#chain of Command part 1 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

asterlust · 2 months ago

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The World You Never Knew

When Gojo is sent to a small region to dispose of a powerful curse, only to learn it’s already been dealt with, he finds something far more interesting.Or, rather, someone.

Yandere!Gojo x reader

Tags: Rape/Non-con, violence, yandere/obsessive/possessive behavior, threats of blackmail, smut, P in V, v fingering, rough (more on Ao3)

Word count: 12.1K

an: A present to Poly @/Envy-of-the-apple. Absolutely stunning individual, that one, HIGHLY recommend his work. Pls go tell him that you love his porn and jerked off to it 12 times in his anons.

This is a repost from my other blog, as this one will be dedicated to dark content. Sorry, and thanks for bearing with me <3

“Ughhhhh.”

“Gojo Satoru! This is–”

“Yeah, yeah,” a lazy hand waved through the air, irritated, like swatting away an annoying fly. “I got it. Go to this town, deal with the spirit. Is that it? Really? I mean, do you have to send me specifically? Seems underneath me.”

“It’s a Grade 1. Ieiri doesn’t fight, Nanami is busy on another mission, and the Kyoto branch is busy training new sorcerers. You’re the only person left.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“This is not a request! It’s an order, Satoru.”

A deep, heavy, long-suffering sigh escaped the owner of the Six Eyes, who finally kicked his feet off the office desk and rocked his chair back into its proper upright position. “Fine,” he ground out, slapping his knees as he stood up. “I’ll go. Where is this place again?”

Yaga’s cheek twitched. “Kami-shima.”

Gojo nodded, half-paying attention as he dug around his ear with his pinky. “‘Kay.”

“Thank yo–”

Before the teacher could finish his statement, the door to his office slammed shut, prompting him to drop heavily into his seat with a groan.

He rubbed at his forehead, defeated and drained after dealing with the heir of the Six Eyes. “That child…”

All he could do was pity any village inhabitants that might cross paths with Gojo Satoru.

«___° ° °___»

“Left!”

On cue, you ducked right, dodging a nasty swipe aimed straight for your head. A moment later, a second arm lashed out, and you somersaulted to entirely avoid the series of limbs racing towards you. Dirt clung to your back as you rolled onto your feet, your arm working to wrap the heavy chains of your tsuri-dōrō around your wrist and palm.

The demon screeched and spun to face you, enraged by your swift escape. Its arms flailed, sickly green and bronze appendages that wriggled and writhed, squirming like worms on a wet stone – six on the left, nine on the right.

You and Mirio had been running circles around it for the better part of fifteen minutes, wearing down its stamina chip by chip. You had already lopped off two of its arms and a leg, scorch marks decorating its infected, necrotic flesh, but it had yet to slow down.

“Back, right, down!”

You raised your right leg, and slammed it down the moment a wobbling, flailing limb appeared beneath you. Your lantern dropped on top of it behind your calf, and you channeled your mahou into it. Its blue flame flared, blazing up the length of the monster’s arm on command, eating away at its thin tissue. The inhuman sound that escaped its gaping maw grated on your ears, but you only increased the power behind the fire, pushing until the arm burned through and fell off.

As the demon stumbled away, howling at the top of its lungs, its disembodied arm continued to twitch and thrash, like salt thrown onto frog legs. Your nose wrinkled, and you kicked it away, turning around to continue fighting, chain winding once more in preparation to be thrown.

But, to your luck, a long spear was already stuck through the beast’s center, spikes protruding like the rays of the sun to keep it lodged in place, poison dripping off the polished wood. A paralytic, specially designed to affect only demons. The stronger the demon, the more the paralytic affected them.

Your name was shouted. “Now!”

Wasting no time, you swung your tsuri-dōrō over your head twice, and launched it at the demon. The dark metal legs caught onto a flap of loose flesh and punctured into the muscle beneath, providing the perfect hold needed to maintain steady, undisturbed contact.

It screamed, but it was too late.

“Burn!” You shouted, weaving twin flames chasing one another down the black chain until they reached the center of the lantern. In an instant, the entire monster was engulfed in a blistering, cyan inferno. It wailed as its body began to flake and fall away, washi lit with a candle and released to float to the heavens. Rapidly, your target decayed, crusting and disintegrating until all that was left was a pile of ash that, too, was fading.

Before it wholly disappeared, Mirio jogged over, her hands clasped; pinkies and ring fingers intertwined, index and middle fingers set flush to one another and pointing upwards.

“Be released,” she urged. With a damp poof, the ash popped, fizzled, and was gone.

You sighed in relief, allowing your tsuri-dōrō to settle on the soil. Bent over, you propped your hands up on your knees, gulping down gallons of air to catch your breath. You’d been napping soundly under the warm sun until Mirio had shown up, panicked as she shook you awake and informed you that a demon was encroaching on the village. Given no time to stretch and yawn and prepare, you’d hopped up and ran straight into battle.

You didn’t regret it, no, of course not. But, man, you were going to be sore in the evening. You could already feel the acid leaching from your thighs, causing your muscles to twitch like soapy bubbles popping.

“Sure you’re not too old for this, ma’am?” A tease, given to you from your very own apprentice, one darling Akinori.

They were a spritely, young kid, far too eager for the fate awaiting them, the obligation they accepted when they became – pleaded to be – your apprentice. They aspired to be like you, like the rest of the Exorcists that wandered the island, and while you weren’t entirely comfortable with the pedestal they put you on (unintentionally, you knew. They were a good kid and meant well), you remembered what it was like when you were their age.

Starry-eyed, excited to play your part in protecting your home, your people, defending them from the monsters under the bed that used to scare you.

Now, all you wanted was a nap. A strong drink, too.

“Nori,” you panted out, and stood straight once more. “Shove it up your ass.”

They pouted. “Is that any way to speak to your apprentice?”

You used your index finger to flick at their forehead. “I warned you, you knew what you were getting into. No complaining, now.”

Nori snorted and rolled their eyes, but obeyed, skipping up to your side. Their stripped, paperless parasol was folded, and with a flick of their wrist, the weapon disappeared. Following suit, you let your chain fall to the ground, and both it and your tsuri-dōrō vanished in a bundle of sparkles.

Beside you, Mirio was writing on a strip of paper, a block of wood held underneath it for support. “Time of exorcism: 14:23. Well done, that was quick. It only took seventeen minutes.”

You groaned as you arched your back, hands on your lumbar to aid in cracking the vertebrae there. “Not bad. You’ve gotten better at callouts. How’s your vision?”

At the mention, your fellow Exorcist rubbed her eye, grunting. “Not awful. Aches a little, but I think it’ll go away in a few minutes.”

Nodding, you clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Take it easy.”

She nodded back. “‘Course. Do you want to go report to the Elder about the demon?”

Cocking your head side to side, wincing at the clicks in your neck, you hummed in consideration. “Yeah, sure. Let’s get it out of the way now.”

With Nori tucked against your side, the kid rambling (again) about how cool your strength was (again) and fluffing up your ego (appreciated), your little trio made their way towards the Elder’s home, ready to turn in the report. Ideally, you’d get it over quick, and be freed to continue that late afternoon nap of yours.

Unfortunately, the world seemed to have other plans.

Stopping in your tracks, you locked onto a figure approaching from the distance, dressed nearly from head-to-toe in black, save for the shock of white hair decorated atop their head. They walked hunched over, hands tucked away in their pockets, clearly detesting whatever had brought them to this hamlet.

Noticing that you’d fallen behind, Akinori and Mirio called out to you simultaneously.

You waved them off pacifyingly. “Go ahead without me, I'll deal with this.”

“You sure, auntie?” Nori asked, peering skeptically at the incomer.

You crinkled your nose at the bridge. “Don’t call me that, you’ll make me feel old.”

“Would you prefer ‘mom’?”

You began reaching to tug off a shoe. “You–!”

Mirio grasped Nori’s arm and began tugging them away, waving at you from over her shoulder. “See you at the Elder’s house, auntie! Be careful!”

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest petulantly as you watched your juniors disappear across the bridge in a fit of giggles, Nori’s laughter carried on the soft, ocean breeze to you, and you eventually sighed as you dismissed your irritation. “Damn children,” you mumbled, returning your attention to the stranger, who was now only a few meters away.

Closer, now, you could see it was a man – a boy, really. You had at least a decade on him, maybe that and a half. His cheeks were still round with youth, scrawny despite his unruly height. Wide shoulders, yes, but arms and legs like twigs. Lanky, damn near sickly with just how pale the exposed skin of his face was.

Even so, you could recognize the presence of mahou no matter where you were, and his was particularly strong. White hair, too. Strange, you thought. Albinism? Something else? It was certainly a unique look, if nothing else. You’d ask about it later, if you found the chance.

“Welcome to Kami-shima,” you told him once he was in reach, arms lowering to rest at your sides. “What brings you here?”

He stopped in front of you, head raising to show that he was wearing round shades, the lenses pitch black. Hell, you weren’t sure he could see through them at all to begin with, but he made it here and hadn’t tripped yet, so maybe it was simply an illusion that made them look darker than they were.

He was silent for a drawn out moment, then responded, a plucked brow raising. “Who are you?”

“Manners,” you chided, then gave your name. “I’m a local Exorcist.”

He quipped sarcastically, “Exorcist? What, like, you scare away ghosts? Puh, you know those aren’t real, right?”

Good heavens, who raised this boy? Even your grandpa, notorious hardass that he was, was never this condescending.

“No,” you enunciated slowly. “I exorcise demons. You’re lucky, we just got rid of one shortly before you arrived.”

He frowned, and a look of deep consideration crossed over the parts of his expression you could see. It made him look like he was pouting, like thinking was a task he wasn’t ever keen to do. Pretty easy to clock him as a spoiled, rich kid. This had to be a punishment for him of some kind.

You met him less than thirty seconds again, and you could already see why it would be.

He huffed, the noise one of disbelief. “Wait, the cursed spirit? You got rid of it? That thing was a Grade 1, how could you exorcise it?”

“The hell does ‘Grade 1’ mean?” You mumbled, and shook your head. “Nevermind. I was able to exorcise it because I’m the most experienced Exorcist in this part of Kami-shima.”

“But, you’re so…weak.”

Your brow twitched and you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. “Someone needs to discipline you,” you insisted. “Come on, I’ll take you to the Elder.”

In truth, while you did intend to show him your way of life, since he clearly had no clue how any of this worked, there was something about him that unsettled you. Greatly. Part of the reason you wanted to hurry and meet up with the senior was so that you weren’t alone with the newcomer anymore.

He was a jerk, sure, but that’s not what (wholly) bothered you.

No, it was the way you could feel him staring into you, through you.

You couldn’t see his eyes, but it was easy to sense the sheer power behind his gaze, the way he seemed to look down at you as if you were an insect. Maybe, that was his Strength, those eyes of his. Gods, what an unsettling thought, for someone’s power to lie within their eyes alone. All he would need was a glance. A peek, and cities would be razed.

His Weakness would be blindness, were someone to somehow reach his face and claw out those orbs, but you had a feeling that nobody would ever get the chance.

As much as you hated when people wore sunglasses, since it made them look exceptionally suspicious, you were, inexplicably, grateful that his were planted solidly on the bridge of his nose, blocking his hues from your sight. Whatever it was about them, the irritating tickle in the back of your mind told you that you didn’t want to ever peer into them personally.

Without waiting to see if he was following you, you started walking towards the village, and a few, delayed seconds later, you heard him jog to keep up.

“What’s your name, kid?” You queried.

He clicked his tongue. “Gojo Satoru,” he replied, like you were supposed to drop onto your knees and stick your head in the ground, performing dogeza for having not realized his identity sooner.

Instead, you blinked at him from the corner of your eye, and kept striding forward.

“Alright, Gojo. Nice to meet you,” you hummed. “Were you drawn to Kami-shima because of the demon?”

Gojo cocked his head to the side, further and further until his jaw popped. “Yep. Got sent to this…place on a mission.”

You let out a ‘huh’ sound. “Mission? Oh, so you’re part of another sect of Exorcists? Are you from the mainland?”

He shrugged idly. “Nah, I’m a sorcerer.”

“Sorcerer? What a weird name.”

“You people are the ones with the weird names. Demons, Exorcists, what’s up with that?”

You raised a hand on instinct to smack the back of his head, only to be stopped completely by the sensation of…air?

Staggering to a stop, you flexed your hand, sensing the strong resistance pushing back into your palm. It wasn’t like you had been frozen into place, your hand hitting a brick wall; you could still feel the energy flowing in and around it, the twitching of your muscles that indicated you remained in control of them. You were moving, just incredibly slowly, enough so that by the time you breached through this invisible barrier, you’d likely be bones rotting and returning to the earth.

Withdrawing, you brought your hand to your chest, rubbing your thumb into the center of it to swipe off the excess mahou the ability left on you. “What in the world? Is– is that your Strength?” You were so certain his eyes were his Strength, were you wrong?”

A grin split across Gojo’s lips, tugging at the corners until it pushed his cheeks upwards. “Infinity. It’s the inherited Technique of the Gojo clan. Neat, right?”

“Technique?” You repeated. “How does it work?”

“Anything that comes into contact with Infinity is slowed down infinitesimally until it almost ceases entirely.”

How fascinating, you thought. How terrifying. The power to divide a number upon itself forever and never reach zero, to apply that to himself, to others.

Just what was his Strength?

Deciding to let the Elder figure it out for you, you crossed the bridge with Gojo in tow, offering hellos to the familiar faces you passed by, who stared unabashedly at the outsider. The aforementioned outsider himself didn’t appear to mind the attention in the slightest. If anything, he relished it, waving and grinning at the older women, cooing at the young children hiding behind their mother’s legs.

Your people weren’t unkind to newcomers. Given how small the island was, the low population, visitors weren’t common. You had nothing to offer tourists; attractions, interesting structures, none of those existed. All you had were beautiful landscapes, a tepid oceanfront, local specialties, and warm hospitality.

For most, that was more than enough. Those that came knew what to expect, and didn’t make a fuss.

You believed Gojo wouldn’t behave that way, and your neighbors seemed to think the same.

The call of a youngling made you turn, watching as an adolescent boy ran up to you, arms outstretched. You knelt down, allowing him to crash into you, the force causing you to puff out an ‘oof’.

“Miss Exorcist, Miss Exorcist,” he practically bounced on his toes. “Is the demon gone?”

Patting his back twice, you hummed in assent. “All gone. We took care of it, don’t you worry.”

“What did it look like?”

You mulled over his question, deciding how to tastefully leave out the grosser details a kid his age didn’t need to know. “It was tall, with a big mouth and so many arms, I lost count,” you embellished, not mentioning the stench of rot and decay that stuck to it like a miasma, nor the way the detached arms wriggled like abandoned lizard tails.

He hooned, brown irises glittering with fascination. “So cool! Was it strong?”

“Super strong.”

“But, you’re stronger, right? That’s why you won!”

Enjoying his chiming laughter, you leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “That’s right. I’m way stronger. No big, scary monster is gonna get you, not under my watch.”

He giggled. “Can I be like you one day? See and fight the monsters, too?”

You hummed in contemplation. Not many were born with the ability to see the demons, let alone take them down. “Even if you never get to see them, it’s never a bad idea to get stronger. Gotta protect that little sister of yours if I can’t be there.”

He nodded firmly, deadly serious. “I’ll keep her safe. I want you to be proud of me.”

“I already am,” you ruffled his hair, his dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Now, go, find your mom. I’m sure she’s worried about you.”

“She’ll make me do chores…”

“Then, you better hurry back before she gets mad and gives you more work, hm?”

He gasped, suddenly aware of the consequences of avoiding chores. He wormed his way out of your hold and scurried off, thanking you on his way.

As you stood back up, Gojo appeared at your side out of nowhere, nearly scaring you out of your damn skin.

He paid your spook no mind, his attention focused on where the kid had vanished down the tight alleyways. “They know?”

“Huh?”

“They know about curses? That you’re a sorcerer? The people of this island?”

You blinked. “They know about demons, and that I’m an Exorcist, of course, they do. Why wouldn’t they?”

“They’re not supposed to,” he claimed, brows knitting. “We’re meant to protect humanity, so they can live in ignorant bliss.”

Your lips tugged downwards in displeasure. “That’s too dangerous,” you explained. “If they didn’t know, they’d have no way to protect themselves if one of our Exorcists isn’t around. How are people supposed to survive in this world if they aren’t aware of the threats that exist in it?”

He didn’t reply to that, lost for an answer. “How do they know, if they can’t see curses?”

From the back pocket of your pants, you pulled out a wooden token – an omamori. “From the shrine,” you informed him. “Grants protection, and kinda works like a siren. If a demon is close by, the omamori creates a thin barrier around the owner that can deflect most demonic attacks. Gives them enough time to get back to safety and warn the Elder.”

“Who is the Elder? You keep mentioning him.”

Giving him a wan smile, you pushed open the door of a nearby home, jolting your head towards it.

“You’re about to meet her.”

True to your word, as you stepped inside, you found the Elder sitting in her armchair, nursing a steaming cup of tea as Nori and Mirio rambled about the defeated demon.

“–And, then, she threw her tsuri-dōrō on it, and it went fwum! Totally badass!”

Mirio smacked the back of Nori’s head. “Language!”

“Wha– but it’s true!”

The Elder laughed, her crackling voice soothing the bickering pair. “It’s alright, little Mirio. They’re still young, let them be excited,” she said, placing her cup on the side table next to her chair. “Besides, we have guests.”

Both of the younger two in the room whipped their heads around to take in your and Gojo’s presence.

“Hey,” you greeted. “Miss me?”

Nori hopped up to their feet from the floor and pointed at Gojo, completely disregarding you. “That’s him! That’s the stranger!”

This time, it was you that whacked them on their shoulder. “Manners! It’s rude to point and yell.”

They pouted. “Sorry, auntie. But, that’s him, right?”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sighed. “Yes. This is–”

“Six Eyes.”

All present froze to look at the Elder, who gazed at the white-haired man with wonder and awe.

Gojo scoffed. “Finally, someone recognizes me.”

She shook her head. “Not you, boy. Your Strength. You wield the Six Eyes, do you not?”

You watched his jaw muscles feather, but the pride of someone being aware of his power overwhelmed any sort of irritation her dismissal incited. “I do. What of them?”

So, it was his eyes, after all. You were right.

“That’s powerful magic there, boy,” she warned. “Too powerful, in the wrong hands.”

He rolled his eyes (well, his head – those sunglasses were in the way, and he was notably very aware of them) and sucked his teeth. “It’s fine, I’m the strongest. Best hands, right here.”

“Elder,” Mirio tugged at the woman’s sleeve. “What are the Six Eyes?”

She took the girl’s hand into her own pair, palms worn soft with age. “They’re like your eyes, but much more powerful, my dear. Capable of seeing everything.”

“Everything?”

She confirmed, “Everything. Light, mahou, your heart. Nothing can hide from those eyes.”

Mirio placed a hand over her chest, evidently covering her heart, protecting it from Gojo’s intrusive gaze, were he to try and see it for himself.

It explained the glasses, at least. Likely to dampen the effect of his Strength. You imagined that having them bared was unpleasant, if the Elder’s words were true. Mirio suffered from potent headaches if she channeled her Strength for too long. Was Gojo’s Strength permanently activated?

“That’s not all to you, is it, child?”

Gojo grumbled something about not being a child, so you stepped in.

“He claims to have something called ‘Infinity’. In short, I can’t touch him,” you told her. “Elder Aisha, is it possible for someone to have multiple Strengths?”

Aisha considered it, resting her chin between her index and thumb. “It is, though it is more rare in today’s age. With less demons, there’s less need for an Exorcist to possess multiple Strengths. Your ancestor had two.”

“My ancestor?”

She got to her feet with a groan and pop of her knees, and hobbled over to a nearby bookshelf. Her lithe fingers skimmed over the backs of a few books, and eventually pulled one out. She popped it open and flipped through a number of pages, then handed it to you to observe.

On the page was an ukiyo-e painting of a man settled in seiza, flowing kimono robes pooling around him. On his left stood a bronze lantern, unlit, its chain looped neatly in coils under its base. You realized that it was your lantern.

“Your ancestor, Yoshitsune,” she tapped on his face, “had the ability to create any item the good spirits deemed necessary to ensure his victory in battle.”

“Fascinating…I had no idea. What about Gojo, then?”

Gojo made a noise.

You lifted your head from the book. “What?”

He crossed his arms, tapping his toe on the soft rug of Aisha’s living room. “This is boring. I didn’t come here for a history lesson.”

Your temperature spiked with anger. “You–”

“Of course,” the Elder interrupted you. “My apologies. My dear here,” she motioned towards you, “will give you a tour of our modest town. Won’t you, dear?” She asked rhetorically.

“I–”

At the way she pried your fingers off the book and snapped it shut, you promptly closed your mouth and swallowed down any objections.

“I’d be happy to,” you forced a positive inflection. You didn’t want to leave, you wanted to learn more (Aisha had a way of making your grown ass interested in anything), but you knew when to bow your head and accept a task, even if it was one you despised.

Tomorrow. You’d pester her tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, the stranger would be gone.

«___° ° °___»

Surprisingly, he was obedient in trailing after you, a bit like a duckling.

You expected more whining, more complaining, more bitching. Your home, after all, did not seem like a place that would hold his attention for any length of time. Though, you supposed that was accurate, since it was you he was keenly captivated by.

It made your stomach churn.

So, you tried to take the spotlight off of yourself. “How long are you staying?”

He shrugged one shoulder languidly. “I was gonna leave as soon as I got rid of that cursed spirit, but since you already killed it…might as well stay. A mini vacation, y’know? I definitely need one, the higher-ups have been yapping their old, greasy heads off again. It’s so annoying. They talk and talk and talk, going on and on. Can’t stand it. They never shut up.”

Tongue held between your teeth, you let him go on, ignoring your desire to stick a rock in his mouth. Currently, you planned to show him the boring spots around town, confident you could scare him into leaving early.

“Peachy,” you muttered once he paused to take a damn breath. “Great, well, I’ll show you around, then drop you off at an inn–”

“Ooooor, I can just stay with you.”

You coughed on your spit. “Pardon?”

He kicked a pebble. “I mean, it’s way more convenient. We won’t have to cut our conversations short, and we can get to know each other better.”

The lilt at the end of his sentence sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I’m way older than you, it’d be impro–”

He stopped in front of you. “I don’t care.”

Your hands clenched at your sides. “Gojo–”

“I’m serious,” he asserted. “I don’t mind that you’re older.”

“That’s not– I mind.”

Gojo raised his hands placatingly, almost as if surrendering. “Don’t worry, I won’t leech off’a ya. I’ll compensate you fairly for housing me. As thanks.”

You snarled. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You should come with me, back to Tokyo,” Gojo said. “We always need more sorcerers. Strong sorcerers.”

Whiplash. From one topic to the next, never giving you a chance to find ground to stand on.

A bubble of something trickled up your throat. Hesitance? Distaste? Anxiety? Something that made acid sting your esophagus. Your anger dissipated, replaced with disorientation. “Oh,” you responded dumbly, lagging behind. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not interested.”

“Why? It’s so much better than this place,” he insisted, jeering at your surroundings. “More interesting. Plus, I’ll be there.”

That’s exactly the issue.

Your eye twitched in offense. He knew exactly how to rile you up, and it was working, to your chagrin. The constant turbulence was throwing you off balance, pissing you off. “This is my home. I won’t stand by and let you insult it simply because our way of life is different from yours. Like I said: thanks, but no, thanks.”

The boy remained silent, expression neutral, and it had nervousness twisting in the pit of your gut. You’d rather he yell at you, shame you, call you dumb or old or what have you. So long as he didn’t examine you the way he did now, unresponsive, biding his time. Picking you apart down to the molecular level, separating your atoms until you were strewn apart, latticework for him to admire.

A dissection done by your shrine god would have been less invasive. Their hands wouldn’t have felt as abrasive while digging through your guts, their nails wouldn’t have scratched your cold, stiff arms and legs. Not the same way Gojo’s glare peeled your layers off one by one, time taken to examine each and every slice with diligent fixation.

Your god would take your Strength, and return it to the world, allowing it to one day resurface so it may return to your reincarnation when the time came.

Instinctively, you knew that Gojo would take it, and keep it for himself.

He’d wrap his hands around the flickering flame of your soul, squeeze the heart of your very being, just to feel your warmth. He’d search through your body to find what his greed most desired, and cling to it, breathing in the scent of ash and cracking cherry bark that released a sweet scent as they burned, one too enticing for him to admire only in passing.

He’d take your tsuri-dōrō and let it burn everything until only you remained, cupped in his palms, held too high above the smoking soil to consider jumping off.

Not unless you wished to succumb to the blaze yourself.

You waited.

Waited, and waited, and waited, apprehension growing, sweat forming at your hairline and slipping down your temple as you anticipated the explosion that would follow your rejection, the burst of emotion too violent to keep contained inside a body that never knew how to back down, a mind that was never told no.

He opened his mouth, you held your breath–

“Just give it some thought, okay?” Gojo smiled, his head tilting to the side benevolently. “It’s an open offer.”

–nothing.

No burst, no violent meltdown, no tantrum from the spoiled brat. No demands, no threats, none of your expectations met.

It should relieve you. To some degree, it did.

A bigger part of you, the part that had bundled up energy in preparation for an argument that wouldn’t happen and had no outlet anymore, tensed up in a brief twist of panic.

He wasn’t calm, not at all. Anyone else, he could easily fool, bearing that charming grin and nonchalant stance, his tone easy and cheery, accepting the rejection with grace and humility. Anyone that wasn’t you.

Your sensitivity to mahou meant you were painfully aware of how strongly his flared.

At your refusal, it swelled fiercely, gasoline poured over unlit charcoal. It came like a heavy downpour, a cataclysmic cleansing of the sin that infested the ground you walked on, the tree canopies you hid under. A freezing rush in the dead of summer, frostbite nipping at your fingertips, craving your heat, the iron of your blood, to feast on your vitality.

Then, it was gone.

Its swift arrival was followed by an equally swift departure, leaving behind a vacuum, energy sucked out too fast. It staggered you, your equilibrium briefly interrupted, confusion and fear making you dizzy.

But, he kept smiling, pretending nothing was wrong.

You knew better than to point it out, to mention his temper, the displeasure you knew paced back and forth, a caged animal that salivated and rubbed its side into the bars, knowing it was a matter of time until it was freed, given permission to hunt its promised meal.

You bit down your prey response, the temptation you had to fawn, to placate. Apologize, tell him you changed your mind, you’d go, so long as he didn’t destroy your home.

You’re a fighter, for fuck’s sake. An Exorcist. You’re better than this.

You stifled the need to say that aloud. To assure him you weren’t going anywhere.

“Yeah,” you said through your teeth, a strained simper. “I’ll think about it.”

«___° ° °___»

The moment you unlocked the door to your house, Gojo made a beeline for your couch, dropping into it with a weary sigh. Comfortable, right at home, like he belonged.

Just make it through the night, you tried to convince yourself. Have to make it through the night. Then, he’ll be gone.

Cracking his knuckles, he stretched out his long legs and tucked his hands behind his head. “Thanks for housing me.”

The cheek, the gall. You had trouble believing you’d somehow let the kid coerce you into permitting him entry into your private space. What would your Chichi think of you now? You mourned, grumbling as you kicked off your shoes and stacked them neatly in the genkan, scowling at the way he let his fly every which way. Because you weren’t raised to be petty (though you wanted to be), you gathered his sneakers and aligned them, too.

“Yup,” you replied sarcastically, popping the p. “My pleasure.”

He ran you ragged, practically dragging you through the streets, stopping to eat at your favorite restaurant (he paid, claimed it was ‘his treat’. The restaurant might no longer be your favorite). He demanded to see the shrine, the gift shop – “we don’t have a gift shop.” – the beach – “I’m not going swimming with you.” – anything he could put his mind to.

Frankly, you were exhausted, and wanted him out of your home, but you wanted your bed more.

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” you told him flatly. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

He whinged. “What, won’t let me in your bed?”

“I’m not giving you my bed,” you spat out grumpily as you tugged open the hallway closet and tunneled through it in search of a blanket. If you had it your way, you’d let him cover himself in toilet paper for the night, but your Mama raised you better than that. Unfortunately.

He mumbled under his breath, “That’s not what I said…”

Quilt in hand, you blinked at him, not having heard him properly. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” he swept away your curiosity in a sing-songy tone. “Where’s your bathroom?”

You waddled over to the couch, not quite able to see exactly where you were going until you dropped the pile of fabric onto the corner seat of the couch. “Oh, uh. It’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

Wordlessly, he got up and vanished into the room. The light flicked on, the door closed, and you were alone.

Visibly, the tension in your body melted, stress you didn’t know you were holding. Your shoulders slumped, and you were able to breathe, conscious of his absence. Air bolted back into the room, uninhibited now that his stifling, dominating presence wasn’t there to consume it all for himself.

For a few sacred, precious minutes, you stood there, absorbing the peace of existing without the ghostly sensation of Gojo breathing down your neck.

The sound of the tap turning on drew you out of your reverie, and you busied yourself. Unfolding the blanket, laying it across the sofa to act as both a sheet and comforter Gojo could fold over himself, propping up a nearby throw pillow, trying not to think about whatever it was he was doing in your bathroom. Pretending. Pretending all of this was normal. A familiar guest visiting from the mainland, one that acted normal, looked normal, sounded normal, was normal.

It only lasted so long.

The door opened, and out he came, yawning loudly. Round sunglasses still in place.

His hair was mussed up, face ever so slightly damp, water droplets clinging to a few strands of pure white. Fresh, ready for bed.

Like you, he was pretending. Whether for your sake, or not, you didn’t bother trying to understand.

His mahou continued to flow through his veins, primed, never released. His energy bounded off of him in waves, lazy, seafoam lapping leisurely along the beach’s shoreline. Sand darkened by the salt and water, then lightening as the murky green receded.

While you knew that he and his sorcerer kind functioned differently from you and your Exorcist kind, you were certain that his energy was distinctly abnormal. Never resting, never sated. It salivated, greedy, intent to devour anything he got his hands on.

If you weren’t careful, it’d be you he gorged himself on, ingesting you, flesh and bone and sinew and all.

“Man, I’m wiped,” he lied, stretching his arms high above his head. If he stood on his toes, his fingertips would brush the ceiling.

Your lips tugged at the corners into a flat, stiff line. “Good timing. I finished setting up the couch for you. You can go ahead and sleep now.”

As he passed you, he tapped your ass twice. “Thanks, pretty.”

You squeaked, covering your backside, but he appeared none the wiser to your plight. Or, purposefully ignorant.

Just overly friendly, he doesn’t know any better. Spoiled brat, young, a kid.

Whatever excuse you needed to comfort yourself, you sought out, jaw wound shut. He’ll be gone tomorrow. He’ll be gone tomorrow. He’ll be gone tomorrow.

The bearer of the Six Eyes plopped down onto his makeshift bed, adjusting to get comfortable, and sighed like an old dog. Happy. Right at home.

“G’night,” he drawled.

“Goodnight, Gojo.”

He grumbled something, but you were far past caring, not bothering to stop and ask him to repeat himself. Hurriedly, you locked yourself in your bathroom, hands braced on your sink, lights off. The thought of looking at yourself was unbearable, facing how much a 20-something-year-old unraveled you as easily as plucking a loose string on a knitted sweater, rows upon rows of destroyed for mere curiosity. Vapid, temporary interest.

Fuck, you couldn’t wait for him to be leave, so you could erase him from your memories using bleach and a wire brush.

Gulping down your loathing, you flicked the switch, and dared to meet the foe residing in the mirror.

She posed the same way you did, skin pulled taut over her knuckles, bones protruding from how tightly she gripped the wooden edge. Bags darkened the crescents under her eyes, cheeks sunken, scleras bloodshot. Were you a stranger, a friendly neighbor, you would have asked her if she was sick, bid her to sit down, wrapped her fingers around a steaming cup of ginger and lemon tea.

But, there was nobody who could help you now, give you that comfort. Your Mama and Chichi were on the other side of the village, enjoying having the house to themselves ever since you moved out a decade ago. Sunday brunches were a given, those weekly visits ritualistic and necessary and wanted.

Showing up uninvited, so late at night, a stranger left behind in your home?

They’d have your head on a pike.

Bear with it. You were an adult, an Exorcist. Gojo was just some runt from the mainland.

You’ll be okay.

Won’t you?

Massaging your temple to encourage your blooming headache to go away already, you reached out with your free hand to grab your toothbrush, only to halt dead in your tracks.

It was wet.

A cold shiver swarmed you, raising hairs along your arms and nape, goosebumps forming.

He–

He used your toothbrush? Your toothbrush?

It– sure, you forgot about getting him a new one, but surely he would have known to ask for one.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to breath heavily through your nose, slow and deep inhales. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fucking fine. It’s a toothbrush. You were lucky that you had spares, and even if you didn’t, you were able to use your finger in a worst-case scenario.

Pointedly avoiding the now tainted toothbrush, you rifled through the top drawer of the counter, locating a brand new one. You ripped open the packaging, ran it under the water, added toothpaste, and scoured at your teeth aggressively. You went at them like you hated them, like there was blood stuck in them, drenching the wells of your molars, staining the enamel. Behind your incisors, on your cuspids, to the back of your tongue, gag reflex triggered.

You brushed, and brushed, and brushed, panting when you finished. Fluoride in your stomach, stinging your nasopharynx, the cost to feel clean, at least here.

Had you felt safer, were there not a stranger down the hall, you would have sat down in the shower and let scalding hot water wash away your revulsion and make you anew, burn away the dirt of where he dared to touch you, of where his eyes strayed.

Choking out the toothpaste, mouth aching from the cold water you punished yourself with, you nearly clawed at your face to rinse away the oil and grime of the day, wanting to be done already.

