tasked with a quest by his Armorer, one he couldn’t ignore, but this had been- different. Grogu had brought a light and a purpose to his life that he hadn’t had since he was a child, since he’d sworn the creed and let the helmet seal around his jaw, hiding his face away. 

“Yes.” Boba doesn’t say anything else, but when Din opens his eyes Boba is still watching him, as if the answer lies in front of him. 

                                                              -*-

Nevarro is just as Din had left it- the lava flats still bubbled and shivered with heat, and dust crusted every inch of anything that wasn’t uncovered. The town was better, happier, the air less oppressive now that the Imperials had been driven off and Karga had taken over to straighten the city out. Cara seems relieved to be back on solid, familiar ground, and she heads off to find out what’s been going on, leaving Din to wander the market by himself. He watches the crowd for sneaking hands or hidden weapons, but nothing serious has happened on Nevarro in months, and Din isn’t quite sure what to do when faced with a crowd who doesn’t want to kill him or steal bounties right out from under him. 

He’s beginning to get used to people finding him in places, because he doesn't jump when a hand claps across his back in a friendly pat, merely turning and tilting his head at the sight of Greef’s graying beard. “Karga.”

“Mando, good to see you again. Here to reconsider the guild?”

“If I am?” Karga grins at him then, squeezing his shoulder and ushering him through the crowd and away from the main bulk of the town. 

“I’ve got a job lined up, if you’re inclined to take it.” 

“Reward?”

“Something you’ll like.” It’s willfully vague and Din doesn’t like it at all. Karga seems to know because he sighs, exasperated, and pulls him along when Din begins to lag behind. “Let me show you the reward before you complain.”

“Is it beskar?”

“No, but something valuable.” Din follows along after a moment to consider, and Karga leads him out to the docks, weaving among the ships to a spot at the back of the yard. All of the ships have crews milling around them except for one, and Din stops short at the sight of it. “I figured you’d need a ship, after what Cara said happened to the last one.” 

“I-” He has to be seeing things‐ before him is the Razor Crest, metal hull gleaming faintly in the gray light of Nevarro's suns. Karga extends a hand, a small piece of metal in his palm, and when Din takes it he can tell it's the chip to the steering grid, which leaves the ship unable to be flown when taken. How in the hell he found another Razor Crest is beyond Din- he didn't think there were anymore.

"You won't get anything else for the first job, but I figure this is a start." Din looks over at Karga, unable to say a word, but Karga only inclines his head toward the ship. "Get settled. I'll bring the puck along later."

"Right." Karga leaves him with the ship, and Din stares, dread and excitement swirling in his gut in a deeply unpleasant mixture of emotions. He bounds up the ramp in two long strides, having waited long enough, and ducks inside, letting the bay door close behind him with a smooth hiss. The lights don't turn on yet, won't until Din gets up into the cockpit and registers his signature into the computer, but Din can navigate the ship in the dark even without his helmet. 

Or so he thinks. 

The ladder to the cockpit is about three inches too far to the left and his helmet clangs uncomfortably against a pipe hanging just low enough to catch him in the forehead and make his ears ring on impact. He swears colorfully, hauling himself up into the cockpit and dropping down into the pilot’s seat. At least here he can see with the light coming in through the viewport. His eyes are drawn across the control panel immediately, mapping the buttons and finding the slot that the steering chip slips into, plugging it in with a faint click and watching as the computer boots up under his hands. Logging himself as the sole owner and user is easy enough, synced to the machinery at his wrist, and the ship comes to life under his hands with little coaxing. A giddy kind of excitement lodges itself in his chest, and he can’t help the stupid little giggle he lets out when he flips a couple of switches, the engines roaring to life on either side of him. 

He doesn’t mean to, but Karga didn’t tell him not to, and he’s taking off, inching the ship up into the air without a backwards glance. The yolk is more sensitive than he’s used to, and his ascent is a bit jerky before the muscles in his forearms can adjust, but he levels out, laughing again and taking off like a shot. 

He rockets through the atmosphere faster than he should, but the computer adjusts for him and his heart pounds in his ears, a staccato symphony. He feels like a teen again, having just gotten his first chance to fly solo, and he can feel the g’s dragging at him as he whirls in exaggerated loops and spins, testing out the responsiveness of the ship and finding it both familiar and better than ever. The ship is lighter, not so heavy with all of Din’s extras like the carbonite bay or his supplies, but that’ll change eventually. For now Din shoots through the stars, riding toward nowhere and only turning around when a comm clicks, Karga’s voice echoing in the cockpit. 

“Having fun up there? I’ve got the puck and some basic supplies, when you feel like landing.” 

“Thank you.” Din breathes, voice cloaked in awe, and he hears Karga laugh over the comms before he disconnects. Din’s landing is much smoother than his takeoff, and Karga is waiting for him when the bay door drops open and Din steps out, grinning like a fool behind the mask of his helmet. The eager anticipation of having a ship, of flying by himself is tangible, and Karga helps haul the supplies on board, ducking underneath the pipe and snorting to cut off a laugh when Din hits his head. Again. 

Din huffs angrily, the sound warping into an odd metallic growl, and he stalks off to find tools, coming back and using a bit of strong wire and will power to hoist the pipe back up into the ceiling where it belongs. Once that’s done he surveys what Karga has brought him, holding his hand out for the puck and tracker. “Alive, as usual.”

“Might be a bit bruised. No carbonite bay.”

“Bruised is alive.” Karga agrees, slipping around the boxes of supplies to observe Din’s quick fix. It’ll keep him from hitting his head, at least. “Spend the night on the ship before you take off. I’ll have the lads refuel you for the trip.”

“Thought I wasn’t getting anything outside of the ship.”

“You have a tab.” Din chuckles softly, bobbing his head in a nod, and Karga smiles at him smugly. “When you’re done with this job, I’ve got more for you. As few or as many as you want.”

“Thanks.” He means it this time, truly, and Karga leaves him to settle in for the night. Once the bay seals shut, trapping him in the low light of the fluorescents Din allows his shoulders to slump. This ship is the same but wildly different, and Din needs time to adjust. The refresher and sleepbay on this one are bigger, wider, and there’s actually room for what looks like a small shower that collapses into the wall. He has less storage, but he’s going to rip out half of it for the carbonite bay as soon as he can afford it, so he isn’t worried as he packs away the filtered water and rations that karga supplied him with. 

Once, and only once he’s gotten everything into place does he reach for the clasps of his armor, letting the segments fall away from him. He tucks the armor neatly into a cubby underneath his cot, hidden from view of anyone who might snoop, and his blaster is left on the shelf running the length of the wall in the bay. Din sits on the end of the cot, breathing slowly to calm himself and ease the odd, barren feeling that crawls over his skin. This is his home, and will be for the foreseeable future, so the longer he sits there, just breathing, the easier it gets to relax. Until it’s habit more than anything to reach up and release the seal of his helmet, slipping it up and over his head. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet, letting his other senses adjust, and when he does he has to blink rapidly, waiting for his vision to dim. 

Taking off the helmet had always been a debate- how long was too long before it was considered against the Creed? How long could he chew on a ration bar, or trim his beard, or stand in the shower before the shame of what he was doing caught up to him? Staring down at the dull grey reflection of his helmet now though, it isn’t shame that trickles through him. It’s bitter, twisting sadness brought on by the echo of a small hand on his cheek. Of eyes crawling over his face in an enemy base while the rest of them were completely unaware of what they were seeing. Din’s grip tightens on the helmet, the hard edges digging into his fingers, and he hurls it as hard as he can against the wall with a shout, hands shaking and the metallic clang reverberating through the empty space of the living bay. 

