#and yet you did not heed the warning

[everypigeondeserveslove]

“Did she know?”

Yeah. She did know, and what about it??

[triptychofvoids]

hey i really think you should do an anon death counter if ya want... think it would be pretty cool...

all these dying anons remind me of 'dumb ways to die' except by the hands of medic tf2 lol

im not sure what the exact number would be at this point.. but considering the amount of anons that usually die either in posted asks or right in the askbox, it would not be a small one!!

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

CALL MY NAME AND I'LL COME RUNNING ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; satoru can be irritating, at times. but even if you push him away, he’ll always, always be there for you when you need him.

word count; 8.7k (this was supposed to b a short drabble but i was possessed by the devil halfway through)

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, reader n toru have a fight, mild swearing (a couple fucks here n there), hurt/comfort, satoru has communication issues but he’s trying his best, depictions of stalking (reader gets followed by a random creep but satoru comes to the rescue dw), uhh implied thoughts of violence? (satoru wants to Maul said dude but doesn’t), literally just me being in love with satoru gojo for 8.7k words straight

a/n; no thoughts head empty only gojo running through the streets like a wild beast looking for u <33 im normal about him yeah.

“you’re so annoying sometimes, you know that?”

satoru smiles. the sentence isn’t one he’s unaccustomed to hearing.

usually, the words are soaked in an undeniable fondness, as they spill from your lips. rich with exasperated love. one that never fails to have the corners of satoru’s lips curling up, a mellow kind of joy blossoming in his chest.

but now, that fondness is nowhere to be found. 

you sound thoroughly exasperated, and a little bit fatigued. more than anything else, there’s a vague irritation behind the tilt of your voice, something almost cold. it makes all the difference in the world. 

and yet, despite that, a certain someone chooses to pay no heed to the bad omen.

“aw, c’mon. you know you love me, baby.”

satoru is grinning. lighthearted, awfully sweet. there’s a certain smugness to it, though, one he couldn’t wash away even if he was aware of it; you wouldn’t do so even if you could. that smugness is a part of him, one that you’d usually find endearing. 

but right now, it only seeks to further your frustration.

it was a stupid fight, truthfully. completely meaningless. satoru had forgotten to pick up after himself for, like, the fourth consecutive time, and so you grew annoyed. not by a lot, but enough that you felt the need to be firm when you reminded him not to make the same mistake over and over again.

but satoru had only grinned, in that self-satisfied fashion of his, and apologized in a way you couldn’t possibly call sincere. then he did what he usually does — promises to work on it. to not do it again. he never follows through, though.

but even that thought wasn’t anywhere near enough to make you truly angry. what really began to irk you was the fact that satoru wasn’t taking you seriously, even in the slightest.

that’s how he always is, when it comes to this kind of thing. and you try to be patient, you do. you try to be understanding. sometimes you even appreciate that he keeps the atmosphere light, but other times, you just can’t help but feel irritated by it.

and the current situation happens to fall into the latter category.

you don’t care if satoru leaves a candy wrapper or two out, every once in a while. of course you don’t. it’s a silly thing to argue about. but would it hurt for him to just listen to you? to try to put himself in your shoes, for once? it’s not about the wrappers, or the undone dishes. it’s about the way he treats you when you complain about it — like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t matter. even if it obviously does, to you.

so, gradually, the topic of your little argument began to shift, into a conversation about satoru. about the fact that he so adamantly refuses to talk about the things that bother you in a serious fashion. about the fact that he so adamantly refuses to take you seriously.

and he just keeps proving your point, with every word that falls from his lips.

at this point, you’re genuinely beginning to feel a little angry. but satoru doesn’t see that as the warning sign it is — he just thinks it’s cute. he’s just been cooing at you, this whole time, despite your numerous attempts to actually explain how much his behavior affects you sometimes. it feels a bit like talking to a wall. satoru keeps on teasing you, even as you try to be firm about your point, and only brushes you off with empty promises to do better and more unneeded comments about how much he wants to hug you when you pout like that.

and you falter, a little. of course you do. you’re weak to satoru. weak to his words, that sweet voice of his, that pretty grin. but that only makes everything worse, because if you let yourself look even a little bit flustered at his comments, he sees that as his cue to continue.

you don’t even know if he’s doing it on purpose, at this point. is he doing it because he knows it’ll annoy you, or does he genuinely not understand that you’re upset? you’d like to think that there’s no malicious intent behind it, but can’t he see how troubled you are? you don’t get it. you don’t get him, and that frustrates you most of all. satoru can be so goddamn convoluted, sometimes.

so you simply can’t help but feel annoyed. angry, even. how long have you been arguing for, at this point? you’re not sure. but you feel the frustration inside of you grow, as the minutes tick by, into something you know will eventually explode.

a sigh falls from your lips, deep and exasperated. a little bit exhausted. “i’m serious, satoru. you’re not even listening.”

“i am!” he protests, stubbornly. childishly. “you just look so cute when you’re all mad. not my fault you’re so distracting.”

satoru smiles, voice sugar sweet, but all you can do is frown. does he really think it’s cute that you’re upset? the thought makes you somewhat sad. but you can’t show that, can’t let that part of you win — you don’t even want to think about the possibility of you crying, because of this. yeah, no way in hell. 

so instead, you channel it into anger. as the blood inside your veins comes to a boiling point, you dig your nails into the skin of your palms, gnawing at your bottom lip and shifting from one foot to another.

”satoru, i’m —” another sigh, sharp and vexed like the blade of a knife. ”i’m trying to have a serious conversation, here. can’t you see that i’m upset?”

satoru takes a moment to look at you, from behind the black glass of his shades.

he can. of course he can see that. you’re frowning, and there’s a crease between your brows, and you keep huffing and sighing every three seconds — you’re obviously, undoubtedly upset. and satoru wants to take you seriously, he does. it’s just that the part of his brain that only ever wants to coddle and tease you keeps persuading him not to.

he’s not lying, either; you do look cute. almost too cute to take seriously, when you’re pouting so sweetly, a little red in the face from all the frustration bubbling inside your chest. you look so small, glaring up at him like an angry puppy. 

satoru can’t help but smile. it’d be impossible not to.

and he will listen to you, will take you seriously. he knows you’re angry, knows you’re upset, and he intends to deal with that properly. but he doesn’t need to do it right now.

just a little more teasing, before he has to stop beating around the bush. satoru dreads it, a little bit, dreads having to genuinely be serious, be open and apologetic. it always feels so strange, so discomforting. 

all that stuff can wait until later. for now, he just wants to see you blush a little more, huff and puff at his limitless affection, that he knows you love deep down. where’s the harm?

(and therein lies the problem. satoru is observant, and typically good at seeing the line that he shouldn’t cross when it comes to you. but there are times when he slips up, times when he doesn’t realize that his words have begun to sting. times when the line becomes blurry, because he knows some part of you enjoys the way he babies you, and sometimes it blinds him to the part of you that doesn’t.)

satoru is smiling. it’s the same as always — big, bright, glazed over with honey-sweet adoration. smug and teasing. it’s such a satoru-like smile that it makes your breath hitch, sometimes, makes your heart race with wonder. but now all it does is annoy you. everything you love about satoru is annoying you, right now. 

in your eyes, that pretty smile of his seems almost taunting. like he’s trying to pick a fight with you, trying to make you even more upset. you don’t want to blow up over something like this, you really really don’t — but for some reason, you feel dangerously close to. it’s not like you at all.

you bore into his eyes with a cold glare, even though you can’t exactly see them with his shades in the way. posture straight and rigid as you try to make yourself look bigger. you must look at least a little bit menacing, like this. right?

“i’m seriously angry with you,” you say, hoping your voice sounds as austere to his ears as it does to yours. “don’t you get that?”

satoru coos, unable to hold the sound back. he doesn’t notice the flicker of hurt in your eyes, only focusing on how the sunset rays frame your figure, kissing your skin with sun-soaked fervor. you look so pretty. and that angry look on your face is too tantalizing not to tease.

“aww,” he croons, inching closer to you. there’s a teasing glint in his eyes that you can’t see, unmistakably fond. “is my little baby that upset?”

you blink. his voice sounds even more sugar-sweet now, obviously exaggerated. there’s amusement there, too — like this is just one big joke to him. you think he must be doing it to belittle you, to embarrass you. speaking to you like you’re some kind of grumpy toddler, and not a grown adult trying to have a serious conversation with their partner. your blood boils, boils, boils.

— and so the cup overflows.

“oh, go fuck yourself.”

it’s almost in a hiss that the words fall from your lips, cold and harsh; they leave the confines of your throat before you have a chance to reconsider them, sudden and sickeningly heavy. crude, too. you’d never be so crass with him under normal circumstances.

but you’re overwhelmed, thoroughly and completely, and satoru is being particularly infuriating. you genuinely feel hurt by the way he’s disregarding your feelings, and that realization stings more than anything. 

so you can’t help but say the words, louder than you meant to, before turning on your heel swiftly and walking out of the room. 

you don’t even have time to register what you’re doing, legs moving on their own before your mind can catch up. brisk and heavy steps carry you to the door, all while you furiously attempt to blink away the tears of frustration that begin to form in your eyes.

it only takes a second for you to grab your jacket — then you’re out.

satoru hears the front door close, echoing off the walls of your apartment. you don’t quite slam it shut, but you close it with more force than usual, and he can’t help but inwardly wince.

a moment passes. 

then, he flops down on the couch, lanky arms and legs dangling uncomfortably off the edges. the groan that slips from his lips is muffled by the soft cushion as he burrows his face into it, while replaying your interaction inside his mind.

satoru can’t help but feel uncomfortable, with this conclusion. a little bit irked. a vague something rests inside his chest, something he doesn’t quite want to admit to feeling. it makes him feel a little bit sick.

(”oh, go fuck yourself.”)

he can’t recall you ever raising your voice at him like that. when it comes to him, you’re usually so patient; soft, understanding, gentle. for you to have snapped in such a way — to have stormed out of the apartment in your anger — he must have pushed you pretty far.

satoru sighs.

he really pissed you off, huh?

(he can never quite seem to get this right, can he?)

it was never his intention to make you genuinely mad. he just lost sight of the line, for a second. that’s all.

and maybe he was also trying to avoid the issue, trying to avoid actually arguing with you. because he hates it. he hates it more than anything. satoru would much rather see you smile and blush than act all serious and sad. 

he just wanted to make you laugh.

was it insensitive? yeah, probably. he just can’t help but fuck this up, it seems. now he’s gone and made you angry — and as much as the sight would usually thrill him, as cute as you look when you’re irritated, a pit of anxiety settles in his gut. everything just feels wrong.

more than anything, satoru feels restless. because, right now, there’s nothing he can do. he can’t chase after you, even if just to apologize — that’d make you even angrier.

he knows he needs to give you space. you were obviously overwhelmed; some fresh air will do you good.

it irks him, though. satoru wants to fix it. he always wants to fix everything, before it even breaks. and even now, all his mind can do is spin in circles, wondering how he could possibly cheer you up.

he’ll just have to apologize, when you get back. and hope you forgive him. maybe he can get you something sweet to munch on, or a bouquet of flowers. would that make everything okay again?

satoru doesn’t know. so he just scratches his head, and tries his damndest not to think of how defeated you looked before leaving.

your steps are heavy, dragging you forward, leading you somewhere you have no knowledge of. it’s chilly out, and the sun is already setting.

everything in the world feels so wrong. like it’s tilted slightly to the left, like the earth stopped spinning around its axis. like everything suddenly lost its saturation. 

you just needed to get away from him, for a while. away from that smug smile, that patronizing tilt of his voice. you couldn’t even stand to be in the same apartment as him. it’s not often you feel that way, not often at all. 

and it only increases your growing frustration. 

you are beginning to calm down, though — you know you are. the crisp evening air and the pleasant mingle of people soothes your muddled senses, smoothing down the crease of your brow and the ache in your chest.

a heavy discomfort, and a growing guilt. that’s all you can feel, as the anger slowly seeps out of you, turning into vapour with every exhale of your breath.

you hate arguing with satoru. you hate it more than anything. the guilt clawing at your chest barely leaves any room for anger — you almost yelled at him. just the thought of doing that to satoru makes you want to cry.

because you love him, at the end of the day, even when he’s being absolutely insufferable. he’s a sweetheart, your sweet boy, always trying to lighten the mood and make you smile. maybe you should have been a bit more understanding; you know satoru’s bad at this stuff, bad with emotions and vulnerability. and deep down, you know he’d never hurt you, not on purpose.

he probably just didn’t realize that you were genuinely upset. it’s a mistake that anyone could make.

but it just makes you feel so frustrated. like he’s not even looking at you. always hiding behind those shades, never opening up. never letting you see him wear anything but a smile. you want him to take it slow, open up to you at his own pace, but that doesn’t make the wait sting any less.

it’s not like you were asking for a lot. first, you simply asked him to pick up after himself. the way you do, the way anyone does. then, you simply asked him to treat you with respect.

a sudden pang of bitterness runs through your chest. sure, you could’ve handled it all better — but he could have, too.

every step you take hits the pavement with an irritated kind of decision. whatever. whatever. for now, you don’t want to think about it — all you want is to walk around and take in the sights, enjoy the peace and quiet.

so that’s exactly what you do.

before you know it, the sun has set, and the moon has risen — shining down and painting the streets in a mesmerizing blue, ephemeral and tranquil. it’s enough to give you some peace of mind, as you lurk around familiar streets, soaking in all the open space. so different from that suffocating apartment, and the man inside it, with that shit-eating grin and those breathtaking eyes.

(he’s called you, a couple times. you haven’t been gone for long — an hour or so, you think, maybe two. some part of you wanted to answer, just to hear his voice through the phone, but the part of you that’s still awfully irritated shut that down immediately. so, stubbornly, you just let it ring.)

the streets are empty, and the sky is dark. the light of all the lampposts illuminate your way, along with the soft flicker of the moon and stars. an endless galaxy stretches out before your eyes, little pale dots of stardust shining like jewels.

an ever-lasting, never-changing sky, that continues on for infinity. limitless. all the space you could possibly want, and then some.

for a moment, you can only look at the glittering stars in wonder, soaking in the feeling of absolute solitude. 

— it doesn’t last, though.

“you alone?”

a sudden voice calls out from behind you. close, discerningly so, enough to make you flinch. you curse yourself for not noticing anything sooner, caught up in looking at the starry sky, in angling your phone to take a picture of it.

hesitantly, you turn your gaze towards the sound — wincing under your breath when you see the man a couple steps away from you. he looks a little crazed, you think, shifting from foot to foot and hunching over. 

oh fuck no.

great, just what you needed. that’s just your luck, isn’t it? your brain can only spin in circles, trying to get your body to react, to run. to do literally anything except just stand there like a deer caught in headlights.

in your nervosity, all you manage is a painfully awkward laugh, as you stutter out a halfhearted response.

“oh — no, i’m just waiting for my boyfriend!” you smile, unconvincingly. your face must be soaked in unease. whatever he wants with you, it can’t be anything good.

at least you said that one word clearly — boyfriend. you can only hope it’s enough to scare him away.

but the man only shifts a little more, emitting a gruff kind of hum, not saying anything else. your spine tingles with apprehension. every cell in your body wants you to leave. he seems a little intoxicated, you think, and the thought only stirs the anxious feeling in your chest further.

god. why does this have to happen to you? why now?

thankfully, you’ve got your phone in hand. as your mind scrambles for solutions, your fingers tap at the screen, urgently scrolling through your contacts. in such a frightened state, your acting must be positively awful, but you make a vague attempt. not like you’re getting any oscars for this, either way.

“sorry — he’s calling me now!” you stammer out, taking a step away from the man. he doesn’t make a move to follow you, so you take your chances and press your phone to your ear, feet carrying you forward with haste.

in your fear, you don’t think twice about calling satoru — but you can’t help but internally wince at the decision, as the anxious patter of your own heart resounds in your ears.

how are you supposed to talk to him, exactly? what are you supposed to say? hey, i know i just told you to go fuck yourself, but will you hear me out? i need your help. 

and you do. you do need his help. all you want is for him to swoop in, to take you in his arms, your knight in shining armor.

satoru’s said it to you, before — that if you need anything, anything at all, you can come to him. that you can always, always lean on him, without exception. 

you know that he likes helping you. likes it when you open up to him, when you put your trust in him. when you aren’t afraid to ask for his help.

so despite everything, you hold your phone to your ear, walking away with brisk steps and praying that he’s not petty enough to ignore your call like you did to his.

back home, satoru is still resting on the couch, tapping his feet and trying to distract himself. 

he’s a little anxious. it’s dark out, and you’re not answering any of his calls. when you’re out of sight, like this, he can’t help but feel a little helpless — worried about everything that could happen to you. but it’s not like he can force you to pick up. 

you’re probably at a friend’s house, or something. telling them all about what an asshole your boyfriend is. as much as the thought stings, satoru hopes it’s true; it’s all he can comfort himself with. anything is fine as long as you aren’t out walking alone, in the cold, in the dark.

entirely caught up in his spiralling thoughts, satoru almost flinches when the phone rings. laying on the table in front of him, just within arm’s reach. it only takes a second for him to react as his gaze flits to the bright screen, and he sees the contact name, the many heart emojis littering it.

with a start, satoru jumps up. his back straightens out, and his hand flies to grab the phone — he’d feel embarrassed at his own eagerness, but right now he just can’t help it. even under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn’t let the phone ring more than twice, always giddy to hear your voice whenever possible. 

this time, however, he does falter slightly.

he takes a split second to simply stare at the phone in his hand, at the affectionate contact name. what is he supposed to say to you, exactly? how is he supposed to act?

satoru doesn’t know, but as if afraid that you’ll change your mind and stop the call, yourself, he opts to simply answer. he’ll just have to figure out what to say on the fly.

(unfortunately, satoru’s instinctual response to anything is either smugness or playfulness.)

“well, well. look who finally decided to pick up.”

you’re the one who called him, not the other way around — but satoru can’t be bothered with small details like that right now. he only hopes you don’t notice the faint nervosity in his voice, the stiffness as he tries to sound unbothered.

you don’t notice anything at all, mind far too muddled, too clouded by fear. all you can do is take a deep breath, desperately trying to grasp control over your wavering voice.

“— satoru?” you call out, voice meek and frail. the man in question notices it immediately, sitting up a little straighter, but before he can say anything you continue. “i’m sorry, i just — are — are you still at home?”

there’s an anxious tilt to your voice, one that’d be impossible for satoru to miss. your words are a little breathy, spoken in a fast tempo, and he feels a sudden dread crawl up his spine.

something is wrong, his senses alert him.

“yeah,” he hums, trying to hide the turmoil in his own voice. “why? is everything okay?”

the line is quiet, for a second. “it’s just —“ an exhale, as you once again attempt to steer your voice in a less nervous direction. “just… some creepy guy tried to talk to me. i told him i was waiting for my boyfriend and now i’m walking away from him but he’s still following me.” another exhale, as you worriedly sneak a glance over your shoulder. ”i just — i don’t know what to —”

“where are you?”

satoru cuts you off, voice eerily serious. his gaze turned cold the moment he heard creepy guy, legs moving him towards the coat rack by the front door as if on autopilot. 

he’s already left the apartment by the time you answer, looking around you meekly.

“i… don’t know,” you sigh. “i’m not far. i walked past that one crêpe stand by the park but then i, like… continued up that street? and now i don’t really know where i’m going.”

you continue, a little exasperated as your gaze flits around the dark street. attempting to recall your steps, a difficult task with how on edge you feel. “i’ll try to look for a sign, or something,” you gulp. “… i’m sorry. i just wanted to get away from him.”

satoru’s voice is comforting, when he speaks, eager to console you. grounding and soft. “hey, it’s okay. i’m heading there now, alright?” he smiles, hoping you’ll hear it in his voice. “i’ll be there before you know it.”

you do hear it, and his words ease a little of the anxiety in your chest, despite your fear. “okay.” 

the line grows quiet, again, and your brows furrow in worry. “can — can i keep talking to you?” you ask, uncertain. a little pitiful. ”please?”

“of course,” satoru answers, instantaneous. he’s already making his way towards the crêpe stand with decision in his steps, mentally scanning the area ahead. despite his own anxiety at the situation, he attempts to sound as secure as he can possibly manage, desperate to soothe the worry in your voice.

“try to relax for me, okay? nobody’s gonna hurt you. not while i’m here.”

his words are absolute, as he consoles you. he sounds so sure of himself, so much that you can’t help but believe in his words. so you nod, emitting a weak hum when you remember he can’t see you.

“can you tell me what you see, baby?”

“uhh…” you look around, blindly, trying to find some sort of meaningful hint around you. “there’s like… some toy shop?” 

satoru only hums. “can you check your location on your phone?” 

you blink. 

of course. why on earth didn’t that cross your mind before? 

“oh — yeah — fuck. i’m sorry. i don’t know why i didn’t —“ you sigh, heavy. “hold on.”

following satoru’s instructions swiftly, your gaze scans over the screen. he waits, patiently, already heading past the park and up ahead. as soon as you succeed in finding the name of the street, you echo it to him.

satoru sighs, a little relieved. “okay,” he hums. “i’m not that far away. i’ll be there soon.” he only hopes his words can soothe your fear, even a little. “is he still following you?”

you glance behind you, and meet the gaze of the stranger. just like you were afraid of, he’s still following you — if anything, he seems to have gotten a little closer. with a jolt, your heartbeat picks up.

“yeah,” you gulp. 

satoru’s chest tightens. he emits a low hum. “just hold on. i’ll hurry.”

focusing only on the tilt of satoru’s voice, you try to calm your breathing. you just want to see him. the thought of doing so is the only thing keeping your trembling ribcage intact, at this point. 

you swallow a shaky breath.

“thanks, toru.”

a sudden pang of ache sprouts in satoru’s chest, like thorny vines curling around his ribcage. his heart hurts. you sound so scared, so very small. 

this is all his fault, he thinks. all of it. he got too careless; none of this would’ve happened if he had only been more considerate. if he had just stopped you from leaving and apologized, or hadn’t upset you in the first place. then he wouldn’t have to hear that scared little voice, wouldn’t have to imagine your body shaking like a leaf in the cold night. so far away from him. 

but satoru can’t beat himself up over it, not yet. there’ll be more than enough time for that later. for now, he needs to get to you — that’s the only thing on his mind.

so he lets his feet carry him forward, running towards your location with bated breath. he’s sure you can hear it, through the phone, even though he tries to contain it.

the sound consoles you, if anything. it reminds you that satoru is there, that he’s on his way. that there’s no need to be scared. 

but you can’t help but freak out, a little, when you hear the man call out from behind you.

“hey!” he slurs, stumbling towards you with unsteady steps. his voice is loud, angry, and it sends your mind reeling into panic mode.

a flinch overtakes your body, before you stumble forward, walking even faster than before. you’re almost running now, breath hitching as you gulp. satoru hears it all — your panic, the echo of the man. his own tempo picks up.

“baby, calm down, okay?” he consoles you, voice concerned and honey-sweet. “just keep walking. i’m almost there.”

“sorry —“ you squeak out, between flurry breaths. breathing uneven, laboured and anxious. but you try your best to calm down. “‘s just scary.”

it almost feels physical, the way it irks him. satoru wants to pull you close, more than anything, but he can’t. and that just makes the calamity inside his chest grow, clawing at his ribcage as if trying to escape, to go to your side. 

(he never, ever wants to hear that kind of fear in your voice again.)

“i know,” he soothes. “you’re doing good, honey. listen — he’s not gonna touch you. i won’t let him. you have nothing to be scared of.”

you nod, even as you exhale a shaky breath. ”i know.” 

and you do. you know there’s a truth, to satoru’s words, one that’s never failed you before.

because satoru is your safe space, at the end of the day — he can be annoying, outright insufferable, and sometimes he’s bad with emotions. but he tries, you know he does. and, more than anything else, you know that he’ll always, always be there when you need him. he’ll always be there to protect you. 

and a part of you is sure that everything will be okay, as long as he’s around.

(it’s easy to forget how trustworthy satoru really is, how much he cares. how dependable he is. and how serious he can get, when he truly needs to be, despite his childishness. it’s moments like these that remind you of that.)

but it’s still scary, at the end of the day. you can’t help but feel uncomfortable, a little lost in the world. because you and satoru just fought, you just told him to go fuck himself, and yet here he is. running to your side, in the middle of the night, because you’re scared and alone and you need him.

the man continues to shout, behind you, muttering curses you can’t quite make out. you look over your shoulder nervously, steps hurried.

and satoru runs like a man possessed, through the moonlit streets, gaze scanning the area like a wild beast. his most visceral instinct is screaming at him, tugging at his flesh and bones, desperate to protect you. to comfort you. to wash all your worries away. 

as he makes a sharp turn, he momentarily stops the movement, halting to look around. he thinks he must look a little crazed, with the moonlight illuminating his eyes, but he couldn’t care less.

especially not when his gaze lands on a certain person, further down the street — small and alone.

your eyes meet his.

with the darkness of the street, it’s hard to make anything out, but the light of the lamppost helps. though even without it, satoru’s sure he’d know it was you, just from the sensation that unfurls in his chest as his gaze lands on your figure. 

an audible sigh of immense relief falls from his lips, and his tense shoulders relax, eyes softening just a tad. he hears a similar noise coming from the phone in his grasp, and he assumes that means you recognize him too. not bothering to end the call, he puts it in his pocket, walking over to you with brisk steps. 

you stumble towards him, yourself, the worried crease between your brows now smoothed away. the closer he gets, the faster you move, until you can see the blue of his eyes. two pocket-sized moons.

satoru swoops you in for a hug before either of you can say anything.

he cradles you close, awfully close, so close you can hear his heavy breathing against your ear. it tickles your neck, along with his soft hair, and you shiver. his fragrance envelops your senses, a blend between fresh laundry, strawberries and some expensive cologne. your favorite scent in the world. 

and suddenly, the world is devoid of danger. nothing can get to you while satoru’s there. all that exists is you, and him, and the soft flicker of the moon.

satoru squeezes you tightly, ensuring himself over and over again that you’re safe. he might be squeezing you a little too tight, but he can’t bring himself to think about that just yet.

finally, that growing calamity inside his chest is satiated. winding down at the feeling of you pressed up against him, the indisputable proof that you’re okay. with you in his arms, satoru feels like everything is alright, again.

the fear inside his chest, so foreign it leaves him shaken to the very core, finally begins to dissipate too. he doesn’t think there’s anything that makes him feel quite as hopeless as the thought of not being there for you when you need him. he never wants to feel that fear again. it’s suffocating. it crushes his lungs.

all he can do is hold you close, his big palm smoothing down your hair, the back of your head, your spine. warm and comforting. keeping you steady against him. he can feel your heartbeat, rapid and anxious, so fast that his heart aches. satoru is eager to soothe you, eager to make it go away.

”i’m here, baby,” he breathes, rubbing his cheek against the side of your head. ”you’re safe now.”

the words are spoken softly, right by your ear, and you exhale a shaky breath. you’re bundling up his clothing with your fists, anchoring yourself to him. after a little while, you let go, opting to wrap your arms around his midriff instead. nuzzling into his broad chest, you try to blink away your tears and contain your sniffles.

you nod against him, and satoru kisses the crown of your head.

and, finally, his gaze strays. it falls farther down the street, until it lands on a certain man — shifting from one foot to another. watching you both in silence.

the calamity inside his chest rouses from its slumber, once more.

satoru makes sure to keep his hands on you, still rubbing your back with one steady palm cradling the back of your head. keeping your face hidden in his chest, safe and secure.

then he raises his head, back straight, full height on display as his eyes meet the stranger’s. he can tell they do, even with the distance, the darkness of the street.

and satoru knows he looks menacing. he knows the light of the lamppost illuminates his figure perfectly, framing his tall stature and broad shoulders. and he knows the moonlight caressing his skin illuminates his face, his cold eyes — blue and uncanny, glowing even brighter than the moon. staring daggers into the man’s soul. if looks could kill, there wouldn’t even be any remains left to find.

the man stiffens, visibly, and satoru delights in it. he doesn’t leave, though, and for a second satoru wonders if he’s really intoxicated enough to come closer — 

but, sure enough, all he does is stagger a little. then he walks away, grumbling under his breath, hands in his pockets.

and satoru isn’t satisfied, with this conclusion. not in the slightest. he wants to run up to the man, wants to hold him up by the throat, wants to tell him off. because he has the nerve to terrorize someone like that, stalk them with intentions he knows can’t be anything but revolting. the nerve to do that to you, of all the people in the world —

satoru doesn’t know if he’s hated anyone quite as much. 

and a part of him wants to make him cower. make him fear for his life, just to make sure he never does anything like this again. leave him with a fear so great it’ll linger for as long as he’s alive.

(and a more animalistic side of satoru, one he doesn’t want to acknowledge, wants to do things that are much, much worse.)

— but you come first. without question, and without exception. he refuses to leave you alone, and refuses to make you look at the man for even a second more. 

so he’ll focus on you, entirely.

he can tell you’re still shaken up, heartbeat pulsating against him, little flutters of life prickling his skin. there’s a desperation in the way you hug his waist, like he could disappear at any moment. like he’ll slip away if you don’t keep him close. the sight tugs at satoru’s heartstrings. 

his first priority is to soothe you, always and forever. so that’s exactly what he does.

satoru smiles. it’s small, in the wake of the situation, but awfully sincere. fingers reaching down to trace over your jaw, he gently urges you to look at him; when you do so, hesitant, he cups your cheek with his palm.

your teary eyes feel like daggers to his heart, an unmistakable proof of his failure. his failure to protect you, to keep you safe and happy. but at the same time, he’s glad, from the bottom of his heart — that you’d let him see you like this. even after everything.

you look very meek, blinking the tears away as you look into his eyes. they’re bright, and comforting. you wonder if he left the shades at home, if he rushed over here so hurriedly that he didn’t think to bring them with him. you’re happy, in any case — the effect they have on you is undeniable. 

you can’t bring yourself to look away, consoled by the flickers of white inside his irises, like fluffy clouds in the blue sky. ever-lasting, never-changing.

satoru tilts his head, smile sweet and understanding. ”that was scary, hm?” 

his voice is tender, somehow so mature. like he’s some older, wiser being, comforting a scared child. it’s so soothing, so very grounding.

squeezing your eyes shut, you can only bring yourself to nod, as you nuzzle back into his chest.

”you’re okay now, honey,” satoru coos, smoothing down your back as you sniffle. an immense softness seeps through his whisper. ”i’ll always be here to protect you.”

there’s a truth to the statement, heavy and pious. like an oath, a pledge, something for you to believe in unquestioningly. you allow yourself to soak in the words, knowing them to be true.

you’re safe, now. there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. satoru’s here, and he’s hugging you, pressing kisses against your shoulder.

but you just can’t stop crying.

when you speak up, your voice is weak, barely above a whisper. close to breaking apart at the seams. too tired after everything to resist the guilt inside your veins, you sniffle, and part your lips.

”i’m sorry i yelled at you.”

satoru stills.

then, his gaze softens, considerably. he hears himself coo, softly, palm smoothing down the back of your head. 

his sweet angel. apologizing to him, when he’s the one who started this whole mess. when you’re still so shaken up. because he let you leave the house angry, because he made you angry in the first place. because he didn’t see how important the discussion was to you.

(“you’re not even listening.”)

yeah. he wasn’t. he didn’t really want to.

an acute sense of shame. an intense guilt. that’s what he’s been trying to push down, all this time. that’s the unnamed something. 

it’s hard for him. to be as sincere as you, as open with his feelings and emotions. as mature. because even in a situation like this, you can swallow your pride and frustration, and apologize. even when you aren’t in the wrong. you’re always the bigger person, always the one to give in first, because he’s too stubborn to do so himself.

next time, satoru pledges, he won’t let you. next time he’ll be the one to swallow his pride.

because, yes, being vulnerable and admitting that he was in the wrong makes him feel a little like he’s being skewered alive — but you’re important to him. he loves you. and he wants you to know how much he trusts you, how special you truly are. 

if he can show you that, by being a little sincere, a little serious, then any discomfort he feels in the process is a small price to pay.

satoru’s lips meet the crown of your head, as he encircles your smaller frame, arms reaching around your neck to pull you close. he rests his jaw lightly on the top of your head, breathing in your scent. ”you have nothing to apologize for, baby.”

a pause lingers between the words he’s already said and the ones he yearns to say, but can’t seem to pull out from within his throat. it takes effort, to squeeze them out; but every time he replays your own apology in his mind, it gets a little easier. he squeezes you lightly before opening his mouth, as if to give him strenght.

“i’m sorry.”

you blink. 

for once, satoru sounds sincere when he apologizes — almost painfully so. bordering on something you think may be nervosity. you try to look up, to catch a glimpse of his expression, but he keeps you hidden in the crook of his neck.

”i was being immature,” he continues, sighing. you don’t know if you’ve ever heard satoru sound so uncomfortable. ”you know how bad i am with this stuff. but i never want to — you know.” 

he makes a gesture with one of his hands, as if that will say the words for him.

“— i didn’t mean to upset you. honestly.” satoru inhales the cold air, in hopes it’ll make him more honest. “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

you listen. intently, not missing a word, not a single tilt of his voice. it all sounds so genuine, almost foreign on his tongue. satoru seems to be trying to find the right words, grumbling a little under his breath. 

he’s cute, like this. kind of awkward, but that only makes him cuter. you nuzzle closer to him, comforted by his very existence.

”… i’ll work on it,” he whispers, at last. “i’ll listen to you. i promise. i really, really will.” 

you think satoru’s voice wavers, just a little, when he says his final piece. 

“so please don’t cry.”

this time, satoru doesn’t stop you when you attempt to lift your gaze, loosening his arms around you and raising his head from where it rests on top of yours. 

your eyes meet. satoru is smiling, weakly. he tilts his head, looking at you with something you could only ever describe as love.

”okay?”

such a lovely smile. so painfully genuine. his eyes are on full display, shining in the dark of the night, like splotches of moonlight. like someone stole the moon down to earth, and carved out little pieces to put in his irises. an ethereal hue.

he’s so gorgeous. hair just a tad messy, tousled from all the running he did to get here. cheeks a little red from the cold. when he smiles, his eyes crinkle. but he looks almost pained. 