The sooner you were in bed and fell asleep, the sooner the next day would come, and you’d be free again. Free from those eyes, that mahou, that person. If he could be called that.

if he could be considered human.

Tenderly, you opened the door and peeked down the hall, finding Gojo’s back to you, fast asleep.

Thank fuck.

Cautious as a mouse, you tiptoed to your room, skillfully avoiding all the creaky spots in the floor. You didn’t feel safe ‘til you shut and locked the door, which you leaned back onto. Gods, you were exhausted. The weight of the day hung on your shoulders, causing your feet to drag and stumble over the pile of clothes on the floor.

Bewildered, you looked down, and found a shirt, tank top, and pair of pants strewn across the floor, tossed haphazardly.

Why were they on the ground?

You didn’t recall having left them there, but then again, you weren’t the most tidy person, and tended to be forgetful. Maybe, you dropped them on your way out that morning, unworried, figuring you’d toss them in your hamper when you got home.

It rubbed you the wrong way, scales made of teeth that shredded into you, but…who else, if not you? Gojo never left the bathroom, the door remained closed the entire time he occupied it. You didn’t own any pets, but it wouldn’t have been the first time a stray cat got in. Though, you didn’t see or hear any critters scuttling around. A check of the hamper indicated that nothing hid inside it, either.

There was nobody else to blame.

The conclusion felt wrong, yet you came up with no other ideas.

So, all you could do was pick them up from their resting place on the floor and toss them into the hamper, alongside the clothes you were wearing.

Where you usually took your time getting ready for bed, liking to pamper yourself. the sensation of being watched hadn’t left you since Gojo arrived on your island. The less time you were naked for, the better, in your opinion.

Quickly, you swapped out your blouse for a loose, oversized T-shirt and slipped on a clean pair of panties. Normally, you didn’t wear more to bed, disliking the sensation of bottoms rolling up your legs while you slept, but you needed to put on something more than just underwear. You were safe in your room, but it wasn’t enough.

You searched through your dresser, tugging out the pair of sleeping shorts you found and drawing them up your legs, over your hips, finishing them off with a small bow at the front.

There. Better.

Sort of.

Not much, actually.

It’d have to do. You were sleepy, tired of the day, threadbare. Your bed called to you, and you had no intention of ignoring it.

The sheets welcomed you soothingly, embracing your form in that familiar hold you were longing for, coveting. Fluffy comforter, downy pillows, comfortable mattress, everything you required to smooth down your hackles, at last able to lower your guard. You were safe. Safe. Safe.

Images danced on your ceiling, hazy recollections and fantasies, absentminded planning, zealous to have your individuality returned to you. Dreams of taking a day off, visiting the docks, hiding from your student that would inevitably drag you to a nearby field to ‘train’, AKA watch you swing around your tsuri-dōrō. A day to yourself. All you needed was a day to yourself, and everything would be good again.

Right as your lids began to slip shut, succumbing to your exhaustion, something pressed against your lips.

Soft, warm, plush, pillowy.

Your eyes snapped open in an instant and you were sitting up, pushing away whatever was touching you, leaning over you.

In the dim, silver light of the moon, you saw him.

Gojo Satoru.

His sunglasses weren’t on, but, god, you fucking wished they were. Without them, there was nothing to conceal the horror that greeted you upon making eye contact.

Blue.

They were so, so, viscerally blue. Wide, shimmering, glossy. Fairy crystals that shone the same way the moon did; they imbibed all the light in the room, practically glowing from the sheer vim they contained alone, digesting the slivers of night.

You gasped, scooting back minutely. “What are you doing?”

How did he get in? You didn’t hear your door open, and furthermore, it was locked. It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t–

The door’s open.

It was open, swung wide to show the lightless hallway, a chasm left in dearth of his mahou.

“I’m kissing you.”

“Wh– I know that,” you snapped, eyes shifting back to him. “I’m asking why you’re kissing me.”

He blinked, considering you as if you were a few degrees short of intelligence. “I like you.”

Fuck. This is what you were worried about, on some level. You should have known. People always seemed to enjoy putting you on a pedestal, unconcerned for the discomfort it caused you. You weren’t someone to be idolized, not like this, by someone like him.

“Look, Gojo.”

“Satoru,” he corrected. “Call me Satoru.”

Your nose wrinkled. “Look, Gojo,” you emphasized. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but I’m not– this,” you pointed between yourself and him, “isn’t happening. You’re too young for me, we met today, and I’m– I’m not interested, alright?”

He frowned. “I told you that I don’t care how old you are.”

“I care,” you specified. “I care that I’m much older than you. It’s– it’s wrong. Okay?”

Lashes of pearl fluttered. “Why? I’m above the age of consent. I am consenting.”

You exhaled, growing frustrated. “That’s not the point. It’s not about the age of consent, it’s about the differences in maturity, the power imbalance. Besides, I’m not consenting.”

He kept quiet for a long moment, taking in your features, processing your little tirade. Outwardly, he gave no reaction, and you didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

But, he started to lean back, retreating from you, and you breathed out the air you were holding in relief.

Idly, defeated, he dipped his head. “I get it.”

You relaxed, muscles losing their tension. “Good, I’m glad.”

“You’re playing hard to get.”

Before you could react, he was on you, tackling you back onto your bed.

“Get off of me!” You screeched, shoving at his chest, trying desperately to lift his weight from your body.

His size was deceptive, his might hidden under layers of black cloth. You were older, you had more experience, you were supposed to be stronger. You were a teacher, you were an Exorcist, for fuck’s sake.

Yet, it took him no effort at all to pin you down, knees thrown over either side of your waist, weight settled to keep you immobilized. You struggled valiantly, fighting with all your might to dislodge him. Nothing. He didn’t so much as budge.

“I can play hard, too,” he promised, lips split, harsh pants of excitement escaping him. “That what you need, huh? Someone to knock you down a peg?”

You opened your mouth to scream, but he slammed his hand against your lips, a demented look glimmering in those terrible orbs of his. You tasted the salt of his flesh, dug your teeth into his palm, but garnered no reaction from him; none aside from the low groan that rattled in the base of his chest, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Shh, shh,” he hushed. “What’ll your neighbors think if they came in and saw this? You, in bed, with me?”

You froze, heart leaping to your throat. No, no, he wouldn’t.

“Are you really gonna let them see you taking advantage of me?” Slowly, he pulled his hand away, smirking down at you.

You peeled your tongue from the roof of your mouth, your maw suddenly painfully dry. “They won’t believe you. It’s my word against yours. I grew up with these people, they know me.”

“Did you know, most of the time, people are completely unaware that their loved one is a murderer?”

Your lip trembled. “What?”

He nodded solemnly, pouting. Degrading. Condescending. “It’s true. When interviewed, family, friends, they all say they had no idea, their loved one would never. They know them, after all. So, they’d know if their father was a murderer.”

“What are you getting at?”

He leaned closer, too close, he was going to swallow you whole. One hand toyed with the hem of your sleep shirt, twisting it, smoothing it out. “Everyone has secrets. Who’s to say this isn’t yours? Liking younger men?”

“I don’t like younger men.”

“How are they supposed to know? All they’ll see is you sharing your bed with someone who is too young for you. Your words.”

You were torn.

He was lying, manipulating you, scaring you with the thought of being ostracized by your community for something that wasn’t true. You knew it wasn’t true, you were certain that your community would know it wasn’t true.

But, how were you supposed to explain that he overpowered you? This young man, in his early twenties at most. Yes, he was strong, but you had age, experience. You should have been able to fight him off without issue.

You couldn’t.

He found no fight when he dug the spindly lengths of his digits into the edge of your shorts, and yanked.

The fabric tore on its way down your thighs, jolting and exposing more and more skin in short bursts as he tugged the material off, off, off. He spared it no mercy, disregarding your sniffles of protest. You could hear him mumbling that he’d buy you a new pair, as many as you wanted, better, prettier, as if that was what you were upset about.

His nails scratched at the bared flesh of your legs, merciless in his efforts to strip you, fighting against his odd positioning over you that he didn’t want to change. You squirmed, kicking out as best as you could. It freed one foot in the process, and he decided that was all he needed.

You blinked, and he was between your thighs, hands hooking under your knees to tug you closer, wrapping them around his lithe waist. To your absolute, utter horror, he pressed his hips directly into yours, the seam of his uniform digging into the split of your center, and you felt it. Him.

Hard. Undeniably, ruthlessly solid, flesh turned to stone. It froze you in the midst of your struggle, and he took the opportunity to grind into you, firm, unforgiving. He rolled against you, huffs and wimpish grunts spilling from his lips, and your panic was brought back tenfold. You jerked and twisted with renewed effort, trying to claw at his arms, his shoulders; wrap your fingers around his throat and squeeze until he went limp, until his chest jolted, then stilled.

For all your exertion, it did nothing to deter him. In fact, he moaned when your nails caught on the soft skin of his stomach under the rucked up edge of his top, dragging angry, vicious red lines into the pale give of the muscle beneath.

“God, I can feel you, so warm,” he hissed through his teeth, snowy lashes squeezed shut as he focused his energy into leeching the heat from your core.

Distressed, you whined, a pathetic noise unbefitting of you. Too ugly, too weak, too unlike yourself. This wasn’t happening, it simply wasn’t.

“Look at that,” he purred. “Wet for me already. Knew you were pretending.”

You startled. “I’m not!”

He set his finger against the gusset of your underwear and slid it upwards, through the natural dampness that had gathered there. He must have mistaken it for arousal.

His teeth shone white, canines sharp, primed to bite into your jugular and shake, rip, tear. Snap tendons and gnaw muscle. Eat you.

“‘Course, you are, don’t have to lie,” he patted your hip contemptuously. “I know I’m pretty. I know the effect I have on women, it’s okay, I won’t judge you. I like it.”

You inhaled to berate and lambaste and criticize him, but he didn’t let you start. He rolled his finger around your clothed clit, and all that came out of you was a pitchy, shaken noise. He focused on it, jabbing it, and was convinced your yelps of discomfort were pleasure. It was evident, his nescience, on how your body worked, what felt good for you. Granted, you doubted it’d feel good even if he did know what he was doing.

His impatience won out when he removed his hand after less than thirty seconds of scraping over where your clit was, missing half the time. Antsy, he hooked the band of your panties, tugging at the cotton material more and more discontentedly until he grabbed at it along the stitching on the side and pried it apart, thread and fibers splitting and popping.

“Hey!” You bayed.

His lips left a wet smooch on your temple, and you cringed. “It’s okay, it’s alright, I’ll buy you more. Or, better yet, don’t wear any in the first place.”

His fingers slid through your folds and you coughed on a hiccup of surprise, jerking away from him. He fastened his hand to your hip, keeping you from going any further. Hell, this was pure hell. Nothing less, nothing more; raw suffering in the form of a man intent on dragging you down to the depths with him. He’d carve a home from the molten rock, a cubby made with his own two hands, and he’d bury you in it, somewhere you’d never be able to escape and leave him.

Two fingers propped at your cunt, then pushed in, slow and piercing. You sucked on your teeth, face scrunching in discomfort as the long things poked and jabbed at your soft internals, deeper and deeper. He didn’t stop at the first, nor second joint, sorrowfully. He kept going until he physically couldn't anymore, stuffed to the knuckles, the knobby things barely grazing the nub at the top of your vulva.

You hated it with every fiber of your being.

It was uncomfortable, unpleasant, and so very far from enjoyable. Oh, but who were you to fool yourself? He wasn’t doing this for you, of course not, no matter how hard he tried to convince you that he was. That he wanted you to feel pleasure, sweet and gratifying. When he fingered you, it resembled a clinical examination more than a sexual act, the kind where you and the doctor avoided looking at each other as they tested your pelvic muscles and checked for abnormalities.

He pushed his fingers in and out, not bothering to curl them, scissor them, do anything special at all with them. They were just…there, scoring lines into your pussy, neutral.

Your relief upon their removal was short-lived. His hand fumbled with the hem of his pants, allowing you to notice that his belt had already been loosened, button and zipper undone, pulled low. Blue and white striped boxers sat on display for a brief period, then were pulled under his stiff length, revealing it to you.

Long, not especially thick, curved upwards, the tip an angry pink that neared on red.

Fuck no. No, no, no, this was not happening, not to you.

You might as well have been fighting against a stone golem, though, for how little he reacted to your attempts at escape. He paid no mind to your spitting, your thrashing, your begging pleas for him to not do this to you, to reconsider, your assurances that you’d forgive him if he’d just stop right this instant!

If you didn’t know any better, to him, you were nothing more than the annoying buzzing of a fly trying to get his attention. Something for him to swat away, squash uncaringly.

Your heart dropped to your toes when you felt the tip of his leaking cock notch against your unprepared hole, your chest seizing, your lungs collapsing beneath the sheer weight of your raw, unfiltered fear.

Then, with no consideration for you, he shoved forward, and seated himself to the root in one vile, painful thrust.

You didn’t realize you were crying until your voice broke, splintering apart in your throat.

Above you, Gojo was panting, whining, practically trembling where he sat, pelvis flush to yours. Your spine arched off the bed, burning pain pulsing inside your core from the forced stretch. You were no prude, but it’d been so long since you’d lain with anyone. You were barely wet enough for a sheen to show on your folds, let alone take anything inside you without the careful prep he lacked the skill to partake in.

Gojo didn’t care for it, evidently.

He was too impatient, too needy, too eager. He yearned too much, and didn’t stop to think about what he wanted, just that he wanted it now.

You sobbed, hiccuping, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes to race to your temples. He cooed at the sight, leaning forward, closer to your face. The movement carried him further, his tip nudging against the squishy ring of your cervix, and you wailed.

“Oh, shh, shh, it’s okay, I’m here,” he purred. “I’m here now. You don’t have to worry, I’m not going anywhere. You have me.”

“Pull out– pull out!” You yelled at him, pounding against his chest.

He grinned. “Want me to move already? D’aw, who am I to deny my woman?”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, no, no–!”

Your imploration came a moment too late, and fell on ears that were never going to listen to you.

Satoru drew back until the ridge of his glans tugged against the thin webbing of your entrance, and then, he barged back into you, splitting your walls apart to make room for himself.

The friction was agonizing, unforgiving. It scraped against you, sandpaper on fragile glass, painstakingly etched and painted patterns and designs worn away in rapid passes by an uncaring hand. He was intent on erasing the marks placed on you by time, by the ones you grew up with, loved, hated, missed, and replace them entirely with stains made in his visage.

Tattoos you’d never be able to remove; hundreds of eyes with endlessly cerulean depths that sucked in any unfortunate to see them. Lines and crosses and nooses that, no matter how hard you scrub, would continue to choke you forevermore.

You opened your eyes, vision blurred with tears, and startled to find pitch black voids.

Accretion disks of swirling tanzanite orbited pools of bottomless ink, meres that spanned miles across, nearly consuming the cornflower of their enclosure. Were it not for the tight rings keeping them confined, you were sure they’d spill and flood the world, drown you in their infinite expanses, under their waves. It’d fill your lungs until they burst, pour into your veins until red bled out and left you suffocating in the eternal void that was Gojo Satoru.

His inexperience shown through in the rough, jerky movements of his hips, the way every other thrust seemed to nudge into that one spot that made electricity race through your joints, while the ones in between punched directly into the sensitive nerves at the furthest point inside you, fornices bullied and bruised.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, landing in wet splats on your chest and collarbone where he hovered, hot breaths fanning across your tacky cheeks. You cringed at the sensation, trying to angle your head away.

Oh, but Satoru – he only saw that as an invitation, one he had no qualms about accepting.

He buried his face into the side of your neck, latched onto the skin over your fluttering pulse, and sucked. Hard.

You sobbed, spine arching, forlorn as he branded you in the form of broken capillaries and teeth-shaped indents. He suckled, cruel and vile, slobbering onto you like a mutt. Purebred, but he was no better than the beasts he put down, rotten to the core, that was the only thing that could explain this, him.

He kissed his way up your jaw to your cheeks, nipping at them; to your lobe, licking into the shell of your ear, and you recoiled from him. His chest vibrated with a hoarse chuckle, enamored with your violent indignation. He sought to lock lips with you, but all his humor fell away when you avoided his mouth, upper lip curled into a sneer.

A hand roughly grabbed your jaw, pressuring you to look at him, the anger that marred his unfairly beautiful features. Brows pinched, eyes narrowed, fire licking up the column of his spine to spread like poison on his tongue.

“Do not run away from me,” he snarled, nose almost tip-to-tip with yours, invading. “You’re gonna kiss me back, or I’ll get the entire fuckin’ town in here and make sure they know you forced yourself on me. Got it?”

You drank down your antipathy and resentment for him, aware now that, if he was willing to overpower someone over a decade his senior for his own pleasure and gain, he’d absolutely make good on his threat. If he was willing to ruin your body, he was more than willing to ruin your life.

What choice did you have but to open your mouth and let him spit into it? How could you do anything but give in, let him mash your lips together, let him shove his tongue down your throat and feed on you until all that remained of you were bones and teeth and hollow eye sockets?

The basin of your mahou hemorrhaging through the puncture wound in your chest, run through a sieve to gather the flecks of gold and red blood cells that comprised your entire being. Plasma leaching from your marrow, spilling into a worthless puddle on dry soil to water a flora long dead. Lungs suctioned flat to your thoracic vertebrae, organs shriveled, body reduced to a useless shell, a pitiful imitation of life.

For once, you blessed a man for his inexperience, as it meant Satoru was done with you in a couple minutes. They stretched forever and ever, vanishing beyond the horizon, but it was done, he was done. He spilled inside you, but that was an issue for a separate time, something else to be dealt with when you weren’t under the body of a demon wearing the skin of a man. Evil embodied.

Should have exorcised him as soon as you saw him, you shamed yourself.

But, it was over. He would get off you, and you–

You startled when you felt the pad of his thumb nudging at your clit, uneven back-and-forth swipes that halfway resembled circles, and started sliding in and out of you once more.

“Gotta make– gotta make a wo-woman squirt if ya wanna – fuck, you’re so warm – wanna knock her up. That’s what he–” he choked, stilling for a second, then harshly pounded into you out of the blue.

It shocked you, your mouth dropping into a silent yowl, tears sprinkling your clumped lashes like weeping stardust.

“That’s what he told me,” he spat out, rage flashing in his eyes, across the furrow of his brow. “Maybe, not everythin’ was a lie, eh? Maybe, he was tellin’ me the truth about somethin’.”

He was gone from this world, you could tell. It was in the way he no longer saw you, the woman he’d shoved onto her own bed, the person who’d taken pity on him, housed him, taught him how she lived, survived. He had this far away look, this seething hatred, this pulsing need, this agonizing sorrow that ate him from the inside out. A wound that scabbed, but never healed, always present, always twitching in time with his heart, reminding him of its presence.

Heartbreak.

Gone as quickly as it came, he was seeing you again, and you wished beyond everything that he was still in that distant headspace of his, where you didn’t exist, where you could pretend none of this was real. A bad dream. A demon that slithered through the cracked-open window to infest your mind and feed off your nightmares.

His eyes made that impossible, sadly. All they did was remind you, assure you, that this was as real as ever.

Slowly, he leaned down, lashes never fluttering. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, breath fanning into the conch, and he spoke.

“Let’s find out together, yeah?”

«___° ° °___»

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he wrapped one of his arms around his neck and pressed on the elbow to stretch it, taking the opportunity to scratch his back while he was at it. “You’re gonna tell that little group of yours that you’re coming back to Tokyo with me–”

You bristled. “No.”

“–or, I’ll tell them that you took advantage of me while I was sleeping.”

Nausea roiled in your stomach. “You wouldn’t.”

He leveled you. “I will, and I won’t feel bad about it.”

You stared at him, trying to figure him out, call him out on his bluff, but you knew he wasn’t lying. Saliva coated your mouth, and you had to swallow to hold back the urge to spill acid onto the floor.

When you spoke, your voice was far too soft, too broken. A pitiable whimper. “Please, don’t.”

The boy shrugged casually. “I’m being nice, you know, by giving you a choice. It’s up to you. I’m happy to do it either way.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

You didn’t flinch when he cupped your jaw as tenderly as he would a lover’s, swiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ll take good care of you, promise,” he swore. “Make sure you want for nothing. Give you all you want. I have more than enough money for both of us. For a whole family. Whaddya say, hm?”

You never did have a choice, did you?

Not from the moment you were born on this island, not when you obtained your Strength, not when you were trained to be an Exorcist, or when Akinori attached themselves to your hip in spite of your vehement refusal to tutor them.

And, not from this.

From becoming Gojo’s.

Having gone into autopilot, you obeyed his orders, fearing what he’d do if you didn’t. No need to pack anything, he said, I’ll just buy you new stuff at home. Better than these rags. Come on, let’s go. Early birds and worms and all that.

The village was as peaceful as ever, this time of day.

The fishermen had set out to the sea about an hour earlier, right before dawn broke through the nebulous heavens. Those that stayed behind roused late, taking the chance to catch a bit more shut eye.

You, too, would have been enjoying a long rest, were it not for the tidal wave that loomed on the horizon, threatening, waiting for you. White-crested waves, foam spitting up from their roiling motions; an endless abyss that pined to swallow you whole. It whispered that you had a choice, an order to give, one it would happily deliver on.

Sacrifice yourself, or let all you love be washed into the ocean, your own personal Atlantis.

Akinori, Mirio, and the Elder also weren’t able to enjoy the extra rest, much to your guilty conscience.

They stood in front of you in a row, each wearing their own miens of disappointment, of hurt, of grief.

Aisha glared at you, really. You’d made a promise to protect this land, your home, after all. And, now, you were going back on your word, your vow. She had every right to despise you, to scorn you. She didn’t, though, you knew. You wished she did. She saw right through you, past the cracks in your façade, the lies you fed her about wanting to learn more about demons and be stronger for them, better.

To save the world.

In reality, it was to save only yourself.

Please, understand, you begged silently. There’s no other way.

Mirio had her hands clutched in front of her, gazing anywhere but at you. Her brows were pinched in the center, and you yearned to lean forward and press your thumb to the wrinkle forming there, to brush it away with that signature cheeky smirk of yours, and a caution that she’d age faster if she made faces like that.

You kept your hands, stained and bloody, to yourself, not wishing to taint her with your sin.

Akinori appeared uncharacteristically serious. Severe.

Gone was their impish demeanor, their mischievous nature. In its place sat an emptiness, a chasm formed too soon; a ball of ice drained before it could freeze its core to keep itself whole. Your heart ached for them, your stomach twisted into knots, your throat squeezing tighter and tighter until you were sure that your vocal cords would burst from your neck.

“You’re really going, then,” they said. A statement, not a question.

Still, you nodded.

“There’s so much to learn out there, beyond Kami-shima,” you reasoned, lying through your teeth. The words tasted like ash and acid on your tongue. “Power we never knew existed. Imagine it – I’ll get stronger, then we’ll never have to worry about demons invading our home ever again, yeah?”

“You promise?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you spotted Gojo standing a distance away. Far enough that he resembled a stick figure, but still close enough for you to feel his stare burning into your back.

You swallowed, and faced Nori again, whispering to them, needing to ensure it stays between you and them, and nobody else, especially not Gojo.

“You have my heart,” you said. “Keep it safe for me until I can get it back, okay?”

They peered deep into you, glancing between your eyes, trying to seek out the deeper meaning in your words – if there was any. You simultaneously hoped they would and wouldn’t find it; a selfish desire to be seen, to be acknowledged, and the knowledge that they’re safer knowing nothing about you. Forgetting about you.

Nori nodded once, tersely.

You took that as your cue to leave.

Taking your hands off their shoulders, you drew in a deep breath, let it out, and gave the trio a smile you could only hope was semi-convincing.

“Don’t wait up for me, yeah?” You laughed. It sounded strained. “I’ll see you all again.”

Whether or not they knew it was a lie, you said nothing more, and didn’t stay to hear what they would say. It would break your heart worse than the whole interaction already had, worse than the knowledge that your chances of actually returning home were slim to none.

Picking up a light jog, you left them behind, joining Gojo at his side. He didn’t hesitate to pull out a hand from his pocket and link it with yours, fingers intertwining and squeezing until the bone inside ached.

He smiled innocently up at you, anyway. “Finally done?”

You glanced over your shoulder, hoping to see that your little family had already left, praying they hadn’t. Uncertainty over your own emotions fizzled under the surface when you saw they were there, watching you, unmoving.

For what you knew would be the last time, you mouthed goodbye to them, and closed your eyes, blocking them from sight.

“Yeah,” you coughed out.

His smile could be heard through his voice. “Great, I was waiting ages. You talk way too much, y’know? You’re gonna love Tokyo. I’ll take you to all the good places…”

You tuned out his voice, letting him ramble to his content as he guided you away from the village, away from Kami-shima, away from the one home you knew. Where you were born, where you lived, and where you were certain you would die.

When he squeezed your hand, you brought yourself back to the present, longing to sink into a void. To disappear, never have to deal with this, with him.

When did you ever have a choice, though? The moment he saw you, it was over for you.

“There’s no place like home, right?” He prodded, poking your side with his elbow.

“Mhm,” you agreed with a rigid growl, clenching your jaw, gritting your teeth. “No place like home.”

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AN: thank you for reading :D I hope you enjoyed ♥

#tw: noncon #tw noncon #asterlust writes #The World You Never Knew #TWYNK #dark!gojo x reader #yandere!gojo x reader #yandere x reader #yandere!jjk x reader #yandere!gojo #dark!gojo #this is a repost from my other account #so please don't worry #I'm not out here stealing a fic from someone else #chimera-dreams is my account

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cutehoons02 · 2 months ago

Text

Between love and revenge

*pairing: alpha leader Heeseung x omega Girl

*trope: : Forbidden love/Enemies to lovers/Dark romance

*synopsis: Y/n, an omega, has avoided an unhappy marriage with Jiwon thanks to the intervention of Heeseung, an alpha who, driven by revenge against his father, has bonded her to him. Despite the bond, Y/n struggles with anger and resentment towards Heeseung, feeling trapped between hatred and a growing passion. Their relationship develops amidst Y/n's inner conflict and Heeseung's determination to show her that, beyond revenge, there is a deeper connection. But between secrets, lies, and the weight of the past, both are forced to confront the truth of their emotions and the meaning of the bond that unites them.

Between lust and revenge <- I recommend that you read Part 1.

(6.8k❤️‍🔥)

*tags: A lot of tension, Heeseung slowly becomes downbad for her, Y/n discovers a secret that will upset his life, lies, obsession, kisses, bites, unprotected sex (in the woods) traformation of Heeseung in alpha, double annotation, unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) (normal sex-doggy sex) tamper with your feelings, +18 *(reference to a pregnancy to violate the laws between alpha and omega by Y/n’s father raping an alpha girl)

You had always thought that the worst moment of your life would be the day of your marriage to Jiwon. The idea of being chained to an omega who treated you like an object to possess, who dreamed of breaking your wings to force you into a golden cage, made you sick to your stomach. But now… the worst was over. Or at least, that’s what you believed. You walked towards the college cafeteria with a heavy heart and a head full of questions. The bond with Heeseung had been real. Raw. Powerful. Your body still carried the marks from the night before. But your mind? It was a battlefield. You had given everything, even what you never thought you’d offer anyone. And now… you would be watched. Judged. Commented on. You entered the grand Victorian cafeteria, and the silence was almost deafening. Everyone was looking at you. Some with their mouths hanging open, others already whispering among themselves, throwing glances your way. You could feel every unspoken word like a blade on your skin. You lifted your chin. You had to. They wouldn’t see shame, not today. You walked as if every step was a declaration: “I’m here, and I don’t regret it.”

It was then that the voice of your best friend, an Alpha, broke the tension. She ran toward you with a smile that clashed with the coldness of the atmosphere. She hugged you tightly, as only someone who truly knew you could. 'Y/n… how did it go?' she whispered in your ear, her voice full of real emotion. Then she pulled back slightly and sniffed the air. 'Oh my God… you smell like him. I can sense him everywhere.' You smiled faintly, your eyes already burning. “It was amazing,” you answered in a hoarse but honest voice. Too amazing. And at that moment, you hated yourself for still having feelings for him. She caressed your face. 'You were so brave. The Alphas… the elders… they’ll want to honor you. They’re already preparing a ceremony—' She didn’t finish. A scream cut through the air. “Y/N!”

You stiffened. Your blood froze in your veins. You turned slowly… and you saw him. Jiwon. He was walking toward you, furious, his eyes bloodshot with rage. He yelled at you, words full of venom. <WHORE! You got bonded to that piece of shit just to avoid marrying me?!> he shouted, his voice echoing off the ancient walls. You trembled. Not from his words, but from his hatred. He stopped five steps away, suddenly panting. He put a hand to his nose, disgusted. <You stink… you smell like him. That fucking Alpha!> You forced yourself to stand tall. “At least Heeseung… will let me study. Go out with my friends. Live.” <Live?!> he laughed bitterly. <You’re an Omega! Your duty is to stay at home, give birth, serve. It’s the man who works, who commands. It’s nature!> You stared at him. “It’s not mine. I don’t want that.” He looked down at you, degrading you with his gaze. As if you were just a mistake. <Your father will kill you for this.>

-No, he won’t.- The voice came from behind. Cold. Sure. Deadly. Sunghoon. One of Heeseung’s best friends. A feared and respected Alpha. He stepped forward, positioned himself between you and Jiwon. He looked down at him. -She is one of us now. Part of our family. No man will touch her again. And if any of them tries… they’ll die before they even get the chance.- Jiwon clenched his jaw, but took a step back. <It’s not over,> he hissed. He looked at you one last time… and walked away. You stood there, your heart in your throat, Heeseung’s scent still on you, your body tense, and your mind screaming. But had you won? Or at least, had you begun to?

Sunghoon looked at you with a cold, cutting gaze. There was no compassion, only a chilling, unrelenting authority. -Take her to her room,- he said to your best friend. -It’s better for her safety.- She let out a soft sigh, pulling you close. 'Hoon, don’t you think you’re overdoing it? She’s already under enough pressure. There’s no need to treat her like she’s in danger—' But he interrupted her with a cynical look. -The problem isn’t her. It’s the others.- Then he turned to both of you, his tone ice-cold: -From now on, move in pairs. And don’t open the door to anyone who doesn’t carry our mark.- It wasn’t a request. Your friend nodded, holding your hand tightly and pulling you away, away from those inquisitive eyes. As soon as the door to your room closed behind you, you collapsed onto the bed, your gaze fixed on the ceiling. You whispered quietly, almost not wanting to hear the answer: "I’ve messed up, haven’t I?" Absolutely.

Your phone had been vibrating for hours. Every relative, every branch of the family, every Omega who knew you… wanted to know if it was true. And when you answered yes, insults, threats, screams, and spit flew through the screen. They’d called you a disgrace. A traitor. A broken piece. But still, no call had come from your father. The door opened slowly. Your mother entered in silence, as though knowing she had to measure each step, each word. She sat down beside you on the bed, gently stroking your hair. 'You were brave,' she said softly. 'I’m proud of you.' You looked at her, surprised. "Did you know I didn’t want to marry Jiwon?" you asked, your voice cracking. She smiled bitterly. 'I’ve known for years. I just hoped that… time would fix everything. But you’re not like me, Y/n. You don’t bend. Never.' You swallowed hard. "Did I do the right thing?" There was a long silence. Then she said: 'There’s no right answer. But if Heeseung bonded you without killing you… it means that, somehow, you’re his. Almost like you’re soulmates.' You jumped to your feet, your heart racing. "Don’t say nonsense, mom. Heeseung hates me. He did it just for revenge." But inside, deep down… a tiny spark. A stupid, fragile hope that there was more to it. That touch, that caress at the end of the knot… had been real, especially the kiss he’d given you on your forehead…

The moment was abruptly interrupted by a firm knock on the door. The headmaster. He entered with the solemnity of a judge. 'Y/n. I need you to come with me. The royal hall has been called to order.' Your blood froze. You didn’t even have time to ask why. You followed him. The hallway seemed endless. When you entered, every important figure on campus — Alpha, Omega, Beta — was there. The clans were gathered. And at the end of the room… there he was. Heeseung. Standing still, motionless, with his clan surrounding him. He was looking at you. Dark, deep, unreadable eyes. But he was looking at you. He made a slow, barely perceptible nod. It froze your blood, and then you saw him. Sitting in the middle row. Your father. The world crashed down. He couldn’t look you in the face. When he did… it was only to spew words full of hatred. ---You’ve dishonored me. You’ve humiliated me in front of everyone. You were supposed to be a wife, a mother. And instead… you allowed yourself to be marked by a murderer! By that bastard!-- Every word was a dagger. --You’re no longer my daughter. You are nothing. You are a damn disgrace.-- You didn’t know what to say, but Heeseung’s laughter was dry, muffled, yet it exploded like a gunshot in the council hall. A sound so out of place that it broke the silence, making even the oldest leaders flinch. You spun around quickly. You watched him rise slowly from the throne reserved for the supreme Alphas. His clan was silent, united, eyes focused on him, and some on you, like Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Jay.

With confident strides, Heeseung stepped forward. Every movement seemed calculated. Lethal. He stopped in front of you, his body almost brushing against yours. One breath, and you would be enveloped in his scent. But he didn’t turn. His gaze was fixed straight on your father. "The only murderer in this room is you," he said, his voice sharp as glass. "You killed my brother. Not for revenge. Not for survival. But because he was stronger than you. Because you couldn’t tolerate another Alpha being superior to you." A murmur spread among the crowd. You were short of breath, your hands shaking. "And now you play the moralist?" Heeseung continued, his look full of pure contempt. "Y/n doesn’t belong to you. She never did. And she will be mine. Because inside her, there’s not only Omega blood… but Alpha blood as well." The silence became deafening. Some leaders whispered, others stared at you in disbelief. You didn’t understand. You stammered, "W-what is he saying? I… I don’t—" Heeseung laughed again. A fiercer sound, almost amused. "Your father has never spoken to you, except for duties. He has never touched you with a gesture of affection. And you know why? Because he knew you weren’t his wife’s daughter."

