#cw: noncon elements | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soapcloth · 4 months ago

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CW: 18+ MDNI, loan shark!price x reader part 1, fem!reader, afab!reader, noncon elements, manipulative price, implied violence (not reader), petting, almost(?) fingering - 3K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune massive thank you to @pricetagged for keeping me sane writing this

“Mr. Price-” you spoke up, fingers massaging into your temples.

“Said you can call me John, Sweetheart.” the man interjected with a serious look.

He was currently hanging your entire life over your head and he knew it, you most certainly were not going to call him by his first name. Noticing your reluctance, he shrugged and leaned back into your dining room chair.

“Look, I’ve been as kind as a man like me ought to be. Don’t know how much longer I can shoulder the loss, and I don't know how much longer you-” He sent a condescending look of concern your way, a hand fishing into his pocket. “-can take the fees. I’m playing the good guy here, y’gotta pay up, lovie.”

“No smoking inside.” you warned, voice less confident than you would have liked it to be.

His hand paused in his coat before slipping out and up in a sign of surrender.

There was a buzzing silence between the two of you, only interrupted by the occasional tick of your kitchen clock. It was hard to meet his gaze, eyes rooted downwards towards your table under the weight of your rising debt to one of the most notorious men in the city.

“Right then.” he huffed, palms coming down to rest on the table before twitching upwards. “So?”

“Give me another month to pull something together.” you spoke, wincing when you caught the way his eyebrows quirked in surprise. “-Please?”

There was no telling a man like John Price what would be happening. He was the shot caller, the unequivocal card dealer, it was only by some higher grace that he let your ill manners slip.

He grumbled for a moment before looking up. “I respect what you’ve got going on in the shop, I do. Lovely place, good atmosphere—we’re both the entrepreneurial type, so to say I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for you-” the thought that he’d lump your small shop in with his exploitative business made your stomach turn. “-but this is a bit much, yeah? Let’s give it up, sweetheart.”

Your face twisted into a sharp grimace, but that was all you could do—what right did you have to tell the man whose money you were living off of to get out of your house? Even worse, you hated that he had a point; you were so tired of your lackluster sales and mounting bills, but-

“I’m not the only owner, I-I can’t just make decisions like that.” you reasoned.

He looked incredibly unimpressed, nostrils flaring with a dissatisfied huff. “Right, your business partner.”

“H-he-”

“If it’s what you want, m’sure he’ll understand,” Mr. Price hummed, eyes narrowing. “I think you’ll find my men and I can be quite persuasive.”

Registering your cautious demeanor, his lips curled upwards.

“Where is the bloke anyway?” John asked in faux-disinterest, disapproval blooming from his tone. “Always sends you to talk to the big mean lender. S’not right.”

He shook his head and sighed.

“-Seen this play out before, love. He’s throwing you under the bus.”

Your mouth shut, hard set into a frown—you knew he was right. Your business partner was most likely enjoying his morning in peace knowing it was your apartment above the building—your life about to be uprooted if it all went tits-up. It was hard not to feel played.

Mr. Price’s gaze glimmered in recognition, and slowly, like a languid predator, he was leaning across the table with a large hand over your own.

You studied the sparse dusting of translucent hair on his fingers, the trimmed nails at the ends of his stocky fingers, his nice, expensive-looking watch—anything not to meet his eyes.

“S’not worth it,” he urged softly. “spreading yourself thin like this.” he paused to think. “My advice? Liquidate, I'm sure you and I can work something out in the long term.”

You swallowed, throat feeling impossibly dry as you focused on the twitch of his thumb.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I don’t want to be the bad guy, but business is business, sweetheart—I’m offering you a hand, it’s in your best interest to take it.” he spoke, palm patting over your digits before withdrawing into his pocket. There was a deep breath drawn in through his lips. “Right, I’ll be off then—Unless you want me over for lunch?”

He chuckled deeply in solus as he stood, reminding you of a proud and awful beast. “Maybe another time then, love.”