(he was so, so worried.)

blinking away the tears clinging to your lashes, you simply stare, entirely mesmerized by the sight. satoru’s thumb goes to wipe at your glassy eyes, smoothing away the drops that threaten to fall. you want to engrave his expression into your memory, so you can never forget it. but it’s just a little too much.

so you hide in his chest, once more. the word that falls from your lips is tiny. “okay.”

satoru smiles, kissing the top of your head with a relieved exhale. bathing in your presence, still reeling from his show of vulnerability. he feels a little like he just cut himself open, let you peek inside his ribcage. the night air stings his skin. 

but you’re so warm, hugging him tightly, breathing and heartbeat finally relaxed. 

(he doesn’t mind it, not if it’s you — having you look inside his chest. if you asked, he’d let you build a shelter there. right between his fourth and fifth ribs.)

now that the words are out of his throat, they don’t burn at all. satoru feels a little silly, for being so scared to say them out loud. he knows you’d never use them against him.

all you do is snuggle closer, as if silently conveying your forgiveness.

you stand there for just a little while longer, wallowing in the tender atmosphere. finally, satoru makes a move to leave, and you begin to walk back home.

“sure you’re okay now, baby?”

you nod, exhaling a flurry breath. it turns into vapour in the cold of the air, drifting up and dissipating in the expanding starry sky. “yeah. thanks for coming so quickly.”

“of course,” satoru only says, choking back a yawn. 

your hands are intertwined, and he’s halfheartedly swinging them back and forth. it soothes your anxiety, and satoru’s protective instincts. you know neither of you will slip away, like this.

you shiver a little, subconsciously inching closer to satoru to protect you from the harsh bite of the midnight breeze. he notices, giving you a glance and a tilt of his head. “you cold?” 

“just a little,” you mutter, smiling weakly as you look up at him. ”i’m fine.”

satoru huffs. did you really think he’d be dissuaded by such a weak retort? there’s no way he’s letting you walk around all cold and shivering. 

so you come to a standstill, as satoru begins to shrug off his coat. he refuses to let go of your hand for even a second, making the process slower than usual — your heart flutters a little, as his fingers curl around yours, delicately. 

when he finally gets it off him, he wastes no time in draping it over your shoulders. it’s big on you, warm and soft, shielding you from the chilly air. satoru can’t help but giggle sheepishly, as he always does at the sight — you look so cute. 

“c’mon. let’s go home,” he grins, ruffling your hair teasingly.

satoru doesn’t feel cold, not in the slightest, as he holds your hand tightly. just your presence is enough to warm his bones to the marrow.

the silence between you is comforting and soothing, as you continue to walk. hand in hand, admiring the starry sky. you’re both too tired to speak — but satoru does so, anyway.

“i meant it, y’know.” satoru sounds sleepy, but earnest. ”i really will work on it.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it, yawning softly and stretching his free arm. gaze fixed on the morning star. 

“oh.” you pause, squirming a little. sheepish. “thank you. i’m sorry that i — i mean.” a sigh. “i probably overreacted a little.”

satoru shakes his head, waving off your guilt. “nah. you’re right. i never want you to feel like i’m not taking you seriously.”

his gaze meets yours, tentatively. his eyes shine like wedding rings. “you mean a lot to me.”

the sincere words manifest themselves as a heavy pressure to your chest, closing in on your heart as if crushing it. it’s a pleasant sensation, though, overwhelming as it is. you’re a little scared that your knees will buckle if he keeps this up, but even if they do, you wouldn’t want him to stop — satoru’s love is terrifically overwhelming when there’s nothing to hide it, when it’s just love and nothing else.

but you’d never reject it. you’d let it crush you to death with a smile on your face.

all you can do is avert your gaze, afraid that you’ll fall into the blue sea of his eyes if you don’t. heavy thumps of blood resound in your ears as your heart beats, warmth spreading throughout your entire body.

“… you mean a lot to me, too.” you echo, holding his hand just a little tighter. warmth rises to your cheeks. “i just felt really frustrated, i guess. like you were looking down on me. i know you weren’t actually, though.”

satoru chews at the inside of his cheek, almost anxiously. “i know i can be a little much sometimes,” he says, tasting the words on his tongue. “and i appreciate you for putting up with that. i’m sorry i let it go too far. i’ll be more considerate.”

your heart stutters in your chest. you’re not sure what to say — the way he forms his words makes them feel so absolute. and you believe him.

“i’ll be more considerate, too,” you echo, looking down at the pavement. “i shouldn’t have blown up like that.” a pause. you mumble, quietly, a little embarrassed. “i shouldn’t have told you to go fuck yourself.”

satoru breathes out an amused huff, chuckling lightheartedly. his eyes carry a teasing glint when they meet yours. “i probably deserved that. no worries.”

“still,” you pout. satoru giggles. 

“we’ll both work on it, then,” he hums, tilting his head to find your gaze. “right?”

you blink. a small smile breaks out across your face. “right.”

satoru swings your hands back and forth, looking awfully happy with himself. you’re proud of him. really.

“oh —“ he says, breaking the sleepy silence once again. “and i’ll stop leaving wrappers around, too.”

this time, you’re the one who huffs out an amused breath. “thank you,” you grin, looking up at him. he thinks the sight is terribly precious.

a yawn leaves your lips, drowsiness sneaking its way into your bloodstream. you’re not sure if it’s due to the dark, or if you’re just a tad exhausted after all the arguing and panicking.

satoru notices, and gets an idea.

“you tired, baby?” he coos, eyes teasing but soft around the edges. “d’you want a piggyback ride?” 

when you give him a look, sleepy and kind of exasperated, satoru grins. you huff out an amused breath, just a tad embarrassed, but it only spurs him on.

so he crouches down, one knee meeting the pavement, letting your hand slip from his. you blink, tiredly, at the loss of contact. you can’t see his face, but you know he’s wearing that lovesick, smug little grin of his. 

”c’mon. your big, strong boyfriend’ll carry you.”

satoru’s feeling playful, you can tell. that’s usually a bad sign — but you can’t deny that you’re tired. and the prospect of getting carried all the way home is eerily tempting. 

your gaze falls on his back, and his broad shoulders. silently, you walk towards him, and wrap your arms around his neck. satoru holds you up by your thighs, and then stands up, jostling you a little; he does so without a hitch, and you’re reminded of how strong he really is. his grip is secure, and you trust him not to drop you, no matter what. 

you let out a content sigh, basking in the chill of the midnight air as you nuzzle your cheek against his soft hair. satoru chuckles.

”my sleepy lil’ sweetheart,” he coos, voice a tad raspy. ”lucky thing you’ve got me, huh?”

there’s a softness to his voice, despite the teasing tilt obscuring it. you can only huff out a breath, somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff, and cling to him tighter.

satoru will get you home safe. he can be annoying, outright insufferable, and he can be bad with emotions — but you can always, always trust him on that. 

so, with his coat shielding you from the chilly air, and his back warming you up as he carries you back to your apartment, you allow your eyes to flutter shut; enjoying the cozy feeling his presence brings you.

he’ll always be there when you need him.

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[supershot73199]

Dpxdc demon siblings au prompt

So standard demon twin/sibling setup where after dying for dissapointing Ras Danny is thrown into the pit where he doesn't surface. Damian mourns his brother but never tells the bat's at first because it's to painful but then because he doesn't want to cause his family pain with the knowledge that they have a brother/son/grandson respectively. (I personally like Danny being the older one in this whether it's just the first born twin or he's a couple years older is up to you all)

The rest under a read more.

So we cut to an older Damian as Robin and the batfam are fighting a exiled member of the League of assassins who wants revenge on something Ras did and decide that they will hurt Damian to hurt Ras.

So this exile uses a magical ritual to summon the ghosts of every assassin Ras turned on and killed (its a lot of them) so the bat's are not able to stop the ritual in time because they couldn't get a skilled enough magic user to Gotham in time (is there some other threat? Just out of contact? Performing at little Jimmy's birthday party? Who knows.)

So the bat's are getting what anti ghost gear they can (nth metal weapons magic doodads whatever) when the last and most powerful ghost is pulled through. Damian freezes because he knows that face, he's older and he has an unnatural glow, but Damian will never forget his brother.

The exile is laughing taunting the Bats about the dead son come for revenge on his brother who betrayed him Damian is emotionally distraught crying, apologizing, telling his brother that they tried to bring him back but the pit took him from them.

The other bat's are freaking out in their own way because holy shit this is true?! Meanwhile Danny is staring silently at Damian face completely blank. While the feral ghosts of the assassins are trying to break out of the summoning circle.

One ghost manages to find a crack from where it was weakening from the thousands of ghosts trying to break it and rushes to attack Damian who is too distracted and too far from the others to react. He throws himself back scrambling for his sword as the assassins lunges forward to rip his heart out with his bare hands.

Yet as is seems he's about to meet his doom the assassin jerks to a stop before his momentum is reversed and he's thrown back into the circle. Everything is silent because the one who saved Damian was his own brother who was not even slowed by the magical protection (because he's half ghost not that anyone knows this but him)

The insane assassin starts going on about clearly his betrayed brother has decided that only he is worthy of striking down the heir to the demon. Except as he's mid monolog a ice knife is thrown into his leg missing all the arteries but causing a lot of pain. Then Danny speaks.

"I never blamed you little brother. Now dry those tears and Al-Ghul never shows weakness to an enemy."

As he says this for the first time since he's summoned Danny no longer has that blank face instead he has the most affection filled smile you can imagine while he wipes his brothers tears before he turns to the massive swarm of ghosts.

"Any who would seek to hurt my brother must first go through me, The Phantom, Pariah's bane, keeper of Balance and guardian of the mortal realms, but if you think you can take me by all means just do me a favor, let some other poor sap try first."

Now if the ghosts heed his warning or not is up to you if they do then Danny just opens a portal to the ghost zone for them to flee into, if not then he proceeds to beat the unliving shit out of them before tossing them through a portal anyway.

After everything is said and done Danny goes over to Damian talking about how proud he is to see him growing into such a good person and how it's so wonderful to see him again after all these years. Just really heartwarming stuff there's hugs Dick is crying into Jason's shoulder everything.

Then Danny says it's time for him to go he can't stay forever. Damian is upset saying he can't lose him right after he gets him back. Danny then laughs and says..

"This isn't a goodbye Damian it's just a see you later, I promise we'll see each other again before you know it."

And the batfamily are all crying thinking this is him saying that he'll be waiting in the after life for Damian. Before he goes through the portal closing it behind him

The bat's all handle the clean up and police for the crime scene before returning to the manor and getting explanations from Damian.

After all that the family come together to make a shrine to their departed brother with Damian being the last one to walk away to get some sleep.

The next morning everyone feels lighter with this secret no longer between them as they chat and laugh as they get ready for breakfast.

As they are all sat together ready to eat one of Damians siblings asks if there are any pleasant memories about Danyal Damian wants to share and Damain decides to tell a carefully edited version of one of their escapades (conveniently leaving out that he was responsible for the situation in the first place) only right as he finishes a voice chimes in.

"That's not how I remember it little brother." And standing there leaning against a wall is Danny himself.

[suiana]

(yandere! ghost husband x gn! reader)

In many asian cultures,

it is taught to people to not touch any offerings or money that is left on the ground.

For if you do so,

you shall be married to a dead person.

however, you chose not to heed these warnings and picked up a heavy wad of cash that was left on the sidewalk of a forest.

you picked it up, happily thinking it was just some rich guy who dropped his money while on a nature walk, that you got lucky enough to stumble upon his secret stash.

so you brought it home with you, thinking of all the wonderful things you'd buy with this newfound money you got.

unfortunately, that was just the start of many unexplainable things that begun to happen to you.

"dude can you not close my door?! I'm trying to go on a date!"

you yell at the air, staring at your door which suddenly slammed shut. it had been a few weeks since these events had started occuring. and events as in, random paranormal events. yes, paranormal.

it all started when you found that thick wad of cash on the sidewalk of some asian country and brought it back home with you. you thought you were lucky to have stumbled upon such treasure. like, holy shit that's a few hundred thousand of dollars!

yet the second you stepped foot inside your house, chills ran down your spine and you couldn't help but feel absolutely scared to enter your home.

but you simply shrugged it off, thinking you were just overthinking and worrying over nothing. must be the scary asian ghost stories you heard.

you should've went to the exorcist the second you felt that gut instinct though.

because as the days went by, your lights started turning in and off by itself, your house would be cleaned meticulously even when it looked like a fucking dumpsite a few hours before, and more importantly, you'd start hearing voices of a man who claimed to be 'your husband'.

at first you wondered if you were schizophrenic. holy shit, were you hallucinating right now? why the hell was there this attractive voice that kept on talking to you from time to time?

but it wasn't you being schizophrenic, unfortunately.

for what you were experiencing was very much real. there was now a ghost in your house, or rather around you, that would not leave no matter how hard you tried.

and you came to live with it, until today.

why? because you were about to go on a date with this super sexy guy but then this... this ghost husband wouldn't let you!

freaking slammed the door when you tried leaving! like who even does that?!

"ugh, you're being unreasonable!"

you yell at the air, glaring angrily as you place your hands on your hips. you didn't know where this ghost husband of yours was, but you did know he was near you. i mean, the temperature drop was a clear sign that he was.

"me? unreasonable?"

ah, there he was.

you turn around to face the aur, glaring angrily as you feel your skin prickling. his voice came from behind you and he was whispering into your ear. he always likes to do that, you noticed. speaking from behind.

"yeah, you! dude i just want to get laid!"

you reply in irritation, hands on your hips as you shake your head. you wait for his reply, pursuing your lips angrily before shrieking as you feel him blow cold air against your nape.

"but you have me, don't you?"

"well I don't want you! I didn't know you'd come together with the money! and I can't even use the money..."

you mumble off, shivering slightly as you continue to glare at the air. god damn it, so much talk about being your husband and you don't even know how he looks like! heck, you can't even see him!

"I don't even know how you look like! how could you prevent me from going on a date with this sexy guy-"

in the middle of your complaint, you suddenly yelp as an attractive male, albeit a translucent one, stares right at you, an unamused face as he looks you down.

"well you can see me now."

he mumbles, arms folded across his chest as he glares back at you.

your mouth is dry, cheeks slightly pink as you stare at the man. holy moly! you have a hot husband?!

"holy cow! you're hot?"

"what's that supposed to mean?"

you stare at the male, jaw dropping before you slap your face and look him up and down. he was clad in a traditional outfit, looking expensive and absolutely drop dead gorgeous- well he's dead but... gorgeous!

"damn okay, I won't go on that date..."

you drool slightly, moving away from your door as you continue staring at your ghost husband dumbly, giggling as you walk past him onto the couch.

"of course you won't. you're already married to me."

your husband follows after you, a cold aura following him wherever he went, chilling the area. thankfully the heat in your body helped to warm you up.

"why didn't you show me your face earlier? you're so sexy..."

"well you never asked."

he shrugs before floating over to you and resting his head in your lap. his eyes look into yours, a lovesick expression in his eyes as he traces his translucent hand into your skin, making the area tingle slightly.

you stare down at him, pursing your lips before giggling stupidly and blushing. damn, you really did have a hot husband. even though he's dead, he's still your husband! you only wish he was alive... then maybe you two could get dirty and-

"you know i can still pleasure you right?"

the ghost suddenly deadpans, looking right at you as though he had read your thoughts. you blink at him, not registering his words before you suddenly choke on air and look away.

"oh, are you choking? don't die yet... i like your body heat."

your husband suddenly moves away from your lap, getting up to pat your back in a pitiful attempt to relieve you from your choking fit. all you felt while you coughed was the tingling sensation of cold hands.

"damn you can't just say stuff like that-"

"but you were thinking about it, no? i can hear your thoughts, you know."

you proceed to choke on air again, having yet another coughing fit as your ghost husband continues to pat your back with his cold ghostly hands.

"oh my god just kill me now... this is so embarrassing-"

"no, i already said i like your body heat and you can't die yet."

you immediately shut up, staring at the ghostly male with dead eyes.

before you know it, you're walking to your kitchen to grab a knife to kill youself just to spite him. but of course, you were stopped by your husband who immediately wrestles the knife away from you, smacking your head painfully hard before dragging you back to the couch where he begins to suck your warmth away like a leech.

damn him, maybe you should get an exorcist.

"you know i can hear your thoughts right? you're not getting rid of me."

damn him, you really are going to get an exorcist.

"what? darling i just said no!"

you're getting an exorcist.

[saintobio]

LUCIFER.

his fall was not from grace, yet in his descent, he found freedom—a kingdom of his own making, where he rules not with light, but with the shadows it casts. and you, unfortunate soul, are the sin that fuels his eternal reign.

♱ genre. gothic, dark romance, smut, angels/demons au, 18+

♱ pairings. sylus, fem!reader

♱ tags. 5.2k wc. this fic will contain dark and twisted themes. please heed the warnings and proceed with proper discretion. demon!sylus, sylus is ooc, not set in lads universe, profanity, heavy sacrilege/blasphemy, catcalling, sadistic undertones, noncon/dubcon, toxic relationships, corruption, sex in church, dacryphilia, mentions of obsession, allusions to stockholm syndrome, yandere, fingering, unprotected sex, explicit smut.

♱ notes. this is an old rewritten/reimagined fic of mine bcos i saw a theory abt sylus being a demon. and coincidentally, rewatching a season of lucifer only made my brain rot tenfold D; so if you've seen me post this fic before with another character, pretend you didn't >:D

Thunder grumbled as a flash of lighting struck through the dark blanket of twilight skies. The rumbling sound angrily resonated through the stretch of clouds as if the heavens were to wash away human sins that have long been plaguing this era of the 21st century. A shower of rain soon followed that started in huge droplets and later cascaded from the slate gray clouds like waterfall. 

Checking your old leather watch, it was only 6PM. It had been two hours since the power outage doomed the whole neighborhood because the utility poles were severely damaged after the hurricane ravaged the city yesterday. 

The thick soles of your boots landed heavily on the tessellated sidewalk with every step, holding your umbrella closer to seal you from the heavy rainfall. Your eyes followed the beads of rain that bounced off the cold cement as your mind wandered further than where your body could take you to. 

You had left Sylus sleeping in bed back in your shared apartment so you could walk around the city and drop by the church. It wasn’t like you sneaked out, but was only reluctant to let him know of your whereabouts because you didn’t want him to follow you around, especially to such a scared place like church. Before you left, however, you did ensure that his silver cross was still enclosed around his collar just for your sanity. 

It had been a while since you last visited the church. With the power out and nothing else to do, you decided it was the perfect time to visit the cathedral where you always made your most solemn prayers.

The streets were still in shambles, though. Road signages were sprawled on the sidewalk, branches were barely hanging off the trees—the city had vestiges of wreckage from the hurricane that emptied a usually busy metropolitan area today. Most people were still at the leisure of their homes as work and classes have been suspended until further notice, for everyone’s safety and to allow the government to clean the roads. 

You could already imagine Sylus shaking his head at your resistance to just stay indoors and simply be with him. The only reason you were confident to leave his side today was because it had been awhile since the last incident. You could live with the thought of coming back home to Sylus and his usual self. Sylus, who was always thoughtful and tenderhearted albeit his dominant exterior. Never did you think that you could land a man of such warmth—a year in two days—but how you met was a story made for another day. 

Amidst the already dismal atmosphere outside, stepping by the narthex inside the baroque church greeted you with an even more caliginous surrounding. Darkness enshrouded the interiors of your chosen place of worship with only as much as three paschal torches by the apse to light up the altar. Still, with God’s presence, your feet carried you in slow footsteps along the velvet red aisle as you made your way towards the nave. 

You were alone in the eerie cathedral, but fear did not consume as you were in attendance to the crucifix above the high altar. This was your favorite cathedral among all the others in the city simply because of its gothic Victorian architecture.

Fixed with the cathedral’s grandeur and bedight with ornate decorations, you became more comfortable at situating yourself by the pew—genuflecting on the elevated wood behind the stretch of oak benches as soon as you found your usual spot. 

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” you whispered in sotto voce, performing a sign of the cross with your eyes glued to the crucifix that represented Jesus Christ. You had your elbows propped atop the bench as you silently prayed. 

Loving and gracious God, with all love and mercy, we thank you for blessing us with another day and protecting us in times of natural disaster. 

You wanted to ignore the unusual cold air that slithered on your skin in horripilation. Your prayer resumed despite the Stygian gloom that darkened the cathedral’s interior or the sound of the harsh wind slamming through the towering doors by the vestibule. The storm is coming again, you mentally noted. 

With your grace and kindness, Lord, I pray that you will continue to guide us—

The manly fleer echoing through the vacantness of the church made you halt from your recital. “I knew my cute church girl would be here.” 

You knew that devilish voice all too well that it had you shutting your eyes, petrified. No wonder the air felt sinister. But if your gut-feeling about him was right, then there was no need to be frightened. “Sylus, I’m in the middle of a prayer,” you hushed, although before you could turn around to face his silhouette, he had already transported to your side with a wicked smile plastered on his pallid face. 

“I’m not him,” he spoke in an orotund voice, stepping closer and closer. His ash blond hair did not hide his incarnadine eyes. “Stop looking for that runt when you’re with me.” 

You stepped out of the pew with a rapid heartbeat, standing by the aisle as the tall man towered over you. “S-Sylus, where’s your—” you searched for his silver cross and found it still hanging around his neck, “did you break it?” 

He glowered at your accusation. “You know I would if I could, sweetie.” 

You exhaled a deep sigh. This was not Sylus, this was the malevolent demon inside of him. You ought to be cautious of yourself. “Okay, well... Leave me alone. I’m praying.”

“Ordering me around?” Each step that he took reverberated across the cathedral. He stretched his head from side-to-side in a manner that showed his ennui. “Don’t you miss me, kitten?” 

There was no stopping to the loud thumping of your heart as you stood along the aisle with Sylus backing you off further to the center. “Sylus, I said not now,” you begged, but he refused to listen and only wiped his lower lip with his thumb. 

“I hate it when you make me wait,” he muttered, stepping forward until your lower back hit the credence table at the altar. You found yourself trapped in a decreasing distance between yourself and the sadistic devil in front of you. “Don’t look so scared. We do this every time.” 

“I’m not scared, but...” Your voice was getting softer, yet filled with fret. You pressed a hand on his chest as he locked your body with both arms around the table. “Please, not here.”

You had to be firm, you just had to be but you couldn’t muster the courage to fight back in Sylus’s presence. He was the embodiment of power and you were the representation of weakness. 

He was a demon that thrived on sin, and he drew strength from indulging in the seven deadly sins. Vainglory, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth—all of those fueled his existence. Today, however, it was the third sin that consumed him, the one that ignited his darkest sexual desires. 

“I’ll be quick,” he bargained, undoing the upper buttons of your dress despite your failed attempts at pushing him away. Doing it at such a place! You sent him a glare but he only returned a sly smile. “How about we show your God what you’re really like underneath that maidenly exterior, hm? Show him how dirty you really are?”

God, help me. You desperately shook your head, now overthinking if someone could see what he was about to do to you in this holy sanctuary. Long before you could cover your chest, he already pinned your wrist on the side as he lowered the fabric to show your collar. “Sylus—!”

“Don’t be shy, kitten,” the whisper he sent through the shell of your ear caused shivers to your spine. With his heightened senses, he placed his mouth on your ear, “No one’s here to watch us except for your God. Be a good girl now.”

You tried to push him once more to no avail as he sucked on the flesh above your shoulder. There was no warning to prepare you from the sudden harsh suction. “I-It hurts!” 

Your nails dug into your palms to leave crescent marks on your flesh while you were squirming out of his strict hold. 

“It hurts? Good.” He continued to leave marks all over your flesh as he caged your waist around his arm. The feeling of his teeth pricking your skin had you whimpering in pain, and his eyes had grown rutilant when he momentarily pulled away to look at you. “You’ll hurt even more,” and then he erupted into a deep chuckle as if you were a meal that he was seasoning with a sprinkle of fear, “I should really just keep you for myself.” 

Your desire to breathe grew exponentially. “I’m not yours.” 

A low sneer and a dissatisfied ego had you pressed against the oak table in surprise. “Yes, you are,” he reiterated as though he was enforcing the idea in your head. “Your soul, your heart, your body—you are mine.” 

“I’m not! I wasn’t born in this world to be your property,” you protested, pulling away from his grip only to be slammed harsher on the table. You knew you should never anger a demon but his possessive nature irked you. Aside from your already shameful situation, you wanted nothing but to get away from him. “You’re evil.” 

“What makes you so brave? Your beliefs?” he gritted, reaching for an object near your head that turned out to be the Bible. “This?” he quickly opened the sacred handbook and ripped the pages in front of your very eyes with a distasteful smile. How easily he ripped it, how easily he also tossed it. “Whatever, then. There’s no God. You humans are complete idiots for worshiping a nonexistent being. Weren’t you the ones saying that I’d burn as soon as I stepped into a church?” 

“He is your father!” You sat back up, revolted by his blasphemy. He had no right to mock God like this. “Don’t taint my beliefs with yours. My faith in Him is stronger than you think.” 

“You should know what it’s like to be in hell before you say that shit,” he retorted, placing his lips back on your ear, “I’ll take you there with me.” 

This is not the time and place! What a shameful situation he was putting you through, so unbelievably shameful and obscene that you couldn’t look at him in the eyes. “Sylus, I swear. I’m going home if you’re gonna keep on—”

He huffed, showing boredom by dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “Ah, fine. You’re boring. Continue the prayer, then.”

For one of two things; first, Sylus would never let you off easily. Every act of defiance would garner you a punishment. Second, he was a time bomb. You never knew when his most cruel intentions would come to show. He was a malefic being that wouldn’t give two shits about where he was as long as he was having fun at torturing your soul. 

You should have known that when you chose to finish your prayer back at the pew. Sylus would simply not last long enough to just sit by your side in his apathy. 

“Holy Father, please forgive us for our sins—”

He snorted in ill-humor. “Pitiful.” 

And while you sat there looking up at the crucifix, Sylus’s hand was already sneaking its way under your skirt. His icy fingers traced your inner thighs until he reached your center, and that was when you finally grabbed his wrist to stop him with wide, scandalized eyes. Was anyone on the qui vive to see you right now? 

“Sylus, for heaven’s sake,” you hissed, pulling his wrist away but his slender fingers were already coordinating motions against your clothed core. You had to look around in panic lest there be any unknown audience peeking from the shadows. Despite your refusal to submit, the contact was eliciting suppressed moans out of your parted lips. “Y-You’re insane. This isn’t the place.” 

His smile was full of triumph and excitement, his right eye glowing ominously he spoke. “What makes it different?” he asked, raising your skirt and inserting his fingers inside your underwear. You had to press your lips together as soon as he started rubbing his fingers on your clit. “See, you enjoy the fuck out of it. I can see through your deepest desires, kitten. It’s telling me… ‘don’t stop’.” 

Your palm was pressed on his chest while his other hand tried to spread your legs open. The very position you were in—leaned on the wooden bench, legs spread apart, and being fingered in the presence of God—you were certainly going to hell. This was going against your belief, having your chastity corrupted in arrant disgrace by a man who was the devil himself. 

How exactly did you find yourself in this predicament? You came here to offer a quick prayer, not to be pressed on the bench by a man who was now unbuckling his belt in haste. You could only think of how Sylus, who was an angel beyond his demons, was perhaps trying to come out of being trapped in the dungeon where Satan had him caged.

“This is so wrong,” your lips quivered as you spoke, both of the curling of your toes and of the shameless sacrilegious act. You knew you couldn’t stop this no matter how hard you tried because Sylus would remain tenacious until he got what he wanted. 

With that, you fully submitted yourself to him and let the back of your head rest on the wooden surface while you stared at the stained glass that roofed the cathedral in different hues. 

Sylus was fast to display a smirk while positioning his hardened length on your entrance. The bands of your underwear were now resting mid-thigh as he pressed himself down on you with one knee supporting the angle of his hips. He was running his throbbing tip between your plump folds to lubricate himself with your slick. No screams could be released because you restrained your own whimpers, but your tears brimmed on the corner of your eyes from the initial penetration. 

“Ngh!” Your nails dug deep on his forearms. “S-Sylus!” 

“Are you crying?” His carmine eyes glinted of sadistic humor, running his gelid thumb across your lower lip only to sink it deep inside your mouth. “How does it feel knowing that the God you worship can’t save you?” 

A tear slid down from your eyes to your temple as Sylus started moving his hips in an achingly slow rhythm, each thrust going deeper than the last. You almost bit his thumb before he released your mouth by gripping your wrist. “Sylus—someone could see—!”

To your irony, the crucifix stared down at you and enkindled your conscience from this sinful act. Father, forgive me. You could only whisper those words in your head because your mouth was too occupied in crying out Sylus’s name.

“So warm.” It was hard not to think of how attracted he looked when he raked his fingers through his hair, later meeting your eyes with overpowering lust. He didn’t hold back at burying his cock into your cavern, allowing your walls to fit his girth like tight gloves—the feeling garnering his raspy grunt. “You’re mine, sweetie. All mine.” 

Sylus. You blinked your tears away as you closed your eyes. Sylus’s lips were now on your neck as he increased the pace of his member sliding in and out of your cunt with squelching noises that shamelessly echoed across the cathedral. “Sylus,” your lips were on his ear, “we’re in—aah—church.”

Unlike you, he was nonchalant about the sacredness of the house of God. He was mocking the supreme being that you held faith to as an act of engraving his existence into your mortal soul. While you restrained your moans as he slammed his pelvis against your hole, there was fulfillment rattling in his bones when he pressed your face to the side before diving in to suck on your sweet flesh.

“Cry more. Did you know your walls get warmer when you’re aroused?”

It was hard to describe the feeling. The median between pain and pleasure was the closest example you could liken it to. The grazing of his fangs added to the burning sensation that you had all over your body as if fire was ignited to light up all your nerves. 

Your hand latched onto his shirt before his body collapsed on top of you. With your legs spread wide, his head hung low on your neck—still and unmoving, strangely like he had fallen asleep. 

“Sylus.” You tapped his arm through the heavy rise and fall of your chest.

And before you could move away, he shot straight up and looked at you with those foxy incarnadine eyes that were now in the shade of deep crimson. Eyes that were wide and full of horror as he looked around the cathedral before he slowly realized what he had just done. 

“Y/N,” he said your name regretfully, pulling your dress down to cover your exposed parts, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I did this—? I don’t—” 

Long dried were the tears on your cheek. As you two scrambled to fix your clothes, you pulled him into a hug while he murmured endless sorry’s to your ear. At least, for now he was back. That was the most important thing with all the sanity you had left. 

“Just get me out of here, Sy,” you said, back into the arms of your human lover. 

~~

You’ve always wondered why Sylus often slept during the day. Or why his normal heartbeat was at the pace of someone who was having a heart attack. Or why he could get serious wounds but managed to heal himself fast. Sometimes he would disappear from your sight and transport himself into another. Sometimes he would see and hear things a thousand times clearer than any other person could. 

For almost a year of dating, these questions only came up to you without much of an answer. You thought that you were simply theorizing over things that you shouldn’t. Why does Sylus always wear that cross around his neck? At the back of your head, you were always intrigued. 

You didn’t find out about the real reason until two months ago when you finally met ‘Lucifer’ out of nowhere. If Sylus was Jekyll, Lucifer was his Hyde. It was his way to allow you to form a dissociation between the two beings in one body. 

You never believed in devils until Sylus showed his demonic face to you one night while you were supposedly peacefully sleeping. You recalled the screams that you released when you found out that Sylus was the fallen angel all along. That the rosary around his neck was meant to seal his dark side, the side that you still didn’t know much of. Up until this day, he didn’t provide a concrete answer as to why he needed to seal himself. He was taciturn about the topic of his other self despite you bringing it up every now and then. 

But because you loved him, trusted him, and believed him when he said that he didn’t plan to hurt you—you stayed. You knew his human side better than the monster within him, so you told yourself that you could stay for him. You just needed to learn more about him. 

There were still moments where you felt cautious around him, but when you looked to see his softened expression, you were comfortable at seeing the Sylus that you knew. 

“Y/N,” he broke the silence that lingered between you two as you walked around the city, “I’m sorry.” 

You tugged at his hand in reassurance. “It’s okay, I just...” As flashbacks of the earlier events returned to your head, you felt ashamed at having done such dirty deeds at a holy place. “He always gets what he wants.” 

Because you let him. 

“I can’t do anything when I’m trapped,” Sylus mumbled, keeping up with your footsteps as you strode along the street. 

Your curiosity bubbled from his statement. “What happens when he’s taking over?” 

This time, Sylus didn’t shy away from giving an answer while he interlaced his hand with yours. “I can hear everything, but I can’t feel or see. It’s all black, like I’m in a dark void.” 

“Like comatose?” 

“You could say that.”

How could a rosary seal his other self? How come he had two versions of him? 

“He’s obsessed with you,” he admitted, frowning at the thought as you passed rows and rows of boutiques and restaurants. “Your soul, your scent, your body. That’s probably why he always has the urge to come out.” 

The thought of it permeated heat on your cheeks even when it shouldn’t. Sylus had always been sweet and loving with his intimacy with you, but his other side was rough and sadistic. He liked tormenting your innocence with his immorality. 

“You said the rosary was meant to seal him, but how come he keeps on—”

“It doesn’t work these days. Only my father can help, but I don’t wanna go that far just to tell him about this.” 

Father. It was the first time he had ever spoken about his father in your twelve months together. Or did he mean father as in God? “Where’s your father, Sylus? Or the rest of your family? Are the other archangels roaming on Earth, too?” 

You could see it in his saintly face that he was about to give an answer and you anticipated it, not until the nearby catcalling distracted you two. 

“Nice legs, gorgeous,” whistled the man who was leaning by the street railings with a cigarette in his hand. The man was probably in his mid-40’s with disheveled hair and unshaved face. You sent him a glare but a crude wink was returned. 

“It’s a bit rude to ogle at my woman in front of me, don’t you think?” was Sylus’s warning, the tendrils of his black-red mist extending to surround the man.

You could hear the man hooting again, unaware of what would become of him. “Ha ha! You punk. I’d spread those legs in a heartbeat.” 

While Sylus’s eyes were deepening into a darker hue, you knew you couldn’t risk seeing him release his demonic side again. It was a dangerous gamble. And the city could become a bloodbath. So, in your insistence, you told your lover to just leave it be.