“Fuck. FUCK.” Din leaves the helmet on the floor, collapsing back onto the cot and burying his face in his hands. Here, in the solitude of his new ship, Din allows himself to cry, dragging fingers through his hair and not caring at the way it stands on end. Grogu’s absence echoes through the ship louder than any noise Din could possibly make, and the walls feel oppressively small around him, trapping him in a world of his own making. He feels rubbed raw, foolish and weak at the way he misses him, but it isn’t a weakness, not truly. The Foundlings were important, vitally so to Mandalorians, and Din had taken Grogu as his own, his clan of two. Din allows himself to cry until his eyes and throat are raw, and only then does he slink to the refresher, taking a quick, cold shower before tucking himself into bed. 

                                                          -*-

Din is up and in armor by the time the workers come to fuel his ship, and he’s out of the port minutes later. He goes through his bounties on autopilot, falling into a routine as familiar as breathing. The work keeps him blissfully busy, and the less he’s on land, the less time he spends stopping to think the easier it gets to ignore the panicked, anxious worry that gnaws at his stomach, twisting and tying it in knots at night when he’s trying to sleep. He pays off his tab on Nevarro and quickly builds his stock of weaponry, watching when his carbonite bay is installed. He debates testing it on one of the workers just to see that it works beforehand, but he’s got a bounty on hand already and he can stand to be a bit more patient. 

His ship's responsiveness doesn’t dwindle with the added weight, much to Din’s delight, and he actually finds that the engines are just… Stronger. Hardier than his last ones. He doesn’t refer to it as the Razor Crest, despite that being what it is, and he goes months without a name until Cara finally snaps and demands that he either come up with a name or just suck it up. In the effort of laziness Din relents, and the Razor Crest is brought back again. 

He’s stuck at light speed, traveling from Tatooine to Nevarro when a light flares on his holo, just a soft red button that flashes slowly with a new message. Din hits play, hardly paying attention, since Karga is sending them constantly, and jerks in his chair when a soft, firm voice so totally unlike Karga’s plays through the cockpit. 

“Do not share this with anyone.” Luke’s face, half concealed beneath his hood stares sightlessly into the chamber, and Din’s heart pounds in his chest when he begins to rattle off coordinates. He punches them into the computer as fast as he can, listening to Luke repeat them two more times before his recording cuts off and the image of him fades. It’s a planet on the very edges of the universe, far out in a sector Din has never even heard of, and Din is relieved that his bounty is on the way. 

He puts the bounty in carbonite as soon as he can and takes off, following the coordinates and pacing the length of the cockpit all through the suspense within hyperspace. He tries to calm down, to remind himself that he knew this wouldn’t be forever, but when the planet finally comes into view, with vast stretches of water and forest and desert Din’s heart is nearly bursting through his beskar. He slides into his seat to prepare for his landing, and finds that the coordinates are deep in the forest, and he’ll have to land further away. He spots a familiar x-wing, faded red stripes slashed down the side, and carefully lands next to it, snagging the steering chip and trodding down the ramp.

He has no clue where to go, especially once he breaks into the forest, but there's a path worn into the grass, and when he ticks his visor over to another channel Luke’s bootprints flare to life in front of his eyes. He follows them, ignoring when they loop back a few times to ward off other less talented trackers. His trek through the forest is short, and he sweeps the area as he steps out into a clearing that dips into a valley. When Luke had said temple Din hadn’t been expecting…. This. A large, ancient city sprawls across the valley, buildings of dusty brick towering among the trees and overgrown pavement. Din doesn’t have the slightest clue which building they could be in, but it doesn’t seem to matter as something tingles across the back of his neck, an awareness that wasn’t there before.

Din whips around, hand on his blaster, but nothing but wind and trees greets him, and that same cool tingling tugs, insistent. Din finds his feet following the feeling without knowing exactly why, leading him down into the valley and past building after crumbling building. Most of them look unstable, like a stray wind strong enough will knock the whole thing over, but the deeper he goes the more the buildings change from rough hewn stone to something more like the glass and steel that Din is used to seeing among civilization. 

Din breaks out into a square, an old, stagnant fountain in the middle, teeming with frogs and moss and bugs. His attention catches on the small green child sitting on the edge, giggling with delight as a frog floats in front of him, just out of reach. 

“Grogu.” 

Din’s voice breaks saying his name, and he laughs wetly, disbelief plain along the lines of his body as the little one whips around, dark eyes wide with surprise. At the sight of Din’s armor shining in the light he squeals, scurrying to climb down off the edge of the fountain, little legs carrying him as fast as they can toward Din. He drops to his knees, ignoring the way the stone bites at his joints as Grogu crashes into his chest, babbling and cooing and little hands grabbing at the leather straps across his chest. Din laughs, near dizzy with relief, and he lifts Grogu a bit higher, letting Grogu grip the concave edges of his helmet, shaking it lightly, impatiently. 

“Later, Grogu. Not now.” Grogu frowns, little brow furrowing, and Din grins despite himself. “I missed you, kid. Have you been good?”

Grogu croons happily, and he looks back as Din looks up, watching as Luke sits on the edge of the fountain. He’s still draped in black, but the long cloak is gone, and the rest of his clothes are form fitted, hugging his frame, and Din finds that he’s much more delicate than he first expected. There’s an undeniable strength in his posture, a certain poise that Din doesn’t see in many people anymore. His sandy hair is a mess, strands whipping in the wind, but Luke seems unaffected, crossing his legs at the knee. “He missed you too. Quite loudly, I would say.”

“Did he cause trouble?” Luke laughs, a rich, decadent sound, and Din stands, moving closer. 

“No more than any trainee. He’s stubborn, when he wants to be, but he’s learning.” Luke reaches out, tugging on the end of Grogu’s ear affectionately and smiling when he grabs his finger, holding on. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The thought of not showing up, of not seeing that Grogu was fine months later seems so wrong that he never even considered it. 

“There are a thousand things within this universe that no one can change should they get in the way.” Din snorts, rolling his eyes, and Luke grins ruefully, the waxing poetics dropping from him as he leans back to regard Din with a full body sweep of his eyes. “That and you’re a busy man.”

“He’s my priority.” Luke dips his head in a nod, acknowledging the fact, and his eyes flick over Din again, a pale eyebrow arching just so. 

“And what about your throne, Mand’alor? Have you made any progress with the darksaber?”

“How do you-”

“Grogu told me. He talks about you. A lot, I might add. And especially about the way you saved him from the saber itself.” Luke doesn’t move, but his head cocks to the side, regarding Din with an expression he doesn’t have the time or energy to pick apart. “You have it still, don’t you?”

Din nods, shifting Grogu in his arms and pulling the saber from his belt. His thumb finds the button easily, and the blade extends with a soft hiss. The blade itself is coal black, a seemingly never ending abyss, but the edges glow with an unearthly white sheen, reflecting in shattered images across the beskar of Din’s armor. The blade unnerves him, makes his skin crawl, so he extinguishes it and tucks it back into his belt as quickly as he can. He expects Luke to say something, some stupid Jedi nonsense, but instead he watches as Luke’s eyelids flutter shut, skin gone pale and body slumping backward. Din swears, lurching forward to catch the front of Luke's shirt to keep him from tipping back into the fountain and drowning.

“Hey, Jetii-” Luke’s hand comes up, gripping Din’s wrist tight, and Din is once again struck by the urge to pull away and put some distance between him and the other man. The urge fades quickly when he hears the noise that Luke makes, soft and pained, and Din shakes Luke’s hand away. He sets Grogu down on the ground gently before slinging one of Luke’s arms around his shoulders, hauling him to his feet as the Jedi sways unsteadily beside him. “Hey kid, lead us home.”

Grogu makes a soft noise that Din hopes is a yes and begins tottering away, leading them deeper into the city. Luke is still near incoherent against his side, stumbling along and head lolling forward onto his chest, and the sight makes Din’s stomach clench with nerves. They pass through the rest of the city and out along the other side, climbing the hill and disappearing into the forest. He wants to turn back, to insist they actually go to where they’re staying, but occasionally Luke will suddenly lurch to one side, guiding them, and they come across a small cabin tucked away in the woods before too long. There’s a sprawling garden teeming with verdant plants tucked away behind a fence, and when Din ducks inside Grogu runs straight to the toys sprawled by the fireplace. Din deposits Luke unceremoniously in the first chair that he sees, but Luke doesn’t complain, groaning softly and slumping. 