You turned towards your father. His eyes were filled with hatred. With blind rage. But also… with something that seemed like fear. "It was you who came to me," Heeseung continued, his tone now harsher. "You were the one who sought me out. Because something inside you knew. That becoming the wife of an Omega would have killed you. It would have taken everything from you. Including your soothing powers." A roar rose. Someone stood up. The others looked at your father, shocked. You felt like you were drowning. "ENOUGH!" your father shouted. And in a reckless gesture… he drew a sword. Panic spread. You didn't think: you immediately took refuge behind Heeseung, your heart pounding furiously. He didn't move. He didn't step back even an inch. "Say it," Heeseung hissed, his eyes fixed on that man who had ruined two generations. "Say it in front of everyone. Confess the truth." Silence fell again like a curtain. "That Y/n… is not the daughter of your mate. But the result of your sick experiment." The eyes of the council were fixed on him. Some already knew. Others didn't want to believe it. Heeseung continued, relentless.

"You raped an Alpha. Because you wanted to prove that an Omega like you could break the natural law. You wanted to see if an Alpha, and my brother’s future wife, could accept the knot of an Omega. And when the result... was Y/n... you hid everything. But she is not your mistake. She is your sentence."

Your father shouted. But no one listened. The leaders stood up, one after the other. The guards moved, and you, amidst it all... felt your knees buckle. Your eyes burned. The truths fell down on you like avalanches, the tears carved your face like burning blades. You couldn’t breathe, nor think. Only one question, desperate and raw, exploded in your throat.

"Is it true?!" you screamed, your voice cracking with anguish. "I’m not my mother’s daughter?! I was never loved because... because I was just the result of an experiment?!"

Your father didn’t speak.

But it didn’t matter. Silence is consent. The law was clear. The room was a witness. And you had just lost every foundation of your existence.

You collapsed to the floor, on your knees. Your hands on your face, your body shaken with sobs. Everyone was watching you. The leaders. The clans. The elders. But no one moved. Except for her.

Your best friend, the only one who, in that moment, could have pulled you away from that hell. She ran towards you but stopped suddenly. Not because she didn’t want to reach you.

But because of him, Heeseung.

Still there, unmoving, tall, cold. One look—just one, icy, full of command—was enough to stop her. And she obeyed. She stopped a few steps from you, bitten by pain, but helpless.

You kept crying, silently screaming. In your mind, all the lies played out, all the moments when you’d only asked for a caress, a hug, a word of love... and you had received only coldness. Now everything made sense. A horrible, sick sense, then, in the chaos of your collapse, a hand. A warm hand, placed on your back. A slow, almost imperceptible touch. It drew circles, small, continuous. Trying to calm you. To support you, and you... felt it. Him.

His scent. The one you now knew all too well. The one you had burned into your skin. Heeseung. You froze because in that gesture, there was too much. Too much warmth for someone who hated you. Too much sweetness for someone who had used you. Too many contradictions, now you understood it.

You hadn’t just been his revenge. You hadn’t just been the daughter of the man who had killed his brother. You had become the perfect pawn. His way to prove to the world that an Omega could be strong, that the rules could be rewritten... but also a weapon to mask his own needs. His desire to dominate... and maybe, something more.

You suddenly stood up. Eyes swollen, but proud, you looked at him, your voice trembling, but clear.

"I don’t want to be touched by anyone, especially not by you, Lee Heeseung."

He didn’t move. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t say a word and you... ran away.

Leaving it all behind: the lies, the council, your family... and him. But not the feelings. Those, like the knot... you carried them inside.

In those days, you hated everyone.

From the first to the last. There was no face, no name, that didn’t make your blood boil. Discovering that all the Alphas knew the truth was like receiving a second knot, this time in your soul. Not just Heeseung, not just your father: even the others. All those proud, arrogant faces, who had always looked down on you... they knew, and they kept silent. Your "mother" had tried to talk to you in every possible way. She knocked softly on the door. She left letters under your teacup. Sometimes she sat outside your room, in silence, just to let you know she was there. But you... couldn’t even look at her. You had been given a new room, closer to your best friend's, in the section reserved for Alphas. An exception granted only because of your bond with Heeseung, but you didn’t feel like an Alpha. You only felt the echo of his knot inside you. A mark. A call. A sentence. The Omega aura that surrounded you had become stronger, more palpable, and at that moment... more painful. That afternoon, however, you gave in. You opened the door, and she entered in silence. Red eyes. A tired gaze. She told you everything. She said she loved you. That she had always loved you. That, even though you hadn’t come from her womb, you were her only daughter.

"I couldn’t have children," she confessed, her voice cracked. "And when your father told me that... that he had found an infant, I... I thought she was the daughter of his previous partner. That she had died in an accident. I never knew the truth. Not until much later. But when I held you in my arms... you became mine." You looked at her. In silence. "Do you know my real mother?" you asked. You didn’t even know where that calm voice had come from. She shook her head. "No. Only the Alphas know her. Only them... and Heeseung." Your stomach tightened. You nodded slowly. No tears. Just exhaustion.

You saw him every day. Heeseung. In class. In the cafeteria. In the halls. Everywhere. Always with that leader-like posture, with that inscrutable gaze and slow, dominating steps. But there was something different. A subtle tension. A crack in his usual control. He tried to talk to you. He waited for you outside the classroom. He got closer when you were taking notes. Sometimes he let you pass in front of him in line, as if it were casual. But it wasn’t. Once, he brushed your wrist when you both reached for the same book in the library. "Y/n..." he murmured. And you gave him only a blank stare, your eyes frozen. And you left him there. Another time, after a class, he followed you all the way to the courtyard.

"You can’t avoid me forever," he said, his voice low, controlled. You didn’t stop.

"Look how you managed to do it for twenty-two years," you replied without turning around. You saw him stiffen. But he didn’t respond.

Every gesture of his was poison. Every attempt, every look, reminded you that he had lied to you.

He had pretended to hate you to justify his control. He had used your desire for freedom to take revenge. He had known everything. About your birth. About your identity, and yet... he had tied the knot with you. He had chosen you, and you couldn’t understand if it was yet another lie or the cruelest truth of all.

A month had passed. Four weeks of silence. Of walls built up. Of coldness that burned more than any knot. You only spoke to his cousin, your best friend, and with the teachers, you only answered when absolutely necessary. A word here, a nod there. And the rest? Silence.

He watched you. Always. He followed you with his gaze in class. He looked for an excuse to brush past you in the hallways. Occasionally, he would place his tray near yours in the cafeteria, but you’d change tables before he could even open his mouth. Everyone had started whispering. That maybe Heeseung had made a mistake. That maybe choosing to knot with you had been a mistake. An Alpha chasing his mate, a half-Alpha Omega, and being ignored like any other student. An embarrassment. A reversal of roles that no one understood… except you. In class, you threw sharp barbs. Once, while discussing bonds and compatibility, you raised your hand:

"Professor, what happens if an Alpha deludes himself into thinking he can control an Omega just because he’s marked her body, but not her heart?" The class erupted in laughter. Heeseung didn’t move a muscle. But his fingers, under the desk, clenched until they turned white.

Another time, while discussing leadership: "There’s a difference between commanding and knowing how to lead. Some Alphas think arrogance is charisma, when it’s actually just… weakness disguised." And there you looked at him. Straight in the eyes, with contempt.

That evening, however, something in him snapped. Heeseung knocked on your door. Once. Twice. Ten times. "Y/n!" Silence, he knocked harder. "Open up, damn it!" The door next to yours suddenly opened. His cousin, your best friend, popped out in pajamas, looking annoyed.

"What do you want, Heeseung?" she huffed. "Where is she?!" he growled. "Where the hell has she gone?!" She shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with feigned calm. "Maybe she doesn’t want to be found." "Don’t play games with me, ___!" He snapped at her, approaching menacingly. "Tell me right now where the hell she is!" But she didn’t back down. She looked him in the eyes and teased him with a sharp smile. "What’s wrong, does it bother you that now she gets to decide where and with whom she stays? That she’s ignoring you like a first-year girl who’s regretted it?" "Enough!" Heeseung growled. He grabbed her wrist, but without force. Only desperation. "You know her better than anyone. Where could she be?!" She lowered her gaze for a moment, sighed. Then, she looked him in the eyes. "If you know her at all... you’ll know where to find her." He stopped. His mind was in chaos. Three places. Three memories.

- "The classroom where we kissed for the first time..." A whisper. - "The waterfalls... no. Too far." And finally: - "The lake... beneath the university. On the edge of the forest." He said it in a half voice. His eyes full of panic.

"You’re crazy!" He shouted at his cousin. "You let her go there alone?! At this time?!" She pulled away from him with a sharp motion. She looked at him proudly. "She’s not just an Omega. She’s half Alpha, Hee. Like me. She knows what she’s doing." Then, with a cutting tone: "But you... do you even know what you want to do with her? Or do you just want her to come back to you to fill the emptiness you’ve created yourself?"

Heeseung ran down the castle stairs. But halfway down... he was no longer human. His bones cracked and rebuilt themselves, his clothes shredded to pieces, and his breath became sharper, deeper, wilder. The transformation was instinctive, necessary — his true Alpha nature broke free from all control. He sniffed. The evening wind immediately brought the scent. Your scent — a mix of Omega and Alpha, a fragrance that no one in the world had ever had, and within that aroma was his. Imprinted, mixed, fused. The knot was still inside you, still alive. Still his. The garden opened before him. His paws sank into the wet ground. He ran as fast as he could, between the hedges and the night flowers, sliding toward the lake like a shadow among the stars. When he neared the water... he howled. A desperate, raw, primal howl — a call. A lament. A cry of love and anger together. Where are you...? Then... he saw you. Sitting.

On that wrought-iron chair facing the lake. Still. Hair in the wind, face absent, the aura powerful — a creature born to exist between two worlds and hated by both. Heeseung ran. He jumped between the bushes, lowered his muzzle, felt the beat of your heart even from afar. When he was only a few steps away from you, your aura reacted. You turned. You looked at him and stood up abruptly to leave. No. Not this time. With a leap, he trapped you. He pushed you against the chair, with both gentleness and force, using his animal body to hold you in place. He sniffed you. Everywhere. Your neck, your wrists, your heart. Then he began to lick you. A warm, slow, adoring tongue. On your neck. Under your ear. Your jaw. Your cheek. Your chin. Every lick was a confession. A "I miss you," a "forgive me," a "you're mine," and your body… began to give in. "Heeseung…" you murmured. His name came from you like a stifled sob. He stopped. Pulled away. And in an instant, he was human again. Naked, trembling, vulnerable — his eyes… were not the same as before. A mix of deep brown and blood red. The animal soul and the human one merged within him. And all of it was directed at you. "Y/n…" he whispered. But before he could say anything else… "I hate you." The words came out like an open wound. They weren’t just anger. They were pain — a "you broke me." He stayed there, naked under the moon, silent. And for the first time… he didn’t know what to say. You spat out your anger. "You disgust me." "You're just a bastard." "You used my body for revenge, and now what? Do you want me to forgive you?!"

Each insult was a wound. But he didn’t stop. He bit your skin, with delicate animal-like tenderness. As if to say, "I’m here. Still. Even if you hate me." Then he changed. He slowly transformed. His paws became hands. His muzzle took the form of his face. His chest rose and fell in search of breath. But his eyes remained those of the Leader. The eyes of the Alpha who had marked you but also those of the boy who, maybe, had chosen you. "Stop…" he whispered. He held you tighter, pressing you against his bare chest. "Stop trying to be strong alone. Stop thinking that only you are suffering." You lifted your face, your eyes watery, full of rage. "And what do you know? You who plays at being the savior. You’re weak too, Heeseung." He closed his eyes, as if those words had hit him square in the chest, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he caressed your back, then your side. Slowly. As if he didn’t want to scare you, but to make you crumble. "I wanted to make you suffer… truly." Your voice trembled. "I thought about ending it. So you’d never be able to knot anyone. Not love. Not forget me." Silence. Only the lake. Only the heartbeat. Heeseung paled. His eyes widened. Then he screamed.

"Never say something like that again!" He grabbed you by the arms, and with slow movements, he took off your sweater. Every inch he uncovered, he kissed. He bit with gentle ferocity, not as punishment, but as a confession. A plea. A "forgive me" without words. His voice lowered, broken, angry. "You’re mine. But not because of possession. Because I feel you in every breath. In every dream. In every damn part of my being." And in the silence that followed, while his teeth left an imperceptible mark on your shoulder, you... stayed. His lips were everywhere on your neck, your chest, between your shoulder blades, along the fragile line of your soul. And his bites... Oh, his bites made you moan. Not only for the primal pleasure that set every nerve on fire, but for the dull pain you had been carrying inside for weeks. It was as if his body wanted to heal you. As if each lick, each kiss, each press of his tongue meant: "Stay. Breathe. Come back."

Your hands gripped his strong arms, the pulsing veins of his bare chest, illuminated only by the full moon. He looked like a vision, a nightmare and a dream fused together. "I can't take it anymore…" he whispered, his voice broken, labored. His fingers trembled slightly on your skin. "I want to feel your lips on mine again." You stopped him. You looked him in the eyes, those eyes so familiar yet so foreign. And you warned him. "You didn’t come to save me. You came to ease your conscience, Heeseung. You don’t want me… you want to forgive yourself." For a moment, even the wind stopped. His breath slowed, his body still wrapped in yours, but his soul laid bare. "I'm sorry…" he whispered. "I'm really sorry. I want to make up for everything…" And that’s when you screamed. With all the pain. With all the truth. "I want to forget! I want to forget all of this, Heeseung! I want it to never have happened! I want you to have never touched me! Never looked at me! Never chosen me!" He snapped. He grabbed your face in his hands, gently but roughly. His eyes, wet and furious, pierced through your soul. "NO, the most beautiful thing in my life… the only thing I don't want to forget… is you." He looked at you as if you were his entire universe. As if all the chaos that had built him had been created for this moment alone. "You were my ruin and my salvation. The only moment I felt peace was when I knotted you. When you fell asleep in my arms, naked, fragile… mine. Even when I pretended to be cold, distant, cruel with you… I wanted you. For years. It wasn't revenge, Y/n. It was desire. It was love I didn’t want to admit." And there, in the silence that followed, only the moon dared to watch you. Only the lake reflected your truth, and without thinking any longer, you crashed your lips onto his. It was like setting the night on fire.

Heeseung grunted against your mouth, a deep, animalistic, primal sound. His hands tightened around your waist as his tongue invaded your mouth with a hunger that seemed to have been held back for centuries. You clung to him, straddling his legs, feeling the warmth and strength vibrating from his body beneath you. You pulled him toward you, hard, as if you wanted to fuse together. You bit his lower lip with a sweet cruelty, and he admonished you with a low growl. But you, with your voice broken and venomous, degraded him with a cold whisper. "I hate you... and you know it well." But your hands spoke a different language, an ancient one, made of repressed desire and anger that burned hotter than love. Heeseung didn’t stop. He continued to kiss you, deeper, more desperately, while his fingers lifted your sweater. In a few seconds, you were left with only a thin tank top and your bra. His eyes, now red and filled with Alpha aura, scrutinized you like prey.

He also slid the tank top off you with a slow, almost ritual gesture, and when he saw your breasts covered only by fabric, something in him changed.

As if he was possessed.

His mouth fell on your chest, between bites and feverish kisses that made you moan, scratch him, pull his hair.

«You bastard... you are just my knot, nothing else.»

Yet your voice trembled, for every bite of it left you confused, every lick made you long again.

He sucked your breasts out of his bra with ardor, and you kept pulling his hair with your aura as a submissive omega, but also as a ruthless alpha. A fragile balance, perfect and then... click.

The hook of the bra gave way under his fingers.

Your breast leaped free in the crisp air of night. The nipples hardened instantly for the cold and her hungry look.

He panted, almost lost and you, with a filthy but sweet voice, whispered into his ear:

«Don’t pretend, Heeseung... you’ve always wanted me, right? Even when you said you hated me.» His hands trembled on your hips and he answered with a roaring voice:

«I wanted you... even before I knew you were mine.»

The forest was in a vibrant penumbra, only the moon filtered through the branches, drawing silvery shadows on the nody logs. The air was saturated with smells: musk, moist earth... and its scent. The spicy and pungent one of an Alpha in full call.

You didn’t have time to react.

He lifted you without warning.

«Ah!» you screamed, surprised, as your body was pushed against the trunk of a tree. His arms squeezed you with a fierce possession, as if that moment had been written in his flesh.

«Do you hear it?» he whispered against your ear, his voice crusty, broken by longing. «Your pussy is rubbing against my cock, and it’s looking for it even if you keep telling me that you hate me.»

«I... I can’t take it anymore!» you froze, trembling. «I hate you... I really do...»

But even as you were saying it, your pelvis moved imperceptibly against his, seeking that heat, that pressure.

He laughed, gloomy, deep, with a grin that was pure sin.

«No, darling. It’s not just your body that wants me. It’s every part of you. Even the one who lies to herself.»

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes lit up with an animalistic glow, and then - without further preambles - slowly slid her fingers under your skirt. The panties came down with a swift movement, and his fingers found at once the proof of your surrender.

«Already wet? So much?» he growled softly, as he stroked you with expert fingers. «I would have taken my time... Open you up, get ready, get yelled at while you were enjoying. But fuck... I can’t resist. I just want to sink into you, tie you and leave you full. Only mine.»

Your eyes were filled with confused tears: desire, anger, fear... and longing.

Your trembling hands, driven by a primitive instinct, pulled off his boxer shorts with ardor. His member was hard, imposing, pulsating with warmth. Your breath was cut off.

The wood seemed to hold your breath. Only your sighs broke the silence.

«Tell me,» he whispered against your neck. «Tell me you want me, even if you hate me. Tell me that your body belongs to me, even if it drives you crazy.»

«I hate you... but I fucking love you!» you shouted, your heart racing. «You drive me crazy, but my body... can’t stop.»

«Good little omega confused...» he muttered. And then howled, a primordial sound that shook the fronds above you.

In a single movement, it sank into you.

A moan will tear your lips, long, deep. The nails dug into his back as he began to move with force, with a wild but precise rhythm. Each shot was a message, a claim, a mark.

«I will keep you here,» he growled. «I will fertilize you, I will keep you tied up... until you learn that you can no longer run from me.»

The moon was the only witness of your bond. United bodies, broken breaths, souls entwined in a darkness that was more desire than shadow.

His impulses were bestial, ferocious, as if he was trying to erase every space within you that did not belong to him.

Each stroke of his cock made you scream, and your screams were mixed between extreme pleasure and uncontrollable tears. You cried, yes, but it was not pain - it was too intense, it was a pleasure so deep that everything shook. You felt split in two and at the same time more alive than ever.

«I hate you!» you shouted at them, with a broken voice, your face wet with tears and sweat. «You’re a bastard!»

He growled softly, squeezing you with a force that made you groan.

«And you are a little half omega and half alpha in heat, mine... always mine. Even when you insult me, your body calls me.»

Your words were full of poison and need, each offense a crooked, animalistic cry of love, which smelled something deeper. He bit your neck, strong, leaving the mark, and then sucked you slowly, mixing violence and tenderness as only an Alpha knows how to do with his mate.

Every push made you jump, your body stretched and broke under him, but you looked for it, you wanted it. His name exploded between your lips as a wave of heat swept you away, that primordial feeling that made you groan like never before.

«Keep on...» you whisper with a broken voice, almost praying. «Please tie me up. Make me yours for real.»

He grunted against your ear, going deeper.

«I want you tied to me. Tight. Filled. Possessed.»

You felt his knot begin to swell inside of you, slow, insistent, and the scream that came up from your throat was no longer contained. Your body bent to his, accepting everything, every pulsation, every wave of pleasure that spread like fire in the veins.

«Yes... yes, so... I want your knot, I want to feel full...» you sigh.

He stopped only when it was completely knotted within you, your tight bodies, fused into an indissoluble bond. His hands caressed you now with sweetness, the breathless breath mixed to yours but the pushes became stronger and deeper, as if he wanted to cross every border of your body and engrave his name inside you. He held you firmly, completely in his power, while the knot kept swelling inside you, and your belly began to stretch, full... full of him.

«Look how my knot is swelling...» he growled against your neck. «Your body accepts everything, wants it, begs for it.»

The words struck you like a hot and violent wave. You babbled between sobs and cut breath.

«It’s too... too deep inside... you’re... you’re filling me up... I can’t think...»

«You must not think,» he replied. «You must only hear.»

And it sank again. Deeper, stronger.

He lifted you with a single gesture, as if you were light as air, bouncing you against his chest. The friction was unbearable, sweet and fierce at the same time. And then... his finger found your most sensitive spot. A pinch, a precise touch, and the world exploded.

A scream escaped from your lips, your body trembled in a wave of uncontrollable pleasure, while the knot felt it pulsating more and more inside you, while your orgasm passed through you like lightning, hot and blinding.

«Good girl, come for me, all over me...» he murmured with a broken voice, adoring you.

You felt your excitement slide down, cover it, drip on your joined bodies. And he did not stop.

«I want you tied, filled. I will bind you again, mark you with my seed, leave you full of me, so much that every breath of yours knows of me.»

With a deep growl, you felt his movements become even slower, more powerful. And then... the heat

A liquid explosion inside you, very long, unstoppable, while the knot pulsed with violence, pushing that pleasure even deeper. You screamed, again, as you felt it fill you completely, so much that you lost the sense of time.

And for a long moment, the world stood still. Only the moon looked at you. Two wild souls, broken, chained by desire and something that neither of them had ever dared to call his real name.

Then, with studious slowness, he made you come down from his arms. Your legs shook as soon as they touched the ground but her touch didn’t leave you for a second.

His hands were fast and strong, they turned you with force and pushed you slightly forward, bent in front of him, the back arched. His gaze burned on exposed skin.

«Get your beautiful ass up,» he ordered in a roaring voice. «I’m not done with you yet.»

You were anxious. «It’s too much...» you protested with a little voice, but didn’t move.

He approached, fingers running down the curve of your hips. «You played the rebel for too long, my companion. Now you learn. You are mine. And I... am yours. That’s how the bond works.»

You sighed, but your legs did not move. His hands caressed the stretched skin, then slipped between your thighs and stopped.

«Look how beautiful you are...» she murmured. «Shine. Swell up. And you’re still leaking my seed.»

Closed your eyes, your breath broken. Yoy did not make in time to reply.

With a single leap, he was again inside you. A cry escaped from your lips, wild, uncontrollable. The pleasure hit you like a slap. The feeling of fullness, after the knot, was even more violent. Each movement was an electric shock, a liquid fire that went through your entire belly.

«Do you hear it?» he growled, sinking with ever greater force. «You take it so well, my little one. Half omega, half alpha... yet your body knows exactly who it belongs to.»

You were stuttering, unable to find sensible words. The sentences broke on your lips, between sobs and groans.

«It’s... too much... inside... too hot...»

He grabbed your hips with force. «And it will be even more. Because I want you completely. With another knot, another mark. I want you to not even walk without feeling me inside of you.»

Each push was deeper than the previous, as the words died out in your throat. Your body trembled, bending to the rhythm. And when you felt the pressure grow again, that second knot that swelled slowly, groaned his name in a broken voice, as if he were praying.

He praised you in a low voice, with words full of desire.

«So good... so mine. My perfect companion. And now you come again. I want to hear you hug me as I fill you up again.»

A few pushes were enough. Your body became stiff, then it was shaken by a violent, uncontrollable pleasure. A scream burst from your lips as she felt it everywhere - inside, around, in every fiber. And when he exploded inside you, you felt it all: the warmth, the depth, the strength. His seed filled you again, warm, abundant, and you groaned again, letting go completely.

The bodies remained united, once again merged under the full moon. There were no more words. Only breath. Only beats. Only them.

That morning, you woke up wrapped in a strange kind of warmth.

It wasn’t just the blankets—it was something deeper, more visceral… a heat pulsing beneath your skin, between your ribs, and in your thoughts.

The air carried a scent you knew all too well by now: wild mint and tobacco—the scent of his skin, his presence.

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was his red hair—messy and soft—resting against your neck like a silent promise.

You were wearing one of his oversized shirts, hanging down to mid-thigh, and his arms were wrapped around you with a quiet, natural possessiveness—as if he had never known a world where you weren’t his.

You moved gently, trying to slip away without waking him, but his voice reached you in a low, sleepy murmur.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Your heart skipped in your chest.

You blushed, inevitably, at the memory of the night before—the moon, the moans, the knot, your bodies tangled in the woods like creatures born to vanish into the wild.

“I just… wanted to get up,” you mumbled, but the words faded as you watched him slowly sit up.

He looked at you seriously, but with a soft light in his eyes.

“Do you feel okay?” he asked, one hand brushing over your side.

You shook your head slightly. “No… just a bit… full, maybe.”

He laughed quietly, almost amused, but his gaze fell immediately to one of the marks he’d left on your neck—a deep, dark bite, still faintly sore.

He touched it gently, a caress that clashed with the roughness of the mark.

You gave him a mock scolding look, more amused than anything.

“You told me you’d only mark me like that after we got married.”

He shrugged, carefree.

“To me, you’re already mine. No ceremony. No fuss.”

“So this is your romantic way of telling me you love me?” you teased, a smile playing on your lips.

He stared at you for a moment, then tilted his head slightly.

“I’ve already told you I love you. The thing is—you haven’t said it back yet.”

His words hung in the air like a sweet blade.

They stole your breath for a moment.

You chuckled, shyly, but he didn’t smile.

He looked at you with that disarming seriousness, his heart written plainly in his eyes.

“Hey… I’m really sorry. For everything you’ve had to go through these past few weeks… and for these 22 years of your life,” he murmured.

And before you could answer, his lips were everywhere—your neck, your shoulders, your cheeks, your forehead.

He kissed you like he wanted to erase every doubt, every hesitation, every unspoken word.

And only then, between one kiss and the next, in the softest voice—like a confession you could no longer keep—you said it.

“I love you too.”

The world seemed to stop.

He froze for just a second—long enough to look into your eyes.

And the smile that bloomed on his lips was so real, so raw, it made you forget everything else.

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pennylaneforthoughts · 3 months ago

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It's just so narratively crunchy that Spite writes poetry as his chosen form of self expression. Especially given that he clearly struggles to communicate with the people around him, the fact that he writes poetry in the scant moments he has command of Lucanis's hands really cements other textual indicators that Spite is frustrated by his difficulty with communicating. Over and over again he asks to talk to Rook, to be heard, but when he does get the chance to talk, he isn't understood, which must be unbelievably frustrating for the poor guy. So he practices! In writing! And that writing gives such a neat look into Spite's mind and how he conceptualizes himself and his situation. So I'm gonna dust off my English degree and yell about his poetry.

a PEACE

cut from the ALL

golden stranded weaves

PROTECTION CAGE

keep them OUT

keep me IN

As with all poetry, there's a lot of room to interpretation, and I think that's especially intentional for Spite's worldview as a spirit. He's from the Fade, which operates on perception and emotion instead of concrete immutabilities like the material world. That being said, I think this first poem is Spite trying to process and talk about a.) his own violent summoning from the Fade and b.) Lucanis's mental Ossuary.

Spite was ripped from the Fade against his will, a piece of a larger infinity cut and captured. Likewise, Lucanis creates the Ossuary in his mind as a (poor) coping mechanism for dealing with what happened. Spite recognizes this as an attempt to create peace in emotional turmoil.

The golden stranded weaves evoke the imagery used in the narration explaining how the dagger cuts through the Veil. It's visually represented as gold geometric lines separating the Fade from the material world, which may be a hint to how spirits see the Veil: a barrier made of gold strands that has also stranded Spite from the world he knew. Given that Lucanis's mind Ossuary is also a part of the Fade, this same barrier applies here as well, stranding him and Spite from the freedom they seek.

The Veil and the mental Ossuary therefore function as what Spite calls a "protection cage," designed both to keep its occupants safe and keep them contained. Arguably, Spite could also be talking about the magic that keeps him bonded to Lucanis, magic that is likely similar in nature to how the Veil works given that blood magic is what sustains both. Protecting Spite and Lucanis from being hurt further by the Venatori but also keeping Spite from going home. He's stuck in Lucanis whether he likes it or not. This is further complicated by the mental Ossuary, which Lucanis has unconsciously constructed to keep the people he loves out of harm's way (protecting them) while also keeping Spite trapped.

This is Spite's first cry for help. He recognizes that he is trapped in multiple ways: he is forced to share a body that aggressively does not want to share with him, and the part of the Fade that Lucanis is connected to mentally is also a prison, one that does not respond like Spite would normally expect the Fade to respond. Lucanis mentions in Sea of Blood that "The Fade does whatever a spirit wants. Real walls and chains, not so much," but Spite tells Rook in Inner Demons that he can't touch the locks in Lucanis's mind despite it technically being a part of the Fade. My personal theory is it has something to do with the blood magic that bound them together in the first place, but regardless of why, it's understandably extremely frustrating for Spite to feel trapped both in the material world and the Fade, neither of which respond to him as he expects. To Spite, it must feel like the very laws of physics have stopped working as they should.

scentsing the BEYOND

rememburnings from before

when one was infinity

not a small shade

not a SHARP hooked claw

in a gut

takemeouttakemeoutletmeout

riiiiip

Here we get to see how Spite has been learning to use language to artistically express complex abstract ideas, which speaks to him having mature, adult intelligence, given that abstract thought is a marker of higher-order cognition. In this poem, Spite is no longer simply describing his situation as he is in the first poem, he is self-reflecting and forming his own identity.

It's clear in this first line and in several points throughout the game that Spite's favorite sense is smell, possibly because it is a sense that he can unintrusively access and therefore isn't barred by Lucanis. So he is not just sensing, he is specifically "scentsing" what he calls "the BEYOND," likely the Fade, referencing his ability to pull things from it (especially considering that the little icon on an accessible spot says "a sense of something").

But he's not just talking about the Fade as a place, he's reminiscing of the Fade as a time. But the portmanteau he uses here, "rememburnings" suggests an attempt to explain the emotion he associates with this remembrance. The memory is painful. It burns. It hurts him. He remembers being a part of the Fade, being part of "infinity," and now he is only a "small shade" of what he once was.

But that's not all. He's also demonstrating that he understands how Lucanis perceives him, sees that he is hurting Lucanis. He knows that he was force-fed to Lucanis (quite literally according to his banter with Bellara where he says it happened when "They fed me something. Like he was a parasite in uncooked meat."), which explains why Spite conceptualizes himself as being a foreign, damaging object "in a gut." And, importantly, he doesn't take satisfaction from that. The tone he is using here suggests grief and desperation, especially the "takemeouttakemeoutletmeout." He wants to be free, yes, but he also wants to stop being an object of pain. And yet the last line suggests that Spite knows that separation would also be painful. It would be another ripping, because he is a claw now. As much as he is trapped by Lucanis, he is embedded in him as well, and extraction would tear them both apart.

toes wiggle

when he drinks the brew

a small shade

and a wounded spirit

sitting

there is STILL

we are still

there is an INFINITE

there is a SHELTER

there is a STORM outside the center

UGH Spite your MIND!!! This poem makes me want to cry fr. It's so much more concrete than the other two, showing how he's becoming more familiar and comfortable with Lucanis's body and the material world. The tone is gentle, like a relieved sigh, with none of the urgency and desperation of the others. This is the first time we see Spite describe a physical sense other than smell. He notes that Lucanis wiggles his toes when he drinks his favorite coffee, suggesting that this is something Spite feels as an occupant of the same body, though he likes to manifest himself as separate. It confirms that he feels what Lucanis feels through shared senses, though has his own interpretations of sensory input.

Spite still conceptualizes himself as a "small shade," but no longer is he a "SHARP hooked claw." He is still hurt, still affected by what he and Lucanis went through, but he now sees Lucanis as more than the body he's trapped in. He sees Lucanis as a fellow "wounded spirit," hurting and healing in the same way that he is. They are sitting together, feeling together, and they have found stillness. They've finally made peace.

While he may no longer be a part of the Fade as he once was, Spite has found that being and living with Lucanis is another "INFINITE" that he gets to experience. He is safe, sheltered in their bond. It's no longer a cage. It's just protection now. And while Spite can feel the absolute mess that's going on with the world and the Fade and everything they're dealing with, he is centered now with Lucanis, which makes it all manageable.

All this leads me to believe that after Inner Demons and their little coffee date with Rook, Spite and Lucanis are at a point in their relationship where Lucanis is much more accommodating of Spite and where Spite is able to explore and experience the material world with a certain level of patience. He no longer feels like he has to bully Lucanis into letting him pilot because he understands physical space now and can experience things alongside Lucanis as he experiences them. Lucanis is more confident letting Spite speak through him because he's no longer worried Spite will wrest complete control from him and/or do something to hurt them. As Lucanis says in the final romance scene, they're no longer afraid. Lucanis now trusts Spite's reports about what happened and how much time has passed while he was asleep, which suggests that Spite has earned that trust.

At this point, the line between demon of Spite and spirit of Determination seems extremely blurry at best, and it really makes me wonder if gaining a physical body through means other than normal possession allows spirits to develop more complex cognition and emotional versatility beyond just their purpose.