Ideally not.

The shop had closed on another unnoteworthy day, only serving to further hammer in Mr. Price’s point. With defeated footfall on the stairs up to your flat, you nearly slipped, shocked by a fist beating on the front door frantically. You slowly turned around, heart pounding from the sound.

“-Christ! Let me in!” Ewan, your business partner cried out from the other side of the threshold.

You hurried to the door; pushed aside as soon as the lock had released.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” you scolded over the shop door’s welcome chime. You were met without response while the man darted for the till. “What are you-”

“Not now,” he growled. “we need to get out of here.”

Studying him closer, you realized one of his arms had been held up by a makeshift sling, tucked neatly beneath his quilted coat.

“W-what are you talking about?”

He paused, looking up.

Your eyes widened when the light from the street outside washed over his face.

“What happened to you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” he snarled, freshly dried blood crusting at the movement. His head dipped down as he popped open the till. “Price and his dogs want our heads.”

“I just spoke to him this morning-”

“Things change—may have pushed our luck a little too far. We’ve got to get out of town.”

You frowned “I-I can’t just-”

“Suit yourself.” he snapped, voice dropping to a mumble while his fingers grabbed at whatever they could, stuffing it into his coat pocket haphazardly. “-Sitting duck.”

“Wait—that's our money.” you balked, watching the empty register drawer shut. He offered you a bloody, tight-lipped smile as he sped past you towards the door; in and out like a typhoon.

“Good luck.”

You were stuck where you stood when the door swung shut, absolutely beside yourself in shock as you watched his figure disappear from view into the night. Looking around your shop, it was just as it had been when you closed up, but the knowledge that you were sitting on an empty till, all alone with the looming threat of a less-than-savory money lender finding out you were back to square one for your upcoming payment was not kind as it crashed into you.

After a sobering moment, you hobbled over to the point of sales, turning the drawer’s lock tentatively. Of course, the tray was as empty as the day you had bought it, save for a spare coin roll shoved into the side. You stared down at the dark plastic, hand clumsily digging into your pocket for your phone. Swiping at the device, you paused, debating for a moment over whether or not to open the banking app; you already knew what you’d see if you did.

Confirming your fears, the log showed a hefty transaction at the branch earlier that day. The account had been emptied right before the banks closed.

You had nothing to give John Price.

It was all gone.

You stared at your feet while it sunk in. Slowly, you regained the ability to move, making your way over to the shop door and locking it back up before spinning on your heels. The trip upstairs was eerily silent as you slipped into your flat, legs wobbling as you ambled into your washroom and stepped under the hot stream from your showerhead. You let the water run over you for far longer than necessary, only stepping out onto the frigid tile once your fingers had pruned.

The dinner prep that followed had gone surprisingly smooth, serving as a vessel to pretend the foundation of your life wasn't crumbling away. You replayed comforting thoughts, words passing through your mind like a liferaft just out of reach– you knew Mr. Price, he always spoke gently to you, he would understand, he-

A fat tear fell onto the hand that braced you over the stove, watching the bubbling pasta through bleary eyes. With a shaking grip, you drained the water and slipped the noodles into your saucepan, stirring and sniffling lamely.

You made too much—you had nothing to give and you had made too much. Typical.

Sitting at your table, you ate in near-silence, listening to your clock’s soft ticking as you tried to ignore the afterburn image of Mr. Price across from you where he had sat that morning.

Your fork paused mid-air when the downstairs shop chime rang out.

Had Ewan come to his senses?

You closed your eyes and waited for him to call up to you.

The stark sound of heavy footfall bustling around the lower level was the first thing to alert you to the intrusion—too much noise for one man. Setting down your fork, you stared owlishly at the door to your flat as if it was the last line of defense between you and whatever was happening down there. Through the muffled commotion, you could faintly make out the creak of your stairs getting louder—closer, you watched helplessly as the knob slowly turned.

The door opened a fraction, a thick hand curling around the side to brace it against the three thunderous knocks that echoed throughout the room.