Din doesn't have the faintest clue about what’s going on, but he busies himself with tearing through Luke’s things until he finds what Din surmises to be some kind of herbal drink, standing impatiently in the small kitchen as the water boils. By the time he’s gotten everything situated Luke seems well enough to drink, though Din refuses to hand him a cup of scalding liquid. Luke’s face screws up at the taste, and Din didn’t add anything extra, but the smell alone seems to help, and soon Luke’s hands come up, covering Din’s and blue eyes focusing tiredly on his visor. 

“I can hold it.” Din gives him a hard, disbelieving look and Luke snorts, taking the cup from his hands and proving that he very much can manage on his own now. He sips at the drink slowly, lips twitching at the taste, and leans back in his chair, watching the nervous way Din’s fingers twitch, ready to catch the cup just in case. “I’m fine, Mand’alor.”

“That didn’t look like fine, Jetii.” Din’s voice is scolding, annoyed, and Luke huffs a small laugh.

“That was an- anomaly.” 

"An anomaly." Din repeats, voice flat and unamused. Luke is supposed to be protecting and training Grogu, and he's just watched an anomaly debilitate a trained Jedi, so he isn't feeling particularly warm when his next words come out demanding. "Explain. Now."

"Lightsabers are attuned to the Force. The Force retains… echoes of memories, good or bad, and the bad ones can be- rough." Din draws in a breath to interrupt, but Luke shoots him a look that makes his mouth pop shut, teeth snapping together faintly. "The darksaber is old, and mostly aligned with the Dark."

"Mostly?"

"There have been good, just rulers who handled the blade. Their influence lingers."

"That doesn't explain your reaction."

"I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of the memories from the blade. It won't happen again, I can promise you that." Din wants to point out that as a supposed Jedi Master he should have been ready, but Luke's cheeks are pink with embarrassment already and twisting the blade needlessly would just be cruel. 

"You're expecting me to take the blade out again?"

"Someone has to train you in its use."

"I don't need you to-"

"How many other lightsaber users do you know, Mand'alor?" When Din says nothing Luke nods his head, draining the rest of his drink and standing to take care of the cup. "We'll begin in the morning, after breakfast."

"I didn't agree to anything, Jetii." 

"But you will. The bedroom on the left is yours. I'm just down the hall if you need anything." Din watches him walk away, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and he turns to Grogu, frowning. Grogu looks up, sensing Din's attention, and he toddles over, stepping on Din's foot and raising his arms high. Din leans down, scooping him up and standing.

"Guess that means we better get some sleep, huh?" 

Din carries the kid with him as he heads into the empty bedroom, glancing around. It's pretty barren, as far as bedrooms go, but there's a bed, a dresser and a small crib for Grogu tucked near the bed. If Din hadn't been invited, he would have thought that Luke could see into the future. Well, he's not entirely sure he can't do that as a powerful Jedi. Din sets Grogu down on the bed, knowing he'll just crawl out of the crib right now, and reaches for the clasps of his armor. He's- not entirely sure he wants to take it off, since he hardly knows the man sleeping across the house, but Grogu trusts him and that speaks volumes for his character. Grogu, while a child, distrusts almost as badly as Din does, and the fact that he's not constantly watching Luke is a testament to his comfort. Grogu reaches up toward him, brown eyes big as saucers, and Din sighs, stripping out of his armor but keeping the bodysuit on. It's the best compromise he can manage right now, and he hesitates for a second before deciding that he's already taken it off around the kid, he might as well be somewhat comfortable. 

The room is dim enough that he can open his eyes right away, and when he lays back the kid ambles up, patting his nose and pulling a handful of his hair. Din allows his exploration, watching the way that Grogu's face lights up when Din tries to smile at him. He laughs quietly when Grogu settles down next to him, tucking his little head against Din's neck and pressing his back along the length of Din's shoulder. He should put him in the crib, it's there for a reason, but he missed him more than he cares to admit to himself and so what if he falls asleep, his child curled up in the crook of his neck, snoring away?

                                                       -*-

Din is woken up by the sound of the door opening. His first instinct is to grab for his blaster, the second his helmet, but Luke's voice stops him in his tracks.

"You could have woken him up, you know. Or opened the door by yourself." There's a brief pause, and though Din can see Luke's hand on the knob he can't see any other part of him. "No, that's not a frivolous use of your powers, that's practice. No, I'm not going into his room. Wh- Grogu-!" 

Din can't help himself- he laughs at the shocked, appalled squeak that Luke lets out, slipping his helmet onto his head and letting it seal tight. "You can stop hiding."

"You're decent?"

"You'll have to find out." He hears Luke chuckle, a soft sound that zips up his spine, and Din resolutely ignores the feeling in lieu of shrugging back into his armor. He's securing a pauldron when Luke finally slips into the room, gaze carefully averted, and Din shivers when something races up his spine, pooling around his neck and going not further than his helmet. The feeling fades quickly, and only then does Luke look up, grinning as usual. 

"Did you sleep alright?" Din snorts, tugging the strap across his chest tighter and lifting a leg one at a time to secure the plates on his thighs. 

"Fine. Not going to pass out again?" Luke groans at the mention, as if he'll never live it down, and Din smirks behind the safety of his helmet. 

"I told you it wouldn't happen again. Test me if you want." Luke folds his hands in front of him, meeting Din's eyes through the helmet and waiting patiently. Din tilts his head, debating, but the saber stays tucked away in his belt as he slips past Luke, pauldron brushing against his arm. He hears Luke mumble something to himself before turning on his heel to follow them out, and Din jerks forward, catching the knife that's floating in the air and dragging it down despite the way whatever holds it up fights him.

"Hey kid, easy on the knives." The strain stops suddenly, and Din goes to shove it back into the small block, turning to pin Grogu with a look. His child merely coos, tilting his head until a large ear brushes the floor, and Din sighs heavily. "You don't practice with dangerous objects, that's how you lose an eye."

Grogu gurgles, obviously unhappy with the scolding, but Din stands his ground, crossing his arms. "I've seen you lift a mudhorn, I'm sure your toys aren't a problem."

"Do you hear him?" Luke's voice breaks their staring contest, and Din glances up, tracking Luke's movements through the small kitchen as he begins to pull things out. All of it seems plant based, but that doesn't bother Din much, and if Luke isn't a hunter then he shouldn't expect much in the way of meat. If this planet even has wildlife to hunt. 

"Hear what? The noises?"

Luke stops for a moment, a faint, calculating look on his face. "You were answering him." 

"I was just- talking to him." Luke hums low in his throat, resuming his work at making breakfast and occasionally catching fruits or ingredients out of the air. It seems a common enough occurrence between the two of them, and Din sits back to watch just what Luke will allow. Occasionally a slice of something will float over to Grogu, which Luke either does or allows, and sometimes Luke will laugh or shake his head, shooting Grogu a look that Din doesn't understand. 

Din slips the saber from his belt while Luke is occupied washing something, and his thumb hits the release, angling it so it doesn’t take out the leg of the table or screech over his beskar. Luke’s whole body shudders, shoulders twitching madly, and Din watches, breathless, as Luke turns slowly, blue eyes bright with anger and lips pressed together.

“That was uncalled for, Mand’alor.” Din flicks the saber off again, lifting his shoulders in a shrug and trying not to sound too smug.

“You said to test you.”

“Twenty minutes ago, maybe.”

“Test is useless if you’re expecting it. The outcome changes.” Luke opens his mouth to say something, frowning, but Din lets the blade sing to life again and Luke chokes on his breath. His reaction is lessened, just a tensing of his shoulders and shake of his head, and this time when Din extinguishes the blade he tucks it away. “See?”

“Yes, I do.” Luke’s tone makes something burrow its way into his heart, and he isn’t sure he likes the feeling. Luke stalks over to the table, setting a plate down in front of Din and and one in front of the chair next to him. “Eat, then meet me outside.”