#I am extremely normal about spite and think about him a normal amount (lying)#He's just so complex and interesting and it Bugs me when he gets reduced to either “little gremlin cat” or “horny foil to lucanis”#My boy did not bust out three beautiful poems for this sort of treatment!!!#dragon age #datv #da4 #spite dragon age #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis #spite dellamorte

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partoffantasy · 5 months ago

Text

Tension and Takedowns (Part 2) - Garrick Tavis

⸻ image credits to scribe.jesinia ⸻

summary: Y/N, unable to sleep, trains in the gym late at night, trying to push thoughts of Garrick from her mind. Frustrated and overheated, she decides to use the men’s showers for their stronger water pressure, thinking no one will be there. However, Garrick walks in, and the tension between them becomes unbearable.

pairing: garrick tavis x fem!reader warnings: MDNI!, smut, swearing, unprotected p in v, oral (m) word count: 2k

For @domciak84 & @0717luv. Thank you for your requests. 💙

Part 1: Click here

⸻⸻⸻✦ ♡ ✦⸻⸻⸻

The punching bag swung back toward her, and Y/N threw another punch, her knuckles connecting with a satisfying thud. Her breath came in short, controlled bursts, sweat glistening on her exposed skin under the dim glow of the lights overhead. The riders quadrant was silent at this hour, the only sound in the gym the impact of her fists and the occasional creak of the chains holding the bag in place. She couldn’t sleep and found herself back in the gym around midnight.

She needed to be better. Faster. Stronger. But even as she pushed herself harder, her thoughts kept drifting—kept lingering—on something far more distracting than her training. Garrick. The way he moved, the confidence in his stance, the sheer presence he commanded when he stepped into a room. It infuriated her how easily he got under her skin, how he could flash that damn smirk and destroy all the self-control she thought she had.

She threw another punch, harder this time, the force of it reverberating up her arm. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not by him. Not by the way his muscles shifted under his uniform, or how his dark eyes always seemed to find hers with knowing amusement. Not by the memory of his voice, low and teasing, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

Another punch. Another. Harder. Faster. The ache in her knuckles was welcome, grounding. It forced her focus back to where it needed to be—on getting stronger. Enough for now. The thought of a cold shower was too tempting to resist. As she turned toward the exit, another memory flickered to the forefront of her mind—Rhi’s offhand comment about the stronger water pressure in the men’s showers.

Normally, she wouldn’t risk it. But at this hour? No one would be there. Y/N padded silently through the corridors, her damp skin cooling in the night air. When she reached the showers, she paused at the entrance, listening. Silence. Perfect. She slipped inside, the faint scent of soap and steel filling her senses. The air was cool, but the promise of hot water had her stripping off her clothes quickly. The first spray of water ran down her body, washing away the sweat and tension from her muscles. She let out a slow breath, tilting her head back as the warmth seeped into her skin.

Then, footsteps. Her heart stuttered. The door creaked open, and before she could react, a familiar presence filled the space. She turned her head just as Garrick stepped inside, his own training gear clinging to his body, darkened with sweat. Her breath caught in her throat. He hadn’t seen her yet. Y/N was frozen in place, water streaming down her body as she watched him tug his shirt over his head, muscles flexing effortlessly. His hands moved to his belt, and her brain finally kicked into gear.

Shit. She must have made a sound, because Garrick’s head snapped up, his sharp gaze locking onto her naked form through the steam. Time stopped. His eyes widened slightly, his jaw tightening as realization set in. A muscle in his cheek twitched, and for a moment, he just… looked. His gaze dragged over her, hot and lingering, before snapping back to her eyes.

“Y/N,” he said, voice lower than usual, roughened at the edges. She swallowed hard, unable to speak. Heat ran up her spine, different from the warmth of the water. It coiled in her stomach, twisting tighter when he took a slow step forward. "What are you doing in the men's showers, Y/N?" His voice was teasing, but there was a razor-sharp edge of intrigue beneath it.

She forced herself to swallow, forcing her mind to work past the shock of seeing him—shirtless, damp with sweat, and the sharp lines of his chest. "Stronger water pressure," she muttered, trying for nonchalance, but it came out breathless. His lips curled into something between amusement and interest. "Convenient excuse." She bristled, heat crawling up her neck for an entirely different reason now. "I didn't think anyone would be here."

Garrick's gaze flicked to the row of empty stalls and back to her. "And yet, here I am." The words hung between them, charged and heavy, stretching the moment unbearably taut. She was suddenly acutely aware of the water cascading down her bare skin, the droplets glistening in the dim light.

His eyes swept over her once more, the intensity making her pulse jump, the peaks of her nipples unwillingly perking. "You seem to be interested now, Y/N," he murmured, his voice a dangerous drawl. "Want to do something about it?" Her pulse pounded in her ears. The tension crackled like lightning in the enclosed space, the only barrier between them the swirling steam.

Her mind screamed at her to move, to grab a towel, to run—But her body stayed rooted in place. And Garrick took another step closer. His gaze darkened, his expression unreadable as he reached up, brushing a single damp strand of hair from her face. His fingers barely grazed her skin, but the contact sent a jolt through her. A challenge flickered in his eyes.

It wasn’t a question of whether she wanted this. They both knew the answer. Y/N’s breath came unevenly, her body humming with awareness. And then, before she could second-guess herself, she stepped closer to him.

Her hands slid up the sharp planes of his face, fingers brushing against the rough stubble before tangling in his damp hair. She pulled him down, her breath hitching just before their lips crashed together in a heated kiss. Garrick responded instantly, his hands finding her bare waist, yanking her body flush against his own. The sensation of his solid warmth against her ignited a fire low in her belly, and when his tongue swept against her lips, she parted them willingly. He took immediate control, deepening the kiss, his dominance evident in the way their tongues moved together—demanding, possessive, utterly intoxicating.

His grip tightened as his hands roamed lower, tracing every curve of her body before settling on her backside. He kneaded the soft skin, eliciting a soft whimper from her. The sound was swallowed between their lips, her fingers gripping his shoulders as if anchoring herself to him. When his mouth abandoned hers, he trailed a path of heated kisses along her jaw, down the curve of her neck. He found the sensitive spot beneath her ear, sucking and licking, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. Her knees were going weak as his mouth claimed her skin, marking her as his.

Her hands slid over his chiseled chest, fingertips tracing the ridges of his abdomen, savoring the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch. When she reached the waistband of his training shorts, she hooked her fingers in the fabric, tugging them down along with his boxers in one swift motion. Garrick kicked them aside without hesitation. The water cascaded down their bodies, steam curling around them, adding to the desire thick in the air. She smirked up at him, biting her lip as she pressed a lingering kiss to his sternum, then lower—over his taut stomach, the defined V-line that led her exactly where she wanted to go.

Garrick watched her intently, his hazel eyes dark with lust, his jaw tight as he leaned a hand against the wet stone wall. When she dropped to her knees before him, her hands smoothing over his muscular thighs, a deep growl rumbled in his chest. She wrapped her fingers around his hard length, stroking him, reveling in the way his breath shuddered at her touch. "Oh, fuck," he groaned, his head tipping back, the veins in his forearm prominent as he clenched his fist.

Her tongue flicked out, dragging a slow, teasing stripe from the base to the swollen tip before she finally wrapped her lips around him. His gaze snapped down to her, his hand immediately threading into her wet hair, gathering it into a makeshift ponytail. She took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue pressing against the sensitive underside. Garrick let out a strained groan, his fingers tightening their grip as he started guiding her movements, setting the pace he needed.

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes as he pushed deeper, her throat constricting around him. The sound she made—desperate, submissive—only spurred him on. "You look so fucking beautiful like this," he rasped, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he watched her. "Feels so damn good."

She moaned around him, the vibrations making his hips jerk forward. But before she could bring him over the edge, he pulled back with a strangled groan, gripping her arms and yanking her up to her feet. The sudden movement made her gasp, but then he was pressing her against the wall, his mouth crashing against hers, swallowing the needy whimper she let out.

His hand slid between her thighs, fingers finding her slick heat. "You're so fucking wet for me, Y/N," he muttered, groaning as he stroked her. His fingers worked her with practiced precision, circling her clit before slipping inside her with ease. "Gods, Garrick," she moaned, her head falling back, exposing the delicate column of her throat. Her lips were already swollen from their earlier kisses, her nails biting into his shoulders as he thrust his fingers into her, curling them just right. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. "I need you now." Garrick smirked against her jaw, but his pace didn’t relent. "What do you need, cadet?" His voice was low, teasing, as his fingers pushed deeper, making her moan louder.

"I want your cock inside me, sir," she whimpered, her pleading gaze locking onto his. That did it. He withdrew his fingers, his hands gripping her hips. "Jump." She obeyed without hesitation, wrapping her legs around his waist as he pinned her to the wall. She could feel him, hard and hot against her, teasing her entrance. "So eager," he chuckled darkly, dragging the thick head of his cock against her soaked folds. She writhed against him, desperate for more. And then—

With one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her, stretching her completely, making her cry out in pleasure. His grip on her tightened as he stilled for a moment, savoring the way she felt around him, before he started to move. His thrusts were deep and deliberate at first, but when she moaned his name—needy, desperate—he lost the last of his restraint. His hips snapped into hers with increasing urgency, his grip on her thighs leaving marks, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

"Fuck, Y/N. You feel so fucking good," he groaned, his forehead resting against hers. The water ran over them, mixing with sweat, their bodies locked together. One of Garrick’s hands slid between them, finding her clit again, his fingers circling in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation sent her over the edge, her walls clenching around him as she cried out his name, her nails digging into his back, sure to leave red marks.

Garrick gritted his teeth, thrusting harder, chasing his own release. He set her down for a moment, his hands gripping her waist as he turned her around. "Lean against the wall," he commanded, his voice rough. She did as she was told, pressing her palms against the stone, arching her back as he thrust into her from behind. The new angle had her gasping, the pleasure overwhelming as he pounded into her with reckless abandon. His fingers dug into her hips, his breathing ragged.

"F-fuck, I’m close," he gasped, his pace faltering as he slammed into her one last time, his release spilling into her with a guttural moan. Their bodies trembled against each other, chests heaving, the steam wrapping around them like a veil. He took a step back, his gaze raking over her as she turned around to face him, lips swollen, eyes hazy with satisfaction. Garrick exhaled heavily, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Gods, why the fuck didn’t we do this sooner?"

#fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #xaden riorson #fourth wing fanfic #iron flame #onyx storm #garrick tavis imagine #garrick tavis #garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis smut #fourth wing smut

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filmjunky-99 · 5 months ago

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s t a r t r e k t h e n e x t g e n e r a t i o n created by gene roddenberry Captain Edward Jellico [chain of command part i, s6ep10]

'Jean-Luc, let's be candid for a moment.

The Cardassians aren't going to listen to reason, and the Federation isn't going to give in to their demands. And the chances are you won't be coming back from this mission of yours.

I want this ship ready for action, and I don't have time to give Will Riker or anyone else a chance.

And forgive me for being blunt, but the Enterprise is mine now.' - jellico [to picard]

#star trek #star trek the next generation #the next generation #gene roddenberry #star trek characters #tng character #Edward Jellico #ronny cox #tng season 6 #the next generation season 6 #tng Chain of Command #Chain of Command #tng Chain of Command part 1 #Chain of Command part 1 #lot: st tng season 6 ep 10/26 (ep 136/178)#latest tng posts

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yeonzzzn · 9 months ago

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♱ A VAMPIRE ENHYPEN SERIES ♱

PART 1: VAMPIRES BLEEDING

⤥ when the daily lives of seven vampires drastically changes when one of the younger ones get hurt and starting a war when the first mate in the pack gets her life threatened. The boys fight to protect what becomes theirs while ending a war that apparently was in motion years before the first event…

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

jungwon ; killer date

jay ; dark waters

jake ; luna nova

sunghoon ; capturing magic

sunoo ; even closer

niki ; let it go

heeseung ; mirrors

PART 2: YOU COMPLETE ME

⤥ with the war finally being over, the seven vampires and their seven mates get to spend their everyday lives back to normal and freely.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

sunghoon ; snow & candles

niki ; beside you

heeseung ; spend my life

jungwon ; sweet venom (literally)

jake ; straight to me

jay ; just bite me, idiot

sunoo ; champagne and sunshine

PART 3: BREAK THE CHAIN

⤥ the seven vampires and their seven mates finally start to relax and live somewhat a normal life until disaster hits once again…causing the boys and their mates to rush to the vampire castle for not only their safety, but to join forces with the vampire king’s army to stop the next upcoming war…

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

heeseung ; time to play god

jake ; another beginning

jungwon ; second in command

sunghoon ; anything and everything

sunoo ; unbreakable

niki ; confrontation

jay ; the ending

#yeonzzzn masterlist #vampiresbleeding #youcompleteme #breakthechain #enhypen #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #vampire enhypen #vampire!au

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darklordofthesimp · 5 months ago

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Anything IX

The 9th instalment in the Anything-Verse

Main Masterlist

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8

Like the characters? Read their fics below!

Sunshine Masterlist || Saint Masterlist

Series Summary: A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

A/N: I'm back for good this time cos I bailed out of my trash job of 6 years hello mferssss

Warning: Graphic Language, Graphic description of violence

You’d been thinking about your past more often than usual, especially on the nights that you lay staring at your ceiling. Saint told you that it was a sign that you’d begun to move on. The villain that had consumed your thoughts was now a tentative ally and you’d been left with history seeping through the cracks.

You were almost grateful.

Almost.

You thought about your career before the incident, about the missions that went impossibly wrong. Death, grief, sorrow, hatred, and guilt, they weren’t things that you experienced alone. Shared pain eased the blow- you weren’t the only one suffering and, in a way, that provided comfort.

However, the mission that truly plagued you was a mission so highly classified that there were only four people who still knew of it. There were only four people who survived it.

“You and me, Birdy.

We’re dead.”

You sat up in your bed, mind kicking into overdrive. The dim light on your wrist indicated that it was well past midnight but your blood was electrified.

You’d been so preoccupied with what had happened to you that you’d stopped thinking about what you’d done. Why had someone tried to kill you, you had to have done something. You had to have known something.

“We’re dead.”

You pulled your duvet from your body, the cool air washing against your skin to make it prickle. Winter was, by far, the worst month to live on base. The heating units in your block were terrible and outdated with the empty promise of upgrades. You slid into your slippers and ventured into the hallway, palms rubbing up and down the length of your arms.

Your feet were on auto-pilot as they led you to the door of the last person you’d expect to seek out. There was no light seeping out from beneath cracks and you couldn’t hear a sound from inside. He might not have even been home, it was a Saturday night after all- no one was in. Not even Simon, and that was saying something.

You shifted your weight on your heels, wincing when the floorboard creaked under the pressure. It couldn’t hurt to knock. Or it could, you supposed. You had no idea why you were here, knocking on his door at 2am in the morning was unhinged behaviour.

You took a step back from the door, another creak betraying your position. This was a dumb idea. You could talk to him in the morning like a normal, functioning human being would.

The door swung open suddenly, forcing your heart into your throat.

König’s hulking silhouette filled the frame, shadowed and imposing. He barely fit through the door as he stepped into the corridor, the dim warmth of the ceiling fixtures washing over his figure.

You quickly realised that he’d been asleep as you took in his visage. Sleep tousled hair, a vulnerable gaze, König stood before you shirtless in long tracksuit pants. You forced your eyes to remain fixed to his face as he looked you up and down.

“Birdy?” He rasped, scrubbing his face lazily with one hand, the other resting on his hip. “Why are you lurking at my door?”

Indignant heat crawled from your neck and into your cheeks. “I wasn’t lurking, I was about to knock.”

König narrowed his eyes, silently telling you that he knew you were lying. You changed the topic, crossing your arms defensively.

“I just wanted to talk about something, I didn’t realise how late it was.” You cast a glance down the hall where you’d come from. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, we can talk in the morning.”

As you turned to leave, hot with embarrassment, König sighed.

“Birdy.” He called.

You peeked at him tentatively from over your shoulder.

The man opened his door and gestured inside. Your breath hitched in your throat, the room behind him was dark. That jade gaze watched you tiredly but with intent. He wasn’t going anywhere with you, this time you would have to come to him.

“Are you sure?” You asked quietly.

You received a nod in reply.

With a sharp breath and squared shoulders, you wandered cautiously into the lion’s den. Your bare skin brushed against his waist as you passed him, sending a thrill down the length of your spine.

A floor lamp turned on behind you, flooding the room in a warm, sensual glow. You barely heard the door click shut, you were too busy taking in the room before you. It was nothing like you’d been expecting, furnished and decorated with a surprising attention to detail.

The room smelt lightly fragrant, as though incense was lit frequently enough to linger. You caught sight of candles on the desk to your left, ‘cedar wood and myrrh’. That would do it.

The corner of your lip quirked upward at his library/gaming corner. A dark wood shelving unit housed a plethora of his books and a gaming console, then a flat screen mounted in the centre. Bean bags were neatly organised atop a dark rug, you figured they would be more comfortable for him than an inevitably too small couch.

A game was still playing on the screen, the character standing inactive in their own world.

“Were you playing?” You turned to look at König, who seemed very suddenly uncomfortable.

“No,” he cleared his throat and cast his gaze to the floor. “No, I fell asleep while playing.”

Your eyes were drawn to the bed last.

“That’s a big bed.” You don’t know why you said it.

“I’m a big guy.” Was the reply.

The bed was tall, something you would have to climb onto if it were your own. There was a large, dark wooden headboard pressed against the back wall, framing the bed like it was the main feature of the room. Dark silk pillows adorned the matching silk bed sheets, and you could only imagine how comfortable they would be on your skin.

You turned to face König who had put a shirt on somewhere amidst your gawking at his home.

“I didn’t think your room would be so…” You trailed off, gesturing at the space around you.

“Delicate?” He offered, self deprecation ringing through his tone.

“Nice,” you finished. “I was going to say nice.”

A small smile finally graced his lips, the first one you’d seen all night. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d have thought he sounded self-conscious about the space he’d designed.

“I spend a lot of time here,” he shrugged as he offered you a beanbag. “I wanted it to be… nice.”

You took a seat, sighing as the tension in your body dissipated instantly. König stretched those long legs out as he got comfortable atop his own bag across from you.

“Why don’t you get out more, there’s plenty to do around here,” you mused.

König chuckled darkly, “people don’t like me very much around here, Birdy.”

The mood dampened at that, the energy in the room shifting. His green gaze had lost the softness that you’d almost grown accustomed to, becoming guarded instead. You wish you’d just held your tongue.

“What did you want to talk about?” König asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

You swallowed thickly, bracing yourself for another shift of his attitude- this time to anger. You weren’t afraid of his frustration, not anymore. God knows that you’d seen enough of it directed at you to know that you were physically safe. Despite that knowledge you still hated seeing it with every fiber of your being.

“I want to tell you about a mission I did a while back,” you said shakily. “Then I want you to help me figure out whether it might be connected to everything that’s… happened.”

König’s eyes narrowed, darting to the door and back. He stood to his feet quickly and you flinched as he brushed past you. You turned to look over your shoulder at him, surely he wasn’t walking out of his own room.

“I thought we agreed to drop it,” he growled beneath his breath and you weren’t sure whether he was talking to himself or you. He was rummaging through his desk irritatedly, muttering as he worked. “Of course you didn’t drop it. Why would you? Let’s all die together!”

Soft music began to play and you raised your eyebrows as he placed a speaker against the door.

“What, are you setting the mood?” You snarked, settling back into your bag as he returned to his. He shot you a withering glare.

“It’s so that no one hears us as you, once again, try to get us killed by talking about this on base.” He hissed, propping himself up.

You rolled your eyes at him but you knew he was right. It would be more suspicious if the both of you had gone on an excursion into town together, you’d have all eyes on you. There weren’t many places for you to approach him about information but it seems all the places you have were wrong.

“Tell me about the mission,” he sighed though his nose. The frown lines on his forehead softening as you nodded.

“This mission was, and is, highly classified. You cannot tell a soul about this.” You warned, watching him earnestly. It was König’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Yes, I will try my hardest to not tell all of my best friends in the 141.”

You shot him a withering glare.

“Fine,” he groaned. “Obviously I will not tell anybody, Birdy.”

You nodded, satisfied with his response, before launching into the details of the mission.

“Alpha 1-1 to Bravo 1, SITREP, over.”

“Bravo 1 in position, green status, over.”

“Bravo 1, maintain position. Payload incoming. Alpha 1-1 out.

You drew a deep breath, taking in the view a final time beyond the scope of your rifle. You’d perched up on the high ground, neatly hidden between wiry bushes and dirt mounds. The U.S forward operating base, its entrance, and the arterial road in, were all at your mercy.

Your mission was to provide cover for a high value payload and offer additional defense to the U.S FOB while it received. For a black bag operation it was deceptively simple. Then again, you had no idea what the payload was. You’d been told that the objective was to protect a Shadow Company squad while they “delivered the milk.”

You weren’t important enough to be privy to more than that.

A dust trail in the distance indicated the payload’s approach and you set to work. Thermal imaging provided you a clear picture of the incoming convoy as it cleared the crest. To your alarm there were only three vehicles before you, for such precious cargo you thought that there’d be a larger security detail.

There was a civilian blocking the route ahead of them that you’d raised concern about prior. U.S soldiers had been dispatched from the base to remove him but were thus far unsuccessful. Your stomach tightened as the convoy slowed to a halt 350 yards from your position.

As one of the Shadow members dismounted their vehicle you couldn’t shake your rising paranoia. You felt the hairs on your arms raise and your skin prickle- a sniper’s sixth sense. You turned your sights to the crest the convoy had appeared from.

There was something very, very wrong.

You watched the crest carefully, praying that you were paranoid.

But, you never were.

“Sierra 1, contact rear, near ambush!”

No sooner than the callout had left your lips, the incoming vehicles opened fire.

Chaos erupted the way it usually did in war. The screams, the callouts falling on deaf ears, the gunfire- it all blurred, really. The only thing you could truly hear was your own breath. Every inhale was steady and your heart followed in suit, a steadfast sniper was the most accurate.

And there was a reason that you were the best.

One by one they fell. Amidst the cloud of moon dust and the flurried movements you could see everything, and everyone, as clear as day. The floor was littered with bodies, men from both sides ironically meeting the same end.

A blinding flash forced your eyes shut as your scope lit up. The explosion rocked the earth beneath your stomach and you knew then that the fight was lost. An RPG blast had ended it all in an instant, obliterating the men you were protecting. Limbs, shrapnel, and wreckage were all that remained of Shadow Squad.

Your teeth were clenched tight enough to cramp your jaw. You couldn’t get a shot with the enemy operators hidden behind the cargo.

“Bravo 1, don’t let them take that fucking payload!”

Shepherd's voice was desperate, a growing hysteria that you’d never heard from him before.

“I don’t have a shot,” you ground out through your teeth.

Between Graves and Shepherd barking half-baked orders down the line, there was little coherency.

The mission objective was a monumental failure and an unjustifiable amount of lives had been lost that day, along with the payload. There was only one survivor of the ground assault, a blessing in itself. Dipaolo had been knocked unconscious in his vehicle after the RPG explosion and assumed dead by the enemy.

You had tried to talk to Dipaolo briefly while waiting for your transport home. He’d been mumbling to himself dazedly in the back corner of the medical room for hours when you approached him.

“Dipaolo?...” You trailed off. The man had lost his entire squad in one hit, he’d woken up to their blood on his face and their limbs scattered across the dirt. No amount of experience can give you the right words to say to a man like that.

His hazel gaze met yours, distant and tired.

“What have we done?” He whispered.

Your tongue dried in your mouth and you could only stare at him in response. You’d failed is what you’d done. You’d failed this man and his men and you couldn’t protect them.

“We’re so fucked,” he shook his head. “We are so fucked.”

“What-” you’d barely choked out the word before he grabbed your wrist roughly. You yelped as Dipaolo pulled you in close, the smell of sweat and blood on his skin. He reeked of death.

“Do you know what we’ve fucking done, Birdy?” The Shadow hissed through gritted teeth as you tugged uselessly against his grip. “Do you know what we just fucking gave them?”

“Let go,” you rasped. Panic began to rise in your chest when his gaze turned hysterical.

The door behind you flung open but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the man before you. His grip tightened as he flicked his sights to the medics entering the room.

“Do you know what we’ve done, Birdy? Do you know what we gave them?” His words blurred together desperately. “We’re fucked! You hear me?”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Relief flooded your chest as the returning medic inserted himself between you and the crumbling soldier. “Let’s just back up for a second.”

You ripped your arm from his grip and immediately turned to leave, your skin burning where you’d been detained. You tried to tune out Dipaolo's screams as you left the room but this wasn’t a battlefield and you had no rifle- you heard it all.

“We are dead!” The Shadow’s voice broke from behind you. “You and me, Birdy, we’re dead!”

König’s face was stony as he leaned back into his seat.

The silence following your story was heavy and your mouth was dry. You couldn’t remember the last time that you’d spoken so much in one sitting.

“Birdy,” König mused, “when was that mission?”

“A while back, a few months I’d say,” it was a rough estimate. “I’d have to check my dates.”

König shook his head, green eyes flashing with alarm. “How long did it happen before our… incident?”

You blinked slowly, taking in a deep breath. Your heart dropped to your stomach and it was as though König knew what you were going to say before you said it.

“It was the last mission I had…” you trailed off shakily. You felt like you were going to vomit.

König’s eyes hardened as he voiced the realization that you had both come to.

“It was the last mission you did before I was sent to kill you, Birdy.”

#konig x reader #könig cod #könig x reader #könig call of duty #König #konig modern warfare #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig cod #modern warfare 2 #mw2 x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #call of duty #anything verse #anything cod

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airosuiren · 2 months ago

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𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔢 ℜ𝔢𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔡

A/N: OKAY HERE WEEEE GO. This is Part 2 of [Y/N]’s story—where the Batfamily finally sees what they threw away, Lila throws a fit, and Evander makes it VERY clear who [Y/N] belongs to. This one’s petty, powerful, and just a lil’ bit toxic. Enjoy your royal drama.

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 1

Gotham buzzed with whispers.

A war hero. A queen. A legend returned.

They said she commanded armies with a glance. That her magic glowed like starlight and her voice could still time. That her blade never missed, and her soldiers followed her with fanatical devotion.

It was only after her name reached Gotham's news that Bruce Wayne realized who she was.

"[Y/N] Wayne is alive," Tim said quietly, dropping the folder on the table. "But she doesn’t use that name anymore."

Jason flipped through the pictures. "Is this real? This is her?"

"She calls herself [Y/N] of Virelya," Tim confirmed. "And she's building something."

"Looks like a damn fortress," Damian muttered. "Who's that beside her?"

In the photos: a tall warrior in dark armor, pale eyes glowing with frost.

"Evander Thorne," Tim said. "Northern commander. Possibly immortal. They're married."

"Married?" Lila shrieked. "To him? Since when?!"

Silence.

Bruce stood.

"We leave at dawn."

Snow covered the hills as the Batfamily arrived. The gates of Castle Virelya rose like fangs from the mountain, laced with magical wards. Banners of silver and violet fluttered from towers. Soldiers in enchanted armor lined the path.

And at the end of the great hall stood [Y/N].

Crowned. Clad in war-silver and silk. Eyes glowing faintly with ancient power.

She did not smile.

Evander stood beside her, taller than them all, unreadable, a wolf at rest beside his queen. One hand on the hilt of his sword. The other resting possessively on her back.

"You're alive," Bruce said stiffly.

"I always was," [Y/N] replied coldly. "You just never looked."

Lila pushed forward, high heels clicking, voice sickly sweet. "[Y/N], what is all this? You disappear, and now you're pretending to be a queen in the snow with your murder-husband?"

Evander’s eyes narrowed.

He took one step forward. The air dropped in temperature.

"Pretending?" [Y/N] echoed. "No, Lila. I’m not pretending. This is who I was before you were born."

Lila scoffed, stepping closer to Evander. "You must be so bored with her. She acts like she’s important now, but we all know she's the extra. The side project. You could do better."

He moved.

Fast.

His blade was at her throat in an instant, though he hadn’t drawn it.

"Touch her again," he said, low and lethal, "and I will carve your name from memory."

"Evander," [Y/N] said gently, reaching up.

He relented at her touch. Just a brush of her fingers and the frost receded.

Bruce stepped in, stern. "You don’t need this. You’re still our daughter."

"Now you say that?" she said, voice cold. "Where were you when Lila lied about me and got me grounded for weeks? When she took credit for my projects? When you looked me in the eye and forgot my name?"

"You could've said something!" Lila shouted.

"I did. No one listened."

Tim tried. "You don’t have to cut us off. We can do better. We want to do better."

"You want access," Evander snapped. "Not redemption."

"She’s our sister," Jason argued.

"She’s my wife," Evander replied, pulling [Y/N] closer. "And you’re nothing but strangers to her now."

[Y/N] raised her hand.

"Enough. You want to understand? You will." She turned to her companions. "Show them."

Kaelen stepped forward with a scroll. Lysandra murmured incantations. Alarion ignited the flames.

A vision surged up in the air: [Y/N] in chains, her rise, her fall, her crown. Evander kneeling at her side. The world that burned and was rebuilt by her hands.

Bruce fell to his knees.

Damian turned pale.

Tim whispered, "Oh god..."

Lila screamed, "THIS ISN'T FAIR! You're stealing everything! Even Dad loves you now!"

"No," [Y/N] said calmly. "I earned everything. I rose while you were busy pretending I didn’t exist."

Evander looked at her, adoration in his eyes. "Shall I take their memories?"

"No," she said. "Let them remember."

She stepped forward, hair blazing with magic.

"I, [Y/N] of Virelya, sever all blood, bond, and burden from the House of Wayne."

The air cracked.

A burst of golden magic severed ties.

Bruce gasped, reaching out. "Please."

She stepped back. "Too late."

Lila sobbed. "You’re selfish. You don’t deserve him."

Evander moved again.

"She is my soul," he growled. "And you are nothing but noise."

The Bat family was forced out. The doors slammed shut.

That night, the great hall of Virelya sang with light and fire.

Evander twirled [Y/N] beneath enchanted lanterns. Her crown glinted as she laughed into his chest.

Lysandra read fate from flames. Alarion offered a toast. Kaelen trained the next generation.

From the balcony, [Y/N] watched the moon rise over her kingdom.

Evander wrapped his arms around her. "Say the word. I’ll wipe them from the realm."

She leaned back into him. "Let them live. Let them watch what they threw away."

He kissed her temple.

"Long live my queen."

A/N: SCREAMING. CRYING. THROWING ROYAL SHADE. Lila got dragged, the Batfam got shut out, and Evander was everything. Want more? A scene of [Y/N] and Evander's wedding? Lila trying (and failing) to sneak back in? Or maybe the court reacting to the Queen’s return? Lmk! Long live the Queen 🖤👑 Taglist: @trashlanternfish360, @nixxiev, @eclipse-msoul, @plsfckmedxddy, @viilan, @kittzu, @bunniotomia, @bunniotomia, @rattyrattyratty, @texas-fox, @1abi, @niamcarlin,@tomoyaki, @silken-moons,

#𝔖𝔲𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔰 #batman #neglected reader #x reader #batfam #batfamily #batkids #fanfic #batfam x neglected reader #oc x reader #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #royal au #fantasy au #Throw Lila away

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sillyteecup · 28 days ago

Text

Second wind, but make it sweat

Aaron Pierre x black!o.c

Warnings:

18+

Language/swearing

Smut

Fingering

Oral (fem receiving)

P in V sex

Unprotected sex (🗣️ONE CONDOM ONE WHAT?)

Spitting

Hair pulling

Roughly translated Patois

Word count: 2799🧍🏾

A.N: I saw the picture when I woke up, wrote this during my study break (writing Psychology soon). So here’s something cool, calm and short. Also, new o.c unlocked!! If ever I write for Aaron himself again it’s gonna be with Sam, so just in case everybody say “hi Sam!” Anyway, I’m gonna disappear for the next 3 weeks for exams so I really hope y’all enjoy this for now. Thanks for reading❤️

~Tee❤️

If their walls could talk, oh the freaky little stories they would tell. The worst ones being of the days Aaron and Sam went to the gym together. A lovely tale of adrenaline and lust carried by affection.

How there would be no warning before the front door flies open with them stumbling through it. Mental maps guiding their steps through the house while their hands wandered freely on each other’s skin.

Soft hums and light gasps chronicling their desire for one another; the occasional smacking of lips like a little ad-lib. Not much of a word exchanged as Aaron awaits a command of direction.

“Kitchen.”

“Bedroom.”

“Bathroom over the sink.”

“Fuck it, right here,” a breathy word or two from Sam, activating him like a sleeper agent.

Their movements would grow more frantic; rushed. They understand how much time they have. They know they should probably take a shower first. But what’s a little more sweat? And why later when sooner is right there? So he’d hoist her up into the arms she adored so much and take her wherever she asked-we’re going to talk about the bathroom today-and alter her consciousness.

Another door flies open, banging against the wall with a force that would have had them both knocked upside their heads by their mothers. Sam’s usually nimble fingers tug at the hem of his shirt before lifting as far as she can reach. From there Aaron finishes the job, pulling it over his head and tossing it behind him, leaving his chain to gleam against his salty sheen covered chest. He returns her initial favour, but more gently to preserve her hair.

He was horny, not cruel.

His wide, soft palm cups the back of her neck while the fingers on his other hand tug her body closer by the waist band of her black Nike tights. Her honey coloured gaze speaks to him. Tells him she wants this as much as he does. Tells him she needs him. As much as he needs her. It calls him in, and he complies, fingers digging into some of the hair at her nape to angle her head upwards.

Their lips mingle for only a moment before getting comfortable with one another like old friends. Their tongues embrace and their bodies collide. Once again he has her entire weight in his arms, walking towards the large bathroom sink. He gently places her there and trails his lips across her jaw with the occasional soft kiss and tender pull of suction.