“Sylus, let it go,” you gently asked, tugging at his arm softly. You wanted to avoid confrontation and just continue walking with you until you could reach your destination. “It’s okay.”

~~

“Happy anniversary to my favorite couple!” 

The clinking of glasses was followed by cheers on the booth where your boyfriend and your friends sat together. It was Avery’s idea to celebrate the special day two days prior as an excuse to hang out and drink. Luke and Kieran, being Sylus’s minions, were very much willing to join. 

“It’s not until Wednesday,” Sylus corrected with a smile, sipping on his pint before putting an arm around you. He gestured towards Avery and Luke with a knowing look. “Now you two should date each other.” 

You giggled at the thought. “Yeah, I totally support that.” 

Instead, the two of them reacted heavily against it—faking a gag, making a face, name it all. They were adamant on showing how disgusted they were at the thought of dating each other and it was quite a hilarious sight to watch. 

“Boss, come on,” Luke replied in outward distaste. 

Avery, on one hand, was rolling her eyes. “You wish I was interested. I’d rather do Kieran than you.” 

Kieran was Luke’s twin, the less obnoxious and more empathic one. But when those two were combined, their level of mischief wasn’t really any different from each other. 

“Picking Kieran is the most insulting thing you can say to me,” huffed Luke, earning yours and Avery’s chuckle. 

After an exchange of playful banter and teasing remarks, the conversation was redirected back to you and Sylus as Avery curiously brought up how you first met your boyfriend. It was only a year ago and the memory was still vivid in your head. 

“Oh my God. I remember how Y/N first saw you at this auction,” she gushed towards your boyfriend while you blushed, gripping his arm closer, “and she’s acting like she just saw her soulmate.” 

Kieran decided to chime in, “Boss was looking at her too, though. He may look tough, but he’s a hopeless romantic deep down—”

“Enough,” Sylus warned before sipping on his glass. 

You rested your head on his shoulder and relaxed against him. “Next thing you guys know, we’re living together.” 

Frankly, everything was normal until Sylus showed up. 

“What do you like most about her, Sylus?” Avery egged on with a grin spreading on her face. 

Your boyfriend didn’t even take a second to answer, “She’s cute like a cat,” he said, caressing your hand with his thumb from under the table, “and smart, and caring. Can get spicy, too. It won’t end.” 

Sylus was the same, if not better. You didn’t have much experience when it came to dating, but you were surely on top of the luck department for being blessed with a man like him. He was the most protective person you knew, the most affectionate, the most thoughtful. Sylus was the moon that illuminated your dark nights. You could even remember how he would wait outside of your workplace to pick you up in his motorcycle—those were the little things that lasted for a lifetime in someone’s memory. 

“She’s also a nun.” 

The sudden panic in your eyes came simultaneous to the fast beating of your heart. You swiftly whipped your head to look at Sylus who was now displaying a deriding smirk across his pale face. Oh, were you doomed. The ruby eyes and the stony face was clear confirmation that the demon had taken over him. Twice in the same day. 

Even Avery was surprised by his word of choice, but nonetheless found it amusing as it was rare for them to see Sylus acting bold. You were grateful for her obliviousness because you didn’t know how else you could explain the situation at hand.

“She’s a what, boss-man?” Luke jeered, chugging on his pint and looking at his boss in his newfound entertainment. He was among the very few people that knew Sylus’s true nature. Because the twins were demons like him.

“A nun,” Sylus answered, sending a look of mischief your way. You were deeply panicking that you had to squeeze his hand in hopes of stopping him from showing his true colors. “What? Don’t be shy, kitten. Didn’t we have fun in that church?”

You quickly shook your head and denied it in front of your friends. “We didn’t. Don’t believe him.”

Avery was unbelievably taken aback. “Wow,” she held back a chuckle, “I didn’t know Sylus has a vulgar mouth.” 

~~

The night carried on while the downpour engulfed the streets heavily. Your desperation to leave the dinner earlier than intended was solely because you weren’t comfortable at having Sylus around other people. The man was clearly enjoying the embarrassment that he was putting you through. And you, you were only being cautious. Who knew what things he could do to Avery while in his other form? 

You didn’t want things to end up where Sylus would be ostracized by the people who knew him just because they couldn’t understand that he was completely harmless in his benevolent self. 

It took a lot of effort to finally make an excuse of getting home early while the skies have temporarily calmed down. However, as you two strolled across the street, Sylus wouldn’t stop blabbering on and on about how you should have stayed more to talk about how prudish you were. 

“I’m not in the mood right now,” you spoke in a detached voice, moving away from him as you walked together. Because you ruined it, you wanted to add. The cold breeze kissed your face through the dark. 

Sylus only moved closer to you. “You shouldn’t be so uptight,” he countered, “Is that how kittens should act? Or do I punish you back at home?”

Punishments. You didn’t wish to go through another round of his ‘punishments’ because you weren’t certain at how creative he could be at delivering them. There was no doubt that a man who traversed the ages would have seen enough torture devices used during the earlier times. Perhaps he could get inspiration from those. 

“I just wanna go home,” you muttered, almost inaudibly had his heightened hearing senses not worked. 

“Good, then I can have fun with y—” Sylus halted from his words as his face froze at the sight in front of him. His body had completely gone stiff and his jaws were clenched. You would have thought that he was angry until that evil upturn of his lips came to show. 

“Sylus...”

Following his sight, he was all eyes on a man from a distance before he dashed towards the stranger, leaving you utterly stupefied from where you stood. What’s he on about? You rushed as your heels landed in lightweight steps across the sidewalk while you watched in terror how Sylus mercilessly throttled the man by the neck and dragged him into a dark alleyway. 

“Sylus, stop!” 

As you reached him with a panting breath, you realized that the man he was holding high up against the wall was the same person that catcalled you earlier. The man was wriggling away from Sylus’s tight grip, only to be asphyxiated harsher than before. 

“Wh-What’s your problem?” The man struggled to breathe due to the strangulation and you were pulling Sylus’s other arm to stop him. 

At the sight of Sylus’s crimson eyes and vicious stance, you knew there was nothing much you could do to prevent harm. He was determined to do what he wanted without paying attention to his surroundings. 

“You’re fantasizing her, huh?” Sylus taunted with a sinister undertone in his words. “You wanna spread ‘em open?” 

Recalling the very words he spoke, the man saw you with frantic eyes as his face was reddening from the lack of oxygen. With a rushed shake of the head and a face that was begging for sympathy, he tried to break free. “N-No, no. She’s—haaa! She’s all yours.” 

“Sylus, stop it.” You grabbed his arms and attempted your best to pull him away despite the trepidation that caused you goosebumps. “Please stop, you’re gonna kill him.” 

Every time you saw this demonic creature, you were learning new things about him and most of those things were of the worst kind. Not only was he possessive—he was diabolical, potentially obsessive, and a cutthroat sadist who wouldn’t even blink before ending someone’s life. This was the true nature of a demon, not some silly fantasy that today’s pop-culture portrayed them to be. 

He was a body without a soul.

Unfortunately, you should have thought twice before choosing to get involved with him. 

“That’s my plan, sweetie.” 

[pedrospatch]

captive

Raider! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: You find yourself missing your captor while he’s out on an early morning hunt with the rest of the group.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. RAIDER ERA. DARK!JOEL. DUBCON. IMPLIED PREVIOUS NONCON. UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 50). READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION. mentions of Joel’s group murdering reader’s group, it’s implied her family members were also killed, Joel pretty much kidnaps reader and keeps her as his own, stockholm syndrome, reader deals with a lot of very distressing and conflicting feelings, Joel isn’t too creepy or extremely dark, but he is still not a good person, mentions of Tommy. VERY BRIEF SMUT in the form of cockwarming, daddy kink but i didn’t go overboard this time, pet names (honey, baby, babygirl, sweetheart) if i missed anything, you can POLITELY let me know because if i missed anything, it was purely accidental. minimal editing.

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.

if this isn’t your thing, that’s fine, just scroll on by.

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i might actually throw up idk. i’ve had this itch to try dark joel and seeing as i have major writer’s block with all my other wips i decided to just scratch the itch. this is a little out of my comfort zone but i actually ended up feeling pleased with what i wrote. this is my personal take on dark/raider joel, i’m sure it is very out of character but it’s fanfiction so…yeah. here it is.

It’s the rain that rouses you from your sleep.

It beats down heavily on the remote cabin’s tin roof.

Loud. Much too loud.

You roll over, settling yourself on your side.

The mattress is old, worn, rotting beneath the sheets.

You can’t complain, though. At least you have a bed.

Everybody else is forced to sleep on the hard floor.

He always gets the room with the bed.

As his special girl, that means you always get the room with the bed too.

It’s not quite as flattering as one would believe.

He only ever wants the bedroom for one reason—to keep you behind a locked door so you can’t run.

You sigh softly and stare out the window. He’d secured that too, made certain that it couldn’t be opened from the inside.

Closing your eyes, you try and go back to sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come.

His absence is starting to bother you.

You’ve been with him for an entire season now.

You’re getting used to him.

The sound of his voice. 

The warmth of his body.

The taste of his lips.

You can’t even sleep without him next to you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, clutching the stale sheets, balling them in your fists out of frustration.

How was it possible? How could you be missing him?

He had taken everything from you.

Your family.

Your home. 

Your innocence.

He was holding you captive. He was a monster.

But a monster doesn’t keep you safe.

Doesn’t clothe you.

Doesn’t feed you.

Doesn’t protect you.

He did all of those things and more. 

Is that why you feel so empty without him beside you?

Is that why you’re no longer so certain you would run if you were given the chance to escape him?

You fucking hated him for what he’d done.

Yet here you are, aching for him to come back to you.

It’s another hour before you hear the lock clicking. 

Joel pushes through the door, quietly closing it behind him.

“Y’awake?” he asks, slipping his pack off his shoulders.

“Mhm,” you answer with your back to him. “I am.”

You hear the sound of his pack hitting the floor.

His worn leather boots being kicked off. 

His rifle being set down, propped against the wall.

“How was the hunt?”

You can feel him freeze as he’s taking off his jacket.

Getting you to willingly speak to him had always been a lot like pulling teeth. Difficult, almost impossible.

When he doesn’t respond, you roll over to face him.

There’s a swoop in your tummy.

Joel is drenched from head to toe. His blue denim shirt clings to his broad frame and his dark, graying curls are slicked back away from his face.

He’s got such a handsome face.

Monsters aren’t supposed to have handsome faces.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re really askin’ me how the hunt went?” Suspicion laces his tone. “Why? Y’worried you won’t eat tonight?”

Of course you weren’t.

Joel Miller doesn’t let you go hungry.

When food is scarce, he makes sure you eat first. If he notices you rubbing your tummy because your portion wasn’t enough, he’ll give you his own portion.

He takes care of you.

“No.” You pause and sit up. The sheets you two share fall away from your body, leaving your soft, supple breasts on full display for him. “Just wanted to know how your morning went. That’s all.”

It’s not your tits that make his cock twitch against the zipper of his jeans—it’s the sincerity that flashes across your features, the sound of it in the tone of your voice.

You’re being sweet to him.

He clears his throat lightly.

“Went real good. Brought down a deer. Female, ‘bout a hundred pounds or so. Enough to keep all of us well fed for the next couple of weeks,” he says with a nod. “Was pissin’ rain the entire time but it was worth it. Tommy’s in the shed out back right now dressin’ it so we can get a stew started.” He pauses. “You’re gonna get a proper meal tonight, babygirl. Belly’s gonna be nice and full.”

He’s not just talking about food and you know it.

You make an effort to meet his gaze, but you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to do it, not when you remembered how he’d taken you away from your family—how he had carried you over his shoulder, kicking and screaming as his people raided your camp and slaughtered every last member of your group because that’s what Joel Miller had ordered them to do.

Looking him in the eye might be the one thing you will never, ever be able to do.

“It’s cold,” you murmur after a minute. “You should get out of those wet clothes before you get sick.”

With a subtle nod, Joel turns around and starts peeling off his clothes until he’s completely naked. He uses an old rag to dry himself off as best as he can, although it doesn’t do much for him.

You can’t help yourself and stare—your gaze drags over the strong muscles of his back and shoulders, how they flex and ripple beneath his skin with every single one of his movements. Arousal pools between your thighs and all you can do is fucking hate yourself for wanting it, for wanting him.

“S’pretty early still,” he states, his back still to you as he runs the rag through his hair. “Y’should try to get some more sleep.”

The confession tumbles out of your mouth before you can even think about stopping it.

“I couldn’t sleep while you were gone.”

Surprised, he turns around.

Almost immediately, your eyes fall to his cock.

Even when he isn’t fully hard, he’s still so fucking big.

“Is that so?” Joel asks, sounding rather pleased. 

“Yes,” you say, softly. “I—I missed you.”

His lips turn upwards into a subtle, faint grin.

“Yeah?” he coos. “My sweet little girl missed me while I was gone? Hm?” Slowly, he approaches the bed. It dips slightly and the frame creaks as he plants a knee on the mattress and leans over towards you. Gently, Joel takes your chin between his index finger and thumb. “Y’need Daddy by your side so you can sleep, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you whisper, warm tears glazing over your eyes.

It’s bad enough your body welcomed him so easily.

Now your heart was starting to do the same.

And then there was your mind.

What if that stopped fighting him too?

Part of you is afraid it already has.

Joel climbs into bed, joining you under the sheets.

“M’here, my pretty girl. C’mere, honey.” He coaxes you to lay on your side and pulls you back against his chest. His skin is still damp, frigid from having been out in the elements, but somehow he’s still warm. “That better?”

“Need you closer,” you mumble, wiggling against him.

Joel groans, his thick cock hard and throbbing against the small of your back. He nips at your bare shoulder as his hand drags down the length of your body and slips between your thighs. “Christ, babygirl. Pussy’s soakin’ wet for me. Looks like she missed me while I was gone too, didn’t she, sweetheart?”

He runs his finger along your slick, silky folds.

“Daddy,” you whimper, bucking into his hand.

“Don’t worry, honey. Daddy knows what you need.”

Joel pulls his hand from between your legs.

You almost cry—you’re so fucking desperate for him. 

And you shouldn’t be. 

He reaches in between your bodies, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Without warning, he slips it into your tight, aching cunt, sheathing himself in your warm, wet heat in one smooth stroke.

You choke out a sob.

It’s always overwhelming, that initial stretch.

That fullness, the feeling of him being in your belly.

“S’alright, sweetheart. S’alright. I know you can take it,” he soothes you. “You’re such a good girl for me. Always take my cock so fuckin’ well. So good for me, baby. You feel better now that Daddy’s cock is buried inside your pretty little pussy?”

He drapes an arm around you, pulling your back flush against his chest.

“Yes,” you breathe, placing your hand on top of his.

Joel feathers a kiss onto your neck.

“Go to sleep, babygirl. M’here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he promises you.

That shouldn’t be a comfort to you. But it is.

You close your eyes, your fingers subconsciously lacing together with his as you start to drift.

Cunt full of his cock, you fall asleep in your captor’s arms.

divider credit to @saradika🤍

[feyascorner]

until I come back alive

summary. in which you come back injured from a particularly unlucky battle, and Astarion realizes his feigned affections for you are not feigned at all.

warnings. angst, fluff, Astarion being bad at feelings

pairing. Astarion x GN!reader

a/n. this is super long omg ALSO TYSM for the love on my previous fic! It was my first post so I didn’t realize more than like two ppl would see it!! Kind of scary but also I can write more astarion so oh well 🙏

“The way they look at you is different from the way they look at us.”

Astarion raises a brow at this, glancing at Karlach who adjusts a log in the campfire paying no heed to the flickering flames brushing against her skin. She smiles to herself, genuinely, and he questions if she’s finally gone mad.

“So have you said the big ‘L’ word yet?” she asks excitedly, turning to him with a big grin. He shifts away from her, the increasing heat radiating off her body but she doesn’t seem to care, too busy staring at him expectantly.

“The what?”

“You know! The ‘L’ word,” she says the last part in a hushed whisper, as if it’d be a sin for anyone else to hear. Occasionally it baffles him how childish she can be, though he’d never voice these concerns out loud considering she could snap his poor body in half if she really wanted.

He also knows that she’s more emotionally capable in how she approaches these relationships (though one could argue it’s just innocence)—in ways he’s lost over the past 200 years. Though, he makes an effort to shove these thoughts to the deepest corners of his brain for the sake of his own sanity.

“If you’re speaking of ‘love,’” He emphasizes it with a strange accent. “No. I have not. Nor have they.”

She appears puzzled. “Why not?”

He sighs irritably, bringing a hand to adjust the cuffs on his hand. “Must everything be put bluntly? So glaringly obvious?”

“You love each other, don’t you?”

At this, he falters, just the slightest before plastering his usual grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Love is a wide spectrum, dear. Tav and I are whatever they want us to be.”

A late night partner would be the most positive thing he could refer you to. A fling, an amusement, or whatever words people described the arrangement between the two of you as, he didn’t care for it. He’d given himself to you, and you to him—-physically, at least, and you’d seem more than content with it. In return, he received protection, which was a sufficient payment in return for his hushed words of affection and kisses. A fair trade, he deemed.

Sure, he could’ve chosen anyone else in the camp. But he’d seen the way your eyes lit up at the sight of him, surely dazed at his flirtatious tendencies. You’d been an easy target. A survival tool.

And yes, maybe he’d played with your innocent feelings, but could you really blame him? He’d given you the nights of your life, for something so simple in return. It was a transaction.

Karlach waves a dismissive hand which brings him back to the present, propping herself on her arm behind her. “Life’s too short for that bullshit. Either you love someone or you don’t.”

“Fortunately for me, I have all of eternity,” he snorts. “Unless I were to suddenly lose the unwanted visitor inside my head and step into the sunlight, I’ll be here to watch the world fall and rise a dozen times over I’m afraid.”

“But they don’t,” Karlach frowns. “Tav doesn’t have eternity.”

He ignores the way his jaw clenches. He’s afraid, he thinks, of losing the freedom he’s just gained.

“Did you call me?”

Both the vampire and tiefling turn to your voice, where you stand blankly with an armful of logs clutched to your waist. Karlach opens her mouth to respond, but Astarion is faster.

“Nothing, darling. Just answering a few curious questions from Karlach here.”

“Oh,” you blink at him, shrugging before setting the logs beside the fireplace. “Well, Gale, Shadowheart, and I are going to the village across the forest tomorrow morning to check on the goblins appearing there recently. Won’t be back till noon so don’t wait up.”

“Don’t worry,” Karlach laughs. “I’ll keep the camp in order while you’re gone. If Astarion tries to bite Lae’zel, though, his fate’s inevitable.”

He rolls his eyes, opting to stand from his spot and take your hand. “Come along, darling. Any longer near this damned fireplace and my skin may melt.”

You nod with a smile, waving at Karlach before you follow him into his tent without a word of protest.

Easy, he thinks. Too easy.

He soon finds himself staring up at you from his place, laying his head on your lap as you read through a few scrolls you found throughout the day. He clicks his tongue and you look down, offering that sickeningly sweet smile again. “What’s wrong?”

“You have the most handsome person in this camp on your bloody lap and you want to read?”

You snicker at this, setting the scroll down beside you. “What do you suggest I do? Worship the very eyelashes on your face?”

“My body deserves much more praise than just the eyelashes.”

“Hm…” you pretend to be in thought. “That mole on your face is very obvious too.”

He gasps, immediately shooting upward as he grabs at his own face. “Tell me you’re lying.”

Your laughter rings throughout the tent, airy as you pull his hand away from his face. “I’m kidding, mostly.”

He stares at you as you recollect yourself, finding himself gazing at you far longer than he’d like to admit. Quickly, he adjusts, fiddling with the hand mirror he always keeps under his pillow as he watches you through it. “Karlach spoke of something ridiculous today. She said you were in love with me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he rolls his eyes. “That woman lives in a fairy tale I tell you. How she went through 10 years in Avernus is beyond me.”

There’s slight hesitance in your voice, and if he’d not learned your body language early on in your arrangement, he wouldn’t have even noticed it. “Astarion, have you ever been in love?”

He pauses at this, meeting your eyes head on now. There’s a heavier thickness in the air between the short distance between the two of you, and he immediately gauges what you want him to say. A lie readies itself at the tip of his tongue, his gaze searching yours for whatever fantasy that lives behind them.

Instead, your expression is blank. He finds nothing.

“No.” He’s not sure why he responded honestly, but it’s too late to take it back. “Have you?”

You look to the side. “I’m not sure anymore.”

“Anymore?” He shifts his head when you turn your chin further away, avoiding confrontation. “Has someone captured your impenetrable heart as of late? How intriguing—do tell.”

His teasing tone drops when you don’t smile at his usual antics. He’s not stupid—far from it. He knows you’ve begun to fall for him. It’s an obvious result from the 200 years of instinctive flirting he has tucked away in what remains of his soul, and it’s what he intended. What he needed.

The more enraptured you are, the longer he has protection.

He gently tilts your chin toward him, his fang visible through the grin that stretches across his face. “Tell me, pet, do you love me?”

Your eyes drop to his lips. “Do you want me to?”

A bunny caught in the fangs of a fox. It would be so easy to indulge—to go as far as to make you nothing but a puppet he toys with for his own personal gains. He can sense the way your finger twitches, itching to lace them with his own, and the crueler side of him forces his hand to stay put.

He wordlessly leans toward you, his lips grazing against the side of your neck. You shiver at the touch and he smiles wickedly to himself, drinking in the gasp that escapes you when he tilts your neck to the other side, where he usually drinks.

He doesn’t even have to ask. “Just—be gentle. Please.”

“Of course.” He unhinges his jaw, ready to plunge the knives of his teeth into where the sweet liquid gold rushes to your face, his shoulders finally relaxing when—

“I love you,” you whisper under your breath.

He stops.

Though unsure why, he freezes. Completely and utterly freezes.

“Astarion?”

He pulls away slowly, staring at you for a long moment before offering another smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You look exhausted, my dear. I think that’s enough for tonight.”

“But you didn’t even feed?”

“I can handle myself, darling, as much as I appreciate your worries,” he stands and holds the flap of the tent open, practically a silent demand for you to leave.

He should be ecstatic. Gleaming with joy from being offered a drop of your blood, but instead, he feels knots forming in his stomach. And the longer he watches you, the worst they seem the get.

Hurt flashes across your face and he ignores the sudden tightness in his chest.

“Okay, well,” you say, stepping out hesitantly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

And as he lies wide awake in the middle of the night with nothing to accompany him but his own thoughts, he finds that all of them are overruled by his endless need for warmth. Not just anyone’s but the one he’s become accustomed to the past few months. No matter how much he curls up in his bedroll, all he can feel is the chill of his own body.

And he hates it more than he expected.

——

By the time he awakens, you’re long gone.

He’s rather productive. Taking walks, gathering supplies, catching up on his reading, he refuses to sit and lie around as the others await for you and your companions to return from the goblin village.

He even entertains sitting through one of Karlach’s dances, which somehow ends up being more entertaining than he’d imagined. While she didn’t fall flat on her face (which he admittedly looked forward to), it burnt through time regardless.

The peace is broken when he hears footsteps rushing toward the camp. He’s memorized everyone’s intervals when sprinting or pacing, so he’s quick to identify Gale and Shadowheart. He listens keenly for your own footsteps.

There are no third pair of footsteps at all.

Shadowheart stumbles into the camp, in a panic compared to her usual self, as she points toward a spot on the ground and snaps at Gale to put something down.

He only sees when she moves out of the way that this something, is rather someone.

You’re writhing in pain, eyes shut in an unconsciousness that’s surely preferable to what you’re feeling. You’re sweating, groaning in your sleep and everyone is immediately rushing to you.

His face would’ve gone pale, if it weren’t for the fact that he was already as ghostly as a sheet.

“What happened,” Lae’zel demands in place of him, and he opts to mindlessly push Gale to the side, who doesn’t say a word from the expression on Astarion’s face. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but from Gale’s reaction, it’s better he never know.

“Damned poison arrows,” Shadowheart hisses. “I’m completely out of magic for today. I need to make an antidote by hand before their condition gets any worse than it already is.”

Astarion brushes the back of his knuckles against your cheek. The creases between your brows soften for the slightest moment before they’re back again.

Lae’zel and Shadowheart are arguing again—something about how one thing would’ve happened if another thing hadn’t. He’s not even sure what they’re arguing about, but in an instant, rage flickers in his chest.

“Do something!” He snaps, suddenly making the camp go quiet. “Or are you just going to stand there and watch them die?”

He suddenly feels a hand grab his, and his eyes shoot down to see your own. Even in your sleep, you reach out to him. Even in the deepest part of slumber, you search for him. It makes him feel like the shittiest and luckiest person alive, especially as the your hurt expression from last night flashes in his mind.

“Help them,” the words spill out against his will, his tone breaking down into something more desperate. “Do something. For God’s sake, anything.”

In the moment, he doesn’t care about protection. He doesn’t give a shit about any of that because the second he’d seen you in genuine pain, it was all he needed to completely forget about the stupid reasons why he approached you in the first place.

All he cared about was your life.

Everyone glances at one another knowingly, but even Lae’zel doesn’t break the silence. Shadowheart spares him a furrowed glare before rushing to gather the antidote.

You only awake hours later. Certainly during the middle of the night, to the ceiling of a tent that’s certainly not your own. You slowly urge yourself to sit up, a pounding headache ringing in your skull, but your worries about it vanish when you hear his voice.

“Quite the nap, darling.”

You snap around to see him on the other side of the tent, albeit only a few feet away from how crunched it is. Fascinating, he thinks, that even with your disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes, he finds you more beautiful than before. “What happened?”

“You nearly died.”

“…how?”

“Poison,” he’s fiddling with his dagger, refusing to look at you. He can’t. In fear of what he might say. “Caused a reasonable panic too. Seems like our companions have grown more attached to you than anyone’s expected.”

You purse your lips, and he quickly mortifies at the exceeding need to part them with his own. You don’t seem to notice. “You too?”

“I was certainly worried our esteemed leader may kick the bucket earlier than anticipated, yes.”

“No, I mean,” you scrunch your eyes sheepishly, and he thinks it’s adorable. Gods he must be going insane. “Have you…grown attached?”

He raises a brow. “You just woke up from a life threatening experience and that’s what piques your interest?”

Your cheeks turn a shade darker. He wants to touch them. “I just…I was worried all day. About us. I got too distracted and of course, that’s on me, but one of the goblins took advantage and—“

He wants to climb into a coffin, guilt eating away at what remains of his organs. But when you fidget with the ends of his bedroll blanket, he can’t tell if his stomach is churning from shame or something else.

You stop, close your mouth, then open it again. “When I passed out, I was just thinking about how I would hate for us to part like that. I didn’t want last night to be our last moment.”

“No,” he says firmly. “While you’d been asleep, I’ve had quite some time to think, darling. And more time to wallow in my self pity for being stuck with an actual weirdo. I mean, do you hear yourself? Worrying about such a stupid encounter while on your deathbed? You should’ve been cursing me with all the strength you had left if you were going to think about me of all people!”

You smile a bit, and he grits his teeth at the way his throat goes dry. “I’m just glad.”

“For getting poisoned?”

“No,” you roll your eyes. “I’m glad I didn’t scare you off by telling you I loved you. I was afraid we wouldn’t talk like this anymore.”

His body wills him to freeze up again. To push you away, and to force the fantasy that his feelings towards you were nothing but manipulative. That you were nothing but a way to survive to him. But no, he couldn’t stand such cowardice any longer. Not after nearly losing you.

You offer him a pathetic laugh. “I don’t expect you to say it back, nor for you to feel the same way. I just—felt like you needed to know. It doesn’t change anything between us I hope. It just felt wrong to keep it to myself any longer and the way you reacted just made me regret it so much-“

He wraps his palm in front of your mouth, his other hand pulling you closer to his side in an instant. With your faces inches apart, he sighs irritably. “As much as I’d like to keep hearing your voice, I can’t stand its contents any longer I’m afraid.”

He lowers his hand, staring straight at your wide eyes as he narrows his own. “I do. Like you, I mean. A lot more than I’d like to admit, quite frankly.”

You blink as if you’re staring at a miracle.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles with a scoff. “I’ve had these feelings for a while now, I just didn’t wish to face them. When you said that to me yesterday, I just didn’t know how to respond, and for that, I am sorry. But losing you—I’m not sure what I would have done, but it’s certainly not a pretty sight.”

Your eyes soften and he’s certain he can lose himself within them for years. “I’ve never heard you sound so—sincere.”

He raises your knuckles to his lips, keeping them close even as he speaks. “I approached you out of necessity, I’ll admit. But it seems you’ve grown on me in a way I haven’t experienced since I’ve turned into a spawn. What you are to me—it’s difficult to describe.” He pauses. “Sometimes, I can still feel my heart beating with you.”

As your fingers brush against the side of his face, he swears he can feel it again. He almost feels warm, maybe even safe. And he’s sick and tired of denying himself of your embrace when death is around every corner.

You’re soon curled up into his chest, with his chin atop of your head. He’s not sure how much time passes—maybe hours, or even days as he continues to observe your face, committing each and every detail to his memory. And when your breathing steadies, falling into deep slumber, he finally has the courage to whisper the words against your hair.

“I love you.”

[ja3yun]

Melting Point | P.SH | CH.1

brother's rival!sunghoon x fem!reader warnings: heavily suggestive, kissing, perv!hoon, mentions of self doubt and overthinking, yn's mum is an asshole, anything else lmk! ch.1 synopsis: when circumstances unexpectedly bring you and your brother's long-time ice skating rival, park sunghoon, together, you discover a surprising connection. However, your brother forbids any relationship between you. Will you heed his advice or follow your heart? wc: 14.3k masterlist | next a/n: hi! first chapter is finally here and i hope you all like it. each chapter will be released on friday and roughly between 10k - 16k (since people wanted longer chapters, however, i am open to any feedback regarding lengths). enjoy and please leave any comments/likes/reblogs if you wish !! also, peep the new header

‘We’re dancing, dancing, dancing in the moonlight.'

The blaring of your alarm pulls you from the cocoon of sleep, and you groan into your pillow. The idea of getting up before 6 am feels like a crime, yet here you are, abruptly awakened at 4:30 am by the dulcet tones of TO1.

With a begrudging sigh, you reach for your phone, dismissing the alarm, and then collapse back, staring at the ceiling. This routine has been a part of your life since childhood, and you'd think you'd be accustomed to it by now. However, no matter how early you sleep, removing yourself from the warmth of your bed remains a daily struggle.

You can hear your brother and mum scooting around downstairs, their usual ‘Do you have everything?’, ‘Where are the car keys?’, ‘Get your sister’ conversations louder than they need to be at this time in the day. The last one does mean you better get a move on and go downstairs.

While you put on your peach-flavoured chapstick, your brother bursts into your room, “Hurry up, Y/N.” His eyes roll and he slams the door shut as quickly as he opens it.

You have had the same routine since you were 6 years old. Same exchanges, same panic, same everything. 

Minhee, your older brother, is the reason you have this same routine. When he was 6 years old, Mum took you and him ice skating for the first time and he was a natural. His feet took to the ice like fish to water, like chocolate to strawberries, like you to garlic bread. It was fated. By 7 years old he was already training and what was once a fun hobby turned into a gruelling regime of early rises and the need for a good winter jacket.

“2 minutes!” You shout down to them, one quick glance over in the mirror to make sure you look presentable.  

Running down the stairs you’re greeted by your impatient mum tapping her foot, “Come on, Y/N we really can’t be late today. Coach Kim needs us there as soon as possible. Big announcement.” Her hands are flapping around animated as she speaks, “I think he’s finally going to let Minhee try that quadruple axel we’ve been begging him to let him do for Nationals!”

Your brother looks disinterested, “Mum, he’s already said it’s out of my depth.” His tone is bitter.

Minhee was amazing at ice skating, winning so many medals your mum had you move out of your double room to the box one so she could display them all. By 10 he was the youngest ever in your city to reach state championships and by 14 he was competing at the National level. It did make him the golden, silver, and bronze child in your family, but you didn’t mind all that much - not that you would tell her it did. 

It’s not like you’re doing anything half as impressive as winning trophies, now that was what your mother truly found pride in. You could become a CEO or a lawyer but if you couldn’t hit a toe loop worthy of gold it wouldn’t impress her.

You did try skating when you were younger but it was like you turned into Bambi, never able to find your feet. Even when it snows in winter you can’t hold yourself up. Deep down your mum hoped you would be just like Minhee, creating an opportunity for you both to branch into pair figure skating like the Shib Sibs but no matter how many times Minhee tried to teach you or she got his coach to give you a few free pointers, you couldn’t do it. She’s disappointed and quite frankly you think she holds a grudge against you for not being anything like your amazing, spectacular, talented brother.

But you still loved to watch the sport, how efficiently and painlessly each skater would glide across the ice and do manoeuvres that defied gravity. It was a magical sport, so when your mum dragged you along to every practice because she couldn’t afford a babysitter, you didn’t mind all that much.

Tying up your final lace you stand up from the bottom step and Minhee passes you your black jacket with faux fur lining. You mutter a quick ‘thanks’ before grabbing your book bag and all three of you head to the car.

"What if it's the Olympics!" Squealing, your mother fastens her seatbelt. What if it was the Olympics? Despite consistently finishing in the top three, if not first, in most major competitions in his teenage years, his coach never selected him for the Youth Olympic Games. But now that he’s 20 years old, he could compete in the Olympics.

Your brother looks sideways at your mother and widens his eyes, "You think so?" It was his dream to make it to the Olympics, and even if he didn't win, he wanted to experience everything; the different country, being surrounded by the best of the best - he had been planning his routine for it forever. 

There is a little envious man who climbs up on your shoulder from time to time when conversations like this happen. Of course, you would be so happy for Minhee, after all, he works harder than anyone you know but you wish it was you. Not necessarily the skating part, but to be so good at something you have a goal and dreams that take you to the top. Just something to make you feel alive.

You’re in your 2nd year of University studying Events and Marketing after your mum said it would be good for you to learn how to pitch reasons why Minhee would be a great brand ambassador. So you did it to please her. Honestly, you actually do enjoy it, you won’t lie about that, but the lack of appreciation for your efforts goes unnoticed 99% of the time. The 1% was when you got to shadow a boss at a Nike headquarters branch a few cities over.