Din isn’t going to eat, not with Luke nearby, but Luke carries his own plate outside, disappearing into the yard and leaving Din more confused than he was before. He waits for Luke to come back in, for the door to open or a head of blonde hair to move past the window but he doesn’t, and Din feels stupid sitting there while Grogu digs into his breakfast. He pops the seal on his helmet, sliding it up just enough to take a bite before slipping it back down. 

Luke is not a good cook.

Din has had worse though, and he tucks it away dutifully, knowing he’s going to need the energy for whatever the Jedi has planned for him. Once he’s managed to get his breakfast down and cleaned Grogu’s hands off he secures his helmet and ducks outside, sweeping the area and finding Luke at the treeline, sitting cross legged with his eyes shut. Meditating. Din stops a few feet shy of him, watching the slow, even way that Luke’s chest rises and falls with his breath. He finds himself following along, dragging in deep, slow breaths, holding it, and then letting it out slowly. The longer he stands there, breathing in tandem with Luke the more a sense of calm crawls into his bones, settling him and making his muscles feel loose and slippery. 

“Breathing was the first thing my master taught me, and it’s the first thing I hope to offer you.” Luke gestures toward the ground next to him and Din takes it without hesitation, tucking himself down onto the ground with far more grace than his armor should allow. Grogu squirms out of his arms, moving to sit in front of them rather, little hands clasped together in his lap as he closes his eyes. Din glances between the two of them as Luke’s eyes close again, and while Din follows their breathing, relaxing, though he doesn’t close his eyes. Instead he watches the serenity that passes over his child’s face, the way his ears droop down a bit as his tiny breathing evens out. “Close your eyes, Mand’alor.”

Din squeezes his eyes shut at the command, tensing, but Luke hums approvingly and Din relaxes again. Or tries to, but he’s focusing too much on the slow, even inhale of Luke’s breath and the way power oozes from him in every exhale, shivering in the air around them and sticking to him like a cloak. It’s… Distracting, to say the least, and by the time Luke finally rises to his feet Din is wound up all over again. Luke leads Grogu a safe distance away from them, Grogu sitting down obediently and staring at them with those dark, bottomless eyes. 

“We’re a little close to the building.” Luke raises a brow, lips twitching in a smile, and he draws the lightsaber from his belt. It whirs to life with a quiet hum, green blade lighting up Luke’s robes in swathes of muted color. Din’s hand strays for his blaster automatically, but Luke shakes his head sharply and Din grits his teeth. 

“Draw, Mand’alor.” 

“I told you we’re-” Din leaps back as Luke lunges, lightsaber screeching along the front of his chestpiece. 

Their first lesson begins that way, Din uselessly dodging and ducking to avoid Luke’s sword and Luke coming at him with singular focus. Din’s arms burn from blocking the impact of Luke’s swings, and he shoves forward with his forearms, pushing Luke back. Luke doesn’t let him breathe or rest, left hand reaching out and fingers closing in a tight fist. A sickening feeling of being touched yet not touched wraps around him, cold and imposing, and Din’s feet skid through the dirt as Luke drags him forward. 

“Draw your saber.” Luke’s voice is a near growl now, and as the grip around him loosens Din wrenches the hilt free from his belt, the starlit blade roaring to life in Din’s hands. Luke’s face twitches uncomfortably, but Din’s heart is pounding in his ears and he slashes forward, as if wielding a club or a spare piece of pipe meant to bludgeon. Luke bats the strike away like he would an infant’s swing, and Din’s blade rises to block Luke’s this time instead of letting the blade scorch across his armor again. “Good! You aren’t using a stick, it’s a sword, treat it like one!”

“A sword is a stick!” Din shouts back, ducking under a blow and swinging upward. Luke ward's off his attacks with little difficulty, and as Din continues his attacks he finds that the saber feels more like an extension of himself than before. Much like his staff, he only needs to lean into the natural weight of the weapon and efficiency of his training, strikes evening out and blade singing in his hand. Din drops to the ground in a tight crouch, drawing himself in before his blade spears out, the tip sailing for Luke as Luke's blade hisses along the length of Din's, unable to parry. His blade connects with Luke’s thigh in a shower of stars, Luke staggering backward with a cry. Din straightens up immediately, eyes widening, but Luke’s leg is whole and undamaged, Luke rubbing at it for a moment before he looks back up at Din. 

“Force shield. Knew you’d land a blow eventually, when you decided to participate.” 

Din is storming forward before he can stop himself, fist twisting in Luke’s clothes and hauling him closer. Luke raises his hands, fingers splaying wide in supplication, and Din feels his breaths scraping out of his throat, fast and raw. “You tell me, Jetii, before we do this again. You-” Din can feel his hands shaking, and he can feel his anger pulsing against his forehead and up into his hair, hot and buzzing. Luke’s eyes are wide, impossibly blue and Din’s stomach flops and it’s too much, too soon, and his hand drops as he takes a couple of steps back. “I- have to go.”

“Where?” Luke doesn’t try to dissuade him, instead straightening his clothes and tucking his lightsaber away. 

“I have a bounty to finish.”

“Okay.” Luke’s tone is too accepting, too soft, and Din doesn’t have anywhere for his rage, as misplaced as it is, to go. “We’ll resume your training when you come back.”

                                                         -*-

Din is only two days late getting back to Nevarro to drop off the bounty and the puck, and when he steps into the building that Karga has set up as his base there’s a metallic laugh that sounds to his left. 

“Told you you didn’t need me.” 

Karga looks visibly relieved at the sight of Din standing in his office, and Din’s head tips to the side at the sight of Boba sprawled in the chair by the desk. Din tosses the puck onto the table, bobbing his head in a nod. “Fought pretty hard.” 

“Is he dead?”

“Sleeping in carbonite.” Karga nods, snapping his fingers toward a man lingering at the back of the room. He scurries out, probably to go collect the bounty, and Din swipes the money off the table that Karga offers. Din’s attention turns to his armored friend now, and he finds Boba watching him already, head tipped to the side inquisitively. “Fett.”

“Mand’alor.” Din scoffs- as if Luke insisting on the title while they were alone wasn’t bad enough. “Karga here was about to send a search party.”

“You’re hardly a search party, Boba Fett.” Karga splutters, denying it, but Din huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. 

“What do you have?”

“A couple of escaped convicts, a debt skipper. Interested?” Din nods, accepting the pucks and corresponding trackers. They're scattered across the system, will take a couple of weeks at least, and Din is grateful for the distraction once again. He knows, has seen that Grogu is safe and dare he say happy, so he can stop being so worried all the time, right? 

Din restocks at the market before retreating back to his ship, coming up short when he sees Boba, head tilted back as he admires the ship. "I never got to see the other one."

"They're the same." Is all Din says, slipping past him and up the ramp. He's got supplies to put away, paths to track, and no time for Boba Fett and his musing. Boba's musing though, seems to have all the time in the world for him, and he sits atop a crate, watching the way that Din organizes and reorganizes the same shelf. 

"Hey, leave it."

"I'm-"

"Fidgeting. Get your metal ass over here, I brought you something." Din turns slowly, wary of anything that Boba might have brought him, but he's holding up a metal container that's warm to the touch, even through the leather of Din's gloves. When Din cracks the lid steam temporarily fogs his visor, and Din stares down at the food contained within. Chunks of meat and veggies soak in a sauce that even with his helmet on Din can tell is nuclear red. "You don't have to eat now. It should stay warm a while."

Din looks up at Boba, as if debating, and reaches back to unlock his helmet, slipping it up over his head and tossing it onto his cot without looking. Boba dips his head down for a second, face turned away, but Din grunts and moves to sit next to him. "Thanks."