“Come in.” you spoke up once your heartbeat had evened out, blinking as Mr. Price emerged from the dark stairway.

“Mmh, you’re here.” he stared down at you, a pleased rumble rolling around in his chest. “‘Course you didn’t skip town, smart. Good girl.”

He kicked his boots off and drifted through your kitchen; cabinets and drawers clattering behind you while he whistled breathily, dishing up some pasta as if you had made it for him—you do suppose he had every right to, though.

Your whole body tensed as a palm ghosted across your back. The plate was set down, and the chair beside you was tugged out from beneath the table.

Your eyes darted to his dish where it sat, steam trailing fragrantly. Mr. Price tucked in, humming lowly despite his tense demeanor.

“S’good, Love. eat up.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and grabbed your fork, gaze falling back to your dish as you picked at the food, appetite long gone. Once again, it was you, Mr. Price, and the sounds of your kitchen—an unwelcome sense of Deja Vu creeping in.

“Your money’s gone.” you whispered, unable to stand the silence.

He reached towards you, grabbing your napkin, and patting his mouth. “I know.” he scratched at his beard idly. “My boys are dealing with that.”

You paled, trying not to think about what would happen to your business partner as you watched Mr.Price fuss with his fork, leaning in to take another large bite; a nauseated feeling washing over you.

“What's going to happen to me?” you murmured, eyes downcast.

His fork clattered quietly against his plate as his hand came to rest on the back of your neck, thumb petting at your nape. “That’s what I'm here to sort out, sweetheart.”

Sort out. It was ugly, spoken as if you were just one of his assets. You nodded; compliance met with a soft, affirming squeeze.

“We can work something out.” his hand traveled downwards, grazing your arm before landing on the meat of your thigh. “I don’t have to be the bad guy.”

“Mr. Price..” you spoke after a sharp breath, tears threatening to well up.

You missed the way his eyes crinkled at your weepy tone, thumb brushing your thigh in comfort.

“I’ve had my eye on you, love—Would have never lent you as much as I did if I wasn't sweet on you. Thought maybe I’d be able to charm my way into your life but it seems like I only see you when you’re late on a payment.” he laughed hoarsely. A knee knocked into yours as he stood; his chair scraping beneath him. The floor creaked under bulk, two large hands coming to rub at your arms with hot breath and trimmed beard tickling at your ear. “-I’m a hopeless romantic, y’see.”

“Price!” a voice hollered up, causing the man to straighten with a low growl.

“What?” he barked, voice aimed downstairs.

“Trucks loaded up, gonna head back to the office, yeah? See if Simon needs any help retrieving the cash.”

His hands flexed around your shoulders. “Good, lock up behind yourself. I’ll be a bit.”

You froze, looking up to see the looming shadow of a man; profile distinct in the low light. He turned to you, offering a tight grin while a wayward hand trailed from your arm to your neck, caressing the skin as he exhaled deeply behind you, resting your head against his abdomen.

“It’s okay to give in, love.” he cooed. “Let me take care of it all.”

You had nearly folded when that little prey animal in your brain stiffened, hackles raising. You stood carefully, sidestepping his grasp.

“No, I-I… I couldn’t impose… It’s alright.” you silently begged for him to understand your polite refusal.

“S’not imposing,” he challenged, glaring down at you. “imposing would be the number of zeroes on the sum you owe me—now you care about my burden?”

“That’s-”

“That’s not how this works, sweetheart.” he laughed. “Now, sit back down.”

You complied, lowering back into the seat shamefully.

“Good.” he exhaled, crouching beside you with hands knotted together. “I always collect what’s owed, that’s one thing you need to understand.”

You nodded.

“-But I’m not opposed to shouldering burdens where personal interest is involved.” His eyes searched your own desperately, palms unfurling to rest back on your legs. “You understand what I'm saying, yeah? You’ll never pay it off alone, let me help. I could take care of you.”