“Get a good word in for Minhee while you’re there!”

She was proud of you that day.

As the car rolls up to the rink’s parking lot your mother turns serious, “If this is about choosing you for the Olympics, Min, you need to act excited and unexpectant, they may be filming a behind-the-scenes documentary on your journey to a gold medal.” 

Image. Your mum was big on keeping Minhee’s reputation on brand. Right now his ‘brand’ is being humble and noble.

“Yes mum,” he salutes, “Smile and flutter.” Winking and smirking as he mocks his usual signature poses causes you to laugh but your mum finds nothing funny and her change in aura scares both of you out of the car.

_____

The usually quiet ice rink is filled with chatter and chaos, with over 20 people speaking over each other. Minhee looks down at you and you shrug. None of you had any clue what was going on but if your years of watching Detective Conan paid off you would say that whatever caused this commotion was the reason the coach asked Minhee to come in as quickly as possible.

Customarily, at this time in the morning, it’s Minhee’s solo practice hours to work on his routine for Nationals so this many people here is concerning.

“Listen!” Coach Kim’s voice bellowed around the arena putting the chattering to a halt, “I know this is untimely and inconvenient, trust me, it is for me too,” Your eyes follow his and see another coach standing about 2 meters from him, “But we need to make this work and to do that I need you to listen to me.”

As your family approaches the disarray, Coach Kim beckons you all forward. Minhee is the first to ask the all too important question, “What’s going on, Coach?” The people behind you scatter and begrudgingly tread out of the building, their faces glum and disgruntled.

“Minhee, Ms. Kang, Y/N,” Coach Kim greets you all, “Sorry about all that, although telling them was a lot less scary than you.”

“What? Is this place shutting down?” Minhee jokes but by the look on Coach Kim’s face he isn’t far off. 

“Not exactly.” Scratching his neck, Coach Kim looks everywhere but Minhee’s eyes, “You know the Albion Centre? The rink on the other side of town?” All three of you nod despite that he’s only talking to your brother, “Well the council had a little meeting last week and they’re turning it fully into a Hockey training centre.”

The words sit in the air as he hopes Minhee will come to the conclusion himself, “So what? Just means more time for skating here right? If all the Hockey team are going over there?” 

Sighing, the coach nods, “For sure, but it also means every skater from there will be, well, here.” He gestures around and then points half-heartedly at the other Coach who is stepping forward.

“Kang Minhee, it’s great to meet you properly, I’ve heard nothing but great things,” he extends his hand which your brother accepts, still dazed from the information, “I’m Coach Lee.”

“Wait so, EVERY skater in the town will be here? in Belmore? Coach Kim, that's not possible, my training time will be cut!” Minhee is sulking but you don’t blame him. This is a fucked up situation.

Coach Lee answers, “Not true, Minhee, with the Hockey team over at Albion it frees up some ice time, you’ll get to train more if you want to.” 

“And! No more shield guards around the rink, you always hated those!” Coach Kim smiles and playfully punches his chest.

There is something the Coaches aren’t telling him. Like they’re presenting him with all the benefits before hitting him with a bombshell. You know it and for sure your mother knows it. She has been eerily quiet throughout the whole exchange, if there is one thing more unsettling than her shouting, it’s her silence.

“Albion, huh?” She steps forward and tapers her eyes, “Isn’t that the rink where the Parks are located? And aren’t you Lee Jaeho? The coach of that snake ‘Ice Prince’?”

Tension spreads around everyone’s shoulders, the Coaches can’t look at her, and none of you move. 

A loud click echoes throughout the rink as someone walks through the door.

“Coach what the fuck?” The voice booms behind you, “Why did I have to drive almost an hour to come here, why couldn’t we just meet at Albi?” 

Park Sunghoon. 

What’s that saying? Speak of the devil and he shall appear? His mother shuffles in behind him, vocalising her own distaste for being here as if it were the most inconvenient thing in the world. Little do they know…

It’s like the world stops when Sunghoon and Minhee see each other and not in a rom-com way, “What the fuck is HE doing here?” Sunghoon points to Minhee, not taking his eyes off him. 

“This is MY rink, Park.”

Sunghoon and Minhee have been competitors since they were 9 years old. Each of them competes against one another in every competition, always striving for first place. It began as healthy competition, and they were even friends at one point, but as they grew older and each mother became increasingly determined to claim their kid was superior to the others, a rivalry developed. If one of them did something, the other had to outdo it tenfold.

When Minhee learned how to do a double axel, Sunghoon learned a triple. When Sunghoon landed his Euler jumps, Minhee was landing an Euler but following it up with a Salchow. When Minhee won the Junior Silver Medal in 2015, Sunghoon won the Junior Gold Medal in 2016.

It was always like this.

Their similarities didn’t help either, both 20, towering at 6”0, and blessed with faces that effortlessly drew admiring glances from girls. Objectively, you’ve only really seen the attraction to Sunghoon given that Minhee is your brother, however, you're not blind to the bevvy of girls who gravitate towards him either. This is precisely why your mother insisted on Minhee maintaining his brand, which stood in stark contrast to Sunghoon's.

He wasn’t rude or stuck up, actually from what you’ve perceived from afar, he is kind and gentle. But unlike your brother's ‘humble’ persona, Sunghoon knows he’s good and will tell anyone about it. Sunghoon’s confidence is easily mistaken for haughtiness. He can come across as arrogant and cocky, just like those sports journalists have been branding him for years like he thinks he’s better than anyone else past and present. 

Having been to every competition Minhee has skated in has led you to know a few things about Park Sunghoon. He was arguably the best skater in the division, even over Minhee, he was determined, hard-working, resilient, and fit as fuck.

To say you used to have a crush on him would be the understatement of the century, matter of fact it was so obvious back then that your mum would often reprimand you for staring at him too long. He was your first crush, you were 8 and he was 9, and like some girls that age you planned out a wedding, a future of 2 dogs and you’d both live in a pink palace. At first, it was his looks, no one in your primary school looked that pretty or even shone a torch compared to him. It was like seeing an angel for the first time. But then you started to grow up, and while still appreciating his face, you focused on how beautifully he skated and how majestic he moved. He was so passionate about the sport it made you feel butterflies, you hadn’t seen love like that before. Sunghoon and the rink were fated to be together. 

“Sunghoon, calm down.” His coach whispered, “We need to tell you something-”

“I am NOT sharing my rink with that fucking z-list prick, alright?” Minhee didn’t hold back, he got that anger from your mother.

Turning to his coach, Sunghoon raised his eyebrows, “What does he mean sharing?”

Both Coaches exhaled. You can’t imagine how many times they have had to explain this situation, they probably should have just sent out an email. So as Coach Lee takes Sunghoon and his mum to the side, Coach Kim is looking at Minhee apologetically, “I’m sorry, Minhee. I know he’s your biggest competition, and trust me, I don’t exactly love this outcome either,” rubbing a hand down his exhausted face he whispers, “but work with me here. I’ve scheduled you guys at different times, you won’t even need to see him.”

“That’s not the point, Coach, you know how I feel about him.”

If it wasn’t for your mum you seriously ponder whether Minhee would have such a strong hatred for the fellow ice skater, and as you look at Sunghoon you wonder the same thing.

“I know trust me, you and your mother make that perfectly clear every time we cross them at comps, but you just gotta live with it, son.” 

The coaches come back together and look at both of their young prodigies, “Minhee you’ll train morning, and Sunghoon you’ll train nights. Because of the merger of rinks, we have an excessive number of skaters, so we are making it a 24-hour arena but ONLY for you two and Wonyoung since Nationals are coming up.” Both coaches nodded their heads as if agreeing with themselves that this was a good choice, “So if you happen to turn up at the same time, you respect each others’ space and behave like grown men. Got it?”

Grumbling, your brother rolls his eyes, and Sunghoon nods. This is going to be a disaster.

Just as you think all bickering would be over, the mothers start chasing after the coaches as they head into the office. You felt bad for the trainers having to deal with this and getting blamed for it all, but most importantly, you feel sorry for them because they have to listen to both your mum and Mrs. Park for at least an hour.

Once the door to their office shut, it was silent, the only noise coming from the large ACs. 

Scared to look any of them in the eye you place a hand on Minhee’s arm, “Come on, you need to practice.”

“Emphasis on the ‘need’.” Sunghoon pipes up and you wish he hadn’t. You were a fool to think this parting would be civil.

Minhee pokes his tongue in his cheek and looks at his rival, “You got something to say?” He’s challenging Sunghoon, baiting him to start something, but Sunghoon doesn’t budge, “Better watch my skate doesn’t somehow come flying off and slit you open.” Minhee was all bark and no bite, you knew this, but he seems deadly serious right now.

“Is that a threat?” Sunghoon stands tall against Minhee.

“It’s a fucking promise, Park.” 

No one says anything else, they don’t have to, the look in their eyes is scary as they stand toe to toe with one another. “Let’s go, Mini.” You squeak out his nickname. By no means are you a timid person but you don’t want to interject and suddenly find yourself in the firing line. 

With a grunt, your brother obeys and storms out and into the changing rooms, leaving you and Sunghoon alone.

His stern eyes flicker to your soft ones, it’s been a while since you’ve been this close to him, close enough to admire him. His black hair is fluffy and unstyled unlike how it is usually when you see him at competitions, the bags under his eyes prove how hard he’s working whether at skating or general life and the freckles that are perfectly placed on his face suddenly look more ethereal than before. Sunghoon is the epitome of beauty.

While you’re staring you fail to notice how he is staring right back at you, taking in all your features like he’s trying to commit them to memory. He hasn’t seen you since Sectionals which didn’t seem like that long ago but to him, it feels like a lifetime. You’ve cut your hair since then and Sunghoon noticed.

Meeting his eyes once again you see how they sparkle, just like they do when he’s on the ice.

“Sorry for my brother, he can be-”

“A dick?”

“A lot,” Your tone is filled with warning. Sunghoon might have been right but that’s still your brother, “He can be a lot but you already know that.”

Walking up to you, he tilts his head and smiles softly, “Don’t start apologising for him now, Sweets.” He leans so his face meets yours, “Or else you’ll be apologising your whole life.” 

Sunghoon pats your head and makes his way to the coach's office, leaving you mesmerised.

______

Minhee and Sunghoon have successfully kept their distance from each other for the past two weeks, which has been a relief to everyone. If this pattern continues, there is hope that everything will just be a harmonious as before the merge.

Although the rink was now open for their disposal, you were never more grateful. No, it wasn’t for you, the coaches explicitly said it was for the future medalists, but you knew the receptionist for the building and she would let you away with anything if you batted your lashes and gave her a box of Toffees. 

Growing up at the rink meant you found solace in the atmosphere and surroundings, so much so that you went there to simply study, the arena oddly hugging you in comfort while you tore the hair from your head. Skaters and staff became your friends with how much time you’ve spent in the bleachers. Typically, it would be during the day with what little spare time you had, but with the building being open around the clock it means you can inhabit the premises in the middle of the night, the perfect time to get your head down and work.

That is where you are headed right now just after your shift at the supermarket. It was as painful as ever with customers not understanding that you don’t make the prices, or that no you cannot watch their baby while they run for a jug of milk. It’s baffling how dense some people can be. 

The rink is a nice place to relax and get away from it all.

Pushing open the door you see the receptionist, Miss Barbara, filing her nails. She was a friendly woman, the kind type, but when Coach Kim told her she would have to work some nights she wasn’t so sweet and caring, not to him anyway.

Her real name is just Barbara but as the years went on, she adopted this regal persona and insisted everyone call her Miss or Ma’am. Only you and Minhee gave in to her request though.

“Hi, Miss Barbara,” You wave. Reaching into your white tote bag you retrieve her bribes, eh, goodies, and pass them to her. 

With much delight, she wiggles her fingers and slips them from the desk into her lap, “Y/N you are my favourite person that walks through those doors!” Her eyes are trained on the sweets rather than you when she speaks which makes you chuckle.

“Glad I can be held in such high regard, Miss Barbara,” You change your accent to a posh one and wave like a Queen in her tiny town car. Lifting her head, Miss Barbara sees your roleplay and laughs, dismissing you into the rink.

As you step into the arena, the chill of the air greets you, accompanied by the soothing sound of skates slicing through the ice. Finding your way to the centre of the second row of bleachers, you settle in, unpacking your bag and gracefully arranging your belongings. Crossing your legs to create space for your laptop and paper, you deftly balance everything, a skill you've honed to perfection.

Typing in your password you hear the skates coming towards you and scraping to a halt but you don’t look up.

“If you’ve come to spy on my routine you aren’t doing a very good job at hiding.” Sunghoon playfully remarks. You hadn’t even noticed it was him who was skating, since it was usually Wonyoung gracing the ice you just expected it to be her. He looks at your mess of a lap and scrunches his full eyebrows, “Like you’re really not making it discrete.” 

You look up and see him pointing to your laptop, “Oh, no I’m just studying.” Returning to typing you hear him scoff, making you look at him again.

“You expect me to believe that?” The look on his face is incredulous when you don’t budge, “What? Don’t they have libraries at your Uni?”

Sunghoon’s tone is accusatory and you don’t like it. “Look, I don’t have beef with you okay? That’s the wrong Kang sibling.” There is no reason for him to be giving you attitude right now, you hadn’t done anything wrong, an innocent bystander in all this. 

Deep down he knew that too, but he couldn’t be too careful.

Crossing his arms, he leans on top of the barrier and rests his chin, examining you and how much you’re telling the truth, “So, what? You genuinely just sit here and study? Does the cold stimulate your brain or something?” 

“No, it’s like white noise at this point, comforting.” Glancing up you see his still dubious expression, “Ugh, look I come here all the time, ask anyone!” Your arms gesturing to the empty rink is not really helping your case.

Having had enough you slam the laptop shut and stand up, “Whatever, I’ll just go somewhere else.”

Sunghoon shoots his arms up to mock surrender, “Woah, Sweets, calm down, I was just making sure. Need to air on the side of caution, yeah?” His voice softens. 

Making you uncomfortable wasn’t on his list of things to do, but his mum made it very clear your whole family wasn’t to be trusted, and he always heeded his mother's warnings even if he thought she was being overdramatic. “Listen, stay here as long as you want but if I see your brother doing a double toe loop into a triple axel I know who to blame.” 

With a smirk, you sit back down, “See now you’ve just told me your big secret,” a laugh leaves your lips, “Changed your mind on trusting a Kang so soon huh?” 

He’s flabbergasted. 

Did he really just tell you part of his routine like it was nothing, in an instant after he just told himself not to be so trusting of you?  You’re more dangerous than he first thought, and you aren’t even trying.

After seeing the realisation come over his face you laugh loudly, “Sunghoon, don’t worry. My brother can handle you on his own, he doesn’t need to cheat to beat you.”

“Say that to my 8 first places over him.”  It goes silent. It’s not like you could argue with him, Sunghoon did beat Minhee in a lot of skates. 

Trying to lighten the mood he points to you, “No pictures.” He jokes and skates away adroitly.

You don’t see the smile creeping onto his face, or the way tries to shake you out of his head. That conversation between you made him want it to be the start of many more, much more.

________

Emerging from your room, you're taken aback to find your mom standing right at your door, narrowly avoiding a collision. Both of you gasp and instinctively clutch your chests. "Jesus, Y/N, you scared me," she exclaims. Ignoring the fact that she's lingering around your room, you offer an apology, which she quickly dismisses. "A letter came for you," she informs you, handing over the manila envelope before walking away. At least she isn't one of those moms who loiter and wait for you to open it; she doesn't fuss over things like that. Or perhaps, she doesn't fuss over you.

Abandoning your plan to head to the kitchen for a cup of tea, you return to your bed and sprawl across it, letting your legs dangle off the edge. With a swift motion, you tear open the envelope and unfold the letter, eagerly scanning its contents.

Dear Y/N Kang,

At Yonsei University, our students consistently impress us with their dedication and commitment to excellence. Each year, we have the privilege of acknowledging one outstanding student whose remarkable progress merits special recognition. This year, we are delighted to announce that you have been selected as the top student of Yonsei University.

In light of your exceptional achievements, we would be honoured to celebrate your success by presenting you with an award. A special ceremony, bringing together top students from across the city, will be held on the 23rd of September at 7 pm in the historic Cathedral adjacent to our university campus. You are welcome to bring a plus one to share in this momentous occasion.

Congratulations once again on this well-deserved honour.

You skim-read the rest, and a triumphant smile creeps onto your face. There's no conceivable way you're at the top of the University this year - perhaps the top of your year, but the entire university? It feels like a surreal, sick joke. Investigating the envelope, you spot the official stamp of Yonsei. It's real.

Bounding down the stairs, you find your mum and brother already seated at the dining table, ready for dinner, "Mum, Mini, look!" You flap the paper in their faces, excitement bubbling within you. Your mum tuts and carefully opens the letter, reading it with precision. You're searching for any sign of a reaction, but nothing surfaces. She simply places it down and checks her phone.

You sit down gingerly, awaiting her acknowledgement, hoping for some form of appreciation, "Hmm, thought so." Clicking the lock on her phone, she sets it aside, "Sorry, Y/N, Minhee has a schedule that day."

"But aren't you happy for me?" You ask, your excitement dampening. It's not just about the ceremony; it's about the achievement itself. She should be proud of you, "I'm at the top of my university."

"Yes, you are, darling," your mum responds, her tone lacking enthusiasm. Normally, it wouldn't bother you, but this is a big deal, huge even, and she couldn't spare you the time of day to at least pretend to be happy for you.

Your heart sinks, and the elation you felt a moment ago dissipates. She really did not care, and the void of her indifference casts a shadow over your significant accomplishment.

Minhee places a comforting hand on your shoulder, sensing your disappointment. "Top of the class, huh? Finally, you get one of your awards in my trophy room." His attempt at humour falls flat in the weight of the moment. Minhee notices your lack of response, withdrawing his hand and sinking into silence, his gaze fixed downward.

“We just can’t go, your brother has an advertisement to film that day, we’ve been planning it for months. You understand.”

You had no choice but to understand.

“Yes, Mum.” The acceptance cuts deep. You've never blamed Minhee for the uneven distribution of favouritism; it wasn't his fault, yet, the sting of yearning for a moment in the spotlight, just once, remains. The chair you rise from screeches against the floor. "I need to go tell my friends about it."

There isn’t a protest from her, so you slip out quietly. Minhee extends a hand toward you, a silent gesture of support, but you don’t bother acknowledging it. The door closes behind you, leaving a trail of unresolved emotions lingering in the air.

In truth, you didn’t want to tell your friends right now, when you tell them you want it to be a happy occasion, not tarnished by your mum's attitude.

How could she be so nonchalant about the fact that you achieved such an award? You weren’t looking for bells and whistles but a simple ‘Well done, Y/N.’ would have sufficed. Was it too much to ask for? You did all this for her, after all. 

A deja vu of last week, you push the heavy doors to the Belmore Centre, greeting Miss Barbara before heading to the rink.

The familiar scent of ice and warm rubber infiltrates your nose, offering solace and temporarily numbing the thoughts swirling in your mind. The rink, with its unique aura, never fails to bring you a sense of contentment.

As you take your usual seat, you can't help but notice an unusual absence of the rhythmic sound of skates cutting through the ice. It's just past 8 pm, yet the rink is eerily silent. For a change, it's pure bliss, the absence of the usual hustle and bustle providing an unexpected sanctuary.

Sitting with your head in your hands, you succumb to overthinking. If only you could have skated and achieved something that your mum could be proud of. What would it take?

A tear slips down your cheek, and you're oblivious to the approaching presence.

Sunghoon’s smile is subtle as he takes in your dishevelled appearance. You’re not in your usual jacket, in fact, you look like you've hastily run out of the house as if you were just popping into the shop for milk.

With your hands buried in your head, he hears a sniffle, realizing that you're crying, “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Sunghoon drops his bag and skates as he rushes over to you, concern all over his face. 

Shaking your head you just cry harder as your brain screams at you. It is so loud you can’t hear anything else, certainly not the boy sitting next to you.

He rubs your back to calm you down but to no avail. Instead, you cry harder and he doesn’t know what to do. Sunghoon isn’t exactly an expert when it comes to crying girls, “Sweets, stop crying.” Great, Sunghoon, just great, he curses himself, “Umm, no wait, shit, breathe! I’ve heard that works before.” He quickly made the realisation he would never make it as a therapist.

Sunghoon is always so confident and self-assured but right now with you he has no idea how to act.

What he doesn’t realize is that his awkward attempt to console you has genuinely worked. Sunghoon fumbling over his words gives you something to focus on, and hearing him mutter to himself about how awful he is at this makes you laugh. It’s a small laugh but one that breaks through the heaviness of the moment.

Hearing your laughter, Sunghoon whips his head to face you, his hand continuing to rub soothing circles on your back. “What happened, Y/N?” His voice carries a gentle concern, inviting you to share, but you just shake your head, not ready to delve into the details. “Nah, come on. Whatever it is has really upset you. It’s better to talk about it.”

His voice resonates with a soothing calmness, making you feel like you could confide in him about anything.

“I just feel like I'm not good enough and that anything I do will never meet her standards,” you shrug, expressing the weight of self-doubt that has been dragging you down.

“Ah, it’s your mum, right?” His lips purse as he gazes ahead to the rink. The elude to ‘her’ being his only anchor of reasoning.

Your silence serves as confirmation. Sunghoon, all too familiar with the feeling of not being enough, understands your pain. But in this moment, it's not about him. He can only offer superficial advice, “If you live your life based on other's expectations, you’ll never be truly happy.”

“Says the competitive figure skater,” you lightly laugh, a hint of sadness slowly dissipating from your face.

Sunghoon pauses the reassuring circles between your shoulders and sighs, “You got me there.” You were right; who was he to tell you to stop living for other people when that’s all he has ever done since he was 6?

Seeing how his shoulders slump, you worry you might have hit a nerve. “Hey, I didn’t me—”

“Do you want to do something reckless?” The sudden switch from sadness to confidence confuses you, and you gaze at him as if he has two heads. It's remarkable how quickly he pulled himself out of his own thoughts, and you can't help but feel a twinge of envy.

When you don’t respond, he pushes the idea further, “Come on, Sweets. Didn’t have you as the type to say no to a little fun.”

“There's a big difference between reckless and fun, so which is it?” you ask.

“Come and find out.” He smirks, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Suddenly, Sunghoon springs to his feet and yanks you out of your seat, propelling you into whatever scheme he has up his sleeve. As his hand interlocks with yours, a peculiar flutter dances in your stomach.

“Where are we going?” You glance around as he drags you past the rink and into the back rooms. "What’s so fun about plain grey walls and 'Employee of the Month' posters?”

Sunghoon simply rolls his eyes in response to your question.

The next thing you know, you're in a warehouse-like room, surrounded by old skating equipment, acrylite shields you've seen hockey players collide with, and an army of mannequins. 

What somehow escapes your notice is the giant red Zamboni that Sunghoon is confidently strolling towards.

Seeing you mesmerized by the mannequins, Sunghoon waits for you to turn around, but you're too engrossed in the plastic figures to notice him. “Looking for your next boyfriend in there?” he teases, his voice slicing through the silence of the room.

Jumping at the unexpected remark, you hastily remove your hand from one of the figures' chests and whip around. Sunghoon leans against the Zamboni, a tilted smirk gracing his face, hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets. Embarrassed, you mumble a quick 'shut up' and shuffle over to him. To be honest, those dummies probably would have offered a more exciting conversation than most men.

Your eyes finally land on the Zamboni. It gleams, proudly bearing the bold inscription 'Zamboni Campbell' on the side. A few years ago, Coach Kim, in a moment of whimsy, had asked people to name the ‘new love in his life’ through a Facebook post. Some 7-year-old had chosen 'Zamboni Campbell.' It might not have been the most clever name, but considering his age, you let it slide. 

“Please stop leaning on Zamboni Campbell; she’s a national treasure,” you interject, half-joking. If anything were to happen to her, you imagine Coach Kim might have an aneurysm.

The figure skater scoffs and pushes himself off the machine, “She’s no Zamby Malik.” He jokes, “My baby boy is probably being abused right now.” The comment raises an eyebrow; what is it with some people and their weird fascination for anything with a motor? Your expression remains neutral as Sunghoon looks at you. “Zamby Malik? Albion’s Zamboni? Named after Zayn Malik?” he questions.

“Yeah, got that reference, thanks.” Stepping forward, your eyes meet his. “I have been a Niall worshipper for many, many years,” you say proudly. You’ve been a dedicated fan of Niall and all the One Direction boys forever.

“Eh, more of a Louis girl myself,” Sunghoon shrugs and turns to face the ice resurfacer. “So, how badly have you ever wanted to ride her?” His hands rub together in a way that eerily resembles a villain plotting an evil scheme.

Nope. Absolutely not. You're not getting on that thing. For one, Coach Kim would undoubtedly kill you both if he found out. He loves the Zamboni more than his own children. And two, you have no idea how to operate it. Disaster is inevitable. “I am not getting on that thing!” 

Sunghoon gives you a look that says ‘Of course, you are getting on that thing.’ but he can give you all the looks he wants, you are not doing it.

“Sweets, you need to have a go. It’ll help whatever is going on in that pretty little head of yours.” Sunghoon's hand playfully ruffles your hair before he strides towards the steps of the Zamboni.

Fixing your hair consciously, you find yourself following him. “How will it help exactly? When I die from crashing it or at the hands of Coach Kim, at least I'll be free of my thoughts?”

Sunghoon spins around, and you walk right into his chest. “I was thinking more along the lines of a clear rink, clear mind, but your reasoning works too, I suppose.” His hands grip your shoulders and push you at arm's length. “So?”

As you weigh up your options, for him, there's only one option – getting you behind the wheel of Zamboni Campbell.

“I don’t know how to drive it though, Sunghoon.” That would surely deter him from this ridiculous idea. But it doesn't.

“Duh,” His eyes rolled once again, “I’ll teach you obviously.” 

It’s at that moment you understand that regardless of how long you’ve known him, you don’t actually know him. In fact, you haven’t even had a conversation this long before.

“Since when did you know how to ride a Zamboni?” You inquire and Sunghoon removes his hands from your shoulders, running his fingers through his hair. God, he is so handsome.

“You learn a thing or two being on the ice so long.” 

The truth is, he was constantly pestering the maintenance guy at Albion to clean the ice before his practice. He got so fed up hearing Sunghoon complain he told him to do it himself. So he learned, and ever since, he’s been whizzing on a Zamboni.

You are running out of excuses, and part of you is agreeing with him that this will be good for you. “Fine.”

“That’s a girl!” Sunghoon huffs, and you move to walk up the steps, but he stops you, holding up two fingers. “Two things first.”

Removing his long liquorice-colored coat, he gently places it on your shoulders. The warmth lingering from his body heat in the linings of the jacket makes you realize how cold you were. “It gets cold up there,” he says, straightening out the collar.

You push your arms through the holes and wrap yourself up in it. Sunghoon has broad shoulders, so the jacket makes you look ten times smaller than you are, creating a cosy cocoon. 

If he knew it was okay to say, he'd probably tell you how cute you look. For now, he keeps that thought to himself.

Murmuring a polite ‘thank you,’ you're grateful he doesn’t ask why you don't have your jacket. Sunghoon hasn’t pushed you to talk about it at all, and that's something you appreciate.

Sunghoon climbs up and gets situated behind the wheel.

“Wait, you said there were two things?” The jacket is one, and what else?

“Ah, there’s only one seat up here so,” he pats his lap, “You’re going to have to sit on my knee.”

He has to be joking, yet his face looks serious, a tinge of red sneaking onto his neck and ears. He’s blushing. The playful challenge in his eyes mixes with genuine warmth. It's clear he wants to make you smile.

Cute.

“I can’t teach you from down there, now come on up.” He continues.

He won’t give up, apparently, so with a huff, you start scaling the steps, standing at the top and realise how high this thing is. Sunghoon puts his hand out for you to take as he guides you to sit down. “This is super high,” you state patently.

Sunghoon laughs and shakes his head, “You’re just small, Sweets.” His hands go to your waist to stabilise you while you hike one leg over him. “That’s it, not so scary, huh?”

Slowly, you sit down on his lap, getting yourself comfortable. You feel his thighs tense under you. “Oh, am I too heavy?”

Quickly, he shakes his head, “No, not at all, I’ve got legs of steel.” He slaps the side of his thigh and relaxes them a little. Sunghoon won’t say it, but the way you wriggled to get comfy was putting pressure straight on his cock, making him tense up. It would be rude to pop a boner right now no matter how good you feel, given the circumstances.

“So what do I do?”

“Hmm?” He was too busy lost in his thoughts he forgot what he was doing. “Oh, right,” he turns on the machine and guides you through the steps. “So there are six levers, each does their own thing—conditioner, elevation, brush, tyre wash, wash water,” he continues going through the controls.

While he’s explaining, you observe how fast his lips are moving. Is he always this talkative, or is it just with you? A part of you hopes for the latter. “And we are good to go.” He finishes and smiles. You probably should have paid attention because now he’s looking at you expectantly. “You didn’t listen to a word I just said, did you?”

“Something about water being washed?” you bring your shoulders up sheepishly and smile, showing all your teeth.

The look on his face feigns annoyance, “How about I drive and you sit there and look pretty, yeah?” 

Pretty. That’s the second time he's inadvertently called you pretty. 

Sunghoon reaches his arm around you, starting the machine up and driving it onto the rink, his other hand is holding you securely in his lap. The ice resurfacer is in full swing as it sweeps the edges of the rink. You haven’t seen the rink from this angle before and it brings forth a new appreciation.

“Gonna need you to pump for me.”

It takes you a minute to process his words before craning your neck around to look at him, “Excuse me?” You have no idea in what context that sentence couldn’t be laced with innuendo.

He seems unphased, or maybe just unaware of his words double entendre, and points to the right of the machine, “This Zam has a manual wash water lever, you need to pump it for me, Sweets, I can’t reach it with you on my lap.”

Can he please stop saying pump for all that is holy? 

You screw your head back on and see the black lever he is talking about, “This one?” 

His one hand on your hip squeezes slightly when you reach over, “Yeah just lift it up and down, it might be heavy for you so be careful.” 

Sunghoon watches you pump the water washer a few times, you use both hands to grasp the lever so he tightens his hold on your waist to ensure your safety. After he has focused on the task at hand he notices the way your hands are gripped around the lever, your fingers barely able to wrap around it. He can’t stop the next thoughts that come into his head. What he wouldn’t give to have you stroking his cock with those pretty hands.

The next thing he notices is how you’re softly grunting as you put the work in and your arms losing pace due to repetition and tiredness. The scene in front of him isn’t calming his thoughts down any because now he’s thinking if these noises are similar to ones you would make while bouncing on his dick. He feels like a pervert because here you are upset and he’s got crude thoughts of you infiltrating his mind. 

“That’s enough for now, Sweets.” His voice is strained, he could have watched you do that for hours but for the sake of the ice and his dignity, he needs you to stop.

Pulling away and shuffling back to comfort on his lap you smile, “That was weirdly fun. It got some frustration out of me.” 

It’s ironic because frustration has seeped into Sunghoon, horny frustration, and you are so blissfully unaware.

“Wow, look how sparkly it is!” You exclaim as your eyes are glued to the ice behind you. Maybe only once have you seen the rink so clean, but even then it wasn’t like this, it’s practically glistening. Zamboni Campbell needs to pat herself on the back.

The boy steering her also needs to praise himself not just for the excellent resurfacing job, but also for helping you. It’s not until now you see that his plan worked, he got you out of your head and stopped the crippling thoughts that were bound to consume you if you didn’t have this distraction.

Both of you lap the rink 4 times before Sunghoon looks at his handy work and smiles, “She drives like a dream.” He steers back into the warehouse, trying to park the Zamboni close enough to where they found it.

“Better than Zamby Malik?” You tease.

“Never, but she’s not far off.” Sunghoon doesn’t let go of the hold he has on your waist despite the ice resurfacer being stagnant. Instead, he’s slightly massaging your sides, an action you can barely feel because of his coat engulfing your body, but you feel it enough.

Turning around so your legs are draped fully over his thighs, you're about to get off him, but you don't. You should stand up, climb down the steps, and leave it as a nice memory, but this future memory feels too short like there should be something more to it.

Sunghoon feels it too, that’s why he’s staring at you so intensely. The once shallow smile he had on his face now dropped off; his eyes are looking deep into yours, and his hands move up your waist slightly, yet he doesn’t make a move.

This has to be your decision. Something you want.

If there was ever an inappropriate time to think about your brother, it’s when you’re two seconds away from kissing a guy. Minhee’s face flashes in your mind, and you realize what you’re about to do - you’re about to kiss Minhee’s biggest rival, his arch-nemesis, how could you even face your brother if you gave in to this?

Sunghoon watches you while your brain flips out; you don’t look like you’re 100% certain of the idea of his lips on yours. “Sweets?” he squeezes your waist and sighs, “We should get going.”

Oh.

All you’re thinking about is why he didn’t kiss you, and why it hurt a little that he didn’t. It looked like he wanted to; maybe you took too long, or he stared long enough to realize you weren’t actually pretty. You guys don't even know each other well, but you feel yourself being pulled towards him. Wasn’t it the same for him? Your brain went from overthinking one thing to another.

Nodding your head, you stand up carefully and make your way down. You can’t even look at him out of shame and guilt for even entertaining the idea of kissing him. Your mum would be so disappointed if she knew.

Sunghoon follows you down but unlike you he is keeping his eyes fixed on your face, focusing on every change in your manner both positive and negative. He wanted to kiss you but you looked like you were about to pass out from the thought of it. Sunghoon wanted you to be certain, “I’ll drive you home.” 

“No, no it’s fine, I’m not that far from here.” Being in a car with him after this wouldn’t be the best outcome, your mind is still on his lips.

“Please, Y/N, it’s late. I just want to make sure you’re safe. Anything could happen.” Sunghoon doesn’t want you to walk home, yes because of safety concerns, but also because he wants to spend even a fraction of a minute more time with you. You seem to be one of the few people in this world he can relax around.

He should have just kissed you.

The look on his face is serious but his eyes are soft, not asking but begging you to just say yes. 