Her hands move across his shoulders, fingers trembling in need as she studies the skin of her constant undoing. Her parted lips are an instrument of his unraveling control. His kisses grow desperate, paired with teeth and grunts bordering on primal. Biting into her soft, chestnut skin, his hands make quick work of her tights. She assists with the quick lift of her ass from the granite the small counter space. Soon they’re but a distant memory. All Aaron and Sam can think about is what’s next.

Soon, Aaron is on his knees, soft lips planting a wet trail across her thighs. He doesn’t linger there too long though, as the scent of her arousal draws him to what lies beyond them. Aaron was never really a gentle eater. He was more of a “last supper” kind of guy. His tongue’s attack on titan was nothing new to Sam, yet it never failed to rock her world. The way he’d devour her with his entire face in it would always leave her breathless and numb in the head. 1, 2, 3 orgasms with nothing but the power of the tongue; it’s no wonder it doesn’t take much for her to get dick-dumb.

As the echoes of her desperate cries and her thighs vibrate against the sides of his head, he pulls back. His hazel irises have darkened considerably and his clean shaven chin is drenched in her. Always a messy eater when it comes to her. Slowly, he rises to his full height.

“Get down, let me see you properly first,” what should be a soft whisper, comes out as a gruff rasp. But his accent-oh his accent-keeps it tooth-rotting nonetheless. As she instinctively obeys, she just hopes her needs aren’t too weak.

The low yellow light illuminated her body, hypnotising Aaron. She looked like an angel whose skin was the halo. The mirror behind her reflects his thirsty ass expression and her rounded ass; stretch marks, cellulite and hand prints from 2 nights ago nearly send him into a spiral. The previously solid ponytail holding her goddess braids was looser now. The free curls framed her radiant face; gym days meant no makeup, just an intense glow from the workouts, and now having her thoughts ate out of her. The days didn’t matter much to Aaron though. To him, Sam always looked like a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

A cocky smirk stretched at her lips. “You like?” she teased, her silky voice making Aaron’s nervous system act a fool. Something inside him switches as his throat dries. His dick makes a bit of scene by jumping against his cotton sweats. Although his eyes narrow seemingly like a predator zeroing in on its pray, there isn’t a single thought in his brain anymore. No, that’s not true. There is one thought. Only one.

“I fucking love you.”

Without another breath, his hands plant themselves onto her waist, turning her around. His tattooed arm reaches around her neck. Her chin firmly in his hand, he tilts her head to the side as if creating access. Eyes trained hers through their reflections, he drags his tongue across her shoulder, stopping at the base of her neck. Back across the same shoulder he went, this time by wet, gentle kisses.

“Never forget that.”

Before Sam can respond, the hand cupping her chin is on the back of her neck, firmly folding her over the edge of the granite edge. His fingers find her slick folds and parts them for the pad of his thumb to find her clit. Her body shivers against his as his thumb works her into a pleading mess.

“Aaron-“

“Baby please.”

“Fuck me, please! I need you!” she cries, eliciting a dark chuckle from Aaron who increases the pressure of his thumb. For an extra gift, he inserts 3 fingers inside of her, stretching her sweetly around them. The action pulls out one of the most pornographic noises he had ever heard from her. All it does push him further.

His fingers curl.

They scissor.

They retreat.

They plunge back in.

Orgasm number 4 was more of a splash into his hand. Wetter than the previous 3 that’s for sure. Maybe that explained the tears in her eyes. And suddenly her ignored attempts to grab his wrist make all the more sense.

“You alright over there?” he taunts. Her teary browns met his playful greens, struggling to grasp the audacity of this man. Then her eyes widen in what seems like fear as she detects a certain glint in his irises. His lips curve slightly as a silent response. “What did I say you should never forget?” he asks her, his tone deceptively sweet.

“That you lo-AH!” she cries, her answer being sharply cut off by his fingers plunging right back into her. Two curls against her warm walls is all it takes for a 5th orgasm. And in a way she didn’t even know was possible, it’s messier and wetter than the 4th.

Aaron retracts his soaked fingers with the ghost of a sinister smirk across his features. His dry hand grabs the loose ponytail and wraps it around his fist. As if she weighs nothing, Sam’s back is arched inwards, bringing her face to face with Aaron.

“Hey,” is all he says before shoving his pussy covered fingers into her mouth. His fingers dance over her tongue as he essentially uses it to wipe them off. Right as it seems like he’s about to remove them however, they slide further down her mouth right past her uvula. She gags and chokes mindlessly, catching him wink as fucks the back of her throat with his fingers.

Okay, maybe he is a little cruel.

“You know, I’ve always found it fascinating how you still manage to look this fucking beautiful while being the nastiest little whore I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. Absolutely fucking amazing I tell you,” he muses. It’s at this point that Sam fully accepts her oncoming fate. However she still can’t tell you for the life of her what she did to earn it.

His fingers leave her mouth but not before using her spit to paint her lips. “What did I tell you not to forget just now?” Aaron asks again as his fingers run up and down the valley of her breasts.

“That you love me,” her reply comes out as a croak as a result of him treating her gag reflex like a toy.

“And I do, Sam. I really do,” he pauses to lean in and place a soft kiss on her cheek. “But now I’m going to ruin you.”

His hands are on her waist again as he takes a step forward, pressing her front against the sink. He pushes his pants and briefs to his thighs, releasing his impatient looking cock. A few quick strokes and a slight lift of her waist is all the prep she has before Aaron pushes roughly into her. A ragged moan is all Sam has to offer as her man bottoms out inside of her, stuffing her like a garage pie. With no hand holding her up, the pressure folds her right back over and has her hands inching for something to grab. Aaron isn’t having it though; he reaches for her ponytail again and yanks, only this time she’s flush against him. Holding her there is his meaty tattooed bicep, keeping her in what could be a headlock if she finds a way to test him.

With his other hand on her waist, he wastes no time with waiting for her to adjust and instead just rams into her torturingly slow. Each time he pulls out, her brain is tricked by his tongue and lips peppering kisses on her skin and it confuses itself with false relief. Until he slams right back into her, reaching her soul with his girthy tip. “Look at you…such a pretty little slut aren’t you? Mi deh fuck yuh foolish an’ yuh still look perfect, yuh si?” he groans. The pure eroticism in his tone mixed deliciously with the Patois he had taken to using as a weapon formed against her…

Samkelisiwe Pierre never stood a chance.

Aaron’s strokes, although measured and deep, are unrelenting. The precision at which he hits that sweet, sweet spot makes Sam feel like there’s a secret mission afoot. Like there are other forces at hand. If only she had the power to at the very least fight back against them. Never resist or stop them though. Not when they had her seeing stars like this. Not when they had her stomach doing cartwheels around the pressure building up.

“Fuck, daddy…feels so mmh…gonna cum,” she breathes out.

“Is that right? ‘Cause I don’t recall you asking me to.” To the untrained ear, it sounds like an observation, a comment, a note. But Sam’s ears are seasoned. She’s fluent in “Aaaronese” and to her, this is a veiled warning. He’s daring her to do it without asking.

Unfortunately for both of them, she spoke too late and is too close to turn back. There’s nothing she can do to stop the orgasmic freight train that’s coming at her at lightning speed. Nothing she can bite hard enough to quell the guttural scream that escapes her throat. And unfortunately, there’s no amount of clenching that could stop the 6th wave of pleasure pouring from her onto his dick.

All of it happens so fast; so hard, that she can’t even feel the subtle change in pace as she rides it out. He’s going slower, but only so little that she can’t tell the difference. He should be upset…in fact he should be livid at her blatant disregard. But damn, he couldn’t help but be softened by the way her features twisted and relaxed in euphoria. He also understands that there wasn’t much she could do to stop it. Not after a whole workout and…well.

His arm releases her neck, allowing her more breathing room. She places her hands on one of the sinks, using it to brace herself while she takes in their reflection in the mirror. Aaron is still knee-deep inside of her, letting her recover with a more gentle tempo.

“I’m sor-“ she’s quickly cut off by an even sharper stroke. Then another. Then another. All increasing in pace until all it is is just Aaron pounding into her like a mad man. He may have forgiven her last transgression; that doesn’t mean he’s in the mood to hear her lie about her remorse.

The soft grunts painted on his lips accompany her cries of wanton. He’s chasing his own release. He hadn’t originally planned to do it this soon, but Sam derailed his plans. Now he just wants to paint her walls then clean her off in the shower; take care of her for the rest of the night.

He continues to slam into her, pace completely unrelenting but tempo growing sloppy. He’s close, and judging by the way she’s clenching around him, she was too. He leans forward, kissing her along the jaw and her cheek. Her dazed eyes find him through the mirror. There’s drool on the corner of her lip, so he does what any good man would do. He licks it up and lets it mingle with his own saliva before using one of his hands to cup her chin and turn her face towards him.

Almost like she can hear his thoughts, her mouth is slightly open with her tongue sticking out. Little phantoms of his name trail out, waiting on the gift he’s about to give her.

And it comes in the form of a slow, long line of spit, directly on her tastebuds. And like that, the hard earned white ring around his dick grows. Sam’s grip on him warrants one last punishing thrust; one that shakes her to her core and drowns her in powerful tides of pleasure. Her walls hug him tightly and coax his own release out of him. Aaron has no choice but to comply. With a strained groan, his dick twitches, spasms then let’s go, making a complete mess inside of her to match the one outside.

Having emptied himself completely, he pulls out, still leaning on her back. “You know, other couples usually take showers after the gym,” she giggles, back vibrating against his head.

“Love that for them sweetheart. I generally prefer a snack and some cardio,” he teases hoarsely, planting a soft smack on the side of her ass. Sam glares playfully through their reflections, shaking her head at the innuendo. “I won’t hold you though, that shower does sound like a good time right now,” he adds.

“I hear you. But then knowing you, it could turn into you catching your third wind,” she jokes. His head snaps up, mischief shining in his eyes.

“I mean if you don’t mind-“

“Hayi hayi hayi! Mna, I’m tired. Actually, get off my back before you put that thing back inside me. In fact, ingathi I’m going to shower alone,” her tone is firm, but Aaron can hear the humour below. Besides, she hates showering alone so even if he couldn’t, he would know she’s bluffing.

Still, he listens, standing up straight and moving to lean against the sink himself with his back facing the mirror. He pulls her in for a soft kiss, their lips having a tender little slow dance. The taste of her still on his tongue mingles with the taste of litchi flavoured water and his spit.

Sam shifts a little, finding herself in between his legs with her hands against his chest. His hands travel down to her ass, offering a quick squeeze. A sharp gasp escapes her lips and is quickly stolen by Aaron. Her smooth fingers trace his skin, skating down his abs and stopping right where his happy trail starts. Suddenly, he feels her palm him, and it stops him in his tracks.

Surely they can wait 20 more minutes for that shower. He’d even cook for her right afterwards, whatever she wants too. Just one more round-

“Don’t even think about it big boy. You’re not getting another workout out of me.”

#aaron pierre #aaronpierre #aaron!pierre #aaron pierre fic #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre smut #black fanfiction #black fanfic writer #sillyteecup writes

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kithtaehyung · 1 year ago

Text

broken, pt. 2 (3tan) (m) | myg

title: broken (pt. 2) pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) series:masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball | stay | sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call | busted | broken (pt. 1) rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , fluff , smut ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: the championship game lights up... and everything goes down. note: not too much to say other than thank you. this part is definitely another very, very close one to my heart. please buckle up and enjoy the ride. warnings: [spice warnings under the cut] language, angst, tension, alcohol mention & consumption, fights, basketball!yoongi🧍‍♀️, cocky!yoongi, jimin😳, tense situations, did i say angst?, long hair yoongi, crying, bro😀, reader is a real one i don’t make the rules, arguments, the chains stay on(???), …bad boy yoongi😀👍, saying softhours puts some of this lightly, bro🥲, blood/wound mentions, hurt/comfort, there’s just a lot in here y’all idek, taehyung being the best ever, …angst. drop date: february 9th, 2024, 10:37pm est word count: 17.7k my god

smut warnings: cursing, choking, light slapping, breast play, angry s*x a ha ha, crying, multiple explicit scenes y'all istg don't perceive me lol, c*nt slapping, penetrative s*x, brat!reader, protected s*x, edging, consent king ofc :), rough s*x, b*cksh*ts and a lot of them, ...unprotected s*x (yeah it's here and y'all better be responsible or so help me!!!), f*ngering, or*l (m/f rec), brat tamer!3tan yoongi!!!, reader loses themselves for a sec, but yoongi is a king, pain k*nk whewwww, kissing, so much kissing lmfao, c*m play, slight bond*ge (yoongi hands), spanking, aftercare ofc :'))

There’s no way.

How the fuck is he here? When did that horrible excuse of a guy even join a team? Had he been playing intramurals this whole time?

“No fuckin’ way.”

Your eyes find your brother standing rigid at your side, wrists tensed to hell and shoulders spiked. Did he not know he was playing, either? Judging by his smoldering question, you’re going to guess he wasn’t aware.

“Were they always on this team?”

“No.”

“I don’t remember them being on any teams.”

They? Them? So they recognize more from the court on that day you try to not think about. Shifting your vision, you start gauge reactions under sounds of the growing crowd.

It’s Yoongi that looks at you first, eyes lowering to the hand you still have on your arm damn it you should be okay about that night already. But you can’t seem to let your limb go, your fingers covering it in a weak attempt at protection and resilience.

The blaze in his eyes makes you shake. Even as you swallow your pleas for everyone to just go home, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he walks over to stand in front of your knees, motioning for you to scoot over one so he can take the end seat.

Normally, you would slightly question why he wouldn’t just sit next to you. But this time, you’re hyper aware of what he’s doing—and why. It’s so obvious that you wanna reach out and grip his sweaty hand.

Yoongi absolutely sat there to shield you.

And your heart burns and burns.

If only he could do more, be more, show more. Because with a rattled ego and tainted mind, you’re already yearning for his touch, wanting him to whisk you out of here and bring you back to the comfort of his home—just like he did that night.

God, he makes you dizzy doing absolutely nothing.

“What’s the plan,” he asks, eyes on the court and palms between his knees.

“Dunno yet.” Your brother shakes his head before looking back, eyes narrowing at the laughs on the other bench. “But I might get my ass thrown out if we—”

“Play.”

Immediately, all three of them snap their heads your way. Fuck, your arm is still…

One person cannot have this hold on you. There’s no way you’re going to let him control your every waking moment, and your determination bubbles into your commands. “Play the game and beat his ass,” you seethe, holding yourself together and aiming daggers everywhere. “Just make it quick.”

Yoongi gives you a look before Jimin snags him with an eyebrow raise.

“And you’re paying me double.”

Looking at the man beside you, it’s almost comforting seeing his attention fully on your face. If it weren’t for your ghost on the other side of the scoring table and your brother standing there, you wouldn’t hesitate to kiss him.

But you only nod, getting a huff and a lopsided curve in response before you watch him lock eyes with your brother, “What do you wanna do?”

After a long, resigned sigh, your sibling finally relents, “Fuck this shit up.”

Good. Yes. This is what you want—for you and them. “Exactly.”

Scanning around the tight circle, you notice that you have everyone’s attention.

But one person seems to send a question without any words at all. In kind, you answer the same way, wings battering your stomach when all of them send thunder to the court with lightning in their eyes.

Yoongi scoffs through a slant, carrying the air of someone you never want to mess with in your fucking life. “The fuckin’ nerve.”

Jimin hums, sliding a finger along his flexed to hell jaw. “Bold,” he adds. And his voice drop sends shivers when he turns to you,

“Don’t worry, love.”

You stare.

“This will be over soon.”

The game is… just a game. For now.

No one’s taunted hard other than a few smirks and winks, and right now it seems as if both teams are just being competitive more than antagonistic. Which relaxes you to the point where you’re cheering from the bench with the other players—and their coach that arrived late—jumping and yelling and clapping when things go in their favor.

Your brother’s slamming down dunks. Jimin’s been playing amazing defense with his quick reflexes and high stamina.

And Yoongi? Has gotten sickeningly sharp. All those late nights at the rec center are paying off in this championship and, when he scores a hard shot, the pride you feel launches you to your feet.

“Nice job, b—” Oh fuck you almost shout something that should never be public knowledge. Holding your tongue, you quickly switch it up with a hasty, “Let’s go!”

That was close. Way too close.

Get it together.

But you cannot help it right now. Seeing Yoongi facing off against the man you both wanna square up against? And making it look easy? The fluttering you feel in your belly grows double. Triple. Tenfold. His gestures, the way he acts like it’s nothing, his shrugs at their failed attempts to stop him—everything’s making you scratch proverbial walls and kick bench chairs.

And it’s not just him—the whole team has been playing excellently. Each play seems intentional; every pass and movement is strategic. If you didn’t know this was a casual rec game, you would think they’re gunning for a real, prestigious trophy.

However.

When it’s starting to be very clear who the better squad is, that’s when things start getting more than tense.

On a foul call, both sides start getting in each others’ faces. And you peg that as normal until someone on your team gets shoved and your brother immediately gets between the action.

Both you and the coach shoot up from your seats.

Shit, shit, shit. If there’s one thing your older sibling’s gonna do in this game, it’ll be finding any excuse to deck that man in the face. And once that happens, there’s no telling how many injuries are gonna walk off polished floors.

Thankfully, everyone separates without a ruckus, and timeout is called on your side. The crowd starts to yell in favor of either team, and that’s when you notice that Taehyung has been joined by Shiv and your friends. From the looks of things, all five of them are laser focused on you.

You hold a quick thumbs-up before you’re covered by hot and sweaty men huddling around the bench. And you immediately agree with their coach when he barks,

“I need you all to calm down.”

“No can do, coach.”

“Not if they aren’t.”

Shit. All of them look fucking livid, not giving any shits whatsoever if they’re willing to talk back to their leader. What’s really been happening on the court? Has it been even more tense than you perceived?

Oblivious to the context behind this matchup, their coach keeps yelling, “Look, I don’t give a shit if you have something to settle. Play the game and leave it on the floor. Understood?” When there’s charged silence, he yells it even louder.

And a smattering of agreement comes out before all of you hear an even bigger yelling session booming from the other bench. When you look over, it’s quickly noticeable that they’re getting reamed over there, too.

Jimin watches before speaking, and it seems like your coach’s pleas fell on deaf ears, “Fifteen went for my legs.”

“Saw that. Let’s switch cus he can’t guard me.”

“K.” Park swivels his head to address someone else. “You good to keep playing?”

Your brother responds with a nod, wiping his never-ending sweat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Huh. Even though you know he’s mad, the man seems… Calm. Eerily calm. It’s reminding you of the way he acted after you came home from Yoongi’s.

And you don’t like it one bit.

But the timeout is over, and both teams eye each other on their walk back onto the court. As it continues, the gym erupts into life again, with a bit of back and forth shots racking the scoreboard up.

And Yoongi keeps scoring. And scoring. And scoring.

Which lands him in a bit of trouble when the same idiot from Dalo pushes him during a layup. After he manages to make the shot, Yoongi immediately flicks him off—which gets a whistle blown. Which also means he has to sit on the bench for a second because his coach is pissed.

Ignoring the scathing remarks being thrown, he dumps himself next to you. And you immediately feel the heat roll off of him in waves, trying hard to focus on the game. “Don’t be stupid,” you jut out.

“What?”

“Don’t be stupid. These guys aren’t worth it.”

“After what he did to you?”

The way those words leave his mouth ice you over, flares spiraling through every fiber of your being. Your reaction is so visceral that you can barely get your response out, “Yeah, but…”

Leaning on his knees, Yoongi wipes his forehead with a crinkled to hell jersey, excess sweat pinging onto his sneakers. The crowd is loud and the buzzers even louder, but they aren’t enough to drown out his bite,

“I can’t let that shit go.”

“Yoongi.”

“Sorry, doll.”

“Please just—”

Yoongi leaves the bench before you can finish, and you whip your head in a rush, hands jutting out in a desperate attempt to hold him back.

Only for him to be just out of reach.

After halftime, it’s a whole different game.

From an outside perspective, it’s as if everyone was using the first half to sniff each other out, circling around each other before deciding how and when to go in for the kill.

And Yoongi isn’t the only one that you’re starting to worry about. Jimin, your brother, and even Rohan and the other guys are on edge, playing hard and doing everything they can to keep their scoring lead.

Both you and their coach know you can’t stop whatever’s going on out there. And you’re starting to feel yourself getting angry at how your brother and them are egging the guys on.

Why are they taunting? What the hell is making them so bent on making the other team pissed? Yes, all that went down with you, but nothing else had happened since then. And they clearly aren’t listening to anyone telling them to calm down.

If they end up starting shit you are going to—the fuck!

Yoongi gets straight shoved again as he goes for a layup, and you shoot up in your chair as he hits the back wall with a thud. While the players at your side are yelling and everyone on the court starts grouping in shouts, you stay rigid, solely watching Yoongi eye his attacker—the same idiot from Dalo.

Fuck everything, you wanna rush into the fray and throw hands yourself because that looked painful.

The only thing that’s stopping you is the chilling fact that Yoongi is… Grinning.

Wiping his curved lips, he waits while the refs break up the squabble, still looking triumphant as he walks to the line to shoot his free throws. When both of them are made, he stares directly at your assaulter—as you finally call it like it is—and doesn’t stop even when the coward looks away.

A whistle blows, and the game continues to be close. Too close, too close, too close. A couple more timeouts let you see just how laser-focused everyone is, and you’re a little shaken when it feels like they forgot you were even occupying their bench.

What the hell is being said on the court? Even Jimin is brimming with anger.

But after a few back and forths, Yoongi passes to your brother for a hard dunk, basket ringing from his throwdown and shaking when he lands.

Thank god. Those points are enough. They’re gonna win.

All the pent up anxiety you’ve harbored all game releases as everyone starts cheering, and your pride soars as your boys stare down their opponents while the clock winds down.

It’s over. The game is over, nothing too serious happened, and you can all go the fuck home to eat dinner and celebrate.

Your eyes catch Yoongi throwing a rudely lopsided curve across the court. Even when Jimin comes up to push him back in excitement, his expression doesn’t change.

And you find that wildly, unfathomably attractive.

Then, as it goes, your brother comes up and they all share quick daps, eyes ablaze and not letting the losers out of their sight.

Well. All of them are infamous for a reason. You would guess their energy altogether certainly contributes to that. Because the aura you feel oozing from them fills the gymnasium all the way up to your knees.

And the sigh you let out mingles with their coach’s shake of his head.

Things are still tense as they all shake hands—or at least offer hands to shake—with the other team. The atmosphere is even a little iced when they receive their trophy.

But the way you’re currently being surrounded as your guys converse hides you from plain sight, so you feel heavily protected. Even Jimin, who’s usually cheerful even when exhausted, wields sharp eyes as he keeps glancing over his shoulder.

Honestly? You wouldn’t know what to do without them. Both your brother and all his friends, good pasts or not, are great people. They didn’t need to shield you like this. But they’re doing it anyway, because they won’t give that lowlife another reason or chance to approach you.

Yeah. Your older sibling knows how to choose his circle.

It’s making you wonder if…

Nah.

That’s still too big a reach.

When it seems like all of them and their cheering squad are gone, everyone starts making their way over to the bleachers—and you’re acutely reminded of what went down under similar looking ones the other night.

Your shivers are overshadowed by Yuri’s telltale screams to Rohan, “You were so good, baby! Are you okay?”

Reia and Dom shake their heads before focusing on you, the latter being the spokeswoman, “So what was all that for?”

“Don’t ask,” you sigh, knowing exactly what she’s referring to. “I’m just glad they won and that we can go home.”

“You’re not coming to Yuri’s?” Reia asks. “I thought we planned on that, no?”

Ah, shit. Earlier this week, you did make plans with them without really thinking about what day they were gonna fall on. But now you’re so mentally drained that you kinda just wanna go—

“Is anyone else starving? I’m hungry as fuck!”

Right. Food. Adrenaline made you forget you were starving. Glancing towards your brother, you quickly remind him, “Yeah, me. And you’re paying.”

“Ah, shit, that’s right.” As he lets out a hard groan and deals with Jimin and Yoongi’s comments, your sibling relents, “Alright, where are we going.”

“Up to you,” you shrug, stealing a little look at the man you want to kiss like hell for his performance tonight.

God, Yoongi’s so handsome. As Jimin leaves his side, he silently wipes his forehead of any excess sweat, hands and shoulders shining in the lights wait wait wait. Hold on.

Walking over, you toss any care about who notices you out the window. And as he eyes your approach, you murmur with care and concern, “Is your back okay?”

Blinking once, twice, the man nods. “Yeah, it’s all good.”

“You sure? That looked…”

Of course he decides that now is the perfect time to rake his sweaty locks back. Speaking so low that only you can hear, Yoongi reassures with a fist full of hair, “I’m fine, doll.”

Motherfucker.

Pinning down your urge to reach out and smother him, you only breathe relief. And before you move away to put some distance between, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Yoongi looks your way again. “For what?”

Swallowing what’s left of your anxiety, you sigh. “For not getting into it out there. I was about to get mad as hell, but.. Looks like they were all talk.”

“Mm.”

Honestly? It’s a miracle. The game’s over without any hitches or brawls? More relief starts blossoming in your chest, prompting a smile to grace your features. “You looked so good out there, by the way. I almost called you ba—”

“What are y’all talking about over there!”

Your mouth snaps shut as soon as you see your brother watching, but Yoongi is quick to fire off an insult, “The way you always take so long to pick something.”

“I picked already!”

“Then let’s go then.”

Laughing, you join the whole crew as you’re all the last ones to walk out. Your friends and Shiv parked in another lot since one side was already full, so you tell them you’ll meet at the restaurant.

Some other teammates decide to join, with jerseys being shucked off as everyone heads out the door. Immediately, body odor swoops into your nose, making you welcome the crisp, fresh air of night.

Scratch that. You smell oncoming rain.

Conversations cease, which only leaves the sound confirming your observation: booming, rolling thunder. Stopping at the edge of the gym’s awning, multiple heads turn up at the rumbles, watching lightning crack the sky.

In front of you, Jimin shifts his head to the side. “Still?”

And when you look at who he’s asking, you see Yoongi nod.

Weird.

But it’s not raining just yet, so all of you make your way into the lot and to your cars. As you do, you check your phone while making your way over, aiming a question at Tae, “You know where we’re going?”

“Yeah, it’s not far,” he responds, fishing out his own device. “I think we’ve been there before.”

We? Looks like things are progressing nicely over there. Since you’re lingering behind the guys, you start to take a small jab, “We, huh? Cute.”

Lips spread as tight as his eyes, Taehyung parries. “Cute? Look who’s talking, miss whipped.”

“You’re whipped.”

“No, you.”

“No, you,” you giggle out, reaching out to tickle Tae’s side and laughing as he flinches away. You chase him for a few seconds before you see his whole body freeze completely, asking a small question before going quiet.

And when you slowly follow his line of vision, your heart freefalls to your gut, smashing it so hard you feel bile sting the back of your throat.

The man from Dalo. And all the guys from the court plus some.

Surround both Jimin’s and your brother’s cars.

Fuck. Oh, fuck, there’s so many of them, standing and waiting and unflinching in the bursts of thunder inching closer and closer what the fuck are you gonna do—

“Taehyung.”

Your eyes shake.

“Get her out of here. Now.”

And you’ve never screamed so loud.

Every word rips out of your mouth before you’re promptly shushed by large fingers, icicles pinging around your heart and holding it down, “Don’t fucking do thi—!”

To your horror, Tae’s already hauling you back, voice low and firm in your ear, “Come on.”

“No! What the fuck—”

“We’re leaving.”

“Please—!”

There are so many of them. So, so many of them. Panic drowns out your words and excess leaks out of your eyes, your own storm preventing you from seeing that your best friend is just as torn apart.

“Babe, we have to go now.”

“No, let me go!”

They’re outnumbered. What if they have weapons? What if the police are called? What if something happens that you aren’t prepared for?

You’re screaming. Curses, their names, or whatever whatever you don’t even know what the fuck you’re saying because your toes are kissing the edge of madness.

Dragged a good distance away, your yells devolve into incoherency, your nose and eye sockets smashing into Taehyung’s solid forearm so hard it hurts.

Make it out, make it out, make it out. For the love of everything in the fucking universe and beyond it, make it out alive.

Some movements and backs straightening are the last things you see before getting pulled around the corner.

And when Yoongi calmly rolls one of his shoulders, you feel a wick of your soul burn out.

Panic. Worry. Panic and more panic. The car ride that Tae paid for is the blurriest muddy water you’ve ever waded through.

Truthfully, you don’t even remember blankets being pulled over your shoulder. Where even are you? Oh, you’re in a bed. Whose bed are you in because this isn’t yours. But what does it matter anyway what does anything matter anyway nothing matters there’s nothing you can do you gotta get up and go back over there get up get up go—

As soon as you yank his bedroom door open, Taehyung is there, holding you back and pushing your frantic energy back inside. “Tae, if you don’t let me—”

“Do what!”

“I’m going back!” Wrestling out of his strong hold, you bolt down his hallway, head clanging as your shoulder bumps into a wall. “We need to go back—”

“Stop!” You hear running as you burst through the living room, whizzing past the glowing television. “We have to stay here—”

No no no. There’s no way you’re staying here when you need to be back at that lot. Who the fuck would call for help if anyone needs it? When they’re gonna need it? Your vision proves so blurry you can’t even find your shoes—

Arms wrap around your waist and you fight back with a scream, “Let me go!”

“Stop and just think for a second—”

“Why aren’t you with me on this, they’re—”

“Dumb as fuck!”

Your friend’s quick comment is so sharp it cuts your breath. As you still in his firm but comforting hold, you finally stop to breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe as you’re turned to level a look with his eyes.

Eyes that are red-rimmed and so, so raw. “They’re idiots,” Taehyung grits out. “But they will be alright.”

From the shake of his voice, you find that neither of you think that for sure.

“I need to.. To…” Your breaths are ragged, energy spent and head dizzy from your quick exit from his bed. As you come down from your volcanic high, every weight the world places on your back proves too much.

“You need to relax,” Tae advises, guiding you further back inside. And you don’t speak as he leads you past the couch, past the pictures on his hallway wall, and into the dark of his bedroom.

Maybe it’s over. Right? Maybe someone will answer if you ring them up. “Call. I need to call…”

“Shh,” he soothes again, walking you backwards away from his door. When the bends of your knees hit his bed, Taehyung lets you down slowly until you’re sitting. “I’ll do it.”

Brain fried from hyperactivity, you can only nod.

Your friend steps away to fiddle with his phone, the light illuminating his beautiful features in the night. When he holds it to his ear, this is when you hear rain and the television in the living room, noticing that it’s playing a movie he watches for comfort.

Shit. He’s going through it just like you are, and yet he’s still finding energy to calm your nerves? What have you even done to deserve him?

Guess you know how to choose your circle, too.

Going unanswered, Taehyung lowers his hand, thumb rubbing the homescreen before gripping the device hard.

Both of you are in the same boat. So steer when he can’t do it anymore. Soft but assertive, you rise to your feet, offering your embrace while calling his name, “..Tae.”

When he turns, the man wastes no time in dropping his phone to bring you in close. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs, and you hear his words on your head but feel the trembles in his chest. “Okay?”

Feeble fingers grab at his soft shirt, and you bury into his scent while soaked and tired eyes shut.

You want to believe him. You do. You do.

But hope may be a bitch.

So you don’t.

Forever passes while you both lie still in his bed, with Taehyung holding you close and keeping you subdued with notes of honey and wood. You both try to have conversation, but it’s disjointed and manufactured, so giving up is a group effort.

You’re about to give up on a lot of things before you both jolt at Tae’s phone vibrating.

The world shifts quick as you both sit up, the call immediately being accepted and a low greeting whooshing at your side, “Hey.”

With bated breath, you hear Jimin on the line. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, we’re all alright, but…”

We. We, we, we, all of them thank the fucking world. As your breath is held, Taehyung’s voice is solid, “Say it.”

“My eye is pretty fucked. Yoongi’s face is cut up and he’s got some nasty bruises on his—”

You don’t even remember yanking the phone to your mouth. “Where is he.”

Jimin audibly pauses on the line before having the audacity to chuckle. Irked and feeling ire bubble back to the surface, you seethe, “This isn’t funny, Park. Where the fuck is he?”

“With us.” Us. Shit. “In the car.”

Oh.

“Your brother’s here, too.”

“Ah.” That means they’re all there. They’re all heading home. “Am I on speaker.”

“Umm.. Yeah.”

As much as you’re relieved they’re all okay, stockpiled anxiety transforms into anger, your limit striking the thundering sky. “Actually, you know what? Good. Now I can say you’re all idiots and immature as fuck.”

It’s your sibling that responds first. “Hey, wait a damn minute—”

“I waited long enough!” you scream, ignoring Taehyung’s wide eyes.

You know you need to relax. But you can’t help what’s happening right now and all you feel is pain. “I know this shit isn’t new to y’all, but really? You didn’t need to do this.”

“He was gonna—”

“All you had to do was play the game! Why’d you have to make them mad? Do you even know what could’ve happened back there?” Damn it, you weren’t supposed to cry during this part, not when you just want them to know they fucked up.

And the response is dead silence. Because of course it is. But if they won’t answer you here, they’re gonna answer another, “Just tell me one thing,” you plead. “Is this gonna happen again?”

That one your brother answers with finality. “They won’t be coming around anymore.”

Gulping, you give Taehyung a glossy-eyed look before staring at his lit screen again. Trying not to let your voice waver, you accept his response, “Okay… Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah, the hits I took were weak as fuck. I’ll get home soon so if you wanna order in tonight we can.”

“Fuck that.”

“Huh?”

What an idiot. “Bro, you don’t even know how fucking mad I am,” you accuse through gritted teeth. There’s no way in hell you wanna deal with their bullshit. Ignoring your pleas and staring harm in the face? Forget it. “I’m going to Yuri’s.”