Overwhelmed, you turned away; the grip on your thighs tightening in response as he braced himself, standing up. A warm hand cradled your cheek as he drew your gaze upwards, free hand looping around your back and lifting you to stand against him like a marionette.

“I don’t know what to do…” you sniffled as his big palm had begun to rub circles into your back.

He shushed you. “-It’s okay, love. I can handle it, It’ll be okay.”

You nodded, turning and rubbing your face into his shirt as he comforted you. The entire situation was a disorienting experience. Had you done something so wrong to get here?– had it been a crime to want to live a gentle and quiet life in your shop?

It was hard to care much for your sense of conviction when the root of your problem looked more like a finely woven cradle; what did it matter if you were to bend the knee to your devil’s appeal at this point?

Still, it felt as if you were teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“I’m scared.” your lips settled for, hiccuping the words into his chest.

He hummed thoughtfully, the noise buzzing around the walls of your head as his thick arms hooked around your neck, pulling you in deeper—a trap set without any fuss.

“It’s okay for you to be scared,” he pressed a kiss to your crown. “There’s no way anyone was getting out of those rates you agreed to, love. Let me help you.”

You stiffened, head raising slowly to look at him. He smiled down at you.

“You definitely won’t be taking care of our finances, yeah?” John joked, letting out a deep, phlegmy laugh before he pecked your nose, pulling you back into his chest and rumbling against your head. “Enough nonsense. You’re tired, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

It was all so domestic—like he hadn’t just shown you his rows of jagged, shark-like teeth.

His grip relented as he patted your bum. “Go on and get into bed, let me clean up dinner.”

So you did, brushing your teeth and feeling incredibly confused as to why you were readily complying. What truly got to you was how tender it felt—had you been so oblivious to his vying interest? You had just assumed he was a rare good-natured lender; though, you suppose neither of these had been true.

John Price was not a good man; although it was a recent revelation in the grand scheme of things, you knew this as a fact now. The other fact of the matter was that it seemed you were most likely the real collateral in the vulturine deal. Had he been playing the long game?

You could hear John floating around in the other room as you pulled an old shirt over your head to sleep in—the kitchen faucet running as you slipped into your bed. It all felt so wrong.

Your eyes shot open when the bedroom’s aged floor creaked, deer-like paralysis keeping you snapshot-still as the ring of his belt buckle filled the static air. Was he—The rickety bed dipped behind you under John’s added weight, bedframe crying out with every shift of his body that came with tucking himself against you; achy grunts blowing out from his lips.

“Not as limber as I used to be.” he laughed modestly. “Still gets the job done though, I reckon.”

He breathed for a moment before his nose dipped into the hair at your nape, sniffling around.

“-Better than I imagined.” he grumbled contently.

Thick hands dipped under your shirt, massaging at the skin momentarily before slipping into your panties, tugging them out of the way.

“Mr. Price.” you winced, feeling his cold hand on the sensitive skin.

his hands paused as the large man thought for a moment.

“Mrs. Price…” he chuckled after a beat, the hairs on your neck standing up in response. “-See? You don’t like it much, either. Now, what’s my name, love?”

“John.” you mumbled quietly, eyes darting around through the dark of your room.

“Mmh. good girl.” he hummed, hand cupping your cunt and thumbing at it absentmindedly. “Sleep, love. Big day tomorrow, yeah?”

#fuck it we baaaaallllll #john price x reader #price #x reader #cloth writes #afab reader #fem reader #tw noncon

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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the spoils of sanctity

pairing — holy knight gojo x demon princess reader

cw: heavy dubcon, noncon elements, yandere themes, power imbalance, explicit sexual content (oral sex—forced fellatio, penetrative sex—vaginal, tail play, cock slapping, clit slapping, nipple play, edging, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink, cervix penetration, sex positions—kneeling oral, bent-over doggy style, missionary with hips tilted, folded missionary, face-down doggy, pinned missionary, cowgirl), brat taming, dacryphilia, degradation/humiliation, corruption/dumbification, mind break, forced submission, public humiliation mentions, restraint/bondage (sashes, choker enchantment), asphyxiation (throat squeezing during oral), size kink, sadism, perverted behavior, religious sacrilege (mock prayers, holy/demonic themes), pseudo-marital dynamics (trophy wife as a literal prized possession), 18+ only, minors DNI. 10k+ wc.