“Sure.” The atmosphere is heavy, filled with longing and tension. You’re both thinking different things.

You’re analysing every specific detail from tonight to see if you have done something wrong, anything that would have stopped him from kissing you.

And Sunghoon’s brain is filled with various thoughts of you from tonight. The lever, the way you felt so right sitting in his lap, and more importantly how amazing it felt to be the one that made you smile. The way you smiled and giggled on the Zamboni is something he is going to commit to memory. 

As of today, he will start keeping part of his brain solely for you to occupy.

The walk to Sunghoon's car is silent, free of the laughter and conversation that previously filled your space. Both of you appear to be over-analysing each other's previous acts, which makes the situation more awkward than it needs to be.

Sunghoon's car is impressive: a sleek monochrome Peugeot New 2008 with a black interior. The scent of his fresh cologne combines with the ocean-scented tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

“This is a nice car.” You note, buckling up your seatbelt.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she? Got her as part of a brand deal with Peugeot Sport.” His hands caress the smooth wheel and his lips upturn into a proud smile. Brand deals and advertisements are not what you want to hear about right now, especially when it’s the one thing your mum cared about instead of your award. Your sour mood doesn’t go unnoticed, “Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

That was the one place you didn’t really want to be right now but you nod, shoulders slumped a little at the thought of facing your mum again.

“Or,” Sunghoon starts, “We could get some food? The University Cafe is always open late.” 

It was like he could read your mind, “Yeah, I could eat.” 

With that, Sunghoon starts the car and drives to the cafe. The way your face turned a little paler when he said he would take you home alarmed him. He doesn’t think you’re in danger there, Minhee might be a dick but he was protective over you, he wouldn’t let anything happen, and Sunghoon knew that. Whatever it is, you didn’t want to go home, and Sunghoon is more than willing to keep you to himself for a couple more hours.

The journey to the cafe, situated more on his side of town, unfolds in silence, only disrupted by the gentle strains of Hozier's "Like Real People Do" emanating from the radio. A wry smile tugs at Sunghoon's lips, finding the song's relevance a touch on the nose for the current situation.

Upon arriving at the cafe, you're taken aback by its shabby appearance - chipped walls, adjacent graffiti, not to mention it’s deserted. Sunghoon, attuned to your hesitance, reassures you, “It’s a lot nicer than it looks, promise. I’ve been coming here forever.” Stepping out of the car, he leaves you with the choice of venturing into the weathered establishment or remaining in the safety of the car. Despite your reservations, a rumble from your stomach nudges you to join him inside.

The interior mirrors the exterior's wear and tear, yet a certain comfort envelops the air as Sunghoon guides you with a reassuring hand on the small of your back. “Sit anywhere you like, Sweets.”

Opting for a seat by the back window, you settle into the firm, brown booth without ridding yourself of Sunghoon's coat, a silent acknowledgement that your stay may be short-lived. You aren’t a snob but you have a cafe like this in your side of town and it isn’t somewhere you choose to occupy. 

Noticing your scrutiny of the surroundings, Sunghoon, with a laugh, takes a seat across from you, studying your expression, "You don’t like it, huh?"

Huffing, you cast a critical eye around the place, "Not really, no."

You were brutally honest, he’ll give you that, “Wait until you try their food and then judge okay?” He chuckles and hands you the menu on the table.

A waitress waltzes over with a pen and paper. She’s too beautiful for a place like this, her rosy cheeks and long flowing brown hair make you jealous, “Sunghoon! My favourite ice slasher, how is it going?”

While they engage in small talk you look at the menu looking for something safe to eat. Maybe you should just wait for Sunghoon to order and get the same thing.

“Y/N, you know what you want?” He turns to you.

“Oh, so you’re the Y/N?” the waitress grins. 

What does that mean? How does she know your name? When you glance at Sunghoon, you notice his intense stare fixed on the girl. This is strange. The waitress seems to pick up on Sunghoon's unspoken communication, smirking as she says, "I mean, you're Kang Minhee's sister, right?" She then slowly turns her attention to you.

Ah, that's how she knew. He must have spoken ill of Minhee and you enough times for her to recognize you. Fueled by this assumption, you shift into defence mode. "Yeah, I am," you reply sharply, your expression hardening as you lean back, raising your eyebrows and waiting for her response, half-expecting her to be rude to you.

Strangely, the waitress's expression brightens. "It's nice to meet you, Y/N. Can I get you anything?" Her voice carries genuine warmth.

Now you feel a bit guilty. She seems genuinely nice.

"Uh," you glance at the menu again, uncertain of what to order. "What's good?"

Sunghoon intervenes with a smile. "She'll take my usual," he tells the waitress as she departs. Ordinarily, you dislike when men presume to order for you, but in this instance, you're grateful for the assistance. "It's just a plain cheese and ham panini with tomato, pesto, and hot sauce. It sounds simple, but it's delicious."

You expected Sunghoon to be a burger and fries kind of guy, but with his physique and strict regimen, you should have known his tastes would lean towards the healthier side of things.

“Did you order a drink with this ‘usual’ or am I supposed to just swallow it dry?” 

“Comes with diet coke and a lime.” He says timidly, now for the first time he is self-conscious about his food choice. Sunghoon would like nothing more than to chomp into a pizza and a full-fat Pepsi but with National’s coming up at the end of the year, he needs to stick somewhat to his meal plan. In hindsight, he should have ordered you something you might have liked. What did you like? He didn’t even know that simple fact, “Do you want something else? I can change it.”

“No it’s okay, I’ll trust your judgment,” You relax into the booth, “Shoot me if i’m being too straight forward but don’t you have enough money to go like, I don’t know, somewhere nicer than this?” 

Raising his hands in a gun motion he pretends to shoot you and you fake a wound in your shoulder. It’s nice to be playful like this, Sunghoon hasn’t had this for a long time, “You know how to ask a question, Sweets.” 

He then shrugs and looks around the cafe, not unlike how you were doing earlier but his eyes aren’t filled with distaste; they’re shining in fondness.

“It’s where my dad would take me after practices. Mum would never let me come here once I started aiming for professional level, too much grease and too many carbs.” He recalls a time his mum had him on a diet at 11 because he wasn’t flying high enough and a frown appeared on his face, “My dad though, he wanted me to be at least somewhat a normal kid so every Wednesday when mum worked late we would come here. Eat whatever we want and then pop a breath mint in the car.”

Sunghoon’s features are mixed with hurt and fondness, “Sorry, about your dad.” You offer your condolences.

When Sunghoon was 15 his dad died of a heart attack right before the Junior Championships and it broke him to the point he didn’t want to skate anymore, it wasn’t fun because his dad was always the one to cheer him on. His parents had their roles, his mum was strict and direct, getting him to train hard and achieve his best. And his dad was the reliever, encouraging him to have fun and let loose, be a kid. With one half of the balance scales gone, it was difficult for Sunghoon to maintain any adolescent normality. Perhaps that’s why he’s so fond to have you around.

In the silence you speak up, “You know your dad used to sneak me a packet of Haribos nearly every competition.” The boy's head whips to look at you and tilts, a knowing look on his face, “Yeah, and every time he would say ‘With everything so sour, we deserve something sweet’.” You smile at the thought.

“I-, he was kind like that.” He wants to say more, but he stops himself.

His dad was the nicest man in the whole world. When you found out the news that he passed away, you cried a little. Your mum being your mum she didn’t understand it, claimed you didn’t know him enough to mourn. Regardless of how well you knew him, people who were so kind and loving don’t deserve to be taken from this world so quickly.

You see the look on Sunghoon’s face lighten up a little, the shadow over his eyes washing away and when he looked at you, the sparkle came back, “So, you can’t hate this place or else I can pull the dead dad took me here card.”

“Fine. I love it.” The words feign mocking when in actuality they are full of understanding.

The waitress from earlier brings over the drinks in a frosted glass with a lime wedge on the rim, “There you go! Added extra ice for my Ice Prince.” 

My. She could have said ‘The’.

It stirred up something within your chest. Jealousy? Okay but why are you getting jealous over this? You don’t know because you aren’t exactly his and you have never been the threatened type, so you don’t know what’s going on with you. 

“Food will be right out!” She hops away and she is back in a flash with the Paninis. 

What you don’t expect is Sunghoon to take both of them and add some condiments, opening up the middle to pour a slight bit of salt and some mayonnaise. 

“Excuse me, I don't need your hands all over my food.” Crossing your arms you wait for him to stop but he doesn’t. Instead, he shows you his hands, stretching them over the table.

“Look how clean they are, Sweets.” They are clean and oh-so pretty. Suddenly you’re jealous of the food that receives his touch, wishing it was you. You need to get a grip, first the waitress, and now a piece of toasted bread are the objects of your envy.

It’s like your crush from when you were little came back tenfold, with every second you spend with him that little innocent pash is turning into full blown infatuation. Now with added hormones, it’s like you’re drawn to him more than ever. It’s scary how quickly you fell back into your feelings, whatever they were.

“Y/N?” He brings you back to reality with his low voice, retreating his hand, “Lost you for a minute there.”

Passing you the food you thank him, “Sorry, happens a lot. I tend to overthink literally everything.” It’s a confession you haven’t let pass your lips. Not ever. “I learned to control it as I got older but if I’m upset I can’t stop it 99% of the time, even if it’s something simple like putting salt on this food.”

Sunghoon sees you physically overthinking what you just said. It’s the exact same face you made when you were inches from kissing him. 

He understands the situation earlier a little better now.

“So what’s upsetting you now, Sweets?” He asks, “You said you didn’t feel good enough, what happened?” 

Shuddering, you remember your words. You’re embarrassed that you blurted out your feelings so readily, “It’s nothing.” Then you remember, “Why did you think it was my mum?”

“If your mum is anything like mine, and I guarantee she is, then I don’t ‘think’ it was your mum, I know it.” There’s an empathy shining in his eyes, “What did she do?” 

“I got some good news, and when I told her about it,” Sighing, you try to aggregate your feelings. Sunghoon’s hand makes contact with your forearm as he sees you struggle. The soothing motion of his thumb calms you instantly, “she just dismissed it. Like my achievement wasn’t up to par with Mini’s.”

“What was the good news?”

“Nothing major I guess. I’m the top student at my University for the year and I’m receiving an award.”

Sunghoon is furious. Your mum had downplayed your achievement and now you don’t think it’s a big deal and he wasn’t having it, “Y/N. You go to Yonsei, right?” Once you nod he continues, “Then that IS major, what are you talking about?” 

“It’s not exactly a Championship medal.” Your shoulders slump.

“And?” Squeezing your arm he tries to make you see past your mother and her shitty attitude, “Some people would think your achievement means more than one of his, does that make Minhee’s less than yours?” You mumble a quick ‘of course not’, not grasping what he’s saying, “Then why do you think that way about your award? Sweets, it’s fucking amazing you should be proud of yourself.”

You are, it’s your mum who isn’t and that’s what you can’t get over. 

Instead of answering back you avoid the conversation altogether and start eating the food in front of you. 

One bite has you falling in love with the taste, the pesto combination with the cheese and parma ham melts in your mouth and makes your tongue dance. You owe this shabby place an apology.

Triumph etches onto Sunghoon’s face as he sees the same fireworks behind your eyes that he had when he first tried the food. He knew you’d like it.

“Oh, my days.” You stare at him wide-eyed, one hand covering your mouth. Never will you doubt him again.

“Told you.” He smirks and eats some of his own, the familiar aroma and your face make his chest fill with glee and gratification, “I’ve just learned two things about you in this last minute.”

“And what’s that?” You question, taking another bite.

“You love the food here and will never question my taste again,” Your eyes are still on the food but you nod to agree, “And you’re an avoider.”

What is that supposed to mean? 

“An avoider?” 

Sunghoon leans back and picks up a tissue, cleaning the crumbs from his fingers, “You changed the topic pretty fast when you didn’t want to have a conversation you’re uncomfortable with. You can’t accept what I’m saying is right, your achievement is just as mighty as all of Minhee’s and it IS a big deal.” 

Arguing with him about it is pointless. Does it mean you won’t though? No.

“It’s not that I'm not accepting what you’re saying,” it is, he thinks to himself,  “I just don’t need to air my drama or feelings to someone I don’t know.” 

“Believe it or not, asking questions and having conversations like this is how you get to know people,” Sunghoon pushed the food to the side and leaned forward, “I just want to get to know you.” 

You challenge him by matching his posture and leaning on the table, “Whatever happened to, oh I don’t know, what’s your favourite colour?”

“White. See, easy right?” He’s smug. Sunghoon isn’t trying to pressure you to answer the question, he just thinks if you speak about the issue, it’ll alleviate the burden. A problem shared is a problem halved after all. “How about you ask me anything at all, and I’ll answer it because I know that’s how you get to know me.”

“Anything at all?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why didn’t you kiss me earlier?”

Stunned. Shocked. Astounded. Whatever other synonym he could use, that’s exactly how he feels right now. For the first time in his life, he is speechless. How do you keep doing this to him? Never has anyone been so forthright with him.

Seeing his cheeks flush red and eyes dart around as if finding the answer in his brain you know you’ve won, “Not so eager to speak now, huh?” 

Exhaling, Sunghoon sits back, “You looked like you were going to pass out,” He begins his answer, “You got in your head about something and it made you second guess.”

“I was thinking about Minhee.”

Sunghoon’s face shrivels, “Sweets, I know we’re compared a lot but I didn’t think he’d be my competition with you too?” Sunghoon’s voice is playful but he is worried about the next words out your lips.

Stretching over the table you slap his chest, “Ew, no that’s disgusting! Don’t even think like that!” You’re appalled at even the inclination, “It’s just that, you’re Park Sunghoon, you said it yourself he’s your competition,” He goes to say something and you stop him, “in SKATING. You’re so disgusting.” Laughter fills your booth, food and drinks forgotten, “If I ever kissed you he would freak the fuck out.”

The boy across from you knows exactly what you’re talking about, more than know, “If Minhee wasn’t a factor, would you have kissed me back?”

“Yes.”

Responding before your brain has a chance to filter the words is also a downside to your overthinking mind. So many thoughts in one brain make it easier for slips like this to happen, but you aren’t too concerned about this one, he probably already knew you would have kissed him back there if you weren’t preoccupied with contemplation.

Just as you think you’ll get to speak about what transpired earlier, the waitress comes over to take your plates away, “All done?”

Sunghoon nods and goes to pull out his wallet to pay but as he pats himself down to find it, he remembers it’s in his coat - the coat you’re still wearing “Uh, Sweets?” He points to his coat trying to tell you it’s in there.

Smirking you search the inner pockets to find a Prada wallet. You could have some fun with this.

“That’s okay, Hoonie, I’ve got it.” You pull out a few £20 notes and hand them to the waitress, “It’s my treat tonight, didn’t I tell you that? Only the best for my hard-working man.” Making kissy faces at him, his face goes red and his lips go in a thin line. 

It wasn’t the fact you just paid £80 for a £12 meal with his money, although that will be addressed later on, it was the nickname and calling him your man that has him trying to control himself. The sweet albeit lightheartedly jeering way of your words made his heart tight in the best possible way. If there was a button board on Sunghoon’s chest, filled with all his emotions like annoyance, lust, happiness, solace, and aggravation, you had pushed every one of them tonight.  

Laughing you put the wallet back into his coat. He looks so cute when he goes red like that, it almost makes you want to treat him like an actual princess or stuff him in your pocket. Either way, you wanted to look after him in some form or other.

“Are you quite done now?” Sunghoon gains back his composure as he watches you chuckling away to yourself.

Suddenly, nothing was funny anymore when your phone goes off, flashing your brother's name on the screen. 

You have to go home and Sunghoon knows it too, “Y/N, I would keep you out all night if I could, but Minhee might send out a missing police report if I do.” 

Now that you’ve somewhat spoken the issue out loud, you think you’re being a bit over the top about it all but your body still has the overbearing weight placed on your shoulders. Facing your mum right now was the last thing you wanted but you know you can’t avoid her forever. 

“I’ll text him. He thinks I’m at Rina’s place telling her and Allen the news.” Quickly standing up you type a generic reply back, telling him you’ll be home soon.

Sunghoon keeps two steps behind you while you walk out of the cafe, his arm hovering by your side to guide you as you text and walk at the same time, he waves goodbye to the waitress and she wafts the cash in her face, fanning herself with his hard-earned money. All he can do is laugh and show his disbelief at her flaunting through his expression. 

“There. Sent.” You put the phone into Sunghoon’s coat pocket. You’re almost at his car when you hear him speak up.

“Hey, Sweets?”

“Hmm?”

Sunghoon grabs your left arm, twirls you around, and presses his lips against yours.

The action knocks the air from your lungs and your eyes widen. Park Sunghoon was kissing you. His palms cup each of your cheeks, his lips moving against yours as he backs you up until your back hits the side of his car. This is what you wanted back at the rink, to have the feeling of his mouth moulding to yours, except it was better than expected, it felt like heaven.

He can't seem to get enough of you as he fervently kisses your mouth, his tongue sliding along your lips, eliciting a soft moan from you that's music to his ears. It was a daring move to kiss you so suddenly, and in an ideal world, he would have asked for permission first. But he knows that might have sparked another bout of overthinking from you, and he couldn't risk losing this second chance to kiss you tonight.

Sliding his hands into your hair, he gently pulls your head back, granting him better access to your open mouth, deepening the kiss. Lost in the sensation of your lips, he doesn't even notice the subtle movement of your fingers dancing along his waist until they settle between his lower back and the top of his ass.

At this moment, nothing could stop you from kissing or touching him.

Except, perhaps, one person.

Your phone vibrates, indicating an incoming call, but you're too entranced by Sunghoon's lips and tongue to notice. Pressing his body against yours, he traps you between him and the car, the sensation of his hips against yours causing you to instinctively grind against him, using your hands to pull him closer.

However, in the intimate closeness, he can feel your phone vibrating against your body. As much as he wants to ignore it, he knows you can't. "Sweets, your phone," he murmurs between kisses, his hands dropping from your hair to reach into your pocket, even as your lips continue to chase after his. "It's Minhee; you better take it."

No way has he cock blocked you twice in one night.

Grumbling, you take the phone from Sunghoon and answer, “Hi Minhee…No, I wasn’t ignoring you, I was putting on my shoes…no no, you don’t need to pi-”

You pause mid-sentence when Sunghoon starts kissing your neck and squeezing your waist. What does he think he's doing? Glancing down, you catch his eyes sneakily looking up at you. Attempting to push him away only results in him biting down, his fangs teasing the verge of breaking skin. In any other situation, you might have found it hot, but with Minhee yapping in your ear, you don't have time to appreciate it.

“Look, I’m on my way home…I’ll walk, it's not that far…seriously, Minhee- Oh,” you moan involuntarily when Sunghoon kisses your sweet spot, and once he's found it, he doesn’t stop licking and nibbling, “Hoonie, stop it!” You remove the phone from your ear and whisper-shout at him.

“I love it when you call me that,” he smirks, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

Hearing Minhee’s voice come through the phone again, you lift it back up to your ear, “What? Oh, I stubbed my toe, look I’ll be home soon alright…Yes, Allen is here…you know he and Rina are together. I’m going to go, see you soon.” Hanging up, you sigh in exasperation.

Giving Sunghoon a few light whacks, you demand, “Why did you do that?” You're almost certain Minhee heard him, or at least now he might think you're hooking up with Allen.

Bringing his face back up to yours, Sunghoon just shrugs and kisses you again with as much fervour as before. His lips are addicting, and you don’t want to stop, but Rina lives 20 minutes from your house if you walk, and this cafe is at least a 30-minute drive. “Sunghoon, I need to go back,” you say between his insistent kisses.

“How long do I have?” He needs to know how long he can indulge in this before having to let you go.

“Not even a second. I’ll already be late even if we leave now.” When his forehead falls on yours you see the pain on his face, like you’re depriving him of a basic human need.

"Don't say that, tell your friend to phone and say you're staying with her tonight." Sunghoon can't stop his lips from capturing yours again. It's as if he's had a taste of you and doesn't want to give it up, especially now. His hand teases the waist of your trousers, tempting to dip in and touch you where you desperately need him.

Personally, you would love nothing more than to call Rina up and get her to lie, she would do it in a heartbeat but Minhee would never believe it, “I can’t. I never stay over when he has practice in the morning. Mum never wants to make a stop off to pick me up.”

“You’re killing me here.” He states breathlessly, his fingertips dancing down to your pussy as he ghosts your neck with his breath. He’s waiting on you to give him the green light but you are far too concerned about getting home.

He suddenly hates your mum a little more than before. If it wasn’t her dismissing your accomplishments, it was her inability to put you on her priority list, “Can’t you just skip his practice? He’ll have more, trust me he needs it.”

“Don’t ruin this.” You warn him from speaking any more about your brother. It does bring you back to reality just who you were kissing, but you can’t focus on that right now, your only concern is getting home.

Sunghoon apologises by kissing you again, this time more gently, like it came naturally to him, “I need to go home. No excuses.”

It isn't what he wants to hear, but he has to accept it. Stepping away from you, his gaze remains fixed on your lips, which are lush and swollen; he can only picture what they would look like if he had more time to toss you in the back seat. His mind immediately returns to you with the lever, and to be honest, he could throw a tantrum right now over the situation at hand. It was unjust that he couldn't just have you, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever get the chance again.

Moving to his side of the car he slides in and you follow suit. He uses the excuse of buckling your seatbelt for you to give you another kiss and it has you internally giggling and kicking your feet.

You do the same to him, grabbing the seatbelt from him and clipping him in, leaning over to press your lips against his soft ones. 

“All I need is 5 minutes,” He whispers against your lips and you laugh, swatting his chest. 

You can’t say you don’t ponder it, and when you see his hard on poking so slightly against his trousers, you look at the time and really wonder if you could, but you can’t risk Minhee even getting a whiff of this, “Next time.” 

Sunghoon's eyes change from desire to hope in real time, "There'll be a next time?" His cool and confident demeanour fades and is replaced with puppy-like grin as he realises you want more than what you had tonight.

“If you get me home in the next 25 minutes there can be.” You pose and with that, Sunghoon drives out of the car park and down the highway going 10 above the limit.

Reaching closer to your house you put a hand on his thigh as you speak, “Better to drop me off here, so Mini doesn’t see you.” You also have to fake that you walked home from Rina’s so if a big fancy car starts pulling up outside your house, he’s going to know something is up.

Sunghoon takes your hand on his thigh and brings it to his lips, maintaining eye contact with the road as he stops at the curb of your neighbour's house 2 doors down. His grip tightens on your hand as he looks at the time, “Got you here in 27 minutes, Sweets.” Proud of himself he adorns a smile that splits his face in half.

Tutting you pout at him, “I guess there can’t be a next time, so sorry Hoonie.” His stunned face was worth holding in your laugh to act like you’re serious, “If only you had gotten here 2 minutes quicker.”

“Come on,” He exasperated, “There were like 10 red lights in a row.” His thumb points back to where you just drove from.

It’s true, it was bad luck, but you liked playing with him like this. 

“Sorry, see you at the rink yeah?” You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to get out your side of the car, but Sunghoon isn’t letting it end here.

He stretches over to shut the door back over making you gasp, startled by the sudden move, “You don’t want to be a thief do you?” You think he’s going to hit out with something cheesy like how you stole his heart of something, but when his hand grips the coat you’re wearing you understand what he means, “Bad enough you gave my money away but now you’re trying to steal a £500 coat?” 

Perplexed by both the price and the unexpected accusation, your mouth hangs open. No wonder the coat is so cosy and warm—it costs most of your month's paycheck. Exiting the car, you impishly mutter a 'fine' as you remove the jacket, placing it on the passenger seat before walking away, feeling considerably colder than before.

Just as you reach the vicinity of your house, Sunghoon calls out, "Sweets?" You spin around to see him jogging up behind you, holding your phone. Ah, you put it in his coat pocket after Minhee's call. Taking it from his grip, you thank him, only to be surprised again when he says, "You also forgot this." What else did you even have on your person to forget?

Sunghoon's mouth quickly meets yours for the nth time tonight. A kiss. You forgot to kiss him.

Sighing, you realize you have to put an end to it. Lingering out in the open so close to your home practically guarantees Minhee will see. "Hoonie."

"Shh," he hushes you, continuing the kiss, "I know, but let me have it since there won't be a next time." A fake sad look takes over his face, his hands running up and down your sides.

"Ugh fine, since you gave me my phone I suppose I could spare you some time."  Crossing your arms, you act irritated, while his 'sadness' transforms into a self-satisfied smile. That was the dynamic between you both, always giving what you got, and you wanted to explore it more, no matter how difficult it was.

“See you at the rink then, Sweets.” Messing up your hair he skips back to his car like a kid on Christmas. He was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. 

Spending these past few hours with Sunghoon was like nothing you had ever experienced before. He knew how to wash all of your worries and woes away better than some people you’ve known for years. And when he kissed you it sent shooting stars through your body. If only 8-year-old you could see what had just happened, she would burst with excitement.

With a smile on your face, you rapidly run into your house and up the stairs, trying to be quiet but also too lost in the dizziness from Sunghoon’s kisses. As you reach the top of the stairs, Minhee opens his door and gives you a quizzical look. Oh no, he didn’t see, did he?

“Why do you look like you won the lottery?” Phew, he hadn’t.

“Just, excited about getting the award, that’s all.” It wasn’t totally a lie, he would see right through you if you started to babble out any other excuse so you had to stick to something believable. You are happy about the award, there isn’t a doubt about it, but Sunghoon reassuring you throughout the night made you stop and acknowledge how happy you really were to receive it. Your mum was the one that ruined it for you.

Minhee follows you when you walk into your room, “Y/N? You know I would be there if I could right?” Facing him, you see how sorry he looks about the situation, “I tried to phone the company to move the filming but they can’t.” Of course, he would try to move it for you, that was the kind of brother he was. 

A surge of guilt overcomes your body. Here he was trying to move his schedule around, a big important schedule might you add, and you were out there kissing the one boy you shouldn’t be. If Sunghoon wasn’t such a threat to Minhee, you think they could go back to being somewhat friends, but that’s never going to happen.

“It’s okay, Mini. I know you can’t just cancel it.” Your voice is reassuring but his features still hold hurt.

“It’s not okay, Y/N. You’re the most important thing to me in this world, I want to be there for your big moments like you’ve been there for mine.” You could cry. Minhee wasn’t the type to show his emotions so being on the receiving end of such words makes you tear up a little, “Hey, Bubs, don’t cry.”

He hasn’t called you Bubs in so long, the childhood nickname growing out as you both got older. There was a bond between you and your brother, other siblings used to say how envious they were.

“I don’t want to speak ill of our mum but she was a bitch tonight. I should have said something.”

Shaking your head, you wipe your tears and look down before speaking, “Mini, it wouldn’t have helped.” Your voice cracks and your throat closes a little, “She’s always like that anyway.”

“It doesn’t make it right.” He says disapprovingly. 

Minhee pulls you into a tight hug and you instantly relax. Your brain starts to overthink everything again. The lack of proudness from your mother, the kisses from Sunghoon, and the brotherly affection you’re currently receiving. Could you have it all? Getting to know Sunghoon tonight, you don’t think you can leave it where you did. There was something there between you both, you fit together like skates to ice.

“I am so proud of you, Bubs.” Minhee strokes the back of your head, “and I might not be able to go to your ceremony, but when I beat that prick and come first at Nationals? I’m dedicating that to you. I promise you that.”

That prick…Park Sunghoon.

You couldn’t have it all.

taglist: @heelee-01 @zerasari @beomgyusonlywife @iwaplant @monstanctiny21 @chiiiiiiiiis @minniejenseo @run2gyuz @jngwnlvs @haelahoops @capri-cuntz @nctislifue @jaehoonii @weyukinluv @skzenhalove @enhypenlovre @cherriruto @ariadores @chwesuh-imnida

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition. 

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later. 

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games. 

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears. 

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by. 

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister,  arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…”  You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests. 

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”  

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens. 

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden.  “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air. 

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’. 

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

“That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.” 

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud. 

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own. 

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned. 

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms….  Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?” 

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing. 

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow. 

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss. 

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase. 

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece. 

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...” 

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.” 

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?” 

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[sweetpascal]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 — 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

gif by: @pedropcl

pairing: perv!stepdad!joel x fem!reader

summary: your thoughts are now consumed by joel. you cannot function properly without him nearby.

warnings: MINORS DNI. BIG AGE GAP [18/52], dumbification, toxic attachments, joel is SO fucking manipulative, aftercare (very late), cuddle fingeriinnggg, slow making out, finger sucking, pussy pronouns, joel "just the tip" miller, bare pussy grinding, spit as lube cause he's a nasty man, joel is also a scary man

wc: 6.7k

notes: my depraved baddies, we're getting closer and closer to the enddddd. also, virginity is a social construct. i understand that someone can still "lose their virginity" from fingering, BUT THIS IS FICTION. IGNORE IT. AND ENJOY IT. PLEASE. 🥺🥺🥺

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

There has never been a time in your life when you felt truly alone. You always had your close group of friends, with whom you spent time nearly every other day, having a great time. You also had social media to keep you busy during times of boredom. Regretting not making the most of those two makes you feel foolish. That's all you'll ever be; a foolish little girl. Joel was right. You're nothing without him. You need him. You need his guidance to navigate the harsh realities of the world. Losing your only two means of escape is forcing you to face revelations you're not ready for. You're not prepared for adulthood, not just yet. At this moment, you feel utterly alone.

Minutes pass as you shuffle on your feet behind Joel, gazing at the back of his head while he sits at the kitchen table. He was considerate enough to leave your door unlocked, granting you the liberty to wander around the house, yet ensuring the front and back doors remained closed and locked. "Can't trust you going out alone anymore," he had said to you earlier today. His reasoning was fair. You had acted recklessly, and now you're facing the consequences. You don't hold Joel responsible. You never did blame him for his decisions. If only you had heeded his advice from the beginning. Be a good girl.

"Uh, Daddy?" You softly call out to him, your voice meek and quiet like a little mouse. Joel barely turns his head, motioning with his finger for you to come closer. With shaky steps, you stand between his spread legs.

Joel's gaze lifts to meet yours, his hair disheveled from constantly running his fingers through it. A sense of satisfaction swells in his chest as he notices your nervousness around him. You struggle to maintain eye contact and can't help but flinch whenever his hand moves abruptly.

"You should be getting down on your knees when you address Daddy, babydoll. It's the only polite thing to do, don't you think?" He tuts at you softly, raising his brows expectantly. He just realized that he hasn't provided his girl with a list of rules to follow. Considering your innocent and unaware nature, he thinks that assigning such a significant task might be too overwhelming for you to handle all at once.

With wide eyes, you scramble to your knees in front of him, your hands placed on the ground between your knees. The positioning accidentally causes the straps of your dress to slide down your shoulders, just barely exposing your chest to Joel's predatory eyes.

"Attagirl," he murmurs, the backs of his knuckles lovingly stroking your jaw, his thumb just barely pressing into one of the finger shaped bruises. "Now, what did you want to ask me, sweetheart?"

The intensity of Joel's gaze makes the question die on your lips. His fingers continue to stroke your jaw gently, their warmth coaxing you into a state of calm. The anxieties that once troubled you are fading away, leaving only the desire to please him, to heed his words, to fulfill his wishes. Joel. Joel. Joel.

He can see your eyes go unfocused the more he keeps his hand connected to your bruised skin. A sick smirk plays on his lips. Seeing you immediately submit to him so easily excites him. To have you down on your knees before him, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted. There's a part of him that wonders why he loves this, this power he holds. Joel is a depraved man, one that feeds into that sick monster hidden beneath him. He never acted this way with your mom. He never even spanks her, let alone gets her to submit in such a way that makes him feel like a god.

The second your body started developing into the womanly figure you have now is what had caught his attention early on. Maybe it's because you looked so much like her in her teenage years, or because you're just so fucking innocent and pure. Either way, his attraction for your mom had long since faded away, and you were the next best thing he wanted to take and destroy.

"Sweetheart," he calls out, gently shaking your shoulder to recapture your attention. "Is there something you want to tell me?" His voice, coupled with the gesture, brings you back to the moment.

With a frantic blink, you refocus your eyes on Joel. He nods, signaling for you to speak, the slight twitch in his jaw betraying his growing impatience. As you shuffle on your knees, your backside presses into the heel of your feet. You attempt to conceal your grimace, yet the intense pain swiftly radiates. Tears gather in your eyes as the burning sensation and fuzziness become overpowering.

Sniffling softly, you say, "I-I was just w-wondering if... if you can, um, make my behind feel a little better?" The question was shy, and you didn't even want to look at him, for you think he's going to reject you.

Joel's grin broadens at the sight of the soft, dejected expression on your face, and as your shoulders slump and your head hangs low, you brace for his scolding for having asked him to do such a task. You deserve to feel the pain of last night's punishment. You don't deserve Joel's gentle hands massaging the sore spots, kissing and whispering sweet praises in your ears. You weren't a good girl, and you don't blame him for not treating you as such.

His voice was so sweet and cooing. "Yeah? You want Daddy to make the pain go away?" His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, your little pink tip just barely poking out to rub across the pad.

The saltiness of his skin has your mouth salivating. You suck his thumb further between your lip, jerking your head to a weak nod as you hum affirmatively. Joel hums as well, only deep in thought as he weighs his options. He could keep on with his heinous punishments, forcing you to plead for him to stop--it's such a dangerous game to play. Alternatively, he might be kind today and pamper you, lavishing you with affection that you feel you don't deserve, which could further endear him to your impressionable mind. As he looks into your eyes and sees the way you're gazing up at him, his thumb firmly tucked between those lips and your silky little tongue swirling around the tip, he chooses the latter.

"Get your butt upstairs and lie on your tummy while Daddy grabs a few things, okay, babydoll?"

The soft breeze of your ceiling fan emitted a chill throughout your body, albeit a pleasant one. Goosebumps erupted on your skin, almost soothing the heat radiating from your bruised backside. Lying on your stomach, you wait patiently, straining your ears for any sign of Joel, but silence is all that meets you. The anticipation of his arrival has you swallowing hard against your pillow. It's as if he's moving quietly and slowly on purpose, prolonging the moment to heighten your sense of anticipation.