Boba is much nicer to his helmet, merely setting it down beside him, but Din is already digging in, devouring the meal before him. It's been ages since he's had anything truly flavorful, something that makes his nose run and brings tears to his eyes, and he savors the white-hot burn that coats his tongue. It's the best thing Din has eaten in weeks, and he scrapes the dish as clean as he can just to ensure he doesn't miss anything. Boba seems just as enthusiastic about the meal, though he passes off what's left of his to Din once he's had his fill, and watches as Din polishes that off too.

"Me'vaar ti gar?" Boba's mando'a is different than his, rougher, and it takes Din a second to realize what he's done. 

"Ass." He scowls, discarding the containers before leaning back against the sloped wall of the Crest and answering. "The Jetii sent me encrypted coordinates so I could see the kid."

"So you went, obviously. But why come back?" Din hesitates, glancing at Boba, and he's both relieved and strangely disappointed that Boba doesn't seem to be staring. Din thinks on it a moment, what he wants to reveal, and decides the truth, all of it, would be best. 

So he tells Boba- every detail he can remember aside from the planet's location and anything that might give it away to a more well versed traveller. He recounts the stupid, weak way relief has made his legs wobble when he'd seen Grogu again for the first time, the joy at seeing his son again, and eventually the conversation turns to Luke. His kindness, the contented way he laughs and smiles as if the entire world hasn't done him wrong already, the obvious care he harbors for the child in his care. The stupid smug way he smiles, the odd way that Din feels whenever he stares too long. How, in the day and a half he was there, Luke had driven him up the wall but also seen him in a way that most others didn't, like he could read him from across the room. He tells him about their first fight with the sword, and Din can feel his hands begin to shake as the anger bubbles to the surface. He doesn't have a way to explain why he's so angry, just that he is, but Boba is frowning.

"Jetii have always been secretive. It's not in their nature to share information."

“I could have killed him.” Boba snorts, picking his helmet up and turning it over in his hands. 

“He wouldn’t put himself at that much risk.” That… Is a good point, one that Din hadn’t thought about outside of fighting. No one he’s ever fought with, sparring or otherwise, has ever fought like they weren’t trying to kill each other. All of Din’s anger seems to slough off of him, and his shoulders slump, pauldrons weighing heavily against him. “When are you going back?”

“What makes you think I’m going back?” Boba pins him with a look, eyebrow raised, and Din looks away, tips of his ears burning. He feels far too exposed without his helmet, but it feels more like a relief to be able to breathe, to let his eyes sting with the brightness of the lights inside the ship. 

“You don’t run. Not once you have a plan.” 

The fact that Boba is right is irritating, and Din’s brow furrows as he thinks. The longer he sits there, debating himself, the more and more he realizes that he does have a plan. It’s stupidly simple, hardly even worth being called more than a thought, but it’s all that Din has, so it’ll have to be enough. Boba knocks his elbow into Din, shoving, and Din focuses back on the bounty hunter.

“Give me the pucks.”

“You’re not stealing my bounties, Fett.” Boba scoffs, rolling his eyes and holding his hand out.

“We’ll split it. Now get yourself ready.” Din stares him down, eyes narrowed, but Boba doesn’t relent until Din presses the pucks and trackers into his hands. Din rises to his feet at Boba’s insistence, grabbing his helmet from his cot and slipping it back on over his head. The fit is snug as always, and Din adjusts to the weight of it easily, climbing up into the cockpit to power the engines up in preparation for him to leave. The coordinates are still in his computer, primed and ready, and Din isn’t sure whether it’s the thought of flying or Grogu that makes his fingers itch to grab the yolk and take off. Din’s comm crackles in his helmet, making him wince, and Boba’s voice rumbles into the tiny space. “Get going, Mando.”

                                                            -*-

Din feels like an ass walking back up to Luke’s small cottage. Like an ass, and a coward.

He shouldn’t have left Grogu, left Luke the way that he did. He didn’t have any real reason to be mad and shame burns across the back of his neck when he stands just outside the door, debating on whether or not to knock. He's got a pack over his shoulder, more to prove that he's here to stay than anything else when the door swings open wide, knocking against the wall. Grogu's little form stands just out of the way of the door, hands raised, and Din smiles despite himself.

"Hey kid." Grogu giggles, hurrying over to his father and squeaking happily as Din sweeps him up into his arms. Grogu doesn't go for his helmet this time, instead jostling his chest piece with little hands. "Okay okay, cool it. I'm staying, alright?"

"Uh?" The child jostles his chest piece again and Din sighs, stepping inside and wincing when the door slams shut behind him. At least Grogu is practicing. 

"No, we're not going to get frogs, I know you just ate." There's absolutely no way he can tell other than the plates on the counter, but Grogu's pout only confirms what Din suspected and he tugs lightly on Grogu's ear. "Can't con a con man, kid. Where's your master?"

There's a sound from across the room and Din looks up as Luke leans against the doorframe, hair a mess and brow raised. "Yeah okay, you don't like that, but I don't like Mand'alor." Luke's brows go up, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and Din isn't quite sure what the look is for. "My name is Din. Din Djarin. If you're going to call me anything, it better be that."

"No Mand'alor?" Din wrinkles his nose, though Luke can't see, and is rewarded by Luke laughing, grinning crookedly and finally shoving off the doorframe to walk closer. "No Jetii then either, Din Djarin."

"Just Din."

"Just Din." Luke agrees, amusement coloring his words. "You said you were staying?"

"If you'll have me." Din… probably should have asked first before assuming, but Luke reaches out, gripping his bicep in a friendly embrace and drawing a bit closer. 

"He's your home as much as he is mine." Din glances down at Grogu, who's begun dozing in his arms, and then back up at Luke. The hand clasped around his arm sears through the layers of his bodysuit, but Din craves the warmth from it. 

"I'm cooking." Din blurts out before he can help himself, Luke grinning in response. 

"Grogu likes my cooking."

"Grogu eats frogs." 

"He has refined taste." Din snorts, trying to hold back a laugh, and Luke squeezes his bicep lightly before finally dropping his hand. "Are you tired?"

"No." He's not sure why the question, but Luke's eyebrows twitch up for a moment before a sly smile overtakes his face. He regrets saying no.

"Meet me outside in five minutes." Luke sweeps past him without further preamble, leaving Din to do as he's told, tucking Grogu away in his crib and making sure he doesn't wake when Din slips out of the bedroom. He leaves his pack on the bed along with his jetpack, wanting to shed as much excess weight as he can. He has a feeling he's going to need as much agility as he can get. 

That doesn’t mean he’s going to take off his armor and risk getting cut to pieces by Luke’s lightsaber though. Because that’s exactly what Din is expecting when he gets outside, watching the way that Luke lazily rotates his wrist, letting the blade whirl through with the movement. Something warm heats in his stomach at the sight, and he draws his own saber, letting the blade flicker to life. Luke’s eyes flick up as the blade hums in Din’s hand, eyes tracing over the blade itself and then up and down Din once. 

“You didn’t react.”

“The blade is used to you now, and reflects more upon your feelings than the memories within.” Din shifts on his feet, uncomfortable at the thought, and Luke waves him over, further away from the building. “I haven’t been forthcoming about certain aspects of my abilities, and it upset you.”

“It didn’t…” But Din can’t finish the sentence, and Luke’s face droops in something sad. 

“When we fight I’ll have a shield up, like the one you saw before. It’ll keep me from being injured by your saber, like your beskar does for mine.”

“The blows will still hurt.” Din’s arms had ached for a day after their first clash, but Luke shrugs, smirking now.

“That’s part of the training. No fun if there aren’t bruises.” Luke reminds him so much of his trainers as a child then that he can almost imagine Luke in beskar, wielding a quarterstaff and laughing when a blow knocked him on his ass. “Ready?”

Din snaps from his reverie, and their training begins anew. Luke drives him hard, using whatever tricks and skills he has at his disposal, but Din matches him beat for beat. While his skill with a sword is subpar compared to Luke he catches on quickly, and he’s battle honed in a way that makes reading Luke’s next moves as easy as breathing. 