“What? Nah, come home tonight and we’ll talk.”

“I just—No.” Taehyung has to grip your shoulder before pulling you into a hug. And you’re still steel in his arms because you haven’t been this upset in ages. “I’m not talking to any of you for awhile.”

And you mean that.

“…Fine. But go asap then. I don’t want you out late on your own.”

So you gotta listen to what he wants but when it comes to what you say, it’s crickets? Goddamn, you’re furious. “…Of course you don’t.”

And you hang up before anyone can say anything else.

You open the front door to your brother leaning against the hallway wall.

Both of you eye each other, one of you with a perfectly fine face and the other that isn’t so lucky because he’s a fool.

And no words are exchanged as you trudge your frustration to the kitchen.

Ice. Bandages. Dinner. Anger propels you through it all.

Whipping up a quick but hearty meal, you let your brother patch himself up after demanding he showered. The smells of comfort food waft through your nose as things sizzle on the stove and, through the whole process, you don’t think about anything except how upset you are.

They’re all okay. But like Taehyung so abruptly put it, they’re all stupid.

As you turn off your burner, you transfer everything to a bowl, sighing so loud it seasons the top with fire. When you approach the bar, your actions speak pretty damn loud—the dish clank shoving out a question from your sibling,

“Is there something you wanna say to me?”

“There’s a bunch of shit I wanna say to you.”

“It’s about Yoongi,” he asks, the absence of hesitation making your insides squeeze. “Isn’t it.”

But luckily for you, your rage is so potent that it overruns your fear. As soon as your brother stands up and starts to repeat his question, your correction clangs through the room,

“It’s about all of you! You say you wanna be there for me but what the fuck will doing this shit do?”

Freezing, the man waits in shock as you keep going, “Yes, that guy deserves hell. I was so scared when he grabbed me at the club.” You stop to swallow. “But I had them both there and we left.”

Fuck, this is hard. Having to relive that shit is difficult but you need your brother—and all of them, for that matter—to know how hurt you feel right now. Mustering up enough bravery to get to the goddamn point, you finally squeak out,

“If I lose them? Lose you? Because of something as stupid as a fight?” Your eyes search his, and your heart cracks when you see glassy sheen amongst his bruises. “What would I do then?”

You expect silence. And silence is what you get. It’s drawn out, loud, and telling. “We know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he whispers, eyes lifting to meet yours with sincerity. “And we’re sorry.”

Another moment passes between the two of you, the food you made left uneaten on the counter and the rest sitting still on the stove. But you know your sibling will eat it all tonight, whether you’re there or not.

And you step forward at the same time he holds his battered arms out.

Freshly showered, he still smells like rain and exertion. But his heart beats under your chest, he’s present, and back home—things you need to stop taking for granted.

But you’re still mad. And getting things off your chest has only made you tired, so you decide that it’s finally time to go before you circle back to other scary territory brought up tonight. “I’m leaving now,” you announce as you step away. “But just think about that.”

“I will.”

“I’m serious.”

“I will.”

Staring, you take note of his cuts and injuries, wondering how the others are faring even though you don’t wanna deal with anything else. Because it hurts too much, and if you see who you’re thinking about, there’s no telling what you’d do if you were like this with your brother. There’s no telling how you’d…

No. You choose to go the easy route this time. Everyone can simmer in their sore, swelling consequences while you have a night of de-stressing with your friends.

So you leave to go pack without another word.

It’s raining.

Hard.

And even though your car is heading to Yuri’s, your heart is beating backwards. Tugging you somewhere else and not letting up.

With a ping of chill, you can’t shake it. Braking at a stop sign close to your destination, you sit in silence, letting the rain pelt every side of your vehicle and wondering what the hell to do.

Truthfully? Your brother looked like shit. But your body isn’t telling you to go back to the house, which can only mean one other place. And you know for a fact you don’t wanna talk to him, either.

So fucking upsetting. They did all that for what? You can barely keep your thoughts in a row because they keep yelling at jostling each other just like everybody did on the court. If anyone had to fight the dipshit, it should've been you.

Fuck! Your head connects with the wheel, an inner monster rumbling with the thunder because you’re so fed up with everything that happened.

Your brain is the one yelling. But your heart is begging for it to listen. Go to Yuri’s? Go to Yoongi’s. Find shelter in that warm bed of hers and sink in her plushies to comfort you?

A sigh. Maybe you can at least call him to tell him off one more time. He needs to hear what you told your brother because if you ever, ever lose him—

Your eyes burn.

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

No answer.

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

Pick up. What the fuck.

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

…Turn the fuck around shit, shit, shit.

Curses flying, you whip your vehicle in a flash, heart pounding so loud it’s blocking out the storm. Which is morbidly impressive considering how horridly it’s pouring.

Thinking in leaps, you pivot and make another decision. Tell her and make it all quick.

Yuri: Outgoing Call

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m not coming.”

“You okay?”

“I’m going to Yoongi’s.”

“Yoongi’s? Why?”

Ah, shit. Oh, fuck. She doesn’t know.

Banging the steering wheel, you smash your teeth, stressed as hell from braving the rain in the dark and now snitching on yourself to someone else.

Damn it. What do you say? What can you possibly even say when you’re so mad and stressed and conflicted and worried—

“Hello?”

“Because he’s the one,” you whoosh out, your vision quivering twice as much as it should. “And things went down after the game and now something feels wrong.”

“Oh, shit. Is that why y’all didn’t come to—”

“Yes.” When you say all this out loud, now it has weight. Horrifying weight on your chest and a block pushing down on the gas. You hear a bit of shuffling on the line, and you’re starting to get so anxious that you blurt, “Please don’t say anything. Please.”

“I won’t. Not about this.”

“Thank you.”

“Hang up, babe. Make it safe.”

“Okay.”

Go, go, go. Please, just get there.

Letting up, you change your speed, hoping to everything good in the world that this feeling you have is only a feeling and nothing more.

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

What a strange emotion, wanting his reason for not picking up solely being because he doesn’t wanna talk to you. That is an answer you can deal with.

But you still can’t fight off the jagged pulses telling you it’s something else.

After an agonizing drive, you finally see his complex, tensing harder the further and further away you have to park.

Whipping into a spot, you screech into it before hauling your bag out, popping the trunk and desperately grabbing a plastic box you always keep inside.

And the mad dash drenches you long before you seek cover, your bones shivering shivering shivering from the chill.

Yoongi has to be home. His car is here.

But he still won’t pick up the fucking phone.

Skidding at his door, your knocks are rapid, knuckles singed from the ice cold wraps.

Answer, answer, answer. For fuck’s sake, he better answer.

After a haunting moment of silence, you decide to call one more time, head wet and bones shivering as you press the phone to your damp ear.

Finally. “Hello.”

“Open the door,” you jump into commanding, hearing nothing other than a voice that sounds so crushed and low that it crumples you inside.

“You’re here?”

“Yeah, let me in.” Fuck, your teeth are clattering against each other, whether it’s from the rain, the cold, or anger, you can’t tell.

But the reply you get is the coldest thing imaginable. And it sets your whole body aflame.

“Not tonight.”

Hell no. Hell fucking no Yoongi is not going to get rid of you that easily. Not when you have a boatload of things to say and only one dock to dump them all on, “Yoongi, I swear to god—”

“Not tonight—”

“—you don’t let me in I’m—”

“Go home—”

“I’m fucking staying out here until you open the goddamn door!”

Oh, you’re pissed. You’re so fucking pissed because this all could’ve been avoided if none of them were stupid. Or prideful. Or whatever the fuck boys decide to be when they can’t let something go.

And this man still has the audacity to give you the stiff arm, silence on the line before he rasps out another short, “I’m serious.”

“No.”

“Go home.”

“No!”

He says your name. So, so softly, before a gut-wrenching,

“Please.”

Breath shaken, you rest your forehead against chilly wood, hoping it quells the fire you feel rising from your rib cage.

You can’t give up. Not when you have so much to say. Not when you have to check on him and make sure he’s fine.

Not when you give into the strongest premonition that you need to be nowhere else but with him tonight.

You will stay. Stay, stay, stay. Even if he doesn’t want to see you.

Voice trembling in rage and concern and everything in between, you feel your eyes sear through when they close, mission boiling down to one more desperate choice,

“…No.”

You’re cold. And wet. But you will stand out here for as long as it takes him to let you inside—a night, a day, no matter what.

And for a moment. Or a few. You think he’s dead set on making you prove that.

But you finally, finally, finally hear a sigh before a lock turn, and you try to prepare yourself for what you see but he opens the door and his face comes into view holy shit he looks like a wreck—

“What the fuck,” you grit out as you rush in with vision swimming, digging into your bag for the medkit you hastily stashed and swinging off your sandals because you gotta get something in the—

A hand grips you hard, tugging you back before you even register what’s happening.

As your feet stumble back onto linoleum, your gaze snaps to the ground.

And your breath cuts like it’s your last.

Shards.

Pieces.

Thousands of wood and glass chips litter the entire open area of the living room.

And realizing where they came from strikes like lightning.

Fuck. Oh, fuck, what did Yoongi do?

“I told you, doll.”

You choke on a sob.

“Go home.”

Your breaths return before you straighten, tears flowing freely as you don’t know whether to start cleaning up the chaos or finally facing the one who caused it.

No, no, no. Get rid of it.

Throw it out, all of it, all of it.

A new fire roars to life, forging your steeling commitment as you wrestle out of Yoongi’s hold.

What did he do, what did he do?

Revving with smoke out of your ears, you burn a path to the kitchen, grabbing a trash bag before marching into the wreckage. Up go the biggest pieces first, chucked into plastic before the smaller ones follow.

Throw it all. This one, this one, and this one.

Yoongi isn’t even wearing shoes. He can cut himself up even more if this all stays where it is.

Shit, this is everywhere.

When you realize you’re gonna need a broom, you storm back into his laundry closet to yank one out and keep going. When you go to sweep, the sharpest voice cuts through your fingers.

“Stop.”

Your grit grips the tool even tighter. Because you won’t. Don’t dare look into his expression, either, because you know that one glance will melt every scream on your tongue. So you stay resolute and shoot rejection to the ground, “No.”

“Just go, please.”

“No.”

This hurts.

This really, really hurts.

Yoongi has never, ever said these things to you and it feels like a knife jabbing into the same spot over, and over again. You almost prefer three new months of no contact over whatever the hell this is.

But you have to keep going. Eyes clenching, lips wobbling, you must keep going.

Because you came here for a reason other than this mess. And he’s gonna have to do better than this to kick you back out into the rain.

“I got it.”

“Let me do it.”

“Your brother needs you.”

“Yeah, well, I already tore the fuck into him and I’m gonna do the same to you.” You harden your fist on the sweeper, tugging it more towards your shoulder with finality. And you gather all the energy you need to leave no more room for arguments, because Yoongi is going to listen, “So sit down.”

It hurts.

He wants to say shit. You know he wants to.

But he only breathes hard with eyes closed, following your orders and carrying his dark clouds to the dining room.

When he finally leaves you alone, this is when you look his way.

In sweats and a shirt, he appears fine. But with a deep pang, you notice he’s slightly limping. Judging from those knuckles, you wonder if they’re red from the fight or from hitting another wall of his apartment.

Or from whatever the fuck happened around your feet.

Shit.

While he dumps himself at his table, you clean up the pieces of his rampage, mentally noting that one plan of yours has now changed.

This one. These, too. A string here. A metal piece there.

You don’t know how long it takes you. All you know is that you’re burning inside, determined to clean everything and sweep this chaotic energy away.

One more. Two more. Another one here.

As soon as you’re done, you lug the trash bag out of the front door and don’t give a shit what happens to it now.

Keep going. There’s more that you need to take care of.

The fuel inside of you rages on, anger conflicting with anxiety and past worries and sadness for something that didn’t even happen. As you spin, you vow yourself to keep pushing until you can’t anymore.

Sniffling. Shivering. But staying strong because things could’ve gone a lot worse.

Yoongi meets you by the table, messy, damp hair shielding his features. “You’ve done enough.”

“I still need to—”

“Just.” He looks away. “Go home, doll. I can’t do this tonight.”

“Do what? I’m helping you.”

That’s what you do for each other, right? You both help each other. But now you’re not so sure because Yoongi comes back with not an acknowledgement, nor a way of relenting.

But ice.

“Who said I needed it?”

And in all the time you’ve spent with this man, this is the first time you’ve felt downright cold. “Yoongi, what?” Your eyes travel across his face, chest caving in when there’s barely any hints of vitality. “Are you serious?”

“You think I’m joking?”

“You’re kicking me out? What happened to saying you’d never do that, huh?”

“I say a lot of things.”

…Oh.

That hurt. That… That physically couldn’t have hurt any harder.

Nodding, you look away, shaking your head in disbelief because you are on the verge of losing it. “You know what? You do say a lot of things.”

Walking away, you start rearranging pillows on the couch pushed askew. “Like how perfect I am.” Picking up his books from the now non-existent coffee table. “And how there’s no one else.”

As you give the volumes a new home on his intact tv stand, you turn to face him again. “Those are just words, too, huh?”

Yoongi kicks his head back with a smile, one that cuts instead of mends. “Nah… Not tonight.”

“Not tonight what.”

“We aren’t doing this tonight.”

“The fuck we aren’t.” It’s his turn to walk away, with a slow head shake that you really don’t like. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” Yoongi shifts his head to the side, but not enough for you to fully see him. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want you to. “But you’re going home.”

Something’s off. There’s something completely off but all you feel is sadness and rejection in your ribcage. “So this is how it happens, huh. Now I’m just like everyone else.”

He finally faces you, miles away even though you’re just rooms apart. “You’re gonna go there?”

“I am.”

“Wow.”

That’s what he comes back with? This is gutting you from the inside out and you have no idea what’s happening but now rage is flaring into your mouth, “You think I wanted to come here? After what all of you did?”

“Do you even know?”

“No! But how the fuck would I? You don’t tell me shit!”

“That’s cus—”

Your response sears over his floors, “I can take care of myself. But none of you told me about that dude from the court. None of you.” Breath shaken, you continue dumping out all your thoughts and previous concerns, “If I had known? That whole Dalo thing could’ve been avoided and I would’ve ran.”

For a person that you’ve come to know as so warm, Yoongi’s entire aura freezes you over as you keep talking. “And today? You know how fucking scared I was? If I… I…”

All he does is stare. Why isn’t he doing anything else? Is he really flipping the switch and choosing to legitimately let you leave this time?

Fine then.

“You know what?” Giving up, you laugh—harsh, and breathy, and without any joy at all. “Forget it. You’re not even listening anyway.”

“I swear to—I just said not tonight.”

Frustration from the game, fear from the ambush after, anxiety from not hearing from them. All of it coalesces into something you can’t even control anymore. Your buffer shuts off, the monster you created seizing the reins, “No, I get it. I do! You want me gone. Sure. See you in three more months.”

Stunned, Yoongi huffs in disbelief, jaw working overtime. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am. Trying to help you but it looks like you don’t even want that. So good fucking bye.”

And it looks like he has a beast of his own because his next response to your last attempt has you reeling back in shock,

“Who asked you?”

Dark liquid drips onto your soul.

You can only stare, unblinking and feeling like you’re in an entirely different universe. “Who asked me? Who asked me.”

“That’s what I said.”

Forget the question of who asked you because… Who are you even talking to? Who is this person standing in front of you because it’s not the Yoongi you know. It’s so jarring and hurtful and strange that you truly feel thrust into the middle of a nightmare.

You’re gonna do it. You’re actually gonna leave this time.

“You know what? Kiss my ass, Yoongi.”

God, it hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

It hurts.

You don’t even know where this is all coming from. All you know is that you’re angry and there’s no stopping the hot magma bubbling in your center.

Silence fills the room.

And it rains. It pours.

But finally, you hold a sob back before burning a shaky path to his door, wrestling with the lock before yanking it open—

Only to have it shut back in your face, so thrown when you realize you’re getting spun. Air whooshes out of you before your shoulder blades connect with wood—

And this is the goddamn breaking point. The walls you haphazardly built to keep you upright collapse and tumble. It’s so potent and blinding that you don’t even realize your hands are connecting with his chest in the weakest, saddest ways and you are outright screaming.

“God, what the fuck! I told you to—We didn’t hear from you for hours and I—I didn’t know if you were okay—”

“Whoa, hold u—”

“I thought the worst and I—didn’t even get a chance to—I finally told you want I wanted and you—Fuck—”

“Just listen—”

“Don’t ever do that again! I don’t wanna lose you and today was so fucking scary and I’m not, fucking, leaving—”

Your lips are smashed to hell, his lips bruising so hard you feel it in the back of your skull. And it’s a whole storm as Yoongi pins you against the door, leg wedging between yours and his hands gripping you like a vice. It’s intense. It’s overwhelming.

“I swear to—”

You don’t know what to do. What to do what to do what to do, and all your madness jangles as you’re yanked and slammed against another wall, breath leaping into his open mouth before you tug at his hair, digging anger through his shoulders.

“Can’t fucking listen, can you?”

“No,” you rip from your throat, shoving him back only to gravitate right back and lock lips again.

And he rips at your clothes, tearing the front of your shirt so far your chest emerges on full display. Before you can even react to the cuts on his face, Yoongi’s hand clenches around your throat, making you gargle just how you fucking want to right now.

“Shouldn’t even fucking be here.”

“When has that ever stopped us.” You groan as you get rapidly led back into something hard, and you realize it’s the dining table digging into your ass.

“He’s still home.”

“So?”

“Shouldn’t you—”

“Then kick me out!” you taunt. “For real. Let me go. Fucking do it then.”

Yoongi works his jaw before gripping tighter, making you groan and your gut flare into something primal. Nostrils flaring, he moves to grip your head hard enough to make your stomach flip but not firm enough to scare you.

Never to scare you. “You aren’t gonna leave me alone.”

Your eyes are ice.

“Are you.”

You solely watch in determination, breath harsh from your nose and billowing out like steam. Drilling your answer into his eyes, you charge the surrounding air enough to spark like the flashing sky outside.

And Yoongi cracks like lightning.

“Goddamn it.”

Everything happens at once and in quick succession. Teeth grit to hell, Yoongi pulls you upward before fast stepping you to his bedroom, slamming you through the door before you shove him right into his desk.

Things teeter and shake and clang with each impact, your storm disrupting everything in its path and creating a tornado of desire and thoughts in your brain.

Something swirls and twists between your souls, tightening and condensing into emotions darker than midnight. And as angry as you are, it’s slipping into a dangerous mania, and you’ve never been this excited for anything in your life.

“Stubborn.”

“Coward.”

Your back stings as you’re pushed back into his door, the wood smacking into the spackle of his wall. Rough lips smother yours as you claw at his shoulders, neck, hair, and you hear him growl into your mouth,

“Want me to kiss your ass? Suck my dick then we’ll talk.”

“Fuck you. I give better head than you anyway.”

His words rival the deepest growl, “Prove it.”

“Make me.”

Whirlwind. Storm. Tempest. At this point, it’s a whole goddamn high. Your body is thrumming and the only way to feed your anger is to channel it through actions.

And truth be told, you need this. You both do. With all the high strung emotions that had nowhere to go until you collided?

This is liberation.

You’re shoved onto your knees before Yoongi dives into his pants, and you’re already hungry and impatient enough to help him shrug his sweats down before he can do it himself.

“Choke on it,” he commands, holding his dick and watching as you note how hard he already is. When you waste no time taking him in, you elicit the deepest groan you’ve ever pulled from him when you fling spit onto his length.

Maybe his reaction is to your face. Because you’re still mad as fuck and you aren’t done letting him know that.

With a passing thought, you realize that this is all new. But you’re welcoming it because it’s working. Only Yoongi can bring out this passion even in anger, or maybe the two of you were going to get to this point no matter what.

“Fuck.” He steadies the bottom of your chin while you suck him off. “Uh huh. Got anything else to say?”

You flick him off, and he hums with a rumble, his cock reacting and hitting the back of your prideful throat.

“Fuck you, too, doll.” His talks devolve into hisses, grunts, moans when you slobber all over yourself, and your cunt is already dripping with your own slick. “There you go. Gonna take it all? Or are you gonna keep running that mouth?”

And you pop off before taunting, “Find out, pussy.”

And you’re swallowing him before he shoves you all the way forward, your body arching up in a gag but filled with him him him, your nose flat against his pelvis and his dick squeezing tears from your eyes and your throat overstuffed to hell and there’s no way he’s gonna forget this moment. You’re making damn sure of it.

Another middle finger raises as you’re tensing around him, and you can barely hear him above you but you do know he’s massively pleased. Tears stream down your eyes when you’re yanked off, gasping for air and being pulled off the ground.

“Holy fuck.”

Throat hoarse, you attempt speech but it doesn’t matter anyway, because his lips steal them all. And your cunt is slapped with a whole palm, making you flinch and shoot out a whine into his kiss.

Before you know it, your body hits the bed before he joins you, arms bulging as he rips your top open completely. You can’t even think straight as he teases your earlier efforts, “I’ve had better.”

“Oh, you fucking—Shut the fuck up,” you growl, a moan leaving without permission as he palms your cunt again. Just when you think he’s gonna top you, Yoongi hauls you up, hastily leading you around the bed until your back connects with another wall.

You love that shit. And you’re starting to think Yoongi is very, very aware of this fact.

“Take those fuckin’ pants off,” he orders. “And hands on the wall before I put them there.”

“Can’t make me do shit—”

Fingers grip your chin before Yoongi gets right into your face, primal instinct making you go on full alert. As his tongue prods his cheek, your whole lower body quivers. “I can. And I will, if you don’t behave.” Tapping your jaw in a warning, he hums. “Now do what I fucking say.”

Holy shit, he’s not playing around. Which only heightens your desire to peaks previously unreached, and you’re shucking your bottoms off while he yanks his drawer open for condoms. Hurrying, you fling your clothes away before planting—

Yoongi smashes his whole front against your back—pinning your whole body against the cold, rough wall—before intertwining long fingers with yours. “Good girl.”

Hitching your hips back, he sticks your ass out as you slip, and you feel his cock tease your entrance. Groaning, you grip your hands into fists as he continues to rub your cunt but never enter. Denying, denying, denying. Smacking your pussy and still not letting you feel him inside.

And it’s maddening. “Please!”

“Please what,” he asks, giving your ass a spank that has you flinching into the wall.

And, without any shred of mercy, this goes on for longer than he’s ever held out. It’s so sickening that tears start flowing from your eyes, and you devolve into saying anything to get him to fuck your brains out. Between spanks on your ass, slaps on your tits, and aggravating kisses on your back, Yoongi doesn’t let you phase him for minutes.

It’s when you choke on a sob that he finally, finally squeezes inside of you, checking for your nod before wrecking you completely.

“Oh, fuck—” Your eyes shut tight as you try to keep yourself upright, hands pushing against the wall as your legs shift with every thrust.

“This ass. Fuck.” Yoongi’s pace is relentless, hands bruising your hips and your cheeks smacking into his pelvis over and over and over. “It’s a goddamn problem.”

You’re trying so hard. So, so hard to stay on the wall. But your hands are too sweaty; they're starting to slip with each attempt. “Bed,” you command. “Bed now.”

And he obliges immediately, pulling out and yanking you back. Mouth to your ear, he both checks in while making your legs jelly, “You tapping out?”

“Break my fucking back,” you rasp in return, hearing him growl in satisfaction before burying you facedown into his bed. As he plunges inside again, you grip at his sheets, driven to the brink and reveling in all the things he’s saying to you while feeling him in your stomach.

Suddenly, you feel your arms pulled back, and you yell into his mattress as he buries himself even deeper. Everything you’re screaming makes no sense, but the phenomenal sensation you feel as you go limp renders you speechless anyway.

Yoongi knows exactly what he’s doing as he pushes his thumb into your asshole, because you clench so hard around him that he chuckles darker than dark. Careening into space, you kiss the edge of euphoria before he inconveniently pulls out, launching a sling of insults from your mouth.

“What was that?”

“I said fuck you!”

“Thought so.”

Not done in the slightest, Yoongi hauls your thighs so flush against him that you have to use your fingertips for support. Just as you’re about to argue, he rams into you from a new and impossibly enticing angle and holy fuck it feels so good you want to weep.

“Put that fucking hand down,” he growls, smacking away the fingers you didn’t even know were on your mouth. “If you wanna talk shit.”

“Fuck—!”

“Uh huh. Let it out, baby girl.”

You’ve never felt this out of control. This wild. This out of body. Your head is yanked back, your back pressing into the front of his shirt before you feel him so far into your guts that you quiver.

Now at the mercy of his tongue in close range, you hear his gravelly tone in your ear, “What’s my fuckin’ name.”

“Asshole—”

A hard smack to your tits has you crumpling with a whine. “Say it.”

“I’ll say it if I wanna say it—”

Another spank to your inner thigh and you’re gone. Eyes roll as he tweaks your nipple, and your words are almost garbled when he grips your chin from behind. “This what we’re doing? Hmm?”

You laugh breathy before you taunt, “Uh huh.”

“Mm…” Despite your laugh, you shake. “I wouldn’t do that, doll.”

“Make me. Bet you can’t.”

Tensed and veins angry, Yoongi grips both your tits before snarling, “That’s enough.”

Swiftly, he shoves you down into the sheets, muscular frame pinning you as he strokes up into you just right. Again. Again. It’s all too slow and too effective and you’re trying to stay mad but all you can feel is perfection, your back arching at his thrusts and mewling at his low growls in your ear.

“You wanted this.” Another thrust. “Talking shit.” Your jaw goes slack. “Pissing me off.”

Your groan is downright erotic. Why why why? Just knowing you’re making him this mad flutters your cunt and, from the sinister chuckle shooting into your neck, Yoongi definitely felt that.

“Fuckin’ thought so.”

When he reaches to grab your breasts, the last thrust has you crying out in a flurry of pleasure.

Every single thought is Yoongi, from beginning to end in a biblical cycle of debauchery. Exertion leaves you slick, sweat coating the expanse of your skin only to press into his bed, your mess your mess your mess. At his hands. The smacks of his cock. The rolls of his hips. Are you gone? Are you here? If he’s bruised then you feel like you are, too, and you welcome the temporary pain as Yoongi’s fingers dig ever deeper into your waist fuck one’s now pinning your head down.

The moans you let out are unending, and your thighs shake when all you get in response is a laugh of condescension.

“Look at you. Can’t even stay mad.”

“Fuck you!” You’re close, you’re close, you’re close again. Release is at your fingertips, but Yoongi yanks himself out to rip it away from your outstretched fingers. “No!”

“What, doll.”

“Please!”

“Nah.”

Body sore, you’re flipped over with no mercy as something else presses against your cunt.

Fucking hell, he’s eating you out now? Shaking, you feel Yoongi’s tongue swirl around your thrumming clit before he sucks, edging you to the point of tears and heartbreak. And it proves too much as you grab at his head, yank at his hair, because he lets up when you’re close.

Every. Single. Time.

Your madness spirals into your curses, and he relishes in your despair, continuing to lick and suck and slap your thighs with patience. “What do you say?”

“Please!”

“Mm. Not loud enough.”

“Yoongi, please.”

“Oh, we’re saying names now?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, it aches. It’s starting to borderline hurt. “I’ll be good,” you barter, beg, plead with a head spinning off its own axis. “I’ll do anything.”

“Do it yourself then.”

Later, when you look back on tonight, you’ll be embarrassed and shy to hell. But right now, you’re so over any shyness that you don’t hesitate, reaching down to rub at your clit and moaning when it’s so sensitive.

And Yoongi gets a front row seat.

His groan is gutteral. And it doesn’t take you long to quicken your pace, bucking your hips and whining to the ceiling. You’re so so so close it’s right there—

Your hand is smacked away. And after you try to wrestle out of his grip, you are a flat out, blubbering mess. “Yoongi… Please…”

“Nah.”

This is torture. And you’re frightened at how much you’re enjoying it. “I’m so close.”

“You’ll come when I say you can.”

“Please! …Please..”

“You done being a brat?”

“No! Fuck. Yes!” If you weren’t so far gone, you may have deciphered a tiny smile of amusement. But it won’t be for months later until you’ll realize that you were wrong.

Because the menacing flash of teeth you see is much too wide to be anything other than pride. “The fuck did I say? Use your words.”

You know you’re still upset. You know Yoongi is still upset. But for some reason, you feel closer to him than you have in awhile, and you wonder if lust and madness are two sides of the same coin. “Let me come. Please.”

Yoongi finally obliges with something he hadn’t pleasured you with yet. And your vision blanks as you yelp at the sensation, his slick fingers pistoning into your folds so fast you’re arching so taut. From between your quivering legs, you hear one final command,

“Then fucking come.”

And you burst, so hard you almost feel like something threatens to spew from your cunt. But all you can do is shake and thrash under his grip, so erratic that you feel like Yoongi’s starting to pin you down. Gone, gone, gone, you’re sure the veins of your neck threaten to break through your sweaty skin.

Then you feel his cock thrust inside of you, and you whip your head forward only to get your airway cut off. “Again,” he calmly repeats, flinging you back to the last time this happened.

Only this time, there’s even less room for you to make any other choice.

“I said again.”

Your body cannot fathom disobedience, pulsing and milking his perfect fit. Over, and over, and over. You hear rumbling from a dragon above, feel breaths of steam whooshing as it watches you come undone.

“Yoongi—”

A light slap to your cheek is your only warning before your chin is tugged, lips smushing into yours to swallow your straining sobs. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your body is still thrumming, inundating around his cock until your emotions spill from your core. Toes. Fingers. Everything is straining and locking in place.

“So fucking hot.” He rips your soul right out. “Shit.”

You fly through time and space, gathering emotions and feelings and spiraling spiraling spiraling. Crying. You’re crying. Full on crying you’re so overwhelmed with everything truly you were so mean to him you upset him holy fuck you should’ve left when he told you to—

“Baby.”

But you cannot stop crying, choke choke gasping on sobs.

“Babe.”

“I—I—”

Your name stabs you with a crisp shot, coupled with a firm grip on your chin, snapping you back to lucid. And Yoongi’s eyes are frantically searching your own. “Look at me.”

You do. Do you? You do. And his eyes…

They’re not angry at all. It’s pure concern. Steadfast concentration. And something reflecting your soul. “Breathe.”

“Oh, shit,” you whisper, coughing and reaching for oxygen you didn’t know you were denying. Air rushes back into your lungs as you inhale.

“There you go. Keep going.”

You do, gulping down air and hiccuping a breath or two. Your cheek is being caressed, you think. And with another pass, you know it is.

“Relax for me.” And you hiccup a sob. “Breathe, babe.”

You do, you do, you do. Yoongi kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, and you breathe more and more through it all. “You with me?”

“Always,” you answer, filter off because you are hanging by a thread and he’s holding the top. “Please don’t kick me out ever,” you hiccup. “Please, baby, I’ll do anything for you but I—could—never handle that—”

You’re tenderly hushed before lips slide over yours, attempting to swallow your thoughts and your sobs and your oncoming tears. As you flood his bed with apologies, Yoongi keeps wiping them all.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Babe.”

“You told me so many times—”

“Breathe, angel.”

You blink at the change in name, and it makes you focus just a bit stronger. Floating down from the precipice.

“I wasn’t kicking you out,” he slowly explains, kissing sweat from your forehead. His words feel like a calm, rock-filled river over your eyes. “I felt like an idiot and hated you seeing me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Just… Like this.”

“You’re perfect like this,” you hitch out, not caring about what flows out of your mouth. “So perfect. Always to me. I just wanted to help you, baby, I’m so sorry—”

He hugs you so tight more tears squeeze out.

And so do more confessions, “I… I care about you. I think a little too much. If I lost you, I wouldn’t—be able—”

“I’m here.”

“So please don’t push me away.”

“I won’t.”

“I know you don’t make promises but—”

“I promise.” Without an ounce of doubt, Yoongi places a firm, lingering kiss on your temple. “Promise. Fuck.” As he holds you tight, you feel him shake before you hear the tiniest sniff at your ear.

Oh. He doesn’t need to be like this, too. You try to move your hand up between your bodies to comfort him, but your whole limb feels gelatinous. So you simply whisper, “It’s okay, baby.”

You can’t tell how long you lie like this, with his beautiful weight on yours. But time is irrelevant when your mind is unwinding from hours of whirring, starting to finally accept the fact that everyone is okay and you don’t have to be angry anymore.

“Come on,” Yoongi rasps, voice cracked and airy. “Let’s go.”

“Hmm?”

“Shower.”

“Oh. Okay.”

You’re so thrown and dizzy from what just happened that even getting to the bathroom is a blur. What you kinda feel is Yoongi holding you upright when your legs buckle, but you don’t remember when he leaves your side to turn the water on.

As he flips on the light, your eyes squeeze until they adjust, and you watch as he tests the water while fully clothed. Air conditioning starts to give you a chill, but the shower warms up just in time because he reaches out to guide you inside.

Wait. Is he not joining you? Bleary, you grab at his shirt when he steps away, eyes pleading. “Are you coming in, too?”

Yoongi stops before he gives a shake of his head. “I’ll take mine when you’re done,” he says through a slight smile. “We’ll take care of you first.”

That doesn’t make sense. Even in your depleting haze, you know something doesn’t add up. “You can join me now. I don’t mind.” When you try to lift his shirt, Yoongi visibly flinches when you brush over his ribs.

And all the murk around your head vanishes in a snap.

He kept his shirt on that whole time. Not once did your positions allow you to see his upper body fully. And now he’s not gonna get in the shower or take his shirt off?

Your voice lowers two octaves when you reach full clarity. “Let me see.”