This was how he played his sick games. He was the cat, and you were the mouse. He loves being the predator and you, his prey. And for some obscene reason, you love it too.

A small creak at the doorway made you tense for a moment, but you relaxed upon seeing Joel standing there, his large frame filling the doorway. In his hands were two things: a white cloth rag of some kind and a bottle of lotion. You shiver delightfully, knowing that in just a few minutes he was going to be taking care of you in the way you needed.

"Ain't you a peach," he grins and steps inside, using his foot to fully shut the door, officially trapping the both of you inside. Joel's grin widens when he sees just how marked your backside is, the welts swollen and skin broken, large bruises that are all types of hues of blue and purple. "Hmm... Now, that's what I like to see."

You don't respond, opting to stay silent as you curiously observe him from over your shoulder. He pats your hip with the back of his hand, wordlessly telling you to scoot over. Once you do so, Joel unbuttons his shirt, completely removing the offending clothing from his body and tossing it aside. His chest and stomach were now fully exposed.

In the light, with a clear mind, you finally have the chance to take in every inch of Joel. His skin was so tan, it almost blended between caramel and bronze. Dots of hair speckled his chest, a mix of dark brown and gray. Then, there's hair around his belly button before it trails down to disappear under the waistband of his jeans, the hair getting darker and thicker. His skin is a canvas of freckles and old scars, each one a silent story that tempts your curiosity. Questions about their origins linger on the tip of your tongue, yet they remain unasked, perhaps to be explored if alone time with him arises once more.

"Your head is in the clouds again, babydoll," Joel teases, his voice holding a light-heartedness to it, immediately easing your nerves. At the sound of your quiet giggle that you muffle in your pillow, he gets comfortable between your thighs, gently coaxing them to spread wider to accommodate his large size. "There we go," he whispers under his breath.

The hot rag in his hand is gently laid over your backside, the fabric big enough to cover both cheeks. The sudden feeling made you flinch and whine unpleasantly, one foot gently kicking to try to distract you from the pain. Joel hushes you softly, one of his hands sweetly rubbing up and down the back of your thighs.

"Just relax, babydoll," his voice was so soft and comforting. "Let Daddy take care of your pretty self." He applies light pressure to the hot rag, further soothing the sensitive, enflamed skin. Another whisper comes from above, a little less pained and a lot more relieved. "That feel good, baby?"

You let out a drowsy hum as you succumb to the sensation. There was a liquid heat pooling all around your lower half as the pain from your backside gradually melts into a dull ache. Joel glances down between your thighs, your pussy lips spreading open, labia and clit on display for him to see. There's a shine covering your untouched hole. The pearly slick, slowly, slowly, slowly sliding out of your hole and trailing down to cover your clit. There's a small flutter as your pussy clenches, just briefly. An ache in Joel's jaw and his mouth salivating reminds him that now is not the time to act on his impulse. As much as he wants to bury his face between those thighs, he knows he has to make sure that you're going to be working properly before he has his fun again.

When the rag gets cold, he removes it from your backside. The cold air bites into your skin, the sudden shock taking you by surprise. The sensation of pin pricks across your exposed skin causes you to squirm. Joel is aware that it's painful once more. Your soft whimpers of discomfort prompt a quiet chuckle from him.

He grabs the bottle of lotions and squirts a generous amount into the palm of his hand. "Just a second, babydoll," he tells you softly, coaxing you to lay flat on your tummy again. You wait for a few seconds, and then you feel it.

There's a gooey warmth that covers both of your cheeks. It makes your eyes flutter shut. Then, Joel's hands start to massage your tender flesh, gently rubbing and smoothing out the aches. The pressure was so good, and the weight of his hands on your ass allowed your brain to slowly turn into mush.

He continues massaging your cheeks, even going as far as to "accidentally" swipe his thumb against your puckered hole. The action caused you to jolt and gasp, the sound of his laughter making your cheeks warm. When the ache was now dulled into a pleasant numbness, you stretched out your limbs like a little kitty in the sunlight, a soft hum vibrating into the pillow. You look over your shoulder and watch as Joel wipes his hands clean with the damp rag he had used. Seeing his bare chest has you biting down on your bottom lip.

"Uh... Daddy?" There was hesitation in the way you spoke. The idea occurred to you the second Joel had removed his shirt. The sight of your stepdad in your bedroom, clad in just his jeans, touching you in such a way was exciting. Warmth pooled in your stomach, a certain liquid heat that was hard to ignore.

Joel gazes at you with expectation, his eyebrows lifted as he catches the hesitant expression on your face. It seems like you're eager to ask him something, yet you're apprehensive about his reaction. Before this ambiguous relationship began, you'd always rush over to him, words spilling out rapidly to pose questions without a second thought. He was charmed by it. Your eyes sparkled with innocent curiosity, hanging on his every word, which he thought was incredibly cute. However, given his recent behavior, you've become more cautious about your inquiries, wanting to ensure they're significant.

"Can... Can we kiss, like how we did last time?"

The surprise on his face made you giggle. He wasn't expecting you to ask for something like that, let alone think of the naughty stuff he's already done with you at the beginning of the week. Joel clears his throat and trails his eyes over your nude backside, zeroing in on your bare pussy, almost screaming for him to touch and lick up. When he looks back up at you from where you lay against the pillow, your bottom lip tucked underneath your top teeth and your messy hair, he finds himself nodding.

When he props himself up against your pillows, you immediately clamber onto his chest, one leg resting between his legs while your other is propped up and slung over his hip. With your head resting comfortably on his shoulder, Joel rests one arm behind your back, curling it to cup your jaw from behind. Your heart is facing as you get close to his face. Eyes half-lidded and lips parted, you're the one that makes the first move.

When your lips meet, it's like stars bursting behind your eyelids. So soft, so inviting. Joel's lips are as addictive as an expensive drug. You crave their touch every second, every minute, every day.

His tongue enters your mouth and you're quick to eagerly suck it between your lips. He groans huskily and pulls his tongue away before messily kissing you. The hand that rests on your hip slowly trails down and around the back of your thigh before the tips of his fingers rest along your labia. Then, he starts rubbing up and down, further spreading the wetness that leaks out of your empty pussy. He touches everywhere. Your swollen clit, puffy labia, bare pussy lips, and your fluttering hole are left untouched.

You're nibbling on his bottom lip, eagerly shoving your tongue sloppily into his tongue. Joel groans at the taste of your mixed saliva. To have you in his arms like this, naked and so very vulnerable, it was driving him fucking insane. Your hips are shifting and bucking towards his hand, but each time his fingers rub deeper, he pulls them away. When he also pulls his lips from yours, you chase them with a desperate whimper.

"Patience, babydoll," he mutters, glancing down at the pleasure-drunk expression on your face. "Let Daddy have some fun." Joel continues smearing your wetness all over. The messy sounds of your slick being rubbed with his long, thick fingers has you blushing fiercely with embarrassment--embarrassed at the fact that he's touching you like this, probably in the same way he's touched your mom in the past. It's so dirty and naughty.

Your hand gently pets at his scruffy jaw, lashes fluttering so prettily like a butterfly's wings. Lips parted, you slowly and gently kissed him again. This kiss, however, was a lot different than the others. There was a tenderness that Joel got lost in. It made his heart skip a beat, like actually skip a beat. You're so sure he can feel your heart racing as well. Languid kissing was now your favorite thing with him. The soft, wet smacking sounds of your lips connecting and disconnecting has you whimpering delicately.

Joel's fingers now focus on your fluttering pussy hole, slick dripping out non-stop, further adding to the stickiness on his finger pads. The hand holding your jaw from behind your head tightens to pull you away.

"I'm goin' to put a finger inside, okay, baby? Daddy's goin' to make that little pussy feel so good," he whispers needily against your wet lips. When you protest, he shushes you and kisses your lips repeatedly. "Be quiet while Daddy has his fun."

Very carefully, he pushes his middle finger inside your pussy, shushing you again when you let out a squeak and try to pull your hips away. Joel's fingers follow your movements, only deepening each time you try to move. He slowly fucks his fingers inside your pussy, the tight, wet heat making his dick thicken in his jeans. The sloppy sounds of your slick, coupled with your weak whimpers has him growling lowly. He retracts his finger and goes back to rubbing your pussy in up-and-down movements again, only this time he's paying more attention to your needy clit.

"Tha' feel good, honey?" He murmurs sweetly against your lips, kissing you once, twice, three times before glancing down at you. With a shaky nod, you tell him in that pretty voice yes, yes, feels s'good. "Mhm."

Your hips are barely grinding against his thick bulge as if they have a mind of their own. There's a neediness in the way you mouth at his neck, your tongue and teeth mapping every inch that you can reach. With your focus now on something else, Joel takes this opportunity to move his hand from your weeping cunt and bring it between your bodies to slyly unbutton and unzip his jeans. He slowly pulls them down, leaning his head back down to capture your lips in another syrupy slow kiss. His cock springs out of his jeans and rests above the waistband of his boxers.

You're not paying attention to what he's doing--so focused on his lips, his warm skin, his chest, his tongue, his scent, just Joel. Daddy. Daddy.

With your attention on his mouth, Joel blindly grips the base of his cock and brings the tip to your opening. He glides the engorged tip up and around your fluttering hole, tapping it lewdly and crudely against it as wet smacking sounds filling the air. Your eyes fly open, and your body seizes as you grab onto his burly forearm.

"Daddy, no! I'm not ready yet!" You practically cry out, eyes wide and frazzled as you frantically shake your head. You've seen the size of Joel. The man is packing. He's fucking massive. And you know you're not ready to take all of him. You can't imagine the pain of being split open by something so long and so thick.

Joel hushes you sweetly, removing his hand from his thick base to tenderly grab a hold of your hip again. "Jus' grind tha' pussy on Daddy for a little bit, baby. Ssshh... you can do tha' for me, right?" His hips start to slowly grind his dick between your pussy lips, your labia spreading open and your clit catching his frenulum. "You wanna be a good girl for me, right? You wanna be punished again, babydoll? Hm? That what you want?"

Feeble whimpers leave your swollen lips at the thought of Joel further punishing you, beating your backside black and blue again. Resting back onto his chest, you shyly wiggle your hips until the position is comfortable enough for you to grind your hips forward and back. Joel grins and cups the back of your thigh to lift it higher on his waist. The feeling of his cock, now covered in your wetness and gliding easily between your pussy lips, has you feeling so tingly and warm down there. It was a new sensation. Getting to feel the thick vein that stretches from the base all the way to his tip was surreal.

"It... It feels... good," you whisper against his scruffy jaw, lips parted next to his chin to let out heavy breaths as the warmth spreads. "I-I like it."

Joel's deep chuckle reached your ears. "Daddy knows best, babydoll," he tells you, his hips grinding a little harder, so his tip nudges the hood of your clit to fully expose the sensitive nerve. "Daddy knows what's good for you, honey." His hand tightens on your jaw, fingers squeezing your cheeks to part your lips. "You're jus' my little girl that don't know any better, ain't you? Hm? Are you my dumb babygirl?"

The kiss he gives you is filthy. Your hushed whines are muffled as his tongue fights against yours. The liquid heat burns bigger and stronger, spreading all throughout your lower half, down to the tips of your toes and back up again. Your cunt is fluttering wildly. You feel the same sensation as when Joel ate your pussy. He knows it's going to happen. He can tell in the way your whines get more high-pitched and your hips stutter against his wet cock.

When he pulls away, you chase after him again, one hand desperately grabbing the back of his neck to pull him back down. No, no, no, please, don't go, don't leave me. Eyes filled with tears, you weakly beg him, "Da-Daddy, p-please don't... d-don't stop."

As Joel pulls away, the panic clear as day in your eyes has his heart thudding faster. Oh, you poor girl. So desperate to keep him close by. It was an adorable sight, seeing your eyes filled with thick tears as you beg him, over and over again to please, don't leave me. But he hushes you softly, gripping your jaw tighter and pressing into the bruises. His free hand comes up to his lips where he spits a thick wad of saliva in his palm. His hand goes back down between your bodies to coat his cock in his spit, some of it dripping down his heavy balls.

"Can I put the tip inside your little pussy, baby?" Joel breathlessly asks against your swollen lips, pressing a tender kiss before repeating the question again. "Can Daddy put the tip inside? Hm?"

He grinds his cock up and down your pussy again, the added slickness of his spit creating this disgusting, sopping noise. You start protesting as he notches his thick tip at your wet entrance. Grabbing at his forearm once again, you try your best to keep him from pushing it inside.

Shaking your head frantically, you tell him again, weakly, "I-I'm not ready yet, Daddy!"

Joel shuts you up by biting down roughly on your bottom lip, breaking the skin and licking away the blood that dots the pink flesh. With your blood on his tongue, that only fuels the animalistic need within him to fucking split you open.

"It's just the tip, babydoll," he tells you again, his voice deep, gravelly, wrecked. "You can take it, honey. C'mon. You can... take it." Ignoring your crying protests, he slowly pushed his hips up to slide his tip inside your pussy for the first time. He groans heavily against your mouth, sucking your bloody bottom lip between his own and licking the redness away. "Fuuuuuck."

The burn was nearly excruciating. Having something so thick and wide inside your virgin pussy has your breath catching in your throat. To know that Joel wants to put every single inch of himself deep inside is terrifying. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. No, no, no.

"See? It ain't so bad, huh?" Joel's grin is sick and wide as he feels your hole fluttering wildly around his tip. He gently starts to push his hips in and out, slowly fucking his tip into your cunt. "She's jus' suckin' me right in, ain't she? Fuuuck, baby. She's jus' drivin' me fuckin' crazy." His accent was getting gradually thicker and almost incoherent. His heart is racing over a hundred beats per minute under your shaky palm.

You're trying to breathe in and out deeply to not focus on the uncomfortable pain. The stretch was slowly setting to a numbness. The tip of Joel's cock keeps pressing against a spot beneath your pubic bone, giving you the feeling of tingles but more intense. Joel's smile gets much wider when your body relaxes against his chest, your nose pressing into his neck beneath his ear to let out hushed moans that you're trying so hard to keep silent.

"There we go," he hums deeply. "She jus' needed time to get used to Daddy's dick, hm?" The way he's talking to you and referencing your pussy has you melting into a puddle. It's all so intense and overwhelming--you never want it to end. "Jus' you wait 'til Daddy gets so deep inside of her." He accentuated the word by nudging just an inch deeper inside your pussy, forcing a choked groan from your drooling lips.

Joel's hand is still curled around the base, just below his tip. He can feel the coil tightening in the pit of his stomach as his balls draw tighter. He's panting heavily against your forehead, the slick noises just adding to the liquid heat spreading along his large body. Fuck, he was going to cum just like this, his tip lodged inside his stepdaughter's tight, virgin cunt. A sick, old man he is--defiling his wife's daughter and enjoying the depravity. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Fuck," Joel growls, his nostrils flaring, jaw clenching, and teeth baring as he grips his base tightly and yanks his hips away. He slots his cock between your ass cheeks and strokes his hand up and down hastily, your bruised cheeks jiggling from his fist meeting the flesh repeatedly. The sight has his toes curling. The drowsy whimper you release in his ear and the fucking scent of your pussy that he can smell all the way up from where he lay has his cock throbbing. "Daddy's cummin', babydoll. Oh, f-fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuck."

His cum shoots out from between your ass cheeks, thick ropes of white painting your bruises and cute little back dimples, even going so far to reach up your spine and almost landing in your hair. He just won't stop cumming. It's going and going. Joel's entire body is trembling as he jerks the tip, forcing out the last few dribbles of his cum onto your puckered hole.

You felt his spend splattering across your skin, and you wiggle impatiently in his hold, wishing you could've seen it with your own eyes if you weren't so tucked against his neck. Joel lets out a heavy, shaky breath. His beautifully hooked nose brushes against yours, coaxing you to lift your head.

He brings his cum-covered fingers to your lips, the tips rubbing lovingly across the bottom. Maintaining eye contact, you part them and let Joel slowly push his fingers into your mouth. The taste of his cum on your tongue was unlike anything you've ever tasted. It was a masculine, heavy taste, which perfectly accentuates who Joel Miller is. Your eyes flutter shut as you eagerly bring in a third finger, your lips stretched wide around his thick fingers.

"Attagirl," Joel huskily mumbles. "Jus' like that."

You and Joel have fallen into a steady routine. There's an unspoken agreement of where your place is. He can shoot you a specific look and you immediately know what he's trying to say. Joel's an easy man to read, at least to you. There have been many instances where you overheard him and your mom arguing about him being so closed off. But with you, he's so natural at showing you multiple sides of him. You don't mind, really.

As evening falls, Joel is at the stove preparing dinner for both of you. Although it's not your preferred meal, his word is final--what he says, goes. You've learned not to refuse what he's offered so far. Standing near him, you observe his actions with keen interest. Joel often glances back to ensure you're there. You trail behind him, following his every step without question, much like a lost puppy would. Even when he steps into the bathroom, you find yourself waiting right outside the door for him to emerge. It was a weird feeling; a fear you never knew you had within you when it came to your stepdad. You feel as though if he leaves for just a split second, he's never going to come back. And you'll be here lost, alone.

"Dinner time, sweetheart," Joel declares, snapping you out of your daydream. As you dash to the table, he halts you with a hand on your arm. "Whoa, slow down there, speed racer." Chagrined by his gentle chiding, you offer a subdued apology.

As Joel takes a seat at the table, you attempt to follow suit, but he loudly tuts and extends a hand to halt you. Grasping your plate, he sets it down beside his feet. His expression leaves no space for objections. Similar to the previous day, you are left without utensils to eat with. Wordlessly, you get down onto your knees and wait for him to tell you when it's okay to start eating. Joel starts eating his meal pathetically slowly. He's doing it on purpose--you know he's doing it on purpose. He loves making you squirm. He loves to draw it out longer than it's supposed to--just an added perk to his game.

When your stomach starts grumbling loudly, you look up at him with wide, pleading eyes. Joel barely casts you a glance. He keeps eating his meal, even going as far as to hum loudly as the savoring flavors explode on his tongue. When he has just a few bites left, knowing that your food is now cold, he looks down and gives you a single nod.

Immediately, you bow your head to your plate and begin to hastily mop up your meal. It's untidy and careless, yet it doesn't bother you. You're uncertain when Joel might surprise you again, preventing or restricting your eating. As you take each bite, you watch for a sign from him to cease. Looking up, you notice his focus is solely on his own meal, methodically chewing. Sensing your gaze, he commands without glancing your way, "Eat your damn food before I take it away." With a strained whimper, you comply.

Silence stretches through the air as you both eat. You refrain from mentioning to Joel that your stomach is cramping from eating too quickly, not wanting to seem ungrateful for the meal he prepared with care. When he looks at you, he notices the gradual slowing of your jaw as you struggle to swallow. It's becoming apparent to him that feeding you just once a day is taking its toll.

Suddenly, a series of knocks sounded at the door—five urgent, frantic raps. Panic gripped you, shoulders tightening and jaw clenching as you exchanged a fearful glance with Joel. His brows knitted together, and he quickly wiped his hands and mouth with the napkin.

He points down at you, "You stay right here, and don't make a peep. Understood?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before forcefully pushing back his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the wooden floor. You wince and watch anxiously as he stomps over to the door and peers through the peephole.

Joel's jaw clenches upon recognizing the visitor. Muttering, "Son of a bitch," he pulls the door open, one hand gripping the doorknob while the other rests atop the doorframe. There on the porch stands your lanky guy friend, the one you visited the lake with. "Can I help you?" he asks, his tone sharp and unwelcoming.

Your friend shifts nervously, taken aback by Joel answering the door. He softly clears his throat, attempting to peer over Joel's shoulder, but Joel moves nearer to the doorway, narrowing the gap on his side.

"I was wondering if your stepdaughter is home?" he stammers, avoiding eye contact with Joel. "She hasn't been answering her phone, and our friends are really worried," he adds, while Joel feels a sense of satisfaction from the fear he perceives in the boy's demeanor.

"She's grounded," Joel says, his tone getting colder when the boy tries, yet again, to look over his shoulder. "Now, I suggest you turn your ass around and get the fuck off my porch."

Your friend's eyes widen, and he takes a staggered step back at Joel's violently dark tone. "The fuck is your problem, man?!"

From within the house, the volume of your friend's voice escalates, almost to a shout at Joel. You observe Joel's hand clench around the doorknob, and it's surprising that it remains intact under his grasp.

He can't understand what overtakes him; perhaps it's knowing you're mere feet away, or maybe it's because the kid has witnessed things about you he disapproves of. However, the only thing Joel is aware of is the white-hot rage engulfing him. You watch as he storms out and slams the door with such force that the vibration is felt on the ground where you kneel.

Outside, Joel's hands clench the collar of the boy's shirt, likely tearing the fabric with his sheer strength. He thrusts him against the porch post, almost splintering the wood and the boy's skull with the impact. Joel leans in, his shoulders rising and falling, emitting a low growl from his throat. The boy's whimpers are muffled as Joel's knuckles press into his windpipe.

"Listen to me, and you listen good," Joel leans in close, his voice low and dangerous. "If you so much as talk to her again, look at her, touch her, or even think about her, I'll have you wishin' you were never born." Your friend's toes are barely skimming the ground as Joel has him literally lifted up against the wooden post. His hands are frantically grabbing Joel's forearms, feet weakly kicking. The man doesn't budge--he only presses harder. "If you come back to my house to bother my girl one more time, I will fuckin' kill you." He gravely whispers the last threat and releases his hands, watching as your friend pathetically falls to the ground onto his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air as he grabs his throat. "Now, go on. Get."

Joel remains on the porch, his fists clenched at his sides, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. His gaze is fixed on your friend as he dashes away and fumbles into his meager Honda Civic. Even after the vehicle disappears down the road, Joel is motionless. The fury within him, burning in his chest and gut, has not subsided; it has only grown stronger.

Within the house, silence prevails. A single loud thump disrupts the quiet, followed by stillness. You pause for a moment, the sound of your own heartbeat the only noise. The urge to call out to Joel is strong, but the words are stuck in your throat. Anxiety creeps back into your chest, gnawing at your heart and corroding your veins. Did Joel leave? Where is he? Where did he go? Please, come back. Daddy, don't leave. Where are you? Please, please, come back. Don't leave me here alone. They're going to get me. Please. Oh, God. He's gone. He's never coming back.

White noise fills the cracks in Joel's mind. He sits on the porch swing hunched over, both elbows resting on his knees as he twiddles with his gold wedding band. His knee bounces up and down in quick succession. Someone had gotten too close to his home--to his special girl. The lanky fucking kid. Joel's hands clench into tight fists, just begging to slam them into your friend's face over and over until he's a mangled, unrecognizable pile of flesh and broken bones.

He's uncertain of the time he's spent out here; it might have been minutes or perhaps an hour. Time mattered little to him. His thoughts were consumed by you, his little girl. In his eyes, no one could match what he has provided for you, and he believes you would agree. Joel is confident in his knowledge, convinced that you belong to him. He sees himself as your destined protector, even if his hands were metaphorically elongated like a beast with monstrous nails ready to strike.

You belonged to Joel Miller, whether you knew it or not.

As the streetlights flicker on, he realizes it's time to head back inside. The neighborhood is winding down for the evening. A sudden memory jolts Joel; he had left you alone in the house. Leaping from his seat, he flings the door open, then slams it shut, securing both the bottom and top locks. Turning towards the kitchen, he freezes upon spotting you—a mere few feet away, curled up in a fetal position on the floor, whimpering and trembling.

"Babydoll," Joel tuts and carefully walks around you to bend down, tenderly pushing your hair from your face and catching sight of your tear-filled eyes. "Did I tell you to move? Hm?"

The sound of his voice was like a lifeline to your heart—his words were the breath you needed, and you felt as if you were at death's door. In a rush, you stood and threw your arms around his shoulders, almost toppling both of you to the ground. Tears streamed down your face, and sobs of distress were just barely restrained the moment his body pressed against yours.

Crying out to him, "Y-You left me! You l-left me a-alone! I thought... I thought you weren't coming back! The bad people were gonna t-take me away from you!" Trying to bury yourself deeper in his neck, you silently begged for Joel to take you somewhere, far away from here.

It was naive to believe you could manage alone. At your current age, it's only a matter of time before your mom discusses the prospect of moving out. Yet now, the mere idea of being apart from Joel triggers a wave of panic. How can you explain to your mom that without him, you feel incomplete? She might find it appalling. It wasn't difficult to keep your relationship with Joel a secret, but the threat of being pushed out of the house makes you wonder if it's worth it.

"I-I don't think I can do this anymore, Joel," you wept, sniffling and breathing heavily in his shoulder, fingers desperately grabbing at the fabric of his t-shirt to keep him close when he shifts an inch or two away. "I can't... I can't be away from you. I can't th-think, I can't function, I can't breathe w-without you, Daddy!"

There it was, the answer he's been waiting for. Hook, line, sinker. Joel has damaged you so severely to where you need to be around him or else you'll go crazy. This is what he was waiting for, fucking aching for. So young, so innocent, so pure. Now tainted by his predatory hands, bruised and marked by his false promises and sick fantasies. This is a dream come true. His wedding band almost burns through your skin as you feel the cold metal on your bare shoulder.

"Oh, my sweet babydoll," he coos in your ear, that honeyed tone of his easing your worries.

If only you understood his thoughts about you, his desires from you. Convincing your mind that this relationship is normal, making you believe that this is true love—you poor, poor girl.

Joel continues, his voice gradually turning dark as his hands tighten around your shoulders, nails digging crescents into your delicate skin, "This is just the beginning."

taglist:

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog ; @blueberrypancakesworld ; @heyhihello-4771 ; @codenamekitten ; @chamepagnessimo ; @idioticcatss ; @takochansugoi ; @zjasminelouvre3 ; @natalieispunk ; @koshkaj-blog ; @giowritess ; @beardropascal ; @pascaltesfaye ; @callmeafra ; @nexy00 ; @josephquinnswhore ; @baronessvonglitter ; @peelieblue ; @paanchusblog ; @b3bybunny ; @sugadolly ; @ktluvsmen ; @elliesr1fle ; @taeslarityy ; @yourgirljasmin444 ; @laloestoyvivo ; @aquanatalie ; @vickie5446 ; @cowboybootjoel ; @olicity-boo ; @ashleyfilm ; @withakindheartx ; @puduvallee ; @psychoenergy ; @chuutzuyu ; @cockykookiee

[cevansbrat0007]

Indecent Exposure Pt. I: Bye Bye, Daddy

Summary: You get more than you bargained for when your father decides to leave you in the care of his four best friends, your fake Uncles, while he's on away on tour for the summer. Read Part Two!

Warnings: Mature Themes, Bucky Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Unwanted Touching, Dad's Best Friend Themes, Older Men/Younger Women Themes, Brief Discussions of Voyeurism, Brief Mentions of Mouth Soaping, Brief Reference to Spanking and Discipline, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Please heed all warnings. Part of my Indecent Exposure Series. If you'd like to be added to the tag list, please let me know.

"But Daaaad.” You whine, drawing out the word as you follow your father into the kitchen. Shoulders slumped, you can’t seem to stop yourself from pouting. 

While you’d initially made peace with the prospect of being left alone for the practically the entire summer before you planned to start your freshman year at NYU, you positively balked at the idea being left in the care of a fucking babysitter. 

Four of them, actually.

“No buts, pumpkin.” Your father drops his carry-on bag next to the door, on top of his other luggage. “It’s not good for you to be stuck in this big old house all by your lonesome. You even said as much just the other week.”

“Yeah, well…” You trail off, pissed at the fact that you’d essentially brought this on yourself. “That was back when you weren’t even sure if you were going.”

At first, your old man had been rather skeptical at going on tour with his former bandmates. They’d had a couple hits back in the day, but nothing major. Even still, they’d somehow managed to amass a bit of a cult following. 

And so when he was offered the opportunity to open for a much larger classic rock band, he just couldn’t pass it up. And you hadn’t had the heart to make him either. Dreams like this seldom came true for anybody, let alone a mild-mannered pharmacist who was pushing fifty. 

“Why can’t you at least take me with you?”

He turns to you then, heaving a sigh before pulling you into his arms. "Life on the road is no place for my little girl. Which is why I’ve asked your Uncles to check-in on you.” He presses a gentle kiss on your mop of curly hair, giving you one last squeeze before releasing you.

“And this is where I’d like to point out that I’m 18 years old, which makes me a full-fledged adult.“ Wrapping your arms around your middle, you try to play it off like you don’t care about him leaving so soon after your birthday. 

But you do. While your birthday had only been last week, you two hadn't even had the chance to embark on your annual fishing trip yet.

“I know that. Of course I know that.” He’s quick to reassure you. “And as a newly minted adult I’m sure you’ll be on your own some nights – the ones when Bucky can’t stay and none of your other uncles are available.”

“Ugh! Can you please stop calling them that?”

Little did he know that you were mere seconds away from covering your ears and letting out a frustrated scream. 

“Well, that’s what they are. They may not be blood, but it still counts.” Your father just shakes his head. Apparently he hadn’t expected you to put up this much of a fight before his departure. “And while it might be true that it’s been a while since you’ve seen your uncles, each one has assured me that they would be more than delighted to keep an eye out for their favorite niece.”

“Dad, I don’t even know them like that! At least not anymore...”

You’re rewarded with yet another weary sigh. “Then it looks like you’ll have the whole summer to get reacquainted with them then, won’t you?” His hands go to grip your shoulders, all but forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Besides, Buck’ll be around. I’m sure he’ll help ease you into everything.”

It’s impossible to stop the derisive snort that escapes the back of your throat. 

“Sweetheart, my ride is going to be here any minute now…” He tells you, making it clear that neither one of you has time for the tantrum you seem so keen on throwing. “You’ve gotta know that I only want what’s best for–”

The two of you are interrupted by the sound of a vehicle pulling into your driveway. And while you don’t recognize it, you’re almost certain that it’s too sleek and expensive to belong to any Lyft driver. 

“Speak of the devil!” Your father suddenly exclaims before throwing open the door and rushing down the steps. Which is fine, except for the part when he decided to drag you along with him. “Bucky fuckin’ Barnes – just in the knick of time too!”

Well, there went Plan A. So much for locking up the house after your Dad was gone and refusing to answer the fucking door for anyone except the pizza delivery guy. 

However, in spite of your annoyance and frustration, you can’t help the tiny jolt of electricity that hums along your skin as you watch the dark haired man peel himself out of the driver’s seat so that he can properly greet you both.  

“Get a look at you, old man!” Bucky chuckles as he enthusiastically brings your Dad in for a hug, lightly thumping his back as he does. “Can’t believe somebody actually fucked up and told you you got to be a rockstar!”

Your uncle’s smile only broadens when he finally lays eyes on you. But it’s the way he’s looking at you that catches your attention – it’s not quite a leer – but his blatant perusal is enough to make you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. 

“I know!” Comes your Dad’s eager response. “That’s why I’m trying to get out of here before whoever signed off on this sobers up and realizes his mistake.” Both men are grinning from ear to ear when they finally take a step back. 

And that’s when all eyes turn to you. 

“And who’s this gorgeous young lady?” Bucky inquires, his pearly white teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he makes a quiet show of looking you over once again, this time allowing his gaze to linger just a fraction too long on your cutoff denim shorts. 

“Oh, come on now.” Good ol’ Dad reaches over to grab your wrist, pulling you even closer. Which is the absolute last thing you want. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize your niece.” 

“Is that my sweet, little Clover?” Bucky pretends to rub exaggeratedly rub his eyes while evoking your childhood nickname. “I guess it is. Except now she’s all grown up.” Your Dad drops your wrist in time for the other man to grab your hand so that he can give you a little twirl. "Just turned 18, in fact."

“I heard. So pretty.” He hums, although the words are spoken just low enough so that only you can hear them. “You’ve got yourself a knockout for a daughter, Dale.” You resist the urge to squirm when you feel the roughened pad of his thumb lightly stroke along the ridges of your knuckles. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you kept a shotgun by the door.” 

While you suspect that his words are meant in jest, the only person that laughs is the man who raised you. 

“I actually keep it in the front closet. Which reminds me…” You father turns to you then, pinning you with a knowing look. “Now pumpkin, I know you're not super excited about the current arrangement and all that, but I’d appreciate it if you’d, uh, refrain from having any boys over at the house while I’m gone.” 

You swiftly open your mouth to protest, only to be surprised when Bucky beats you to the punch. 

“Roger that.” He grins down at you, the dimple in his left cheek on full display. “Your Daddy said no boys allowed, little Clover. Do we have your promise you’re gonna respect his wishes?”

Tugging your hand out his grasp, you turn your attention to your Dad, offering up a sugary sweet smile. “But what about Peter? You actually like him, remember? Besides, he’s pretty much my best friend.”

“Well…”

Because you couldn’t fathom the idea of a summer without him. And you just know he’s going to relent and make an exception. That is, until Bucky decides to go and open up his mouth. 

“You heard your Daddy, sweetheart.” He gently admonishes you, a hint of mockery in his tone. “Besides, I don’t think any of your uncles want to have to deal with strange boys wandering around the house.”

“Good man.” Your father agrees, clapping the other man on his shoulder. “And speaking of Andy, Ari, and Steve, this one here is a little nervous about seeing them again. I don’t know why. I mean it’s been a while since everyone’s gotten together…”

“Aww, bug.” He coos, wrapping a brawny arm around your much smaller waist. “Are you worried we don’t love you anymore?” You find yourself gritting your teeth to keep from elbowing him in the kidney. 

Why the hell did he have to make that sound so…suggestive? And how come your father didn't seem to notice? 

“No.” You grunt, hating the man for having the nerve to smell so damned good – like spiced vanilla and cedar. 

“Because we most certainly do. You know, Andy was just looking at your senior picture the other day.” His large, warm hand settles just above the curve of your hip. “He actually sent it to the group chat and none of us could believe just how much our little Clover had blossomed. Right under our noses.”

“A–awesome.” You mumble, wishing he would stop touching you so much. It did funny things to your belly, which you did not appreciate.

“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he gets here.” 

Shock has your mouth falling open, briefly leaving you almost too stunned to make a sound. And to make matters worse, your father’s Lyft picks that very moment to pull up behind Bucky’s sports car. 