More often than not he finds himself sprawled in the dirt or thrown off into the trees, head spinning at the impact and every muscle in his body protesting at getting back up again. He never stays down for long, Luke extending a hand to help him up as many times as he knocks him down. Half the time that hand is used to yank Luke off balance and launch a counter attack, but Luke expects it, rolling in the dirt with Din and swinging madly until the invisible fingers of Luke’s power catches at the back of Din’s armor and sends him flying again. 

While Grogu and Luke train in the living room, lifting toys and chairs and practicing breathing, Din hunts. There’s plenty of wildlife to track, and plenty of meat to cure and use in cooking. Cooking with actual spices and flavor, which Luke insists is too much half the time, and not enough the other half. Din knows he’s complaining just to get a rise out of him, but it works every time, and Din watches, satisfied one night as Luke chokes, cheeks flushing and eyes watering. Din grins beneath his helmet, laughing when Luke glares at him and gulps down a mouthful of water to try and wash away the taste. Luke still complains, but after that he’s much more careful about just how red the food is that particular day.

Din is also the one to go on supply runs when they get low on the things Luke can’t grow in his garden or Din can’t hunt, and he takes a few bounties while he’s out, just to tide him over while he’s away. Luke tells him to take care of how he uses the darksaber, but Din hasn’t had the heart to tell him he doesn’t use it at all outside of their training. Most people don’t look too kindly on their bounty run through by a sword and encased in carbonite. The darksaber still unnerves him, for as much as he uses it at home- at Luke’s. 

Din has been away from home for two weeks too long when he finally makes it back, nursing a couple broken ribs and his own wounded pride. His last bounty had been a better fighter than he’d expected, and had gotten a good shoulder ram in the space right under Din’s left arm. It makes carrying the supplies he’d brought back a pain in the ass, and he drops them in the doorway, rolling his shoulders back to try and ease the tension pulling at his ribs. Luke’s blonde hair pops out of the back room, a smile on his face, and Din’s heart kicks up a notch. It had been doing that a lot lately, and Din isn’t stupid enough to ignore what it means. He just… Doesn’t act on it. 

“You’re home late.” Luke eyes the sky through the open door behind Din, already illuminated by the planet’s three moons.

“Your tea is impossible to find.” 

“Sure, blame it on me, like you weren’t out joyriding.” Din scoffs, but he’s partially right and Din’s silence only confirms it. Luke’s footsteps are quiet as he pads across the living room, and above that he can hear Grogu, snoring away. He’s much, much later than he expected to be, so he keeps his voice hushed to avoid waking Grogu in the room next door. “Did you have fun?”

“Mhmm.” The door closes with a soft click behind him, and Luke joins him in hauling the supplies to the kitchen, where Luke unpacks and tucks them away under Din’s careful eye. Luke knows by now where everything goes, and he makes quick work, leaving his tea out. Din has already put water on to heat, and he rolls his shoulders out again, pain lancing down his side. He hadn’t bothered to waste the money on a bacta patch- Grogu and Luke were just as good at healing, if not better, and Din is already beginning to heal on his own anyway. 

“You’re hurt.” Luke’s voice is accusing, and Din turns, biting back a yelp when Luke’s hands come up, pressing into his sides. He shies away from Luke’s right hand, trying to lessen the pressure, and Luke frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s nothing.”

“They’re pretty broken, Din.” Din laughs, wincing when that proves to be a mistake, and Luke’s fingers go for the latches of his armor. Din takes a step back, shaking his head, and Luke frowns again. “Let me help. Please?”

“I can undress myself.” Is all Din says, working in quick, efficient movement to shed the pieces of his beskar. Once he’s left in his bodysuit Luke looks to him for permission, Din nodding once and letting Luke get close again as his hands stray over Din’s chest. Din makes a noise, as if to tell him that’s not where it hurts, but Luke shushes him softly, eye slipping closed in concentration as his hand hovers over Din’s left side. Din chokes on a cry of pain when Luke presses his hand down, Din’s ribs shifting,  snapping neatly back into place. Luke holds onto Din, keeping him steady as he pants, head spinning with the pain. “You could have warned me.”

“That changes the outcome.” Luke’s eyes open, glancing up at him, and Din finds himself leaning forward for no reason at all. Din’s forehead bumps against Luke’s, just the barest pressure, but Luke smiles, leaning up to press into the embrace harder and laughing when Din’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck. “Though sometimes it doesn’t”

“Luke?” Din feels the echo of Luke’s curiosity more than he hears what Luke says, and his lips quirk inside his helmet. “You’re ruining the moment.”

“Oh, we’re having a moment?” Din pulls back with a groan, muttering under his breath, but Luke chuckles softly, left hand coming up to catch the cheek of Din’s helmet. His thumb smoothes over the ridge of Din’s metal cheekbone, and he goes up on his tiptoes to press their foreheads together again. “I didn’t understand how this could be a substitute at first.”

“What?” Din’s head is foggy with having Luke so close, and his eyes close behind his visor. He doesn't need his sight at the moment anyway, not to stare down the slope of Luke’s nose. 

“This is your form of a kiss, right? Since you don’t take your helmet off.” Din hums in affirmation and Luke continues, leaning his whole body forward. Din hisses faintly at the soreness still lingering in his side, but Luke’s hand smoothes over him, sweeping it away with another gentle pules of what he insists isn’t magic. “It never seemed like it would be enough, but… It’s nice, being close to you like this.”

Din finds himself smiling then, chest tight and overflowing, and he pulls back, opening his eyes. Luke follows him, not wanting to be separated, but Din places a hand on his chest. “Luke.”

“Hmm?”

“Close your eyes.” Luke’s eyes slip shut immediately, and Din takes a step back. Luke seems to mourn the loss of his warmth, but Din is about to do something wildly stupid and he wants to go quickly before he loses his nerve. “Keep them closed.” 

Luke hums, reassuring Din that he will, and Din allows his helmet to unseal, sliding it up and off his head. He sets it down with the rest of his discarded armor as gently as he can, but Luke’s breath hitches at the noise, and Din can feel the unspoken question that radiates from him. He doesn’t answer, not right away, slipping his gloves off so he can feel the silky strands of Luke’s hair when he cups the back of his head. Luke draws in a shuddering breath at the touch, eyelids fluttering, and before Din can talk himself out of it he places the softest kiss he can against Luke’s lips. Luke’s whole body is a razor wire against his as Din draws the other man closer, kissing him with firm, even pressure. Luke’s thoughts pound through him in time with his racing heart, flooding his brain as Luke’s lips move against his, parting and tongue flicking out to trace the seam of Din’s lips. DinDinDinDinDinDin- wanna touch-

Din can hardly tell what thoughts are his and what thoughts are Luke’s, and he drops both his hands to where Luke has grabbed onto the front of his suit. He tugs lightly, Luke releasing his hold and fingers curling around Din’s. Din hums, bringing Luke’s hands up and bumping his knuckles against his cheeks. Luke lets go of Din’s hands immediately in lieu of cupping his cheeks, and Din gasps against his lips, skin blazing with each touch of Luke’s shaking fingers. He traces over his cheeks, down along his jaw, and one hand slips into the flat mess of his hair, dragging through the strands and eventually grabbing a fistful at the back of his head. 

It’s- overwhelming, to be honest. Luke is hot and insistent against him, pressing forward, crowding into his space, and Din really feels like he’ll drown in it. Din’s hands wander, lingering on Luke’s waist before he makes a decision. Luke is all wiry muscle, but Din doesn’t have any trouble hoisting him up, sitting him on the counter and listening as his armor goes skidding to the other side, a smaller piece, either a pauldron or thigh plate tumbling off. Din doesn’t care, not when Luke’s thighs press around him and his hand is in his hair. Din delights in the way that Luke shudders when he laps at the roof of his mouth, teasing over the sensitive area and humming at the taste of him. Luke’s fingers twitch uselessly in his hair, tugging at the handful he’s slowly tangling. Din pulls away reluctantly, panting and neck bowing as he leans back into Luke’s hand, chasing the sensation. 