Unblinking, Yoongi tries to back away, “Don’t worry—”

“Let me see it, baby,” you command, breath cut until he finally allows you to lift his shirt up holy fuck those injuries look so painful tears prick your eyes. “Oh, my god, Yoongi—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt.” You feel these wounds deep in your ribs, and you tell him to get your kit what the hell he fucked you while feeling those?

Attempting to alleviate your stress, Yoongi decides to strip fully and step into the shower, ignoring your pleas to grab your med kit and promising you can take care of him when you’re done washing up.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, doll.”

“Are you sure?”

“Promise.”

And when his arms wrap around you, this is when you finally let go. Huge, chest-wracking sobs echo around tile, and Yoongi stays quiet through your cathartic release.

There’s another reason you were so upset. And it has nothing to do with any of them, but with yourself. The main reason you’ve been so riled up and frustrated is because… This is technically your fault, too.

But, unsurprisingly, he won’t let you take any blame whatsoever.

“You got hurt cus I said to play.”

“Nope.”

“I wore the outfit that day.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“And lost my friends at the club.”

“No.”

Sniffling in quick succession, you think about one other option. Some form of closure that can double as compromise. Voice soft, you suggest the last resort you have,

“How about we share it.”

Yoongi blinks twice before he clarifies, “You wanna share the blame?” When you nod, he huffs through the tiniest smile of confusion. “Mm. Then it’s our fault.”

“Okay.”

After shaking his head, he closes his eyes, molding his forehead with yours. “What are you doing to me.”

A sniffle. “Wrecking your water bill.”

His laughs join yours as you barely get your sentence out before giggling, and to feel him so close and present and here makes your worries slink down the drain.

Hands trace down your arms, walking along falling rivers before creating ponds with your fingers intertwined. “Gonna clear me out someday.”

“Duh.”

He’s himself again.

And after a whole night of chaos, you feel like yourself again, too.

That’s all you both need to feel peace.

You keep that tranquility carrying you through his room, peeking into his closet to grab the biggest shirt and sweats you can find before drying your head.

But no matter how much water you can dry, your body will keep being washed in relief. And it’s the calmest feeling, watching as Yoongi does the simplest things near his bed.

Your lips curve when he pulls up his pants; your heart beats when he grabs a tee. It’s in this moment that you admit that these outfits of his are your favorites, and you gravitate to him as he slips cotton over his damp head.

“Come on,” you softly offer as you turn. “I’ll make food and get you some ice.”

Again, Yoongi just stares with a faint smile. But his eyes are alive again, so you’re more than fine if he just follows your lead without a word.

In the kitchen, you pause amongst the appliances, the cabinets watching as you utilize your phone to find a good recipe. “What shall we eat… Stew? Or, wait—”

Looking up, you eye him in thought before choosing to focus on something else. “Actually, let’s figure you out first.”

Opening yet another tab to add to your hundreds, you type away before selecting a good starting point. “Okay, let’s see. You’re breathing fine, so no bruised ribs. Umm…”

Scroll, scroll.

“It looks really bad there, though. You sure you can move right?”

Despite asking, you go right back to your phone before Yoongi can even respond. Scrolling and clicking and reading again.

Scroll, scroll.

“Okay, so no bruised ribs, and according to this you don’t have any broken bones. And nothing fractured, either, thank god—”

“I love you.”

Time bursts.

Your chest glows.

Everything starts to beat, beat, beat in slow motion.

And you don’t even feel like you’re in the room anymore. “…What?”

You need to hear it again. You need to need to need to, because if you heard him wrong, you will check yourself and bolt right out the door.

His eyes.

Despite the battlefield on his skin, they are dripping, and sparkling, and full. The whole world suspends as he stares right into your soul, caressing it with his wounded hands and cradling it in his bruised arms.

No matter how hard the moon will try—for years, and years, and years more—it will never outshine this single, shaken, solidified admittance.

“I love you, doll.”

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to fucking do.

Why is Yoongi saying this now? Why is he choosing now of all times to make you the happiest person in the universe?

No.

Happiness isn’t even close to what you feel and you’re pretty sure you’re crying but nothing makes sense and your vision plunges under sunlit waters.

“And you don’t have to say anything. I know I don’t deserve to.”

What?

“I can’t be everything you want. Or need. Or whatever the fuck I’m trying to say. But I just needed you to know because I can’t fucking fight this shit anymore—”

You lunge forward before he offers his last syllable, careful to avoid his wounds and not mush his face because he would do the same for you.

And it’s all too much tonight. The lingering fear, the dying anger, the floods of relief, the joy. You can’t stop your sobs from coming out in bursts, your whole body wracking with overwhelming emotion as he grits into your skin,

“Goddamn it, I—”

“Yoongi—”

“—so fucking much.”

Yoongi loves you. He’s here. He loves you, loves you, loves you and the beats of your heart pulse orange and blue, blue, blue.

Nothing will ever compare to this moment. Nothing. You will bottle this one up in a jar to place next to all the others you have stored, and when you are lonely, or hurt, or even when you’re doing just fine, you will uncork it to surround yourself with this memory and know that everything will be okay.

He loves you.

Fuck, he loves you?

You choke out his name with a sob, and he squeezes you even harder. When you can’t reply with anything else, he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, his tears taking root and blossoming into beautiful vibrant fruit all along your rib cage.

He loves you.

Why can’t you seem to say it back? What the fuck is wrong with your tongue?

Maybe it’s because saying it doesn’t feel like enough. Like it’s laughable that there are words for this feeling because they don’t nearly represent what you harbor in your very being for this man.

There’s no way any words are enough. Not for him. Nor for you. Because right now, Yoongi needs something more. And you’re going to give him more than everything.

“Yoongi, I—”

He captures your lips in his, and you let him push you against his counter and consume you everywhere he wants to. Between his claims, your sobs have room to breathe. Which makes for a horrible showing of your attempting to say what you want to. “I… I can’t… Yoongi—”

Fingers press into the back of your head, a forehead smushing into yours and shutting you up completely. “I’m sorry,” he says, words rolling down the tracks your tears have walked. “I won’t ever be able to say that enough.”

“Baby,” you hiccup, resting a hand over one of his. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.” You squeeze his hand, feeling the lovely digs of his knuckles in your palm. His scent wafts around you like an embrace, and you know there’s nothing quite like it. At all. “You’re okay, so I’m okay.”

After he plants a warm kiss on your temple, you feel his hands ball into fists at your ears. “I just—fuck.”

There’s no telling what he’s thinking about in that brain of his. But you need him to know that there’s nothing more for him to be sorry for. All you care about is that he’s present, responding, and himself.

“Babe,” you whisper, still not believing those three words coming out of his mouth. “I’m here.”

“I know.” He sighs, smushing into your lips and holding you so tenderly, yet so tight. As he laps at your tongue, you’re more than sure he can taste your rainfall.

None of this is real. Because you can’t believe it at all. Even as Yoongi continues his journey across your neck, your shoulders, your jaw, your face, you still can’t piece together that this is truly happening.

When you feel him hard on your pelvis, you remember that he didn’t get the same release you got earlier. But you’re not gonna be the one to suggest going again, all of this will be what he decides.

And what Yoongi decides is to pull you closer, breathing you in while you do the same. His kisses are never ending, and your hands roam languidly along his shoulders, his hair, stretching across the expanse of his back. One that has held the weight of the world and then some.

His name leaves your mouth in a sigh, your back arching as softly as the kisses being planted along your breasts.

“If you only knew,” he whispers, laughing to himself as he wraps an arm around your side.

“Knew what?”

“Nothing, babe.” You gasp into his next rough press to your lips. “You’re so—fuck.”

You said you’d let him lead. But as Yoongi starts to walk you into his bedroom again, you think about his injuries and feel more concerned after knowing they’re there. So you quietly stop him as you reach his bed, “Are you sure?”

“I’ll be alright, doll,” he whispers, lowering you down and smiling so tranquilly your heart lurches. “As much as I think you enjoyed the first time, this time will be better.”

Giggling, you fight the heat from searing your cheeks as you smile. “You enjoyed it more than I did, I think.”

“I don’t think so.” Yoongi smirks, getting up. “Lemme get a cond—”

“It’s okay,” you halt him with a hand, and he freezes.

Full stop. No movement. Not even a breath. “...What?”

“We don’t…” You swallow, stomach fluttering at his expression. “We don’t have to this time.”

Because Yoongi’s eyes have not left your face. “You sure?”

Then something causes you to smile. Knowing that if there’s anyone you want to do this with, it’s this man right here and now. There’s genuinely no one else in the world with whom you would wanna share this experience, and the fact that he’s still asking makes you emotional.

Cradling his face with the most tender touch you can imagine, you confirm, “Just for a little bit.” And you add something you think he needs to keep hearing. “I trust you.”

Gulping down any extra emotions spilling from your heart’s chalice, your words come out a little wobbled. “And I want to, if you want it, too.”

“I want what you want, doll.”

“Then it’s okay.”

Clothes on or off, you still feel so shy underneath him.

But this time, you vow to shove those feelings of unworthiness to the side. Because you are fully invested in this moment above all others. And Yoongi deserves more than you can give.

When he slowly tugs his sweats from your legs, you’re already choking back tears. As he climbs on top, you await the connection you never in your dreams would’ve imagined.

And when Yoongi stares at you one more time, you know exactly what he’s asking.

“Yes, my love,” you wisp into his skin, craning up to kiss him and swallowing his last slice of doubt. Knowing you’ll say it again and again and again.

His brows pinch as he kisses you—slow, purposeful, understanding. Then he positions himself, and you can physically feel his hand brush your cunt as he does so. If he ever asks if you felt him shake, you will deny it. But only for a year or two.

As soon as you feel him—only him, solely him—you swell with a current of emotion. And it pulls you all the way under when he’s fully sheathed inside.

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Yoongi—”

“Fuck.”

Simply having him inside, with no barriers or obstacles in between? You’re already close. There’s no early explanation, but you already feel overwhelmed enough to come.

No no no. You want this to last forever, so you wait for Yoongi to gather himself because he appears to be fighting, too.

Chuckling, you ask, “You good, baby?”

And your lover snaps his gaze to your face, bangs sweeping across your cheeks and eyes unblinking. “Yeah, just...” He stares at your inquisitive expression before whooshing out a harsh breath. “Just this is about to make me bust.”

You burst into laughter before admitting you were just thinking the same thing, and his slow grin makes you want to cry. “We’re not good at this.”

“No. You’re too good at this. I can’t even move.”

“Yes, you can,” you whine. “You wreck my shit all the time.”

Feeling a twitch more prominent than ever, you giggle as Yoongi puffs out pained amusement. “Doll, if you keep talking like that, I’m pulling out.”

“Okay, okay,” you surrender, loving how out of sorts he seems. He’s fighting for his life and you’re enjoying the hell out of it.

“You’re a little too perfect right now.”

Maybe one day you will agree with him. But that day is far from reach, your head shaking in quiet disagreement.

“You are.”

“Nowhere close,” you whisper.

His nose brushes against yours. “Say that again and see what happens.”

“Is that what you tell all the others fuck!”

His shove up your cunt makes you see stars. “What did I fuckin’ say?”

“What—”

Another launch has you careening through space, lip bitten and suppressing a hearty whine. “You think there’s someone else?” Again. “Hmm?”

Again.

You’re so dazed and mind-fucked to pieces that your speech is barely audible. But your chin is grabbed as you’re snapped straight, and your eyes try their hardest to focus on slitted ones above. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

You just laugh, whine pinging sharp into the ceiling as he shoves forward so hard your whole body shifts upward. “Oh, yeah?”

Yoongi doesn’t respond with words, thrusting up again and sending you twisting and winding towards the edge unbelievably fast. “Uh huh.”

“Make me then,” you gasp out. “Make me really sorry.”

The sound Yoongi makes comes from deep within his stomach, the rumbling hum shooting right into your veins like liquid fire.

And the full-on attack he bursts into renders you completely speechless. Everything Yoongi does pulls you deliciously in all directions—his thrusts, his chain hitting his chest, his grip on your wrists, the way he snags your chin. Everything.

“Taking me so well like this.”

“I—”

“So fucking tight.”

Fuck fuck fuck it’s habitual for you at this point, and you unhinge your jaw a split second before he smacks the side of your face. Desire lowers your lids halfway as you feel empowered, and you don’t even recognize your voice as you order him on the spot. “Do it again.”

Yoongi doesn’t stop his pace as he keeps his eyes on you.

“Do it again,” you growl, fully limp and a groaning mess when he does exactly what you want.

Fuck, the pain feels good. So good that you reach up and choke him out. But the back of your head is grabbed before you feel hungry lips smash into yours. You feel your wrists pinned again by one large palm, air chilling for a moment before a hot mouth captures one of your nipples. “Oh, fuck, Yoongi!”

“Uh uh.”

“Please—please—”

You’re still tensing as he devours your chest below his shirt, strokes now slower but just as powerful.

Your arms still haven’t been freed, but there’s something about being under his control that has you loving this position. Without question. Maybe it’s the fact that you can see him now, losing himself just as he saw you washes in the throes of passion.

And he licks, sucks, lolls his tongue all over your tits, whispered praises sinking through your bosom as he keeps a grip on your wrists.

“Baby,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m—”

“Shit.” Air whooshes over you before you feel your arms freed and him yank himself out, and you freeze as he unloads right on your stomach, a sharp cocktail of pride and shock in your gut.

Holy fuck, Yoongi was that close? Did he hold out as long as he could? Shit, he’s breathing so hard his jewelry shakes as it dangles.

You’re still so surprised that your arms are still locked into bends, and he glances up at you from his kneeled state. “Fuck,” he laughs, and is that… Is Yoongi shy? “Thought I could hold out.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure through your own tiny chuckle. “Oh my god, I promise.”

He leans down to plant a heart fluttering kiss on your lips, but you hate how he looks pained on the way down.

Those hits he took… Now you kinda understand his perspective. Because now you want to avenge him in five hundred thousand ways—almost half as many ways as you want to show him how you feel.

“Stay there, beautiful,” Yoongi orders as he moves to get off the bed, wincing in passes. “I’m not done with you.”

Damn. He looks even more exhausted than before. “Baby, are you sure?”

But Yoongi walks right to his bathroom to retrieve a towel, and your eyes may as well transform into hearts when you watch him come back to you. So handsome, even now. Even when he’s simply holding a washcloth, hair completely mussed, soul sparkling and face bruised.

As he sits to clean your face before moving to your stomach, you can only observe his eyes. So experienced. Calm. At peace. When they drift to yours, it’s instinct that has you shying away. “What, love.”

Another reason to crumble inside. “I just… nothing,” you whisper.

And Yoongi finishes with the cloth before tossing it somewhere. “Tell me,” he says, lying down on the ribs with more damage. “I wanna know.”

“Come on this side,” you tell him, and he obliges without a word. “It’s a secret.”

“A secret?”

“Mmhmm.”

Yoongi settles before lifting your chin, rubbing an affectionate thumb over any tears still persevering on your cheeks. “I can keep those, you know.”

Smiling, you fold way too easily. “Okay, I’ll tell.”

When he leans in, your nervousness and excitement to tell him almost spoils your ability to do so. Like someone gifting a present while wanting to say what it is before it’s even opened.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, tears sprinting to your ducts as Yoongi freezes. When he looks at you, you can’t help but choke on a sob seeing his eyes get as red as the marks on his cheek. “And you deserve more than I could ever give.”

His eyes hold the heavens and the seas.

You’re right. Just saying it isn’t fucking enough.

You’re already liplocked again before you can think, saltwater on your face and you don’t even know whose eyes it came from.

Determined, Yoongi starts kissing a trail from your lips to your jaw, and you start to cry as he makes his own journey down the expanse of you.

All of you.

Is this what it feels like? Is all of this actually, genuinely real?

You hope so, because you feel devotion in each press of his lips, and every touch will be remembered in its own right. Its own pocket of time.

Every single stop.

It almost feels divine when his mouth reaches your folds, lapping at your essence and swirling around your clit. When you say his name, Yoongi says nothing, instead palming your thighs and eating you out like he has all the time in the world.

Swelling, you already feel close.

But the way he gets you to fantasia is so natural that you slide into your quivers seemlessly. The transition into your heaven flows like a stream, and your waves engulf his tongue and coat his mouth without trouble.

This is what it feels like. What it feels like with Yoongi.

And you wanna keep making love until only sleep can take you from him.

Your hands jut into his hair, gasping as he keeps his pace, and no matter how you squirm he is dead set on holding you down until holy fuck you’re coming again.

How? What’s happening to you? This constant stream of release is shocking you to the point of crying out, and Yoongi groans into your orgasm and prolongs it with the whole press of his tongue.

“Holy fuck, baby—!” Another wave overcomes the next, and you outright quake in his hands, eyes rolling and vision blinking white. Muscles lock as you can’t keep up with the pleasure, and you’re mercilessly let go only for lips to descend on yours.

Your tears spill into your ears as you kiss him back, wrapping tired arms over his shoulders and raking in deep.

“Fuck.” And you feel his cock lodge against your entrance, and you’re amazed how hard he is again.

Does he want what you want? Is he ready again?

As Yoongi quietly gets up to get a condom, you’re amazed that he wants to keep going after everything that’s transpired. But, if he feels like you do, he’s ready to keep going until the sun comes up three whole times.

When he sits next to you, your better half appears shy as he bites the wrapper. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Oh, I already know.”

“K. But god, I fuckin’ want to.”

You bite your lip to hold back your smile, remembering what he said a long time ago and bringing it back full circle for the next thing you both wanna try. “One day.”

Yoongi only grins.

And for the next hour, your lover, your secret, your home gives you everything he has, and you come for him more times than you ever have in your life.

Every time, he drags your pleasure out, expertly tearing you down with his movements and building your confidence up with his words. He tells you you’re perfect, and he disagrees when you disagree. When you find tears on your face, he kisses those away, too. When you feel along his silver, he simply watches you in silence.

No sadness, doubt, nor anger to be found.

After you physically can’t do any more, Yoongi lies at your side, silent as you play with his hair. You do your best to stay still, not wanting to accidentally push into any of his injuries that you’re gonna beg him to get checked in the morning.

Once he’s healed? That’s when you’ll never let go. Because you want to crush him into you completely. Mold into him, just so he can feel the brevity of your highest affection.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” you finally whisper. “But I really was so mad at you. All of you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Yoongi stares, seeming to withhold something from you before he palms your cheek. “They were gonna follow us home if we didn’t, babe,” he reveals, snapping your heart back in two. “We all knew that.”

“Oh, fuck.” Everything hits you at once: why they stayed, why you and Taehyung had to leave. Why Tae didn’t bring you straight back to the house. And the burns at your eyes match the searing in your gut. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about that.”

When you start to cry, Yoongi sits up and hangs his head between his sweats. “You don’t need to think about shit like that,” he murmurs, sounding defeated as ever. “But we talked after you told us off. We won’t hide that from you anymore.”

Sniffling, you whisper out a thank you. But you don’t want Yoongi to feel like he has to distance himself, so you untangle him—slowly, gently–-before bringing him into your chest.

After dealing with all that and the tempest in his living room, this man still let you in. From the looks of things, there’s a lot that he had been fighting, and you’re more than appreciative that he opened his door. Not knowing how to put these feelings into words, you say the first things that come to mind. And for some reason, they feel heavier on the way out,

“Thank you for letting me in. It was raining really hard.”

Yoongi stiffens hard before holding you closer.

“Babe?”

No response. Just another batch of weighted quiet.

Worried, you tilt your head. “Hey. Look at me.”

If he stays right where he is, you’ll have to respect that decision. But he ends up pushing himself up, and as soon as you see moonlight catch on a falling tear, all your instincts reach for him, “Oh, fuck, come here.”

You surround him with everything you have, wanting every single bit of warmth birthed from his love to fill his space instead of yours. Whatever he needs, you will give. “It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, holding him so close but not nearly close enough.

Never close enough.

His face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you will let him live there whenever he needs to. “I’m not mad anymore, okay?” God, you hate how he’s still so silent. You get it, but you hate whatever made him default to this state. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

After light rain fills the room, your soul breaks at a sniffle, and you crush your love even tighter.

“This isn’t about that, doll,” Yoongi finally whispers, burying wet eyes further into your shoulder. “It’s just…”

It’s what? What’s he thinking about? Hopefully it’s not anything—

“It’s so fucking better when you’re here.”

When you choke out a sob, his body locks, words pouring from nowhere and everywhere. “I sleep better. Eat better. Fuck, I even feel better even if nothing else changes.”

“Yoongi…”

“It’s true.” Sighing, he sniffles again before letting his weight drop onto you in resignation. Or relief. “I mean that.”

“Then… Those three months…”

“One day, I’ll tell you everything,” he offers, making you wonder what the hell he’s been through in the past. And if it has something to do with that guitar he smashed to pieces. “But from now on, you can be here whatever you want.”

Many things have shifted tonight. As if an earthquake had upturned everything between the both of you, only peace has settled in its wake. A peace you had never felt before. As you brush fingers through his hair, you joke, “So I can come to those parties you host, too?”

“Those weren’t my idea, by the way. Jimin made me.” Kissing your shoulder, Yoongi continues to admit, “He was worried. And hoping you would show.”

Oh. That’s news to you.

“I knew you wouldn’t. But.” He exhales before nestling in further. “I did hope to see you, too.”

“It’s okay.” You rub the back of his neck, your fingers feeling nothing but warmth and the softness of his clothes. “It would’ve been too obvious.”

“What would’ve.”

“That I wanted you all to myself.”

“You already have that.”

When you stiffen, your words are tiny. “You know what I mean.”

Yoongi laughs soft, taking one of your hands in his and bringing it up for a kiss as you blurt, “My brother was the one that invited me. To come to those, I mean.”

The way he blinks is comical. “Huh.”

“I know.” It’s your turn to bring his hand close, kissing along his knuckles before you stare out the window behind him. “It makes me wonder if he knows.”

“What if he does?”

You snap your eyes right to his. “Does he?”

Yoongi watches your lips linger on his fingers before he tells the truth, “No.”

“Okay. But you’re sure I can stay?”

“Who do you think you bought those groceries for?”

Oh. Wait. “What?”

Grinning so sly, Yoongi reveals the plan he had all along, “I get you for a week, right?”

Oh. Holy shit. You cannot quite possibly deal with what this man is saying. That whole time you were shopping for his list… No wonder he was already done with dinner when you got there oh you’re gonna get him back for that.

Light bursts from your center as you grit out through a grin, “You sneaky little—” Pulling his tilted mouth in for another kiss, your heart pulses little pink stars as he leans in with a laugh, and you meet lips again and again until he slowly, reluctantly stops.

“One day,” he murmurs out of nowhere, and you flick your eyes to his. “I’ll be better.”

Of course he will. You have no doubts. But, just like he always does for you, you’re gonna start offering the same reassurance out loud, even if he knows it’s there.

And you can’t contain your little laughs at your own joke, despite him just staring into your face right after you crack it, “Don’t make it just one day, silly.”

Even if you’re very serious, it’s in your nature to lighten things up. Especially after hearing such wonderful news for what’s coming. Clutching a little bit of his shirt, you whisper with complete devotion,

“We’ll make it as many as we can.”

You hate how you feel him freeze, knowing what that means, what plaguing little thoughts are embedded in that tiny shift.

Yoongi’s still hesitant to accept.

Because you are, too. In many ways. But this man has been picking you up and making you stronger day after day—in both his presence and absence—that you can’t help but fight to do the same.

Does he ever think about you? Does he know that you’ll always be with him? No matter how close or far apart you are? You hope so. Because it’s so true that your heart is searing that promise into your soul, branding it as a reminder to reciprocate all this genuine love you’ve never been given before.

He loves you?

You still can’t accept that as fact.

…Maybe one day.

You chuckle to yourself, deciding to keep talking because Yoongi is still so very quiet. “At least. Until the day I get to meet my cat,” you huff in triumph. “Then I’m running away with her.”

It’s a perfect strike of a match. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You pretend to pout. “But I’m starting to think she ran away already and you won’t fess up.”

Yoongi laughs so suddenly you flinch. After a playful scoff, he tries to make you feel better, “She’s still here!”

“Lies.”

“How much are you betting, doll.”

“How much are you willing to lose, babe.”

“This much,” he finally says, pinching your sides and hissing laughter when you scream. “Maybe I’ll make you leave after all if you’re gonna be a problem.”

“You did threaten to kick me out before.”

“Huh? When?”

“That day I showed up,” you remind him through a chuckle. Thrown back to that first night, you start to see all the parallels between then and now. And how vastly different things have become. “Said you were gonna kick me out for hustling you.”

The glorious laughter from the depths of his belly makes you grin, and you cringe when his brows pinch in both laughter and pain. “I should’ve!”

He needs to get those hits healed. “You really should’ve.”

“Played me from the very start. You happy with yourself?” When you nod, Yoongi shakes his head. “Course you are.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” Your eyes meet, which proves dangerous for you because he bites his smirk before pulling you in for a kiss. “Thought I was gonna say it, huh.”

“No!” You lie. Because no, you certainly were not! “…Maybe.”

“Guess what.”

Suddenly paranoid, you give him a look, already expecting to be tricked again.

But Yoongi captures your lips without warning, curling your toes into sheets you’re now achingly familiar with. After a few passes, he shifts above, planting a hand at your side and letting his chain slide against your chest as he slots a leg in between yours.

Yet again, you think about that first night, that first time. The first of apparently, surprisingly, wonderfully unexpectedly many.

Who would’ve thought rain and a broken ego would bloom into something good? Who would’ve believed a person so close to your roots would be your home?

As he lets up with one last slow stroke of his tongue, you whisper, “What were you gonna say?”

At this, Yoongi spreads closed lips, taking his time planting a peck on your nose. “I just fucking love you, doll.”

Oh. He’s a menace and the most annoying tease on the planet.

When you can’t do anything but flee into his chest, Yoongi immediately laughs, forcing you back out of your little shell. “You can’t hide now, babe.”

“I can!”

Leaned forward in your struggle, you give him no choice but to swoop his head into your neck. Which backfires on you immensely because he decides it’s the perfect time to rasp deep against your ear, “I love fucking you, too.”

His name flies out of your mouth in disbelief and embarrassment, and his heightened amusement puffs into the burning column below your chin.

This is the moment something comes over you. Slams into you. Washes you in present nostalgia like lingering footsteps on a balcony.

And it hurts. It really, really hurts.

Instead of laughing along, you come down from your high, squeezing him like the pillow that couldn’t replicate his warmth for months. “I miss you.”

After a second, Yoongi questions, “How? I’m right here.”

You know that. You do. But with every hello there’s a goodbye, and you don’t want that this time. Especially now that your heart knows that his beats the same.

Breathy and shaken, you rest your head in his chest, hoping he doesn’t hear but does at the same time, “I still miss you.”

Strong fingers weakly press into your sides, and while you can’t see him, you know for a fact that his smile is gone. Because he also knows goodbye is coming again, and you can’t stay here forever as long as this is all a secret.

You feel a sigh wisp over your head before words that make no fucking sense follow it out, “I can’t do shit like this anymore.”

…What?

No. No no no he can’t be done just like that you both just confessed everything you need to fight say something anything anything—

“I wanna do this the right way.”

Oh.

Yoongi’s chest… It’s shaking.

Pushing yourself up, you search his eyes for answers. “What are you saying?”

When he looks at you, there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it has been there all along, and he only needed a spark to set it ablaze. “I’m saying I’ll tell him, doll. Just me.”

Oh. Oh, shit. Didn’t he say not yet? Didn’t he say he needs more time? He said he’d figure it out what is with the sudden…

Your tears are automatic as Yoongi roams his gaze from one eye to the other, and he’s swallowing before taking a step. A step you didn’t think he’d make. One you didn’t have the courage to take yourself.

When he utters the words, your soul lets rain fall just as the storm resides.

And right as moonlight shines through his blinds.

“I’ll tell him everything.”

tbc. :)

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a/n: so. here we are, over two years and 250k+ words later. thank you for sticking with me if you're still here, and thank you for being the most amazing readers a writer could ever, ever ask for. if you can interact or let me know what you enjoyed/like, i would be eternally grateful. these two parts took all of me, and i'm gonna take a break for a little bit before starting on the next part. a/n 2: thank you for also being here despite the highs and lows! things have really weighed on me for awhile, which prevented me from working on this part forreal. but my mental feels a lot lighter now, and i am ready to keep running with y'all. so thank you for your support and encouragement, no matter how you show it! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 5 months ago

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Ludos Imperiales 6

Summary: More battles and more bargains come into play as things go from bad to worse.

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Character Death (Unnamed); Mentions of Slavery/Assault/Incest (the twins are back)

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

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I’ve aged a decade in the time it takes to get inside the Imperial Palace. The blistering heat makes sweat bead down the back of my dress, every inch of heavy fabric feeling like it’s plastered to my skin. Everything feels too heavy on my body. I need to get home and into the tub, maybe with enough soap and water I will be able to purge the oppressive weight that clings to my skin.

Though I have my doubts. It’s not just the heat or the dirt, it’s this whole place. Everything I have known and loved about the city feels like it has been stripped down to nothing but the oozing, wretched thing that has been hidden beneath golden arches and layers of stark white marble. It reeks of a decay that has nothing to the crucified bodies hanging outside our doors.

Senators and Commanders mingle, wives dripping in expensive jewels hanging from their arms, laughing and talking about how magnificent this celebration for Amarantha is. I’d be shaking with the rage I feel clawing up my insides were it not for the way Rhysand still held me in his mental grip.

“Steady,” he warns for what feels like the fiftieth time today. I don’t know how he’s managed to stay so calm, especially when his men have been taken through the back streets of the city. There is a prison on the outskirts of the capitol, on the eastern wall, hopefully there will be less cruelty on the streets now that they’re away from the parade, but it is still a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It cannot be easy to be forced to stay here, with the enemy at every turn, while your men labor in a dungeon, yet he and Cassian, stand with their heads high behind me.

One of the guards untethered them from the back of my horse, but holding their chain in my hands is just as bad as leading them on horseback. Cassian gives me a wide berth, far enough away that if I take two steps ahead I’ll drag him by the throat. Azriel, however, hovers near my left shoulder, head down like he’s trying to hide, even as I watch his shadows slither down the back of his legs and scatter across the floor in search of something. One still remains coiled around my ear, hidden by my hair.

“Be careful around the twins,” I warn as my cousin catches my eye and makes her way towards us. She’d been too far behind us in the procession for me to see her reaction to the horrors, but, judging by the grin on her usually stoic face, I’d say she enjoyed it.

Rhysand shifts so he’s standing behind my right shoulder, so I’m framed on either side by a towering Illyrian. Their presence is soothing, especially when Brannagh’s grin could peel paint. She obviously wants trouble. I’d be a fool to think the bloodshed outside was enough. She’ll need something to sink her fangs into before the night is over to be satisfied with the day.

“There you are, cousin!” We have the same slate colored eyes and that is where the family resemblance stops. Everything about her is rigid and uniform and for so long being near her had made me feel like a lamb being watched by a lion. Yet, with the males at my back, I don’t feel so small anymore.

“I’m surprised you made it,” she says, eyes raking over Rhysand, then Azriel, then Cassian, sizing each of them up to see which would be an easier meal.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to punch in her teeth.

“First the Games, now this,” Dagdan says as he abandons an attempt to woo one of the Senators with his bullshit war stories, and joins us. “Maybe we are related after all.”

Rhysand withdraws his mental presence from my head and I draw my mental shields back up to make sure I keep the twins out.

Brannagh walks a slow circle around us, tongue running over her lower lip. “I really didn’t think you were capable of this.” Her bony fingers reach out to flick the chain looped around their throats. “It’s a little… what’s the word you always throw at us? Barbaric for you?”

“All it took was Mommy Dearest to lose her head for you to grow a spine, huh?” Dagdan sneers.

Azriel’s shadow hisses angrily in my ear as his head jerks up off his chest. The glare he throws over my shoulder could melt a glacier, the heat in it seering across my skin.

“This one’s pretty,” Brannagh coos at him, her fingers reaching out to brush across his cheek.

“Don’t touch him,” I bite out through my teeth.

“Careful, we bite,” Cassian snarls.

This only makes Brannagh grin further and my first instinct is to draw all three of them behind my back, as if they were small children in need of protection and not three fully grown warriors. As if I had not seen them kill a Giant and a handful of Wargs in the Arena just yesterday.

“Were they fun?” Brannagh teases, making another circle so she can draw her nails over Rhysand’s nearly bare chest.

Red tints my vision.

“They look like they’d be a good fuck.”

I clench my hands into fists to keep my power from erupting and taking out everything in the room. Rhysand can’t save me from this one, not without them sensing his mental presence. And if we are to play this game, I need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I might not be the most skilled fighter in this room, but I have plenty of other weapons in my arsenal.

“How would you know? The only thing you’ve ever fucked is Dagdan.”

She flinches like I’d punched her right in the stomach. It was all rumors of course, but the whispers were there. The twins still insisted on sharing a room; still went everywhere together. They were toxically co-dependant and on more than one occasion they’d mentioned old practices of keeping bloodlines pure. I knew it was a sore spot, I didn’t care very much if it was true. As long as the blow landed; as long as I had something strong enough to cut her, so the bond screaming in my ears didn’t prompt me to cut off the hand still lingering too close to my mate’s skin. They were not hers to touch.

Cassian chokes out a cough, trying to keep back a laugh as Brannagh’s face twists.

Dagdan’s teeth flash in a snarl.

I merely grin as I give the chain in my hands a very subtle tug. “I think we’re done catching up, cousin. Do enjoy the rest of the celebration.” I do my best to leave them in the dirt as we head deeper into the palace. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make me pay for the remark later, but for now, I’ll count it as a victory.