“What?” You eventually croak. Not that you receive much of a response, what with both men choosing to abandon you in favor of grabbing luggage and loading it into the driver’s trunk. 

“Alright, pumpkin.” Your Dad calls out once they’ve got everything secured. “I’ll call you from the road. I left instructions on the fridge and with Bucky. You need anything you call me, okay?” 

Seconds later you find yourself pulled into a bear hug. And, because you don’t know when you’ll see him again, you choose not to argue or struggle. You can only hug him back as if your life depends on it. 

“Be good.” He mumbles in your hair. “Listen to your uncles. It may not seem like it, but they know what's best. And you have my word that they care about you just as much as I do.” 

“Okay.” Is all you can muster as you fight back tears. “I–I love you.”

“You know it.” He holds you even tighter. “To the moon and back, plus the galaxy and beyond.” Smiling when he releases you, you watch him climb into the waiting car before giving him one last wave. 

And then he’s gone. You watch unmoving as the car backs out of the driveway and takes off down the road in the direction of the airport. It takes a moment for you to remember that you’re alone now.

Left to your own devices for the entire fucking summer. 

“Save those pretty tears, Clover.” You jump when you feel a hand press against the small of your back. “You’ve got us – me, Andy, Ari, and Steve – and won’t let anything bad happen to you.” Bucky whispers, his mouth hovering just above your ear.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” You growl, stomping towards the front door.

“Fair warning, sweetheart.” He calls after you, his voice tinged with laughter as he goes to follow you inside. “Your Uncle Steve doesn’t like that kind of language. And I’m afraid Uncle Andy isn’t the type to put up with that attitude either.”

“Then tell them they should keep their asses home!” You snap as you reach the stairs, taking them two at a time all the while silently praying that he doesn’t follow.

“All I’m saying is that I’d hate to see Stevie have to wash out that pretty little mouth out with soap.” He calls from the bottom of the stairs, no longer bothering to hide his laughter. 

The fucking pervy bastard was enjoying this!

You slam your door with a flourish, briefly reveling in the sound it makes as it shakes the entire frame. If Bucky, or any of your so-called uncles thought you were still that same, sweet little girl you used to then they were in for one hell of a rude awakening.

Fuck! You’re so busy fuming over your current situation that you have no idea what’s taking place quite literally beneath your feet. For tonight, you decide that ignorance is bliss. If you got hungry later you’d just have to find something on DoorDash.

You throw yourself on your bed with a huff, punching your pillow over and again until you feel some of the rage leave your body. This summer was going to fucking blow unless you found a way to stay busy away from the house. 

Meanwhile, Bucky has taken a seat at the bottom of the stairs. Pulling out his phone he opens the group chat he has with his buddies and proceeds to start typing. Call it intuition, but he had a feeling that he and his friends getting reacquainted with their precious little Clover was going to make for one hell of summer.

Oh yes, this was going to make for one hell of a summer indeed.

END

Unofficial Taglist:

@cjand10

[inkyajax]

something ‘bout you

character: professor!alhaitham

genre: smut ; modern university au set in teyvat

notes: waaaah it’s finally finished!!! i have no idea how this piece got to be as long as it did but alas, here we are. this has got to be the longest blow job i’ve ever written ehehehe. as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: dangerous woman by ariana grande

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, praise, professor/graduate student relationship, sir kink, face fucking, cum swallowing, a teeny tiny bit of manipulation, lying via omission, reader is a film and linguistics student, a bit of academic jargon but nothing crazy or crucial, dom/sub dynamics

words: 8k

synopsis:

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers.  He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning.  “Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?”  Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights.  The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea.  He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes. “I want you,” you admit instead.

The banquet hall is small yet elegant, beige walls warmed by the fuchsia beams of the setting sun, streaming in thick strips through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows. Silverware clinks delicately against fine china, glass champagne flutes clacking with front teeth as lips wrap around the edges, daintily mingling with the soft murmur of voices blanketing the room. 

Such is the life of a University of Sumeru elite. 

Classes don’t officially begin until Monday, but the entire graduate faculty of the Department of Linguistics had been invited to a prefatory mixer held at one of the grand hotels in the city. 

It is a long-standing tradition, the email invite had informed you, that the professors and supervisors of the department throw the graduate students—new and old—an intimate yet extravagant start-of-the-year dinner. 

It’s mostly meant for new students—only five accepted into the program per year—to introduce themselves to their colleagues and supervisors, becoming familiar with the faces they’ll be seeing for the next one-to-five years of their lives. 

You had been special enough to receive an acceptance letter into the PhD program, travelling from your Masters program in Liyue to the city of Sumeru to study under some of the most renowned scholars of the subject. 

And so now you stand, lingering near the immaculately organized table of hors d’oeuvres and fidgeting with the crystal flute between your palms, index finger absentmindedly tracing the rim as eager, interested eyes sweep across the room again, soaking up the atmosphere. 

You have worked so hard to get here, to get to this point, to stand in this room with the gilt-edged supremes of the scholastic world and be one of them—a part of this exclusive, highly-coveted club composed of the outstanding, the superior, the royals of academia.

A large, smooth hand yanks you, rough and abrupt, from your appreciative daydream, blinking rapidly as you stare up at the man who is unexpectedly talking to you—talking at you—as if he knows you well, already mid-sentence about the legend of King Deshret by the time your shock dissipates, concentration tuning into his frequency.  

“—And that’s why he went mad.”

Teal eyes hold yours, steady and intent and willing you not to look away, the fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep flexing the moment your stare begins to stray, watching through your peripheral vision as a man with white hair and rust eyes passes by, features set in hard stone. 

It is only after the man is out of earshot that your captor relaxes, fingers loosening but not fully releasing their grip on your flesh. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, suddenly sounding disinterested and distracted, gaze flitting around the room. 

“Was that true?” 

“What?” he looks back over at you, as if he’s surprised you just spoke to him. 

“Was that true?” you repeat. “I thought that since Nabu Malikata had warned him of the repercussions of the ritual prior to them performing it that he knew she’d die—that he knew she had chosen to die—and went mad with guilt due to him choosing his own selfish desires over the love of his life.” 

He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of his scotch. “A common misconception, often due to mistranslations and the incorrigible feelings of the translators themselves. Romantics, you know,” he shrugs, head tilting as he observes you, bright yet sharp eyes studying your face in slow, excruciating detail, as he he’s trying to divest your thoughts through your features. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the department before.” 

Razored teal glints like a scalpel as it attempts to dissect you, his scintillating gaze carefully shaving away at any pretences. 

“I am,” you confirm with a nod, struggling to suppress the pride tugging at the corners of your lips as you introduce yourself. “One of the three lucky souls to have been accepted as a PhD Candidate.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the man murmurs, giving your arm another little squeeze in greeting before finally releasing it. “I’m Haitham. Alhaitham, if you want to be formal, but Haitham is fine.” 

His body relaxes, shoulders no longer pinched, muscles no longer coiled as he gets more comfortable, leaning against a large column, his stance becoming permanent. 

“So, tell me. Where did you complete your Masters?” 

Your heart thumps against your ribs, pushing hard breath up your throat, nerves suddenly buzzing beneath the swelter of his intense stare, fighting the urge to shrink away from his fulgurous attention. 

“Liyue,” you say. “I studied under the guidance of Professor Zhongli.” 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow in lazy intrigue, notes of condescension glazing his tone, a small smirk adoring his lips. “That’s impressive.” 

“You know him?” 

“Everybody in the academic world knows him, sweetheart. I’m sure you know that, as well.” 

Bashful heat seeps into your cheeks, tingling little pinpricks of embarrassment sprouting beneath your skin. 

“Well, I just—”

“Please,” Alhaitham cuts your off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man is a master in several subjects; there’s not a chance anyone who is a true scholar hasn’t encountered and studied his work. What did you study beneath him?” 

“Um,” you begin, wincing at how idiotic it sounds, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “I wrote my thesis under his supervision. During my undergrad I majored in linguistics and specialized in cinema studies, so naturally my thesis aimed at analyzing and dissecting the role and importance of language in film—more specifically, how particular language conveys meaning and impacts the psychology of the viewer, as well as how particular language influences, dictates and affects the way a viewer derives meaning from the piece.” 

“Wow,” Alhaitham breathes, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely impressed, sincerely interested, notes of intrigue imbuing his tone. “I’d love to read it, if you’ll allow me.” 

“Of course,” you preen, the pressure on your lungs letting up a little beneath his praise. “It took me nearly two years to complete, and under Professor Zhongli’s supervision I was even able to conduct field studies and experiments to gather information and data.” 

“Is that so?” his smirk grows into a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with supercilious amusement. “Like what?” 

“As I’m sure you’re well aware of, how a certain character speaks and the words they use says a lot about who they are and where they hail from, but that’s only half the equation. The other half depends on the viewer themselves—their own background, upbringing, experiences, beliefs, and intelligence all influence the way they will perceive and derive meaning from an individual film. The research concluded that, based on these factors, two individuals from separate classes more often than not arrive at substantially different meanings of the information provided from the same film.” 

“Well done,” he murmurs, appreciative, and you can’t help but glow beneath his words, his commendation a beam of nurturing sunlight, drawing you closer to his heat.

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “And what about you? Are you a student?” 

He laughs, bright and warm, almost as if your mistake is cute. 

“No, no, I am a Professor.” 

“What do you teach?” 

“Syntactic Patterns in Ancient Runes, and Advanced Morphology,” he says easily. “Speaking of which, will you be TAing any classes this year?” 

“I will! Though I have not yet been approved to teach my own class, only tutorials for the first years. Understandable, I guess, since I’m a new student and all.” 

Your disappointment is palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air, and his demeanour softens a little, a warm hand clasping over your shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “I’m positive they’ll give you your own lecture the moment you hit your third year—those positions are usually reserved to upper-year PhD’s.” The tips of his fingers press into your muscles in a comforting massage, and you can’t help but lean into his touch a little, body deliquescing. “Which class will you be TAing for?” 

“Intro to Linguistics: Sentence Structure and Meaning,” you make a face, the thought sobering you slightly. “By the way, would you happen to know who’s teaching that class this year? There’s no professor listed on the website yet, but if they’re here I’d love to introduce myself.” 

Something darkens his eyes, his smile turned wolfish, a shock of unease unravelling slow and sticky in the pit of your belly.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” he says dismissively, though there’s a shard of something submerged in teal irises, sharp and dangerous, glimmering beneath crystal lights. “He’s a jackass anyway. Antisocial, selfish, you know the type. Introducing yourself to him wouldn’t make much of a difference—he isn’t a fan of those overeager polite types, not unless they’re genuine.” 

“Oh,” you frown, deflating a little, ignoring the ice prickling at the base of your spine. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to be on good terms with him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s on good terms with him,” Alhaitham mutters dryly, eyes narrowing as they sweep across the room, almost accusing in manner. “But who knows,” he says as he looks back at you, hard gaze palliating just a touch. “You might be the one to change that.” 

Confusion sprouts across your face, features crinkling as you draw in a breath to inquire, but a booming voice cuts you off, briskly announcing that it is time for dinner and requesting everyone take their seats. 

“Here,” Alhaitham murmurs as slim fingers cuff your wrist, leading you. “Come sit with me.” 

The dinner is several courses long, but you hardly remember any of them, too caught up in teal eyes and a velvet voice, in the hand that has found it’s way onto you knee, thumb stroking the bone in rhythmic motions through your tights, in the ankles currently tangled around your own, tightening every so often and hauling you a little bit closer—any time you say something that procures that amused little sound, playing on the back of his tongue; any time you say something that raises his brows and leaves his eyes shimmering, head tilted cutely in curious study.

The conversation flows seamlessly as the night passes, as servers bring and remove plates, as guests mingle around the ballroom, arriving to and departing from your table—but the two of you don’t dare move an inch, entirely captivated by your intimate discussion; heads bowed, legs locked, words murmured between the steadily dissipating space between your mouths. 

He tells you about his most recent excavation into the long lost tomb of a prince, about the runes he found intricately engraved on the gorgeous sarcophagus, about what they said and how they fit into his most recent collection of essays—highly coveted information, he had mentioned, sure to note he hadn’t told anyone about this; not until tonight, not until you, his voice taking on a slight air of incredulity, as if he can’t believe he just revealed such information so easily. 

You tell him about the research Zhongli personally funded after you were nearly expelled from the program for sneaking into the film reel archives despite being explicitly denied access—all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course, you had bristled with a roll of your eyes, insisting that such important pieces should not be so inaccessible to scholars—and of the many trips your valued Professor took you on, traversing film festivals across the whole of Inazuma. 

He tells you about his childhood in Sumeru, about what got him interested in semiotics and linguistics, about the first language he learned—and about how his grandmother taught him, eyes gone soft with fondness for the since passed woman. 

You tell him about your childhood in Fontaine, about scraped knees and local theatre and sparkling blue water, about your favourite Fontainian film movements and how they first sparked your passion for the performing arts. 

“I don’t know anything about Fontainian Neorealism or the Fontaine New Wave,” he admits, “but I do know that Sumeru has a flourishing arts and culture sector—and I assume that’s why you’ve chosen to study here. Am I correct?” 

“You are,” you nod with a small smirk, sipping on red wine. “It is exceptionally difficult to study Sumeru’s robust art history without actually being here. All I know are the things I’ve read in books—which are not nearly a suitable substitute for experiencing it with your own eyes.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “Let’s make a deal, then.” 

“A deal?” 

“A trade, of sorts,” he begins, smirking when you blink twice in curiosity. “I’ll take you to a performance at Zubayr Theater, and you take me to see a Fontainan film. Sound fair?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

A small smile graces his lips, wispy at the edges, a peculiar sentiment sparkling in his gaze. “It’s a date, then.” 

And you can’t help the fizzy feeling that starts to froth in your veins at the word, at the promise of seeing him again, of spending more uninterrupted time with him, just the two of you. 

It must show on your face in some way, must be evident in the sweet, girlish giggle that bubbles uncontrollably past your lips, because his smile stretches, still soft, and he chuckles gently, nothing more than a huff of breath on his tongue.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.” 

The palm cupping your knee is hot and heavy, his grasp flexing with his response, staying itself for a moment before it slides up your thigh, slow and careful and appraising, thumb stopping a millimeter shy from the hem of your short black dress.

Keen teal eyes stay trained on your face, focused in their evaluation, ready to analyze any slight change in expression his action may elicit.

But you only lean closer, legs spreading an inch or so wider, shuffling to the edge of your seat, a silent plea for more. 

A silent plea that does not go unnoticed by Alhaitham, as indicated by his small smile, sharp eyes dulling a little with their inquisition and fingers sinking into plush flesh, grip strengthening before relaxing again, the tip of his thumb stroking the material of your dress.

All without a single hitch in his words, swiftly and smoothly moving onto the next topic. 

And you only fall further. 

You can’t manage to keep your hands to yourself, either, it seems, touch vying and voracious for more of him: playing with the gold bangles encircling his wrist; twisting the gilded jade class ring pressed firmly against his second knuckle; drifting over the back of his hand, a single fingertip outlining the bones and veins contouring his flesh. 

He doesn’t appear to mind, though, flipping his hand over to gift you more access, allowing you to trace the lines of his palm with a manicured nail, his fingers spreading wider, presenting more of himself to you as you vividly discuss Metz and how he built his cinematic semiotics theory off of structural linguistics. 

His hand is nearly in your lap now, your thighs cushioning one another’s, knees bumping clumsily against the edge of each other’s chairs as you subconsciously try to inch closer, caught up in every fucking thing about him; his viscous voice, cascading over you like melty syrup; his vivid stare, so bright and full of passion it’s practically glowing; his magnificent mind, gears churning at a rapid yet efficient pace, producing ribbons of wisdom, flowing smooth and fluid from his lips, confident and self-assured. 

You’re drowning in him, submerging yourself further and further into his presence, more intoxicated by his aura than the wine roiling warm and sweet in your belly. It produces something insatiable, a starved clawing at your chest that grapples for more and more and more of him, every fragment of information you manage to extract doing nothing to satisfy the hunger, instead exacerbating the craving. 

You’ve never met anyone like him before; never met anyone so blunt and real and unabashedly themselves, never met anyone so sincerely scholarly, so dedicated to their studies, so zealous in their never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

It’s inspiring; it’s intoxicating.

Alhaitham’s mind is brilliant, beautiful, an ornate maze of thoughts, each one leading to something new, each one unravelling like the petals of a lotus, sparking further debates, remarks, ponders. 

You could get lost in here forever, you think—stumbling your way around sharp corners and down twisting corridors, consistently in awe of the next thing you discover. 

You must murmur it out to him, dreamy and wine-drunk and wrapped up in him, sentiments streaming seamlessly from your brain to your lips without your permission, because he laughs, the sound mild and tender, his gaze softening. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm,” you nod, lazy and languid. “It’s so beautiful, Haitham.”

“I’ve never had anyone call my mind beautiful before,” he muses. “But I think it might be my favourite compliment to receive yet.” 

Bubbles of pride tingle behind your ribs, and your chest puffs out a little, spine straightening beneath his praise, murmuring out a little self-satisfied, well, then, you’re welcome. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” he teases, though the notes infusing his voice are playful, his eyes shining as he studies you, cataloging your expressions.

“Yes, Sir,” you confirm. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Oh, am I?” he snorts, head tilting in question.

“S’not a bad thing,” you continue, words slurred just a touch, heavy with admiration. Dainty hands find his own, your fingers beginning to toy with his, idle and absent-minded as they curl and straighten knuckles. 

“No?” he smirks, pinky catching yours in a swift hook. “I mean, you seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.” 

“I could do better, if you want me to.” 

It’s bold, brash, and entirely unbefitting, but the offer slips from your mouth without thought or consent, startling you in it’s veracity, a jolt of desire zipping through your veins. 

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers. 

He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning. 

“Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?” 

Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights. 

The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea. 

He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes.

Because the desire is too strong, a potent drug infusing your blood and hazing your brain, overwhelming your senses and overriding your better judgement, and you find yourself unable to resist, easily placing blame on the wine and the party and the undeniable allure of this stranger, instead of your own ravenous craving. 

“I want you,” you admit instead, the confession oozing from between pouted lips, stark with it’s honesty, unapologetic with your longing. 

Alhaitham laughs, low and smooth, watching you through thick, fanned lashes. 

“How do you want me?”

He’s playing with you now, a hawk toying with his food between razored talons, forcing his prey to go exactly where he wants it to. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“However you’ll give you to me,” you respond, brazen but sincere, glassy eyes wide and captivating his own. 

Teal searches your face for a moment, pries apart your features in search of falsities and finds nothing but unadulterated candour, so sheer it boarders on pathetic. 

“All right,” he finally says, hand smoothing along your wrist to press your palms together, lacing your fingers with his and giving a gentle tug. “Come.” 

You tread behind him like the sweetest little kitten, inebriated galaxies swirling in your irises, desperate and obedient and eager for your treat. 

But you’re just a touch too impatient, it seems.

Because he barely makes it to the washroom, free hand on the doorknob, intending to throw one last glance back at you—one final confirmation, are you sure? written in the motion—before you’re surging forward, soft palms cushioning a defined jaw, dainty fingers hooking behind the hinges and yanking, crushing his lips to yours.

It isn’t graceful in the slightest, a rough mangle of tongues and teeth, incisors catching on lips and canines scraping slick muscle, but Alhaitham recalibrates quickly enough, large hands curling around your hips and pulling you to his form. 

The door to the men’s washroom swings open as your knotted bodies fall through it, hinges loose and creaky, the metal handle slamming against the tiled wall, the resounding bang! bouncing throughout the room.

The stumbling of your footsteps echoes around you, obnoxious smacking of lips and slurping of tongues amplified by the open space as you gulp down his breathy little chuckle, the sound warm and tingling as it spills down your throat. 

A tangled mess of legs and limbs, you fall into the first available stall, rickety door whacking off the side, the lock jingling from the force. 

He allows you to crowd him into a corner, hinges of the flimsy door tinkering again as your legs slotting together and your tongues grind, tips teasing each other in curling little licks, catching one another and then slipping away, tracing the ridges of teeth, burrowing into the divots of cheeks. 

A strong hand stays wrapped around your neck, nails just barely nipping your skin as he grips you in place, his other hand busying itself with a palmful of your ass, fingertips planting bruises into soft flesh. 

A responding hiss slithers from your mouth into his, the sound massed on his tongue, the muscle folding around it and sucking, savouring your pain until it melts into his flesh.

Your hands are indecisive, traversing the buttons of his shirt and the loops of his trousers until, finally, they find his belt, fingers eager and vying as they pick at the heavy buckle, and he snorts. 

“It’s cute, how utterly desperate you are,” he mumbles into the kiss, slippery mouths sliding together, leavings streaks of saliva painted across chins. 

You are desperate, too desperate, and if you were of sound mind you’d be rightfully embarrassed of such behaviour, pawing at him like some impatient teenager, pathetically aching for more of him. 

But the wine and the glamour and Alhaitham’s intoxicating taste—cedar wood and mint, cloaked by expensive scotch—has cast a murky cloud over your brain, stuffing your skull full of nothing but ardour, dulling all of your senses, honing all of your needs, to him, him, him. 

The thigh wedged between your own, sculpted from strong, lean muscle, flexes twice, hitching up further into your core, a pitchy mewl spilling onto his tongue as a reward. You can feel his cock, hot and hard and pressed tightly against your hip, rutting into you in small, uneven little motions, dense heat sprawling, slow and sticky, in the pit of your tummy. 

“God, you’re already making such a fucking mess,” he nearly moans into your mouth, thigh tensing again in emphasis, cotton doused in slick arousal. “And I’ve barely even touched you. I guess you really do want me, don’t you?” 

And although his words are teasing, imbued with notes of playful mocking, his tone is sweet, almost as if he’s in awe of how honest you were. 

“S’bad,” you whimper, tongue sketching out the curve of his cupid’s bow. “So bad.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he pants, a hand wreathing around your jaw, keeping your stare trapped in his. “Tell me what you want.” 

The demand is damp as it drifts across your face, scalding little pinpricks erupting beneath your skin, paired with a low whine of embarrassment. His gaze is too vehement, eyes wide and unblinking as they impel you, your own lids squeezing shut in the face of such fervour. 

“Ah!” the hand clamped around your jaw tightens. “Open them. Look at me, and tell me what you want. You’re a big girl, I know you can do it.”

It almost hurts to look at him, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins as you squint, features twisted up in a wince. 

“C’mon,” he goads, fingertips thrumming against you cheek once in a fluent wave. “Where’s that big beautiful brain gone now? You were so eloquent at dinner.”  

“I—I wanna ride your cock!” you nearly sob, the profession a stringy plead shoved from your tongue, tangled in threads of saliva. “I really wanna ride your cock.” 

“Aw, how precious,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, words filtered through a slight faux pout. “Too bad naughty girls don’t get to ride my cock.” 

“Wh-What?” you blink, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, just barely caught in outer lashes. “Naughty?”

And, oh, the smile that spreads across his cheeks is downright sinister, eyes flashing with levity. 

“Do good girls put their hands all over a stranger’s cock?” he tilts his head, that shiny sliver in his iris catching in the light. “Does that not qualify as misbehaviour to you?”

“But—But I—I’m good!”  

The response is automatic, barreling up your throat and out your mouth before you have a moment to seize it, a fierce need to prove yourself igniting behind your ribs, eyebrows knit cutely as you stare at him, eyes beseeching despite your bratty tone. 

“Are you?” he raises a brow, eyes hard, but mirth plays with the corners of his lips. “Your behaviour thus far says otherwise.”

“I am!” 

Your gaze steadily holds his own, daring, challenging, insistent, your features scrunched up in a stubborn petulance.

“All right, prove it to me,” he says after a beat, exhaling an amused little huff. “Show me you’re a good girl and suck my cock.” 

And that’s all the encouragement you need, really, desperate to prove yourself worthy and capable as you slide down his body, knees on his toes, lidded stare never breaking contact with his own—heavy, dark, starving.

His collarbone, sharply prominent and peeking out from beneath his shirt lapels, heaves a little with his laboured breaths, the faintest sheen of sweat beginning to lacquer the bones, catching delicately in the fluorescent light. 

Nosing along the impressive bulge straining against his trousers, you hum a little in appreciation, trailing hot, humid kisses up the length in a haphazard outline. A hushed giggle vibrates in your throat as his cock jumps beneath your touch, begging for what Alhaitham would never dare to, tongue unfurling from your mouth to roll, slow and hard, over the clothed head. 

The slick muscle wraps itself around the tip as best it can, wet heat seeping through his pants as your tongue siphons his cock into your mouth, lips closing around the head and suckling, hard. 

A breath snares on his sternum, his hips twitching once in complement, chased by a low, alluring chuckle. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, though the letters are breathless. “I didn’t know good girls were little teases…” 

The implication is not lost on you, and you roll your eyes, grumbling out a muffled no fun into his groin before your fingers immediately get to work—button popped, zipper tugged, knuckles curled in the elastic waistbands, hauling his pants and briefs midway down his thighs. 

His cock is just as gorgeous as he is, thick and velvety and twined with pulsing veins that surge and swell the moment they’re wrapped in your tongue.

It’s impossible to silence the pathetic whimper of appreciation that spills from your throat the moment his cock is free, massive and magnificent, and you can’t resist nuzzling your cheek into it in admiration, catlike, the flushed head leaving a fat streak of pre-cum painted just below your eye.

A curse pries its way past his lips, fading into a breathy exhale, his fingers latching beneath your jaw and tilting your face to his, taking a moment to cherish the sight. 

You look so beautiful stained with him—glistening pre-cum dashed across your check in a perfect stripe; lips swollen and licked raw, shimmering with his spit—and he can’t help but stare, ravenous pupils having gnawed away at teal irises, desperate to soak up as much of the scene as physically possible, leaving nothing more than a thin ring to outline the orbs. 

His thumb swipes through the sticky substance, rubs it into your skin until it’s gone dry, seeped into the tissues and absorbed completely, and your neck strains a little, yearning to present more of your cheek to him, offering.

Another second or two passes as he grants himself one final moment of marvel, before his fingers release your head, a non-verbal command to continue. 

And you obey flawlessly, instantly. 

A dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock, tongue darting from between raw lips to lap kittenishly at the head, flattening along the curve and dragging twice in unhurried succession before digging the point into his slit, procuring another pretty pearl of pre-cum, oozing enticingly to adorn the tip. 

It’s so dense, so bloated it looks mere moments away from dropping, your tongue stretching out   far and wide in a precursory measure, ready to catch it when it falls. And it does, only a beat later, dripping slow and gross into your waiting mouth in a single strand, thick and viscid.

A hefty moan resounds in your throat as it seeps into your tastebuds, his flavour bitter and strong, fluttering lashes framing rolling whites. 

The noise that splinters in his throat is strained, yearning beneath a heavy hedonism, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a subtle caution. Smirking, your glance up at him again, sinful tongue laving lasciviously over your puffy lips, yet your eyes are not bratty, instead glittering with such potent awe it almost hurts, like he’s some sort of veneered saint, exalt pouring from your gaze. 

It crushes down on his chest, flattens his lungs and makes it difficult to draw in breath, oxygen stalling in his throat, the urge to yank you up and kiss the goddamn life out of you near unbearable as it tears at his chest. But he comes back to his senses, restraint held intact by a single spider silk thread, a dull, distant voice in the back of his skull reminding him of your task, of your lesson.  

You seem to know, too. 

No words need to be spoken, no warnings need to be issued, the hand around the base of his cock flexing slightly as it readjusts its grip, feeding him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your eager throat. 

“S’it,” he encourages as he watches you, eyes lidded and hazy with lust. “That’s it, baby, take as much of it as you can for me.” 

The incentive, haunted by the ghost of potential praise if you succeed, only makes you more avid in your quest, throat stretching around his girth as you stuff it full of his cock, reflexes instinctively attempting to push him from the gummy column, constricting as you gag around the head.

It’s hard to know what he likes—how fast, how deep, how rough and filthy—but from the limited information you’ve gathered tonight, you can infer that he isn’t a fan of teasing; at least, not when he’s the one being teased. 

“A little more,” he instructs, but the command is gentle, a thumb skimming along the line of your jaw, hinges straining as you immediately submit, mouth opening wider, throat sexpanding further as you take more of him, more for him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he pants out, thumb caressing your jaw again before his palm cups beneath your chin, tilting your head up, the action inadvertently forcing his cock farther down your throat. “You’re so good.”

Blinking twice in response, you stare up at him, irises encrusted with stars of worship, their shine unhindered by the bleary gloss of reflexive tears that have already begun to collect, lashes clumped into soaked spikes, just barely keeping the torrent at bay.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt more respected, revered, in his entire life. 

Another blink—a quick beating of lashes—sends crystalline dewdrops flowing down your cheeks, the softest sniffle, half-stifled, shuddering delicately around his cock. 

“H-Hah,” he breathes out, an involuntary little sound pulled from deep within his chest, your agape mouth working itself open greater, lips stretching over his bulk.

He holds you still for a moment, takes time to admire such a pretty sight, hips jolting slightly, eyes watching as the bulge in your throat jumps, as you choke around him but don’t dare push him away, instead squeezing the base of his cock, attempting to jam it down even more. Your chin juts forward in a futile attempt to aid, salacious squelching echoing throughout the bathroom as you swallow, hard and with conviction, trying to lead him further into your body. 

The back of his knuckle swipes through a stream of glittering salt, collecting your tears on his skin and bringing it to his mouth, tongue washing over it slowly, savouring your taste. 

And you wait. 

How very good of you.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he finally says as he releases his grip, permitting you to take control again. “Show me how much of me you can take down your throat.” 

And, really, that’s all of the enticement you need, head beginning to move the instant he demands it, mouth gliding down his shaft, slow and steady, until the tip of your nose just barely brushes your second knuckle. A pause, a mere millisecond for him to feel your throat convulse, before you’re pulling back up, lips puckering as they tighten around his shaft, glazing his flesh in a thin, shimmering film of saliva. 

Each stroke of your mouth has your pace accelerating, opting to keep your fist wrapped firmly at the base of his cock to steady it instead of allowing it to follow the trajectory of your lips.

It grows sloppy quick, your spit-soaked hand readjusting it’s slippery grip as your upper lip repeatedly bashes into it, the threads of saliva keeping your mouth and finger connected snapping each time your lips reach his head, nearly pulling off of his cock completely before your mouth sinks down again

“Yeah, yeah, there you go,” he grunts out, words torn around the edges, breathing raw and ragged. “Good girl, my perfect girl, doing so well for me.” 

A whine reverberates around his cock, your legs spreading slightly as your back bows and your neck arches, an ambitious attempt to take more of him, throat gaping and split open, drenched cunt grinding into the toe of his polished shoe. 

He groans a little, the sound tapering off into something choked and broken, his hips stuttering forward and involuntarily plunging his entire length down your throat, body retching at the abrupt intrusion. 

And suddenly, all of this isn’t exactly enough for you. 

Because while you can nearly fit all of him down your throat on your own, and while he seems to be more than satisfied with your progress, there’s still an inch or so that you’re missing, palm curled around it in a manner that’s almost protective, and you want to take all of him. 

You want to prove that you can take all of him, for him. 

A thick, milky string of spit and pre-cum dangles and droops heavily in the space between your lips and his cock as you peel your mouth from his shaft entirely, wrecked little coughs furling on your tongue, eyes wet and wide and full of reverence as you look up at him, imploring.

With a little effort, he hefts his lids open from their sedative state, staring down at you with glazed, gluttonous pupils, head tilting a little in inquiry.

“I want you to fuck my throat, Sir,” you rasp out in explanation, voice rough and raw, request grating against your throat. “Please, fuck my throat, Sir, please.” 

The plead is garbled, drooled out from the corners of your mouth curled in copious drivels of foamy spit, collecting on your chin and dripping off your jaw in viscous glass cords. 

Chest heaving with ragged breath, he watches as drool drizzles across your collarbone and exposed bosom, sticky and sloppy. You’re making such a mess—he’s making such a mess of you, and you’re so willing, so unwavering, raring for more. 

“Fuck,” he nearly whines out, the curse cracked. 

Deft fingers grip your face, blunt nails biting into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, an attempt to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, the word drifting across your face, eyes hunting after it in an almost rabid manner. “You want Sir to fuck your mouth?” 

A whimper vibrates on your tongue, head nodding as best it can in his firm grasp. 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wanna take as much of you as possible, Sir; wanna take all of you, Sir; wanna be so good for you, Sir,” your head quirks a little, nuzzling into his touch. “Please, help me, help me show you how good I can be.” 

Your confession is molten and dreamy, flowing from your lips in one thick, continuous stream, your eyes limpid, desperate with the desire to please. 

“Though you’ve proven you are capable of doing it on your own, it’s precious that you’re asking for my help.”

A hum of contemplation rumbles in his chest, head tilting in observation, his scrutinizing gaze framed by heavy lids, eyes now slow and steady as they search your face.

“You need Sir to guide you, huh?” he’s asking as his other hand replaces your own, wrapping around the base of his cock and giving it two good, quick pumps before bringing the head to your lips, mouth obediently dropping open, a sound of confirmation playing on the back of your tongue.

Yes, yes, you’re nodding, tongue curling in the air a little, almost as if enticing him closer.

“No, not need,” he revises, smudging a thin stroke of pre-cum across your waiting, urgent tongue. “Want. Isn’t that right?” 

It’s true—you don’t technically need his assistance, could manage perfectly well on your own the task of sucking him off and stuffing your throat with his cum, but you want his aid; want to show him that not only can you succeed, but you can surpass.

“Please,” you whimper, the word a distortion trembling against the tip of his cock. “Please, help me be the very best for you, Sir.” 

Something sharp flashes in his pupils, hungry and craving and full of teeth, his chest stuttering with it—a growl he snuffs out, strangles in his throat before it can grow into a coherent response, replaced with a simple nod.

“All right, all right, baby,” he’s pacifying as you take his cock down your throat again, the hinges of your jaw straining as your mouth stretches around him. “Sir will help you out this time.” 

A mewl of thanks vibrates around his cock as he threads himself down your throat, his hips jerking once, fast and short, a matching whimper spilling from his lips. 

Delicate fingers curl in his waistband and tug a little, begging him to fuck deeper, and he concedes, groaning out breathy praise as your nose presses into that neat smattering of curls adorning his pubic bone, lips kissing the root of his shaft. 