Luke presses their foreheads together, skin to skin now, and seems just as affected as Din, breathing ragged and fingers trembling when he reaches up to trace over Din’s cheek again. Luke’s other hand combs through Din’s hair, occasionally snagging on a tangle, and Din twitches every time, fingers clenching against Luke’s sides. “We are having a moment.”

Din huffs out something between a laugh and a moan when Luke tugs particularly hard at a nasty tangle, whole body shuddering against Luke’s. Din peeks his eyes open, expecting Luke to be staring at him, trying to sneak some kind of glance, but his eyes are firmly shut, lips red and a flush sitting high on his cheekbones. “Ruined it.”

Luke laughs, bumping their noses together and sighing out a soft breath. “Where’s your helmet? As much as I could kiss you all night, we do need sleep.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Din-”

“I’ve been thinking about it. No living being other than one in my clan should see my face. Grogu, he’s-”

“One of your clan.” Din nods, glancing over at the metal reflection of his helmet before looking back toward Luke. 

“But you are too.” Din admits quietly, idly bunching the fabric of Luke’s shirt in his hands. Anxiety spikes in his gut, twisting it, but Luke smiles, radiant and happy, knocking their foreheads together again. 

“Do you want me to?” Din nods, a slow and hesitant dip of his head, and Luke hums, tipping his chin and slotting their lips together in a soft kiss. By the time that Luke pulls back Din’s head is pleasantly fuzzy, and when he opens his eyes and sees Luke looking back he doesn’t cringe or shove him back. His heart leaps in his chest, but Luke’s eyes are soft, adoring and so much bluer without the visor dulling the color. “They’re brown.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes.” Din raises a brow, as if that really should have been a given, but Luke rolls his eyes, leaning back a bit and crossing his ankles behind Din’s legs. “I didn’t even know if you had eyes.”

“I don’t. You’re hallucinating.” Din deapans, trying to keep his lips from twitching up into the smile he’s fighting off. Luke only shrugs, nodding as if it makes sense. 

“I’ll take hallucination Din. He’s yummy.” Din wrinkles his nose, scowling, and Luke laughs, leaning forward to kiss the wrinkles away just because he can. 

[professormembranexreader]

Yandere!Membrane x Fem!Reader pt. 2 (Angst & Gore)

RECAP

——————————————————

Membrane kinda stalked you, memorized your entire resume, smelled the smelly smell on the resume that was smelly, and is now going to be your boss but you don't know the bad stuff

Membrane's POV:

It was her first day at work. Being honest, it caught me off guard when I saw (Y/N) at the entrance waiting for me. 'Oh, right. She has no clue where she's going.'

"Good morning, sir!" She smiled. Her joy was infectious; I couldn't help but crack a small grin under my collar.

"Good morning to you as well, (Y/N). How do you feel about your first day?" I started off casual. There was no way I was going to let her think I was 'weird' or 'murderous'. No, that would never do. I need her to be my secretary. I need her to be in my life. I need her to love me.

She spoke up, interrupting me and my thoughts. "Well, sir, I'm kinda scared. I don't know anything regarding what you expect me to do. I don't know how to do most of the things here either. Much less any of the people I'll be working with..."

I held her face with my hand. "Don't worry, (Y/N). I'll help you. Siempre." She looked at me, confused. I realized I got too close.

I cleared my throat, promptly removing my hand. "I'm sorry, (Y/N), that was highly unprofessional of me. Please pay no mind to that." She looked up at me, confused, but shrugged it off.

"Uh, whatever you say, sir." I unlocked the entrance to the facility and motioned for her to follow me. The loud thud of boots followed by the clicking of heels (can be short heel and prob will be) echoed through the vacant halls. None of the lights were turned on yet, leaving her to closely follow behind. I could faintly feel her breath on my back. I grinned as I lead the way to my office. She was going to be mine. All mine.

Along the way, I explained the basics of what she'd be doing. Organizing files, managing my schedule, et cetera. She nodded occasionally, and tried to make small talk... it didn't work too well for her. Luckily though, I had managed to save the conversation by asking her about her life. I already knew most of the information she told me, but there were a few things that surprised me.

Finally we were there. I helped her get familiar with her desk, showing her how to navigate the software, when it suddenly came time for work.

"Oh, it seems that we are out of time. Just page me if you need anything. Hasta luego, querida." I rushed down to my lab and started to gather notebooks. I needed to plan for my next invention. I rushed back up, avoiding the rush of workers who assembled the most demanded products. She winked at me as I entered the room.

She was seated near my office, separated by just a wall. I installed a one-way mirror so I could always watch her. It was covered by a tapestry which could easily be pushed aside. I had nothing to truly do, so I spent time watching her. Her hair was so pretty. Dios, I'd love to inhale the scent of her hairspray. I've stolen a few bottles, but they have nothing to truly cling to.

While I wished to be closer, this could do until I take her for myself. Of course it didn't take but a few days for plans to change.

I kept staring at her, smiling under my collar, but it soon started to turn into a frown. One of my most bothersome employees, Carter (sorry to both this and all other Carters), walked up to (Y/N)'s desk. I've been looking for an excuse to fire him for so long, but it seemed as though he knew my game. He always made sure to avoid the punishment.

But there was no way he would worm his way out this time. He leaned over her desk, talking. She seemed a bit uncomfortable, but he didn't seem to notice. He reached his hand over to her face and my blood boiled. It took every ounce of his self control to not punch through the glass and choke him then and there.

I stood up and walked closer to the one-way mirror. He sat on the desk and gave her a slip of paper. She blushed and told him something. He got off the desk and took her hand, kissing it before walking off.

I threw down the tapestry, covering the glass once more. I clenched my fists and started to grind my teeth. There was no way I would let him get away with that. I stewed in my anger until the time came for the work day to end.

(Y/N) knocked on my door before gently opening it. "Professor?" All anger was repressed when I saw (Y/N)'s face.

"Yes, (Y/N)?" A calming baritone voice resounded through the room. (Y/N) smiled and asked if I would walk her home. I nodded. There was no way I would ever let her go home completely alone from this point on. I took her hand and led her out of the office. A faint pink dusted her cheeks but she made no comment.

We walked down the city streets, looking at food and clothes through the windows. We talked about simpler things... simpler times...

Soon, we were at her apartment. It wasn't much, but to (Y/N) it was home. She won't have to worry about this disgusting hut when she's with me. I made no comment, but simply watched as she left my side.

"Thank you, Professor. Goodnight!" I saw her go inside before returning to my own home.

My sleep was restless that night. I tossed and turned relentlessly. Not even the thought of (Y/N) bending to my will, fully submitting to me helped. My mind was plagued with the thought of Carter (lmao forgot his name already and had to go look). The thought of him touching her, talking to her, looking at her! It filled me with indescribable emotions I couldn't quite name. I needed to rid myself of this. I needed to get rid of the problem.

I needed to get rid of him.

The next morning was roughly the same. I saw (Y/N) walk in and my heart fluttered. The hours dragged on before I decided to call him into my office.

"(Y/N), send Carter Hughes (sorry to all Carter Hughes' out there) to my office." She nodded and quickly paged him up. I waited in my office, gathering my self control to not rip him to shreds. If he wasn't here, he couldn't bother (Y/N). He couldn't bother (Y/N).

He walked into my office. He looked smug. I grimaced under my collar. "I think we both know why you're here, Mr. Hughes." His smile grew even larger.

"No, I'm not quite sure." This little weasel.

"Mr. Hughes, you are being fired from our company." I stated blankly.

"You have no reason to." He grinned. I wanted this to be simple-hacking off a small branch with an axe. But it seems that I'm cutting down the whole limb.

I planted my hands on the desk in front of me, raising my voice. "You have been harassing your coworkers and have been absent from almost all your work. With your record, it's surprising you stayed here this long." I handed him a pink slip. His face paled. "I suggest you pack your things in the morning, Carter. It's getting late. Wouldn't want you to go home in the dark." He gulped and nodded. The night passed. I felt accomplished. He was finally gone. Finally.