The exchange took place in the open foyer, the roof held up by pillars and the outside world only separated by billowing sheer curtains. I mount the steps that lead us into a secondary foyer, where bubbling fountains and a pool of multicolored fish take up much of the space. Standing guard atop the fountains are twin statues of our gods of war and victory; the golden bowls at their feet overflowing with coins left by worshipers as they come and go from the Palace. We need more than a little luck and victory on our side and I leave a handful of coins on Victory’s altar. I will go to the Temple later and beg the Mother for forgiveness for how blind I have been, and seek a Priestess to make an offering for her blessing in what is quickly becoming an act of outright treason.

I feel Rhysand’s violet gaze on me as I make the offering.

“The twins really are… like that?” Cassian asks as we round the fountain. It has to be morbid curiosity that prompts the conversation, but the fact that he’s speaking to me at all makes my heart race in my chest. I’ll take whatever scraps he’ll throw my way, if it only means he doesn’t hate me as much as he did yesterday.

“I’d be more surprised if they weren’t than if they were,” I say, unable to suppress a shutter when thinking about it. “They’ve always been… together… and weird about it.”

“Sure, and we’re the animals.”

I can see the back of Amarantha’s blood red head as the inner circle makes its way towards the atrium for food and whatever entertainment could be dragged into this den of vipers for the afternoon. Servants carrying goblets of wine drift through the clusters of visiting dignitaries and soldiers. There’s more than a couple armored gladiators, acting as guards for their sponsors, in attendance. I try to keep track of who belongs to who as we go, in order to give us an edge for the next match. Senators Beron and Tamlin, former lords from Prythians courts, now given new titles within the Empire for merging their kingdoms, both have sponsors shadowing them. The males have to be half Giant, with arms and thighs thick as tree trunks. Their armor has to be custom made to be able to fit them. I don’t know the names of either males, only that they’ve been employed long enough for their conditions in the Arena are they don’t fight Amarantha’s Attor. Too much money has been put into them to let them get torn to ribbons by that beast.

I slide my way through the throngs of people to get closer. To play this game, there is no doubt that they will have to go back into the Arena a couple times. I need to start finding ways to give them an edge. I can start by seeing up close just how much taller they are then Cassian. If they have to go hand-to-hand in the future, I want to see how they compare next to each other so I can plan to get around it.

The gladiators have at least two feet on Cassian, which makes me basically an ant in comparison. I already have to tilt my head up to look my mates’ in the eye, these males make me have to keep distance between us to be able to see anything other than they’re stomachs.

Cassian is fairly nimble, from what I’ve seen so far, as long as the wound on his leg is healed by the next match, he can use that to his advantage. But the thought of having to watch him fight males this size makes my stomach twist. I’m going to need to do more than size up the competition.

Beron is accompanied, as always, by several of his sons, but it is always Eris by his side. The well dressed male turns a grin in my direction when he catches sight of me. “Highness,” the bow is graceful, fox-like in a way that reminds me of Lucien, wherever he is in the crowd to avoid his Father. It’s not like him to leave Tamlin alone in these situations, they’re usually joined at the hip.

“It does me good to see you outside,” Eris continues, as he reaches out to take my hand and press a chaste kiss on the back of my knuckles.

Azriel’s shadow hisses in agitation in my ear as something hot flickers down the bond.

“It’s been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence.” I’ve known the Vanserra’s for a long time, Eris is not quite the flirt Lucien is, but he has no shortage of sway over females, males too for that matter. It had always surprised me that Father hadn’t tried to arrange a union between us. Eris was known, from time to time, to share the same savage brutality the Emperor valued in his court; it should have pleased him to have Eris for a son in law.

“Are you finally feeling better?”

“It took longer than I expected to recover,” I say honestly. Better to not oversell anything; all lies have a little truth woven in. “But getting some air has been good.”

His russet gaze jumps to the males behind me, and the grin I’ve known for decades turns serpentine. “And profitable, I’d imagine?”

“For the Empire, of course, all earnings will go to aid the far reaches.”

“So I heard,” he nods, still studying them. “You always did have a bleeding heart, Highness. It is good to see it benefit you.”

The compliment feels underhanded, but so do most things around here.

“When will we get to see them in action again?”

Talking about them like they’re not standing here makes me want to start smashing things, but I reign in my temper. “I was just about to ask you the same about your Father’s gladiators.”

He glances back at the male and shrugs. “Felix is always ready, but we’ve gotten no summons.”

Interesting. The Gamesmaker should already have a match-up in place, even if the Arena will be closed for repairs for a few days still.

“How unfortunate, it’d be quite the fight for Cassian.”

I feel Cassian shift a little closer, the scent of sandalwood and snow-capped mountains invading my senses. It is an effort not to step back and lean into him, he’s never dared be this close before.

“It would be quick,” he states.

Eris huffs a laugh. “For your neck to be broken, brute? Yes, we’d be in agreement.”

There’s a snap as Cassian’s wings ruffle and whip closed again, his agitation so clear I can taste it. The frayed edges of our bond simmer, but I can’t tell if the rage is his or my own. We are alike in that aspect.

“Who was summoned, then?” We can’t linger too long here, especially not for information I do not yet need. Rhysand still needs to get a better look around and we’re starting to linger on the stairs, people clustering behind us.

“Not Tamlin’s man either,” Eris says with a shrug. “I’m as in the dark as you.”

“You?” I force a teasing smirk to my features. “I thought you knew everything around here, Eris?”

His russet gaze darkens as his perfect teeth dart out to bite his lower lip. It’s a move I’ve seen thousands of people swoon over. “I’ll happily find out for you, Highness.”

Azriel’s shadow snarls in a language I can’t make out, but it is Rhysand’s side of the bond that ripples with promised violence. Is that jealousy I feel? I try to shove the thought aside; hoping that they feel this thing between us is too much to ask for. I will only hurt myself if I start to hope that I am more than a means to an end.

“Please do. I’d be indebted to you.” That’s all it takes for the Autumn male to bow and disappear into the crowd.

Senator Thessian and his large entourage of guards pushes past us on the stairs, the armored guard slamming into Rhysand from behind hard enough that he stumbles forward, hands reaching out to catch himself on my hips before he can take both of us to the floor. My whole body freezes under the contact, the warm press of his body against mine enough to make all rational thought fly out of my skull.

He leans in, like he might offer an apology, breath ghosting over my neck as his lips brush the shell of my ear. My whole body shivers in anticipation. “Clever, little vixen.”

The low baritone of his voice makes heat rush between my legs, something hot coiling in the pit of my stomach. Now the citrus and jasmine scent of him invades all my senses and I really, truly have no thoughts left in my head.

My knees wobble as he gives my hip a squeeze, even as the bond roars at the loss of contact as he steps back. Maybe it’s just been awhile since I’ve been intimate with anyone, but that small amount of contact feels like an electric current beneath my skin. It is an effort to keep moving up the stairs and not turn and do something foolish, like press my lips to his and slide my fingers into his hair.

The atrium is a wide, open room with tables piled with food lining the far walls. On the left are floor to ceiling windows, thrown open to let in the warm summer breeze, a few Praetorians standing at attention amidst the billowing curtains.. There are low couches along the walls, some of which are already taken. If not by anyone with a gladiator, I don’t linger on who sits where.

A servant with a tray of wine passes and I snag one to try and calm the sizzling beneath my skin. I didn’t realize one of today’s many battles would be trying not to throw myself at my mates.

There is a raised dais against the far wall, the couches and lounge chairs far more plush and ornate than the rest. Father has found his seat, a slightly less gaudy throne than usual, and reclines as a servant fans him with a palm frond. Amarantha has taken her usual seat on his right, reclining against one of her pleasure slaves. The male wears little but a strip of crimson fabric between his legs, every inch of bare skin lean and smooth. There’s another perched on the armrest of her chair, holding a goblet of wine for whenever she needs it; a third sitting at her feet, running idle fingers up the side of her calf. All that attention, and yet her dark gaze still tracks the males behind me with enough hunger I debate how much trouble I’d be in if I threw my own wine glass at her head.

She is not the only one who pays such close attention to the Illyrians. A couple dignitaries’ wives and high ranking soldiers gawk blatantly at how much skin they have on display. More than one head turns to get a better look at Rhysand’s ass in this get-up. He neither cowers or preens under the attention; it’s like he doesn’t even register it. I can’t help but wonder if that was the point: Everybody is so busy ogling him, they’re not really paying attention to what he’s doing. It’s a good mask, it shields his intentions and lets him observe without it being obvious, but the way they look at him, like he’s a piece of meat makes me wish I had claws to scratch out their eyes.

I take another sip of wine, trying not to look too desperate for the emptiness it’ll bring as I head in the direction of the dais.

“You’ve surprised me,” Father says as we approach. It’s the first real acknowledgement he’s shown me all day.

The shadow curled around my ear burrows a little deeper under my hair to avoid detection, the soft ether brushing against a sensitive spot on my temple that has me gripping the wine glass a little tighter to keep from reacting.

“As I said, I am trying to do better, Father.”

His gaze flicks to the chain in my hand, down the length of it like he’s inspecting the strength of each wrung before finally arriving on the occupants tethered to it. He grins in triumph as he takes in their attire. Maybe they were right to ignore what I’d brought out. It certainly looks like I’ve intended to humiliate them by dressing them in the same attire many of the Senator’s slaves are sporting.

“Tell me how you managed to bring the three of them to heel when Amarantha couldn’t?”

Amarantha bristles in her seat, her perfect teeth flashing in her pale face.

Another small victory.

“Tell him you instructed the healer to give us a sleeping drought in our wine.” The twins haven’t reappeared and his sudden return in my head nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “And faebane in the water this morning.”

I repeat his instructions as I move to take the seat that is mine on his left and force myself not to think about how it’s a couch instead of a chair like his because it used to be shared with my Mother.

“You’re hoping to acquire mirthroot in the city to keep us docile until the next match.”

I repeat that too, making a mental note to ensure that I follow through with it. He will monitor my every move in the city, if I don’t follow through, he’ll know it and then we’re dead. An issue that seems far less pressing when Rhysand’s hand brushes over my wrist. Watching him in the Arena did nothing to show just how agile he is, not when he expertly maneuvers my hand towards his chest, the chain blocking his part in this. The next thing I know, I’m moving to sit and he’s falling into the couch behind me so it looks like I pushed him down into the seat so I could recline against his chest. The motion takes him seconds, it looks like he rehearsed it down to the exact placement of the chain to hide the fact that he’d been the one moving me and not the other way around.

Azriel seats himself on the armrest wordlessly; Cassian grunting as he sits on the floor with his back against the couch. I get the distinct impression he is only keeping his shoulder against my knee because being any farther away would mean his wings were in reach of Father’s hands.

It takes me a minute to find my bearings again as my brain short circuits over how close they all are. Rhysand’s heartbeat is steady against my back, his skin warm even through the fabric of my dress. He lets his head lean back against the back of the couch, feigning exhaustion or maybe repulsion from being “forced” to be this close to me. I’m close enough that I could run my hand up Azriel’s thigh if I wanted, and damn me do I want to. Or close enough to Cassian that my fingers itch to brush through the thick strands of his hair. It is a cruel trick of fate that my mates are close enough for me to touch and I can’t.

At the mention of the mirthroot, one of Amarantha’s males leans around the Emperor to offer a rolled cigarette, even dried the hint of mirthroot is obvious. The male’s eyes are glassy, shining under the effects of it himself, the grin on his features lazy and unbothered. Far too soft a male to be shackled to Amarantha.

I tap Cassian on the shoulder to prompt him to take it. A mistake because he flinches like I hit him and I think I might have undone any effort I’d made to get him to at least tolerate my presence. He snatches the offered cigarette, and the liter that follows and passes it back to me with a huff.

The Emperor watches the exchange with more interest than he’s ever shown me in my life. “What would you have done, Amarantha?” He asks.

“The same,” she says through her teeth.

I take a deep breath through my nose to keep from making a disgusted face at her. “Ember said that’s what she used to do for Amarantha’s slaves before she came to my keep, so I simply took a page out of her book.”

I pass the cigarette and liter to Azriel, and pray the sight of the flames doesn’t cause the same reaction it had when he’d been branded. He grits his teeth, but there is no angered flash down the bond or hiss from the shadow to indicate it’s anything other than a show as he lights it and takes a long drag.

“I’m glad to see that in your seclusion you’ve finally grown half a brain,” Father says. “I was beginning to worry that your Mother’s poisoned tongue had gotten to you.”

I flinch despite myself and all three of the males tense around me. Cassian’s jaw ticks, the flutter of movement brushing across my knee. For the first time all day, his hazel gaze flicks to me, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear I see a flash of pity there.

“No, it didn’t,” I whisper, unable to put any feeling into the words. I haven’t been back here since the execution. I’d found every reason to avoid it. Being back feels like peeling a scab off the wound and letting it bleed all over the floor.

Azriel takes another drag and I wish more than anything to take a hit of it myself and numb this feeling in my chest. What I would give for the empty numbness that had filled me in the early months of my grief. There are so many tangled emotions here, between the loss and my mates and the horrors of what we just witnessed outside. I cannot pick just one to focus on; can’t find some outlet to expel the building pressure. It all tangles and lodges itself in my throat like it's trying to drown me.

Rhysand’s fingers brush over my arm as he draws his hand up to take the cigarette from Azriel. To an onlooker it looks accidental, maybe it is, maybe I’m just reading into it, but even that faint brush drags me back to the surface for a bit of air again. At least I am not alone in the water anymore. Mother had always been emotionless, nothing got to her. I was always the one that felt too much. At least now the emotions can be shared.

“Your actions yesterday inspired me,” the Emperor says after a beat.

Apprehension licks its way up my spine.

“I haven’t taken a champion of my own in a long time. It’s become dull, betting on someone else’s man.”

Shit!

Azriel’s shadow dares to peek out around my bangs, observing the crowd as they begin to settle in their seats with plates of food, as if on some silent command. Brannagh and Dagdan join us on my left, on the seat closest to the dais, the stare they level at me hot enough to melt glass. So much for Rhysand being in my head the rest of the evening.

With a wave, the Emperor motions over a creature I have no name for. It walks on two legs like a man, but is covered head to toe in thick, brown, fur. Horns curl from the top of its head; a beak with a hooked tip jutting from its face. Its hands end in talons like that of a bird, but there are five on each hand instead of three. Its tunic has been folded down around its waist, leaving its chest bare, revealing a spider web of scars gouged through the heavy layer of fur. A thin, whip-like tail ending in a spiked tip flicks back and forth behind it as it walks, each step sending a shutter through the Palace.

My skin pricks with goosebumps. Some strange sort of alchemy made this thing.

“I was hoping to test it in the Arena, but with the repairs in order, I thought a smaller show would do just as well.”

My stomach hurdles into my throat.

“Why don’t we pick one of your champions to break it in, daughter?” The Emperor suggests as if this is a thought that just came to him and not something he’s been planning from the beginning.

I take another sip of wine as I turn to look at him, trying to steady the rapid pounding of my heart. I can’t let one of them fight this thing! Its maw opens and snaps shut with a clack as it stands before us, growing impatient.

“I’d personally like to see Cassian’s thick skull get crushed like a watermelon,” Amarantha chimes in from her seat.

I’m really going to throw up right here in front of all these people.

“A splendid idea from our woman of the hour, don’t you think?” He grins like he’s caught me, like he knows I’ve been playing games and have walked right into his trap.

“Nothing can be as bad as listening to you speak, Amarantha,” Cassian snarls as he gets on his feet, effectively making the decision for me.

He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, wings ruffling behind him, but before he can step into the center of the room, he turns to face me, much to my surprise. Hands scarred from swordplay reach out to give the chain around his neck a little tug. “Mind letting me off the leash, Princess?”

One of the Praetorian steps forward to unchain him but I stand and snag the key from his hand instead. I’ve seen enough males get stabbed or injected with something right before a fight to give the opponent an upper hand to know I can’t trust anyone near him. And, maybe, just maybe, the act of giving him a little relief from the chain might make him not hate me so much.

My hands shake as I reach up to his neck to unclasp the chain. I know better than to take the whole collar off while there are so many people watching even if I wish I could. His breath is warm on my face as he watches me, waiting for his moment of freedom. The urge to stretch up on my toes and kiss him for luck is overwhelming; maybe in another life we could have.

I step back with the chain in my hand and return to my seat before I can follow my impulses.

Cassian turns to face his opponent and even though I saw him perform yesterday, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that I have just sent him to his death. The creature sizes him up like it's calculating the best spot to take a bite out of him and its beady eyes settle on the bandage tied around his bare thigh.

Rhysand leans forward, resting his chin on my shoulder to watch, arm loosely looped over my waist. It looks casual. No one bats an eye at the gesture, but I am pretty sure he’s done it so he can keep me from jumping off the couch.

Azriel leans forward, bracing himself with his knees on his elbows, hazel gaze tracking the steps of Cassian’s opponent as he also calculates its weak spots.

“Let’s make it interesting, shall we?” The Emperor asks, leaning over to be heard over the rush of excitement the audience gives to the challengers.

I tear my gaze away from where I’m trying to memorize every line in Cassian’s wings, every curve of tattoo over his back and shoulders, just in case. “How so?”

“Cassian wins and I’ll let you pick their next opponent in the arena,” he suggests.

I like the offer; it gives them a better chance at surviving.

“Cassian loses, and you give Rhysand to Amarantha.”

The world flips and spins and the roaring in my ears has me clutching my hands in my skirts to keep a surge of power from destroying the room. My power singes the fabric, only the smoke from the mirthroot hides the smell.

There is no way in Hel I am making that kind of bet!

Rhysand stiffens behind me, heartbeat skipping for half a moment before he pretends to be unbothered by the comment and takes another drag of the mirthroot.

I’d rather throw myself on a blade than chance that. Cassian is an exceptional fighter, but I cannot take that risk. I am already risking his life by letting him fight like this, how can I risk both of them?

My chest aches. There are too many opportunities to lose them. Too many things that can go wrong.

“And let our people think I am weak and incapable of following through on the deal we made yesterday?” I challenge. My voice trembles as I fight to hold his gaze steady.

Azriel’s shadow hisses what sounds like a warning in my ear.

“You know if we split them up now it makes me look as if I can’t handle them.”

“Attached, are we?”

“No, but I am tired of looking weak,” I hiss. “If Amarantha wants them, she can challenge me for them herself.”

Rhysand stiffens behind me. The twins are too close for him to slip into my mind again, but I can practically feel him shouting at me down the bond.

She huffs a laugh around the other side of him, “As if you’d stand a chance in that!”

I ignore her as I hold my ground with my Father, “You have always thought so little of me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So if you really want to make this interesting, then fine. If Cassian wins, I pick when and who all their matches are with. And if he loses, well, you’ve already chosen a husband for me I’m sure, so you can speed up the process and I’ll provide them the heir you so desperately want by the end of the year.”

The bond shakes so hard in my chest it feels like Azriel’s screaming in my ear. Rhysand has gone still as death behind me and I didn’t think I said it that loud, but Cassian’s head whips in our direction, eyes wide.

Father throws his head back and laughs at that. “This new found confidence is amusing. I will allow you to pick the next two fights, but not all.”

Better than nothing.

“Deal.”

I think I can hear Azriel’s teeth grinding together beside me, so I force myself not to look at him. The bond thrums like he’s in physical pain and I hate that I have caused it, but I will not barter with their lives.

“To first blood!” The Emperor calls to the room.

“To the death!” Brannagh chants instead.

When this whole Empire goes up in flames, I’m pushing her in first.

The crowd begins to murmur to themselves, debating. “I’ll put some money on it if they fight to the death,” Tamlin tosses out.

“As will I!” Shouts a commander whose name I’d never learned.

The motion goes around the room in a full circle, by the time the Emperor concedes, I’ve drank my full glass and abandoned it on the couch. Didn’t we just do this?

The Praetorians provide blades for the two males, but the Emperor’s creature can’t hold the blade with its claw tipped hands and tosses it to the ground with a screech. Its barbed tip tail draws back behind it as it drops into a defensive stance.

I forget how to breathe as Cassian drops into his own.

Time slows in a familiar sensation of undiluted horror as the creature moves first, striking forward with its tail like a spear. Cassian pivots back a step, rearranging his feet as he blocks with the sword.

The crowd cheers excitedly and I distantly recognize coins changing hands as they take bets, but cannot tear my eyes away enough to watch who is participating in it. Cassian remains on the defensive as the creature rears its tail back and attacks from the other side of its body this time, testing the Illyrian’s reaction time. When the strike is blocked a second time, it switches tactics and goes for a punch, talons extended towards Cassian’s face.

While the creature is taller, it is not as agile, and Cassian side steps out of the way of the blow, using the momentum to lunge into the next step and strike the tip of his sword across his opponent’s stomach. Its ear shattering screech shakes the room as the blade makes contact, drawing black blood. If it wasn’t for Brannagh, the challenge would be over, Cassian would have won. It would have been easy for once.

Enraged, the creature strikes with its talons again, missing a second time, but catching Cassian in the jaw on the backswing. The whole room can hear Cassian’s teeth clack together as he stumbles backwards.

It takes everything in me not to squeeze my eyes shut, not to wince and react to every blow. I have to keep telling myself that this is part of the game and I cannot give them away, but by the Mother it is harder and harder with every passing second!

Rhysand remains with his chin propped up on my shoulder, the bulk of his weight keeping me in my seat. I so desperately want to reach out and take his hand, give myself something to ground in, but I can’t. I have to accept that this might be all we’re ever allowed to touch, especially after today.

The creature strikes again with its tail, once, twice, a third, each like a punch. The third blow shatters Cassian’s sword into pieces and my heart plummets into my stomach as he dodges a fourth assault. He’s not so fast on the fifth and that barbed tip punches right through his bandaged thigh! Blood splatters as the tips hurdles through muscle and sinew until it pushes through the back of his leg.

One of the dignitaries' wives reaches for a bucket and wretches as Cassian’s roar of pain rattles my teeth.

Azriel flinches, looking like he might just jump into the fight and stop it, but then catches himself.

The bond screams and bashes against my insides as my powers flare again, singing more of my skirts as I hold them in a death grip that only worsens as the creature yanks the barb back out of Cassian’s leg, bringing him to the floor. Blood pours from the wound from both ends, cascading down his calf to make a puddle on the stark white tile.

There’s enough of my skirts to hide the motion, Rhysand buries his hand beneath them to hold onto my hip tight enough to bruise. I don’t know if that’s to keep me in place or himself.

The creature snarls out a noise that sounds like triumph as it pulls its hand back, aiming to use its claws to sever Cassian’s head.

Not again! Not again! Not again!

I have to stop this! I have to do something!

At the last second, Cassian throws himself out of the way, knees tucked to his chest as he rolls out of reach, right to where the creature’s discarded sword lies. He snags the blade with a grunt, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his thigh as he pushes himself back onto his feet. His face twists in pain at the slightest movement, but he manages to stay upright.

Rhysand breathes a little easier behind me, but his grip on my hip hasn’t let up.

The Emperor frowns beside us, displeased with the outcome thus far no doubt. He really expected this to be easy.

The creature strikes again, sticking to what it has found successful, and it becomes a mistake. Cassian twists at the last second, blade raised so when the strike comes, he doesn’t need to block it. At this angle, not only does it miss him, he has a height advantage and he brings the sword down as hard as he can, cleaving the tail in half. The barbed tip hits the floor twitching as the creature reels backward and wails.

Holy shit! I’ve seen a lot of warriors in my life, but I don’t think I’d ever describe them as beautiful until now. Each move is calculated, backed with training and muscle. His tattoos seem to come to life with his body as his muscles shift and strike.

He doesn’t let up as his opponent stumbles back either, he uses the distraction to his advantage and plunges the sword into the creature’s shoulder. He might have been aiming for the heart, but the wound in his leg gives him too great a limp to lunge far on. The blade catches in bone, the resounding crunch deafening in the domed ceiling, and when he reels back to pull it out, he twists it just enough to make his opponent’s arm absolutely useless.

With two of its preferred methods of fighting gone, the creature bends at the waist and charges with a roar, hoping to use its horns like a battering ram into Cassian’s chest.

An otherwise horrifying sight, if Cassian didn’t laugh and step dramatically out of the way so the creature rams right into the wall. “Is that really all you’ve got?” He taunts as a rain of dust falls on his head.

The creature screeches as it yanks itself free from the wall and shakes its head, clearing the debris from its beady eyes.

Cassian spins the blade in his hand, adjusting his grip, and I think it might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

He can’t crouch with his leg, but he doesn’t need to. The creature tries to ram him again and he dodges and brings his hilt down on its neck, knocking it to the floor. He wastes no time in rearing back with the blade and bringing it down, easily cleaving the creature’s head from its shoulders.

Amarantha throws up her hands in a huff at the sight.

I finally take what feels like my first breath in an hour as Cassian tosses the blade on the floor. He did it! He won!

Azriel removes his elbows from his knees and reclines back against the armrest, clearly satisfied with the outcome.

“Excellent! Excellent!” Praises the steward as he goes about helping anyone who placed bets collect their proper earnings.

I tear my gaze away from the carnage to the nearest guard, “Find him a healer, now.” Before he bleeds out on the floor or Father decides he has another champion he wants to test.

The Emperor takes a long drink from his goblet, eyes narrowed on the severed head the staff has to now clean off the floor. Around him, his dignitaries drink and argue over why they bet the way they did. It is business as usual, completely unbothered by the blood around them.

When he finally turns to me, I have to brace myself against the anger simmering in his eyes. This is usually the part where I put my chin to my chest and try to make myself as small as possible. Usually. But not today.

“It seems I’ve underestimated their talent for bloodshed.”

Cassian hobbles back over to us and I make a show of telling Azriel to help him before he gets blood everywhere, so no one thinks I just let them wander off on their own.

“The Games will continue at the start of next week,” the Emperor continues.

That gives us days. I try not to look at the gaping hole in Cassian’s thigh. Thank the Mother it looks like it missed bone, but how is he supposed to participate with that? There’s no way it heals in time, even if I have Ember work twelve hours a day on him.

“I expect you to have their opponent picked out by the Senate meeting in the morning. You still have that end of your bargain to uphold.”

This victory will not be without repercussions, but it is still a victory nonetheless, and we have to take what we can get.

Managing to procure the mirthroot I need to trick my Father into thinking I’m following through with the regime I’d given him, as well as finding horses for the Illyrians to ride back on takes longer than usual, given the massive partying happening in the streets. We have to take the backroads home to avoid being pelted with more rocks, or outright mobbed. Compared to the rest of the day, the journey is uneventful, spent mostly with the others ensuring Cassian doesn’t pass out on the horse.

The sun is already changing colors by the time we return to the River House, but I know if I try to prepare for bed now I’ll never sleep. Instead, I leave Anise with instructions to look into potentially safe opponents in the Arena, so when I see Eris again tomorrow I can compare their notes, and then set out for the Temple built on the edge of the property.

I doubt there are enough blood offerings and animal sacrifices to cleanse the sins of this Empire, but I offer as many as I can in apology for my part in it. I don’t know how I’ve been so blind to all of it. I can’t stop seeing it now, it should have always been so obvious to me.

The Priestesses do not ask why I linger for over an hour, praying long past the time it takes for my offerings to burn atop the altar. I’d hoped that, if I said them hard enough, the weight of the day would slip off my shoulders. I’d thought, with enough sacrifices, the guilt would ease, but I can still feel my mates’ agitation and pain clearly through the bond.

I return to the House as weary as before. Tomorrow will be a whole new set of problems. I cannot put it off by lingering in the Temple.

The walk doesn’t clear my head, or loosen the tension, and I climb into the tub with that same heaviness still clinging to my skin. I heat the water as hot as I can, hoping it might cleanse me in a way my sacrifices couldn’t.

Exhaustion creeps its way in as I scrub and scrub and scrub until my skin is pink. Every time I close my eyes I can see the crucified bodies, gasping for air as they slowly suffocate under the weight of their own body pinned to the wood. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight; I can only imagine how it would feel to know each of those males before this. The bond still swirls beneath my skin, heavy with agitation the hot water can’t touch.

I wish there was a way to take that from them, but how can I do that without calling attention to the mating bond?

I give myself a few extra minutes in the blissful heat before dragging myself out and tossing a silk robe over my waterlogged skin. My brush is on the vanity where Anise left it this morning and I have just started to brush the knots out of my hair when I hear the bedroom door open. My hand stills halfway through my hair; it is unlike Anise to not announce herself when it’s this late.

The door clicks shut again, the eerie silence that follows enough to make my heart drop into my stomach. The darkness of the room makes it hard to see beyond the candlelight that fills the bathing chamber and my hand goes instinctively into the vanity drawer, where my Mother had always kept an extra knife. The blade is cool in my fingers, the handle smooth and undamaged from never being used. The benefit of having constant guards is you usually never see the threats against you, though there are always exceptions.

There’s no footsteps on the carpet, but I can practically feel movement next to my bed.

I’m a sitting duck here among all the candlelight, but if I step into the darkness beyond I’ll be totally blind. Better to wait for something to make itself known.

I suppose there’s enough guards around, I can always start screaming for help if it comes down to it.

A heartbeat passes before something dark and snakelike comes slithering across the floor. The ether loops itself around my ankle and crawls up my thigh like a purring cat before the shadow takes its perch behind my ear.

I set the knife on the vanity with a sigh of relief as Azriel steps into the light. “You scared the shit out of me!”

His shadow caresses the back of my ear in apology, far more expressive now than it was earlier. “Sorry.”

He side steps out of the doorway, but not in my direction, which is odd until Rhysand steps out of the shadows behind him.

“How did you two get in here?”

“Found the lever on the door to your secret tunnel,” Azriel says as his eyes trace up my bare legs, brazenly taking in all the damp skin I have on display.

Heat flushes up my cheeks and I have to look away from him. The candlelight and the hour of the evening makes this feel more intimate than it should, given the way Rhysand looks like he might burst out of his skin. I certainly shouldn’t be entertaining the idea that Azriel would look at me as anything other than a means to an end. Hope is too dangerous a thing to have right now. Just because we agreed to do this, doesn’t mean they’re anxious to accept me as anything other than help. Besides, I need to remind myself that it will be even more dangerous for us than it already is if we were to acknowledge the bond.

“We were careful, no one saw us,” Azriel assures.

I should be relieved that they’re being safe about it, but the frown on Rhysand’s face makes me rethink it.

“What the hell were you thinking back there?!” He snarls.

Normally, that kind of outburst from a male would make me jump back in surprise, but at this point I’m too exhausted to move, let alone figure out what the hell he’s referring to. “I’ve had a lot of thoughts today, Rhysand, you will have to be more specific.”

The chain rattles around his neck as he steps further into the room, like it's fighting to hold back his powers. “Your bet with Hybern!”

Ah, right. That. “What of it?” Is he really still upset about that? Cassian won, nothing was lost.

Azriel winces and the shadow at my ear hisses in warning.

“What of it?” He repeats, his voice rising to an octave just shy of shrill, like he can’t believe he heard me right. “You can’t just offer yourself up like that!”

“And what was my alternative?”

“He gave you an alternative!” He seethes. “All you had to do was say yes!”

I fold my arms over my chest in irritation, but I don’t miss the way both their eyes dip to my chest at the motion. “Oh so it’s ok for you to put your body on the line, but I can’t do the same with my own? Seems a little hypocritical, if you ask me.”

“That’s different!”

“How so?”

He’s inched his way into my space step by step, until I’m very aware of the jasmine and citrus scent of him. Sometime after he returned home he’d changed into the clothes I’d had laid out for him, the swirl of ink along his chest just barely poking out around the dark collar. Even hidden, the urge to reach out with my hands and trace the swirls with my fingers remains.

“Because,” he says through his teeth. “It’s not a deal I can live with.”

“You don’t have to live with it because Cassian won anyway,” I retort, tearing my gaze away to look at Azriel. Rhysand is too close to me like this. I can barely think past the urge to touch him, let alone hold the argument like I need to. “Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

Azriel folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “He’s not. You shouldn’t have made that deal.”

I throw my hands up and push past Rhysand, trying to give myself room to breathe. “You two are impossible!”

They follow like I’m still holding onto their leashes, footsteps somehow impossibly silent despite their size.

“You’re honestly going to stand there and tell me you’d rather I offered you up to Amarantha?”

“If it meant you were safe,” Rhysand snarls. “Yes.”

I find myself gritting my teeth, a snarl working its way up my throat. “Well that’s not a deal I could live with, Rhysand.”

Their legs are a hell of a lot longer than mine, Rhysand manages to snag my arm and turn me back around to face him before I make it more than three steps into the darkness of my chambers.

His face looks strained, eyes rimmed red. He has to be exhausted. The bond feels fragile, strained from all the emotions that have been blared down it today. “I need you to find a way to deal with it,” he says, voice verging on pleading.

I hate myself, but I can’t help but wonder what the hand holding onto my bicep would feel like travelling down the rest of my body.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, whatever you have to do, I… We need you to find a way to live with it.”

Azriel comes to stand on the other side of him, so they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. “If Cass had lost and you had to…” even in the dim light coming from the bathroom I can see the heaviness in his eyes.

I glance back and forth between them. “You’ve all suffered enough, I can handle myself. I knew what I was doing.”

Rhysand shakes his head, “I can bear a lot of things, but not that.”

Hope is a cruel bastard, and I’ve never learned to master it. “Why? What does it matter to you?”

He lifts the hand not holding onto my arm, fingers just barely brushing over my damp cheek and my heartbeat is suddenly very loud in my own ears. His mouth opens like he might say something, and then he clamps it shut again, debating with himself over the words.

While he can’t seem to find the words, Azriel’s scarred hand reaches out to gently grab my chin and tilt my face in his direction. “It matters,” he huffs, voice low and rich and the reverberations of it send shivers down my spine. “Because you’re our mate.”

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Author's Note: Hehe was gonna wait for the reveal at the end but couldn't bring myself to do it. Let me know what you thought about it! And as always, if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know :)

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