“Christ,” he whines, hips thrusting forward a hint further as he leans back against the stall wall to get a better view, your throat tightening around him with the action. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

The stuffed full column of your throat ripples around him as you swallow with conviction, a greedy attempt to garner him even deeper into you, his shaft swollen and protruding in your neck. Tear-lacquered eyes close briefly, forcing streams of crystal to leak from the corners as you nuzzle into his groin again, the laudatory action causing gummy walls to spasm around his cockhead. 

“F-Fuck,” the curse fragments on his tongue, head tipping back against the flimsy stall wall, angular jaw and Adam’s apple on display. “Look at you, so full of me.”

There isn’t any more time to admire, though, as idle chatter, muffled and indistinct, seeps under the heavy washroom door, yanking both of you from the heavenscape you had conjointly created and shocking you with a bitter dose of reality. 

There’s no warning after that, the brute reminder of the steadily encroaching public entirely shattering whatever trance the two of you had been enveloped in, Alhaitham’s hips snapping sudden and sharp, fucking your throat with a renewed vigour. 

Your grip on his slacks tightens, knuckles curling over the waistband in a feeble attempt to help him, to pull him even closer, jaw wrenched open even wider as his hips work, so fucking dedicated to him, to pleasing him, despite the pang beginning to settle deep within the hinges.

It’s rough, and sloppy, and so fucking hot, scalding saliva smeared all over him—coating his thighs and dribbling down his balls and soaking the matted curls at the base of his cock, slippery and sticky and stained with you. 

“Doing so—so fucking good for me,” he pants out, pace never faltering. “My perfect little toy.” 

Something mangled and muted sounds in your throat, another pair of tears cascading down your cheeks and streaking them with pretty gleaming trails.

It hurts, your throat burning and fucked raw with every ram of his cock, your lungs beginning to shrivel as he smothers your breath, routinely shoved back down in time with the piston of his hips, chest swelling painfully beneath the backlog of unreleased air. 

Hiccups splutter around him as you desperately try to draw in tiny gulps through your nose, the fluttering of your throat eliciting another hoarse groan, tumbling from his lips. 

The ache in your jaw has radiated across your face now, a pounding in your temples keeping flawless rhythm with Alhaitham’s thrusts, a twinging in your cheeks weighing heavy on the bones, creeping into your sinuses.

Yes, it all hurts so very much, but you take it all for him, just like a good little girl is supposed to, just like he asked, just like you promised you would—dutiful, doting, devoted.

And even though his hips are ruthless, avid in their chase to catch his impending high, his grip is tender, the knuckles rooted against your skull firm but not painful as they hold your head in place, his thumbs massaging soothing little circles along your hairline.

You’re weeping around him now, a potent concoction of drool and tears trickling off your tongue in viscid strings, the slick muscle curled flush around the underside of his shaft, protecting sensitive skin from the edges of sharp teeth. 

A dull pain is beginning to seep into the tip of your nose, no doubt a response to the constant collision of your face into his pelvis, and you can feel the early formations of a bruise, fragile capillaries busted open from the consistent blunt force. 

“Oh, Christ,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before springing back open, gazing down at you with fervour. “M’gonna—ah, ah—” his hips judder, thumbs pressing into the sides of your head, steadying his grasp. “M’gonna cum, and I want you to—f-fuck—to swallow it all, y’here me? Don’t waste a single fucking drop.” 

And, well, you’re nothing if not unwaveringly obedient.

Two more drives of his cock, rough and rapid, and then he’s forcing hot, thick cum down your throat, stuffing the column full with his potent seed.

It’s so much, too much, and you sputter around him, the syrupy substance overflowing back up your throat and into your mouth to seep, slow and sticky, past the tight seal of your mouth.

But he helps you with that, too, holding your head still and pressing your face tightly to his pubic bone, ensuring that his cum shoots straight down your throat as his cock continues to throb weakly, weighting your tongue. 

And you, obedient little girl that you are, devour all of it, even the few stray dollops of cream that managed to escape your mouth and roll down his balls, tongue curling hungrily around them and sopping up the remnants with gentle sucking. 

Truly, you did not waste a single fucking drop. 

And he’s so proud of you. 

“C’mere, precious,” he’s breathing out once he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, releasing his grip on your skull and hoisting you up, strong hands hooked beneath your armpits. 

He hauls you to your feet in one fluid movement, pliant legs struggling to find stable footing on the tiled floor, and props you up against his body, supporting you. Those big hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his, aquamarine flying across your features—quick, but efficient—and surveying the damage.

“You were so perfect,” he murmurs, sowing a smattering of chaste kisses along the top of your head. “You were so, so perfect for me.” 

A response hitches in your throat, mangled by the sob desperately attempting to claw past it, and Alhaitham frowns, concern creasing his forehead. 

“Hey, you okay? Huh?” gentle palms tip your head up even further, thumbs killing tears as they swipe over your cheekbones. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“M’fine, Sir,” you croak out, voice ruined but eyes filled with reverence. “Th-Thank you for giving me your cum.” 

The worry saturating his features is eradicated in an instant, eroded by tender awe, his lips twitching into a small smile as his eyes sweep across your face again—slower, this time, more deliberate, appreciative—thumbs continuing their soft caress. 

The sudden shouting of his name decimates any potential response before it has a chance to form in his mouth, a low growl of irritation rumbling in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, the moment the washroom door swings open, effectively halting the perpetrator in their steps. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a moment.” 

His voice is hard, stern, cold yet dripping with authority, the meek messenger squeaking out some semblance of acknowledgement before rushing from the room. 

You’re still sniffling, cheeks stained with dried, crusty salt, hair mussed and messy, and his frown returns as he looks back at you, his features pinched, reluctance weighing heavy on his form. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“I am,” you nod in his grasp, finally standing on your own two feet, as if to prove it. “Promise.”

His eyes hold your own for a moment longer, assessing, before he accepts your answer as truth, fingers beginning to fuss with his dishevelled tie. 

“All right,” he sighs out the words as he primps, palms smoothing down his shirt, wrinkles casualties from your fingers. “Take your time to regain your bearings.” He looks up, a sardonic grin on his face. “I, unfortunately, have business to attend to. Such is the life of a Sumeru professor.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s such a drag to be faculty at the top university in the world,” you snort. 

“Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts,” he retorts, but his smile has softened to something playful. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.” 

“Good.” 

He refolds his lapels one last time, squaring his shoulders as he mentally prepares, turning toward the stall door.

“Oh, and uh,” hand curled around the stall handle, he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Maybe next time you can actually ride my cock, like you wanted to.” 

Head quirking, confusion crinkles your brow, your eyes searching his face. Next time?

A smirk spreads across his lips, smug and supercilious. 

“See you in class on Monday, Teaching Assistant.” 

[perlelune]

no body, no crime | Coriolanus Snow | iv.

Your childhood friend returns from his exile in district 12, but he's not the sweet, quiet boy you once knew anymore.

Warnings: NON-CON, Plinth!Reader, Gaslighting, Drugging, Murder, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Loss of Virginity, Somnophilia

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The warmth of the sun caresses  your eyelids as they quake open. You groan, stirring under the sheets. But instantly, you freeze. Pain cascades through your body. A soreness starting at the apex of your thighs and radiating through your limbs has you struggling to move.

Still, you do it, pushing past the weird feeling embedded in your flesh. 

Your brows collide as you attempt to remember. 

Where are you? How did you get here?

The damask walls are unfamiliar and the gigantic bed even more so. You comb through your memories but nothing surfaces, a violent headache assailing your senses whenever you think too hard. You squint at light pouring through the half-drawn velvet curtains. You peel off the heavy blanket, gaze traveling downward. Ice spreads through your veins. 

You’re shocked to find yourself stark naked, skin speckled with darkening bruises. Even worse, a tiny crimson spot stains the white sheet covering the mattress. You shudder. 

Your breaths start to quicken. Quivering, you grip the sheet, twisting it between your fingers as disbelief rocks through your core. The blood on it seems to enlarge, painting your whole vision red.

As you inspect the room, noticing the state of the rumpled bedding and your clothes lying in a heap near the bed, denial clashes with the blatant truth. 

It can’t be. Yet all the evidence is staring right at you. 

You start to hyperventilate. 

The door cracks open and your head jerks to the side. Coriolanus’ towering frame fills the doorway. There’s a silver tray in his hands and the smell of coffee and fresh toast rise from it.

You take in his tousled blonde locks and his half-unbuttoned blouse. He looks more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him. A gentle smile hovers on his lips. But, as he registers your distressed state, it vanishes. He rushes to you, placing the tray on the mahogany nightstand near the bed.

Face growing hot, you tug the blanket so it conceals your nakedness.

“Hey, take it easy, princess,” he whispers, brows knitting as his hands reach your cheeks to cup them.

Chest rising and falling at a fast pace, you stutter, “C-Coryo, what happened last night?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Concern sparkles in his cobalt orbs, pellucid as crystal in the morning light.

He caresses your face and gingerly says, “It was…a bit of a wild night.”

You scowl at his response. It’s not what you’re asking and he knows it. 

You lick your lips, gathering the tiny embers of courage sizzling within you.

You don’t want to ask what you’re about to ask. Hell, you might not even want to know. But you have to. You have to because there’s a pit of discomfort and confusion within you and it’s swelling by the second.

You take a deep breath and inquire, “Why am I naked? Why…Why is there blood on the sheets?”

His frown accentuates.

“Princess…”

You nudge his hands away from your face as your patience dissolves.

“Tell me,” you emphasize.

His jaw ticks at your reaction. He then releases a deep sigh.

“You drank a bit too much. We both did.”

A sinking feeling blooms in your stomach. Your eyes grow saucer-wide as the words are snatched from your tongue.

You’re statue-still as Coriolanus’ fingertips wander over your arm, stroking up and down lightly. 

“You were having so much fun, genuine fun.” His voice softens. “It was the first time in a long time I saw you smiling this much.” He pauses, holding your gaze. “And I suppose…there were budding feelings and we got carried away.” Your jaw drops. “You told me you needed me. And I had quite a few drinks myself.” He chuckles but it’s bereft of humor. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t remember all of it either, just you begging for me and screaming my name.”

Warmth gathers in your cheeks. 

“God. You and I, we…”

Coriolanus nods. “Yes.”

Tears well up in your eyes. Coriolanus wipes each of them, uttering tenderly, “I know you didn’t want it to happen that way, but at least it was with me, right?”

You’re at a loss for words. Sure, it’s better for it to be Coryo than a stranger…at least in some way. But as naive and old-fashioned as it is, you wanted to save yourself for your first love, for your future husband. You looked forward to your first experience being one of absolute love and trust…one you actually could cherish and, most crucially, remember. 

Now it’s forever ruined. 

Your heart plummets.

“I need to go home. I need to-” Clutching the sheet against your bare form, you try to climb off the bed. 

Coriolanus seizes your shoulders, easily cinching you to your spot.

You glower at him, puzzled and frustrated. 

Still holding your shoulders, he explains, “Like this, princess? Are you sure that this is a good idea?” His soft inflection drips concern. He bends closer to you. “Your parents, William…What would they think?”

This gives you pause.

You lower your head, pondering his words.

Dread mounts within you as you realize how right he is. You could spin falsehoods to your parents until you’re blue in the face but they’ll know something is off the second they lay their eyes on you. Especially your mom.

One look at you and she’ll guess exactly what occurred. Or some of it at least.

It’s been like this since you were brought into their home as a little girl.

Nothing ever gets past Demetria Plinth’s keen eye.

Then who knows what they might ask you to do to preserve your honor and dignity? 

The thought makes your insides twist in knots.

You tossed away your virtue out of wedlock, you betrayed William, you besmirched your family name. You’re a disgrace.

There aren’t a million options in cases such as yours, and it’s a scenario you’d like to avoid. 

It guts you to imagine not only ruining your life, but Coriolanus’ as well. All because of one stupid drunken mistake. 

Besides, while it might be foolish and presumptuous in your current predicament, you still want to marry William. He’s the man of your dreams. You suppose it’s just a matter of whether or not he’ll even want you now.

Folding your knees, you tuck them against your chest and wrap your arms around your ankles. Tears stream down your face as you quaver, “I don’t know what to do.”

Silence hangs in the air as you weep, Coriolanus rubbing your shoulder in quiet support.

After a while, he suggests, “You could come to my place.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

His thumb presses along your collarbone.

“Just for a few days. It’ll give you time to rest, get yourself together.”

“No, Coryo, I can’t ask you…” You shake your head, guilt clawing at your heart. “I’m horrible and I should-”

“You’re far from horrible,” he interrupts, placing his long fingers on the side of your face. “But you need a little time, right?”

You give a shaky nod, despising yourself. You’re a coward. Instead of facing your actions and their consequences, you’re running away, hiding. 

“Just let me handle everything, princess.” His knuckles sweep over your cheek, collecting more fresh tears. “I’ll take care of it and it’ll be like none of it ever happened.”

“W-Where are we right now?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from the storm of anguish raging inside you.

“Oh, this is one of the many spare rooms of the Dovecote estate,” he replies casually, though you discern a hint of something. Disdain, perhaps? 

“Clemensia…”

“I talked to her,” he reassures. “Don’t worry, she won’t tell a soul.”

You can’t imagine Clemensia doing anything to help you but you suppose, for Coryo, she would.

“She also made sure to quell any rumors before they can start.”

Your forehead creases. “Rumors?”

He gives your hair absent strokes as he sighs. “People know how close we are, princess.” Your heart skips a beat. He angles your chin upward, his gaze confident. “Don’t you worry, okay? I’ll take care of you. All you need to do is trust me.”

You acquiesce and it elicits a broad, tight-lipped smile from him.

He rises from the bed.

“How about you grab a bite?” he offers, bending to graze his lips over your forehead. “The car will be here in less than an hour.”

A car, already? Part of you is astounded by his swiftness but your distress overtakes everything else. You should count your blessings that no one else knows about last night.

You take perfunctory bites of the toast on the tray and sip a few gulps of the tepid coffee.

Once more, you try to remember. You wince when another throbbing headache hits you. 

All you can see are Coriolanus’ bright blue eyes and his smile. Nothing else emerges. 

So, you give it a rest. Maybe in time, everything will come back to you. 

For now, you just need to trust your friend. 

You shroud yourself in silence the entire drive to Coriolanus’ home. He keeps smiling at you from the seat near yours and you return it meekly. While you know it’s not his fault, you find it nearly impossible to meet his gaze, an uncomfortable feeling pitting in your stomach whenever you do. Anxiety bounces in your gut when the Corso comes into view. 

You haven’t been here very often, though your dad often spoke of moving here, where most of Panem’s elite resides. The thought of leaving your childhood home doesn’t thrill you but you’re keenly aware of what the Corso represents in Strabo’s eyes. The sign that the Plinth family made it. And to add this kind of feather in his cap, your father would move you and your mother to a smaller place in a heartbeat. You know he is only waiting for the paperwork to be signed.

It’s something you’ve tried to forget as of late. And now you’re cruelly reminded of it.

The car comes to a stop in front of an antique apartment building. Your eyes wander above the window. Piles of rubble still sit amidst the place, a reminder of the Dark Days perhaps.

Coriolanus opens your door and offers you his hand. You accept it and stagger out of the car.

He removes his coat and throws it on your shoulders, swaddling your shivering frame. You’re thankful. You’re still wearing the same red dress from the night before and it hardly shields you from the cold. 

You can’t help but soak in every detail as you and Coryo take the elevator to the penthouse. You sometimes wondered how the wealthiest in Panem lived. Your parent’s house is nice but this is different. Every inch of the building from floor to ceiling screams luxury.

As soon as you’ve crossed the doorstep of the penthouse, slender arms wrap you in a warm hug.

Tigris’ eyes glimmer as they rest on you.

“Coryo said you’re going to stay with us for a while,” she chimes. “How wonderful.”

“Only for a day or two,” you correct.

She squeezes your hands. “Then we’ll have to make the best of it.”

An old woman appears from an adjacent room. She strolls to you, a small smile etched on her lips. Uttering no word, she presses a white rose between your hands. You examine it. It looks exactly like the ones Coriolanus sometimes wears on his breast pocket. 

“Is this your grandma?” you whisper as the old woman wanders off, humming a tune you vaguely recognize as Panem’s anthem.

Tigris’ lips curl skywards. “Yes, but we call her grandma’am.” She giggles. “It’s much more distinguished.” Sadness glistens in her amber gaze. “She isn’t…all the way here these days, but she still tends to her roses.”

Coriolanus wedges himself between the two of you.

“She’s tired, Tigris. You have to let her rest,” he informs.

“Of course. We’ll catch up tomorrow. Promise?”

You give a weary smile. “Promise.”

“I’m so very glad you’re here,” she says, hugging you again before taking her leave.

Coriolanus guides you through the apartment, his hand curled around the small of your back.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

He takes you to an opulent room with a massive bed in the middle. 

“I had a bath drawn for you,” he announces.

Your eyes round as you note the copper clawfoot tub sitting near the bed. Stunned, you approach it. Your fingers drag along the edge of the tub.

Flower petals float atop the steaming water. 

“I’ll leave you to it, princess.” He drops a quick peck on your forehead before disappearing.

You lock the door as soon as he leaves and peel the crimson dress off your body. You’ve half a mind to destroy it once you return home. Your mother would probably be appalled at that considering its price…but you can’t see yourself wearing it ever again.

The water’s burning hot when you plop inside the tub. You welcome it.

You bring your knees to your chest as you stare at the rose petals. You wish your worries could melt away in the water the way dirt and grime can.

But no such luck. So you’re left contemplating the tiny ripples form above the surface as you swallow yet another surge of tears threatening to spill.

A soft high-pitched voice draws you back to consciousness. Groggily, you sit up in the bed.

Tigris’ beaming face greets you.

“Are you okay? You slept past dinner. Coryo said not to disturb you.”

You look around.

Stars pepper the night sky outside the stained glass windows. You can’t believe you took such a long nap. You vaguely remember burying yourself between the sheets after your bath. You didn’t want to think, or even be awake. You wished for oblivion. So you let sleep ensnare you as soon as your head hit the pillows.

Your features scrunch. Your memory’s still foggy, but the headaches have abated at least.

“The maid can warm you a plate if you like,” Tigris offers.

You shake your head. You have no appetite.

“I just hate that I overslept.”

Sympathy dawns on the young woman’s face.

“Your body must have needed it. Coryo said you guys partied pretty hard last night?”

Your heart wrenches. But you try not to let anything show on your face, giving a placid nod.

“Besides, you don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” she inquires.

Your stomach sinks. You were supposed to meet with William today, but you can’t imagine seeing him in your current state. 

“No, I don’t,” you lie.

Your gaze meanders about the room. Surprise ripples through you at the wooden trunk you detect in a corner of the room by the wardrobe.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, Coryo had your things brought over,” Tigris replies casually.

You gasp. “But I won’t be staying long. He shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”

“He said he wants you to be as comfortable as possible.”

A deep, familiar voice echoes in the room. “She’s right. After all, our home is your home, princess.”

Your eyes find Coriolanus'. His tall frame fills the door. He looks like his usual self now, his blond locks neatly slicked back and his outfit impeccable.

Guilt creeps inside you following his statement.

“I should warn my parents,” you muse aloud as you rise from the bed. 

Coriolanus shares a look with his cousin.

“Tigris, can you give us a moment?”

She nods before heading for the door.

You try to do the same, panic swelling inside you, but Coriolanus blocks your way as he stands before the door. He towers over you with ease, hands clasped at his back as he leans against the doorjamb. 

You give him a puzzled look.

“I already sent them a letter,” he reveals.

“Oh,” you mumble.

“I just told them you’re with us and you’re fine.” He smiles. “It’s the least I could do.”

“The least?” you scoff. “You’ve already done so much for me, Coryo.”

“Like I said, I don’t want you to worry about a thing.”

He licks his lips, scrutinizing you a while before continuing, “You’re not just a guest. You’re family. You can stay for as long as necessary.”

This makes tears spring to your eyes. You dip your head but his digits sneak below your chin, tilting it upward so your gazes meet.

“What’s wrong?”

Your voice comes out a watery croak.

“You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” you sob, tears skipping down your face freely now.

You erected a fence around your emotions and now the dam is shattering.

He slants his head. “Why not?”

You don’t reply, a flood of tears blurring your vision. You grow overwhelmed, unable to utter a word as strangled sobs spill from your throat.

Coriolanus’ arms coil around your frame. He cradles the back of your head, tucking it against his chest.

His dulcet timbre breezes over the top of your head.

“It’s okay, princess. You’re safe. You’re always safe with me,” he whispers, letting your tears drench his blouse.

[ghost-1-y]

Depths

Sea Serpent!Obanai x AFAB!Mermaid!Reader

Content Warnings: MDNI, thalassophobia, nyctophobia, manga spoilers if you squint, sexual content, monsterfuck!ng, penetrative sex, consensual sex, oral sex (m! and f! receiving), 69’ing, tongue-fucking (Obanai has a really long tongue), bondage (via Obanai’s tail), light choking(?), sensory deprivation (it’s dark and reader can't see things unless they’re close by), degradation (reader-receiving), self-degradation (Obanai), breeding k!nk, creamp!e, mentions of exhibitionism (doesn’t really happen), uh- reader almost swims back home naked(?), minors and ageless blogs DNI!!!

Summary: Your father had always warned you of the dangers of the deep ocean, demanding that you stay within the safe borders of the underwater kingdom. However, one day, you become curious and secretly travel into waters untraversed by any merperson still alive today ��� wishing to know what lies beyond the safe confines of your home, not realizing that the countless warnings from your father had been given to you for very good reason.

Word Count: ~2.8k

Divider Credit: the wonderful @/benkeibear

Whatever you do, please, for the love of Poseidon himself, do not go past the borders of the kingdom.

Whenever you left your family’s underwater cave, your father would always warn you of the dangers of leaving the safety of your home. It was, of course, something every merperson was warned about: to not travel into the depths of the ocean, or so much as pass the coral reef that bordered the edges of the region.

For every single merperson that disobeyed this rule disappeared without a trace.

You were unsure whether or not that meant they’d died, but it seemed that was the general consensus of the merfolk in your community. Even the king himself decided to create gravesites for those lost to the depths, as a way to commemorate their memory and contributions to the kingdom. What’s more is that the royal family decided to keep guards posted at the edges of the reef in order to prevent anything from coming in, as well as anyone from going out.

Most merfolk heeded these warnings without question – as the pressure of the water would have killed them anyway should they have traversed a little too deep. However, you – always the curious one – wondered what exactly happened to those who did decide to enter the endless blue and swim into the dark. While the others considered them to be foolish individuals, you thought them to be brave, courageous adventurers who wished to know more about what existed beyond the borders of your home.

But, in order to not upset your father – you couldn’t bear being the cause of his misery and grief – you stayed put. Always looking but never acting upon your desires.

And so you performed your usual daily tasks, collecting sea grass and other marine vegetation as food for your family. You’d swim along the coral reef, not going so far as to reach the outskirts of the kingdom; yet, just as you were about to pluck yet another piece of kelp from its roots, a dark shadow crossed over you from above.

By the time you turned around to see what it was, however, the shadow was gone – it had, like those who’d gone beyond the reef, disappeared without a trace.

You never considered yourself to be foolish, but even little merchildren who spoke excitedly about the mysteries of the ocean depths would question the actions you performed next as you tossed your little woven basket filled with vegetation to the side and swam to the edge of the kingdom, hoping to catch sight of whatever creature caused the shadow.

As you swam to the very edge of the reef, miraculously evading any guards posted in the area, you looked out into the deep blue as it turned to black beneath your tail – never having realized before that your reef had stood on the edge of a precipice that overlooked a vast, endless abyss – unknowing and shrouded in mystery. You shivered, an indecisive feeling striking at your heart as you questioned whether or not to follow it – before you noticed the slightest movement in the dark below.

Fuck it, you thought to yourself as you embraced the vastness of the water and swam into the depths where light began to dwindle, wishing to know what exactly lived down there. You swam, and swam, and swam – feeling the pressure slowly but surely digging into your skin – a force that, despite the small discomfort, seemed to be pushing you further downward rather than ushering you back to the safety of your home, and a sense of freedom started to flood through you – because you had done something that was unthinkable, and you were alive. 

Yet, as you continued your journey into the abyss, you noticed movement just out of the periphery of your slowly diminishing vision, and you realized how what you’d done could be perceived as foolish – because you were not alone here; there were beings lurking in the dark that engulfed you – watching you as you traversed through the unknown – or at least, what was unknown to you.

“You’re an interesting little thing, aren’t you?” a voice from behind you hissed. “Not a care in the world for what could be lurking within the shadows – stalking their prey as you go about swimming in waters that aren’t yours." 

Your blood turned to ice as you slowly turned around to face the voice’s owner – only to find nothing as you’d gone too deep into the dark, just barely able to make out the tips of your fingers as you stretched your arms out in front of you. The voice chuckled, as though it could smell your fear.

“Where– where are you? Who are you?” you hesitantly asked the voice, only for it to answer – sounding from your right this time.

“Hm? So demanding,” the voice admonished you, “I should ask you what you’re doing in my waters.” It was behind you now, “tell me, how did you find yourself so far away from your home? Are you lost? Or, perhaps you came here – came to me – on purpose…” it drawled, and you felt an uncomfortable shiver move up your spine. 

“I–” you swallowed, trying to ease the developing knot inside your throat, “I came here on purpose…I wanted to explore– I was curious of what lived beyond the reef.”

The voice hummed, “I can’t tell if you’re incredibly brave or insurmountably stupid.” It was in front of you this time, and you could just barely make out the silhouette of its figure before it shrouded itself in darkness once more.

“Can I– can I see you? I’d like to know who I’m talking to,” you insisted, trying to calm the shakiness of your voice. 

You were met with silence – had the creature left you? Were you alone again?

“Surely a thing as pretty as you would regret looking upon something as hideous as I,” it responded, nearly emotionless – as though it were stating a fact of nature itself. “Why don’t you swim home, hm? I’d spare your life just this once – next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

Yet, when you were met with such an offer, you hesitated. Something in which the words were said made you wonder if there was truly an escape from this.

“What if I refused?” You were beginning to realize how foolish you truly were. “I’m not leaving until I know who you are,” you maintained, and the creature scoffed.

“You merfolk have always been brainless,” it sighed, “I shouldn’t have expected anything different from you.”

“Don’t talk about my people that way,” you demanded, and you were met with what could only be described as a low growl.

“Why shouldn’t I? It was your people who cast me out years ago – who left me to rot in the depths beneath the reef… fucking pitiful, isn’t it?” the voice spat, “you wanted to see me? Surely you’ll understand why they did such a thing when I look like this,” it seethed as it finally got close enough to reveal itself to you.

At first, his outline suggested that he was a fellow merperson, but your eyes widened as he got closer – as he revealed his more reptilian nature. To start, he lacked the forked caudal fin usually possessed by merfolk, instead possessing one more pointed and snake-like – one that merged into a spinal fin that ran continuously along his much longer tail and back. Your eyes ran up his torso, which was scaly and muted in color like the rest of his underside. You looked at his arms, which were surprisingly one of the more mer-like parts of his body – until you gazed upon his hands, which were webbed in between his fingers, and with nails so sharp they could easily slice open the throat of any prey. Last was his face – again, similar to that of a merperson, but his ears were finned and his mouth was wide and serpent-like – almost as if it were cut open along the sides. Your eyes scanned down his body once more until– oh.

His cock was huge.

Embarrassment caused heat to prickle across your cheeks, since merpeople in your kingdom would usually wear loincloths made of kelp to cover themselves in public. You forced your gaze away from his lower half, only to see him glaring at you as you looked up towards his face and into his mismatched irises.

Yet, you didn’t display any emotion of disgust or fear upon seeing him, a reaction which very much confused the serpent before you, as all others before you treated him as though he were the algae stuck to their scales – or worse, something that needed to be killed off, as though he were no better than a barracuda threatening the young merchildren that played along the reef.

“Why do you not cower in fear? Why do you not try to escape?” He asked as you maintained eye contact with him, a pregnant pause ensuing between the two of you.

“Is there a reason I should be afraid?” you asked, and he frowned.

“A horrifying creature such as I should invoke fear, disgust even. Tell me, dear,” he mocked, “tell me how sickening you think I am,” he demanded, bearing his pointed teeth. 

“You’re beautiful.”

He paused, unbelieving of the words that floated across your tongue and through your lips.

“Liar.”

You shook your head, “let me prove it to you,” you suggested, drawing closer to him within the darkened abyss, “may I ask for your name?”

The serpent looked at you with suspicion before conceding to your request. “Obanai Iguro,” he stated. 

“Obanai…” You let the name roll off your tongue, fingers lightly tracing along the scales of his chest, causing him to tense slightly, “such a pretty name.”

He grabbed your wrist with his webbed hand in warning, his grip tight against your skin.

“I’ll break you,” he cautioned, and you smiled, using your free hand to drag the tips of your fingers along his scaled torso.

“Maybe I want to be broken,” you purred.

As though something snapped within him, Obanai coiled his tail around you, effectively trapping you in place, with his narrow caudal fin lightly constricting around your throat. He pushed you against the rocky surface of the underwater massif and met you at eye level, faces mere inches apart from each other before he clashed his mouth with yours, his fangs prickling against your lips as he kissed you fervently. 

“You want me to break you? I’ll fucking ruin you, dear.”

Obanai gripped your jaw and forced his tongue into your mouth, making you quickly realize its forked nature as he massaged your tongue. He ripped his lips away from yours before moving down towards your breasts, grabbing at the shells that covered them with his sharpened nails and allowing them to fall into the darkness below. He latched his widened lips to one of your nipples, his forked tongue flicking the hardening bud as he sucked your breast into his mouth.

“Fuck– so good,” you whimpered, and he hummed before providing similar attention to your other breast, his tail tightening ever so slowly around your body – as though constricting around his prey in order to obtain his next meal.

And a meal you were, as he used his tail to force you further upward until his face was just below your navel, using his teeth to rip away the cloth adorning your waist as though he were haphazardly unwrapping a present. He wasted absolutely no time before plunging his tongue deep into your hot, exposed cunt, his lips pursing along your opening as he collected your juices. The muscle pulsed along your slick walls, undulating inside of you as he began to swallow your sweet nectar. Your eyes rolled back as your body reacted to the unfamiliar intrusion – moaning wantonly as he fucked you along the length of his tongue, before roughly pulling out of you, leaving you to whine at the sudden cut off from your impending orgasm.

You gasped as he turned you upside down and brought you close to his hardened cock. “Suck on it,” he demanded, and you obliged – having to use both of your hands to fully wrap around its girth before suckling at his tip. He plunged his tongue back into your tight pussy, causing you to moan around the head of his swollen, flushed cock. 

“Shit– that’s it, keep doing that,” he groaned as you began bobbing your head along his leaking tip, fitting as much as you could into your mouth while using both hands to stroke the remaining length of his dick. You licked along the underside of his cock, the veins adorning it throbbing against your tongue, his soft groans spurring you on. He started to rub your clit as his tongue entered your tight hole once more.

“Fuck!” you whined, “i-it’s too much! Obanai–!” you pleaded as he stretched his tongue further into your pussy, the forked tip slightly brushing along your cervix. He moaned, sending vibrations deep into your gushing cunt, putting you in a daze as you lazily stroked his cock. You could feel the tension build up deep within your stomach as he continued to prod his tongue through your wet entrance.

“C-Close…fuck ‘m gonna–!” you screamed as your orgasm ripped through you, and Obanai groaned as he lapped up all of your release with his tongue, swallowing all of it. He didn’t let up on the binding he put you in with his tail, but he did position you right side up again so he could kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips and tongue.

“So dirty, wanting to be fucked by something like me,” he groaned before pinning you against the rock once more, dragging his cock along your folds. You whimpered, causing him to chuckle, “you want this serpent’s cock? Want to get filled with my filthy cum?” and you nodded, your head falling back before he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

“Yes! Please! Wan’ your cock inside me– oh fuck!” you cried as he wasted no time shoving it deep inside you, filling you balls deep in a single stroke. You could see the outline of his cock as it pushed against your tight walls, the slightest bulge showing along your abdomen as he pressed inside of you. 

“Shit, even after I stretched you out with my tongue, you’re still so fucking tight,” he panted, his grip that bound you loosening a little as he began pounding into you. “Such a dirty fucking whore, what would your people think if they saw you getting ruined like this?” 

You whined, unable to respond with how well he was fucking into your cunt, easily hitting that one spongy area that caused you to arch your back even further and clench around his cock. “Hm? Do you like that idea? You’re dirtier than I thought.” He increased the intensity of his thrusts, and you could only hear the pap, pap, pap of his balls slapping against you as he relentlessly impaled you on his cock.

His thrusts became sloppier as he got closer to his own climax. “I’m gonna fill you up, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Hah- gonna breed you with my cum, then everyone will know you got fucked by a nasty serpent like me.” You whimpered and nodded, and he smirked before pressing his cock fully into you, groaning deeply as he emptied himself into your hot cunt, triggering your own orgasm as you gushed all over his dick. He pulled out of you and drew back his tail so you were no longer bound by him, lowering himself so he could lick at your pussy once more, tasting your mixed juices on his tongue. You jolted as he flicked at your clit, and cried out from the overstimulation before he parted from you.

“I’ll let you go – swim along home, dear. I’ll be down here if you ever wish to indulge me again,” he stated before licking his lips, eyes still hungry as he gazed down at you. You nodded and swam back up to the precipice of the cliff, cum still leaking out of you as you started to return home, only stopping yourself minutes later as you shamefully realized that you had nothing left to cover yourself with as you emerged from the depths.

Perhaps you’d stay, you thought, no one ever returned from swimming beyond the reef, after all.

Taglist: @k-a-t-h-r-i-n-a @wow-im-gay, @peanutpunchy, @love-me-satoru, @crazycatlddy, @dinosaur-crime-scene, @llearlert, @thisbicc, @gojoscumslut, @everyonesfinaldestination, @leehoonii-i, @kyojurismo, @briefrebelfanalmond, @izuoyarmin, @ahashiraswife, @d1gitalbathh

(if your name is crossed out, it means that tumblr didn't allow me to tag you! apologies for the inconvenience)