The next work day, Carter passed by (Y/N)'s desk. He was carrying a small cardboard box. (Y/N) asked something, then Carter laughed. He said something in return, but I couldn't tell you the words, but it'd made (Y/N) blush. He winked at strode his way out of the room.

My mind was fixed on the thought of what happened. How could I be so foolish as to let the problem remain? The only solution was to nip it in the bud. The only solution was to end it before it could cause any more trouble. There is no way to let him keep his life. And I intend to fix that.

I scanned through the files for employee information. "Harrington, Henson, Hepburn, Hill, Hinton, Hiragina, Holon, ah! Hughes." I wrote down the address and started packing up.

I dropped my work down on my desk at home. I grabbed some rope, chloroform, and put a fake license plate on my car just in case. I drove down to his apartment with a smile on my face. The problem will finally be gone. I creeped inside and found his bedroom. He really should lock his door—then again, he won't have to worry about that now. I put my hand against his throat, covering his mouth and nose with a chloroform soaked bandage. With the combined effort, he was unconscious in less than a minute. I flung him over my shoulder and threw him into the trunk. The sadistic grin never left my face.

I pulled up to my driveway, grabbed the bounty I'd brought home, and carried it down to my lab.

I didn't have long before he woke up, so I put restraints as my top priority. I set him down on my strongest operating table and cuffed his arms and legs to it. I began to quickly gather my tools.

Gore Warning Time (=◉ ◡ ◉=)

I filled the needle with Pancuronium, a muscle paralyzer. His eyes widened as he fought further against the restraints. I couldn't help but let out a little chuckle. It's just so useless. I set the needle down and stuck a tube down his throat. Hooking that tube to one of of the various machines in my lab, I turned to him.

"Take it easy!" I shrugged as I turned away, "I'd say to take a breath and relax, but it seems that you won't have a choice."

He fought against the restraints vigorously. A worthless action, really. I hooked him up to the ECMO in my lab. Now he'll truly experience what happens to anyone who talks to my (Y/N).

After that, the wait was over. I placed the needle into his skin as the chemical was slowly inserted. I smiled as his shaking body stopped fighting.

My scalpel found itself close against the man's skin. I pressed it lightly against him; beads of crimson came bubbling up to the surface.

"Let's get serious." I quickly sliced the skin from his clavicle to his pelvis. Blood surged up, trying to clot. Around the rib cage, another incision was made perpendicular to the first. The process was repeated on his abdomen. Blood began to drip down his sides. I smiled as I began to open his skin. It was like that of freshly killed game. Tissue that once clung together separated at the slightest touch.

I carved him as if he were a Thanksgiving turkey. His insides lay facing the ceiling lights. With an additional snap of my gloves, I poised my hands over his organs.

"Hmm, let's begin to look for where your god failed you."

꧁ᴛɪᴍᴇ sᴋɪᴘ꧂

"This, right here, is your left kidney. Whoops! There goes the last of yours. Let's see what else is here..."

"Ah, yes. Would you like to see your large intestine?" I had my hands full of his guts. "Or perhaps the predecessor?" The salmon-pink muscle was wound between my fingers. With a small tug, blood sprayed onto my uniform. I tossed the glob of guts aside and once again grabbed my scalpel.

"Let's see if you can stomach this." I cut open the lining, acid pouring out. A corrosive hisss echoed while the body digested itself.

I laughed. Not at the pun—that was terrible. I had been fantasizing about this moment ever since (Y/N) saw him. And like I planned, I crept further up his insides. I slowly broke rib from rib, going in depth with a medial explanation each time one was removed. If ribs don't grow back then he surely won't live to see the end of it.

"Here we are." I pushed my gloved hand into his chest. "No no no, this shouldn't be! You don't deserve this." My hand gently squeezed around the muscle. "I'll make sure to give this back to the owner." Red flushed the room. A low, continuous beep echoed through the walls.

It's done.

——-————————————————

I walked to (Y/N) as she headed out of her office at work. I held her shoulder, causing her to pivot on her foot, now facing me.

"Oh, uh... hi, Professor. Did you need me?"

"(Y/N), I'd like to show you some paperwork at home. I need it put into the system, but... I forgot to bring it with me." I took a deep breath. "The files are very complex, so I'd need to show you how to deal with them. Would you mind stopping by?" She quickly shook her head.

I smiled. "Then follow me." I opened the car door. With a few clicks, (Y/N) was in my car. She was in my car. I turned on the radio to fill the silence.

Glancing to my side, I saw (Y/N) staring out the window. Her hair gently swayed, bouncing with each hole the tires hit. She hummed along with the singer, softly singing the parts that she knew. Her words were breathy, almost afraid to be heard. But they were music to my ears. 'Focus, Miguel,' I thought.

The song continued to play as I drove home. When we got there, I unlocked the back door.

"Kids, go to your rooms!" My voice slightly echoed through the halls. I took (Y/N) by the hand. "Follow me."

I lead her to a wall. It was in the darkest corner of the living room. Hidden amongst the shadows was a copper plate.

"Ah, mierda." I took off my goggles and handed them to (Y/N). "¿Agarras mi gafas, por favor?"

She took them slowly, staring at me as the scanner checked my retinas. The door opened with a clunk.

I gestured towards the "After you." She took a few hesitant steps before looking to me for guidance. I chuckled before letting her lean on me. We descended down the staircase until we reached my lab.

She immediately went over to my bookshelf. I smiled as I locked the door behind us.

"(Y/N)." She whipped her hair around to face me.

"Yes, Professor?" I bit my lip. Hers were slightly parted, giving her face a blissful look.

"Come sit down." She did as I instructed. "Now, what I'm about to do may pinch." I held her down as I injected a small amount of morphine into her femoral artery. After a bit of struggle, she fell limp in my arms.

(Y/N)'s POV

I woke up to the sound of footsteps. I lifted my head and tried to look around. Why was I in a chair? And why can't I move my arms? My mind raced as I began to struggle against my restraints.

"Ah, finalmente estás despierta." An unmistakable baritone rang out. Was Membrane going to save me?

He came into view, goggles and lab coat off. His arms were prosthetics. Presumably steel or an alloy containing it. His eyes were chocolate with hazel flecks. But more importantly, his pupils were extremely dilated. I tried to call out for him, but all that came out was a muffled "mfph".

"No tan rápido, mi querida. Tú eres mía. Solamente mío." His cold "hand" traces my cheek. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes.

"MPMFPH!"

"Ah, tú quieres hablar. Pues, adelante." He ripped off whatever was covering my mouth. I gasped for air. The air tasted like latex and antiseptics. I looked up towards Professor.

"Did...did you do this to me, sir?" I stammered. His eyebrow arched as he placed a hand on his chin.

"Ah, inglés. Un momento." He cleared his throat. "Is this better, my (Y/N)?"

I couldn't believe it. "Answer the question!"

"Ay, mi amor, I had no choice. I couldn't risk anyone else getting close to you." His hands found themselves on my shoulders, slowly moving up to my neck.

"Get your hands off of me!" He quickly pulled back. He walked behind me, making it impossible for me to truly see him.

His once endearing laugh now plagued my ears. "My dear, sweet, (Y/N), don't be that way~! You and I are one now. You are mine. And I've brought you a present."

He walked past his desk, digging through his belongings. After a few moments, he returned.

"My dear (Y/N), May I present to you..." he reached behind his back and pulled out a bloodied jar. Looking carefully, there's... oh my god. Inside the jar was-

"Hughes' heart. He said it belonged to you, I figured he wouldn't mind if you reclaimed it." He smiled, teeth filling half his face as his merriment was finally shown. He set the jar down, took me out of the restraints, and held me in his arms. I was too numb to fight back. I sobbed into his chest.

Membrane wrapped his arms around my relatively small frame. "Shhhh. It's going to be okay. He would have wanted it this way."

"Okay."