a/n : damn. i may have written satoru here a lil too freaky.

the war had torn the world apart, kingdoms reduced to ash and bone, and satoru, the holy knight, stood as its shining fucking savior. the people wept at his feet, praising his blessed sword, his sanctified armor, his pure goddamn soul. they thought he’d dragged you—the demon princess, half-human spawn of filth and pride—back to the palace to purge the evil from your veins. to correct you. to save the world from your clawed, defiant existence.

they were wrong.

so fucking wrong.

behind the palace walls, he wasn’t saving shit. he was breaking you. claiming you. turning you into his collared little trophy wife, a prize he’d won with blood and steel. the world saw mercy in his grip on your leash. you saw the truth: a perverted freak who got off on your humiliation, who wanted to fuck the humanity into your demon half until you cracked.

his private chambers smelled like wax and sin, the air thick with the flicker of sanctified gold candles lining the walls. their light danced over the stone, over the tattered remains of your finery—black silk shredded at the thighs, clinging to your sweat-slick skin like a second hide. your wrists burned where the ceremonial sashes bit into them, the same ones that had once bound saints, now twisted to tether you to the floor. he’d repurposed them with a smirk, his big hands tugging the knots tight, like he was wrapping a fucking gift.

satoru loomed over you, all white hair and sharp blue eyes, his armor shed to reveal the taut muscle beneath a thin tunic. holy knight, my ass. he looked like a predator playing dress-up, and you were the prey he’d been salivating over since the battlefield. your tail twitched behind you, black and forked, a little rebellion against the restraints. he noticed. of course he fucking noticed.

“still got some fight in you, huh?” his voice was low, mocking, as he crouched down, fingers brushing the edge of your jaw. “thought i’d beaten that out of you by now, princess.”

you bared your teeth, a snarl ripping from your throat. “i’ll claw your fucking eyes out, you sanctimonious prick.”

he laughed—deep, filthy, and it made your stomach twist in a way you hated. “oh, i’d love to see you try. but first—” he reached into a velvet pouch at his hip, pulling out the choker. it glowed faintly, a thin band of silver etched with runes, pulsing with some holy enchantment that made your skin crawl. “—let’s get you dressed up proper.”

you jerked back, but the sashes held firm, yanking a hiss from your lips. “don’t you fucking dare—”

too late. his hands were fast, wrapping the choker around your throat, the clasp clicking shut with a sound that echoed in your skull. the enchantment hit instantly—your demonic power dulled, a heavy fog settling over the fire in your veins. but that wasn’t the worst part. no, the worst part was the way it fucking glowed, a soft pulse of light that brightened when your body betrayed you. and it was already flickering, damn it, because his fingers lingered on your neck, brushing the sensitive skin there, and you couldn’t stop the heat pooling low in your gut.

he stepped back, tilting his head like he was admiring a painting. “look at that glow, princess. you’re already begging—and i haven’t even touched you.”

“fuck you,” you spat, cheeks burning as the choker pulsed brighter. you hated it—hated him—hated the way your thighs clenched under his stare.

“oh, i will.” he grinned, all teeth and perversion, then grabbed your tail in one swift yank. the jolt shot through you like lightning, a gasp tearing out before you could stop it. your body arched, writhing against the sashes, and he tightened his grip, tugging just hard enough to make you squirm. “sensitive there, huh? perfect.”

you wanted to rip his throat out. instead, you glared, panting, the choker glowing like a fucking beacon. he watched it pulse, his eyes darkening with something sick and hungry, and then he moved. one arm slid under your back, the other under your knees, hoisting you up bridal-style like some twisted mockery of a wedding night. your tail lashed against his chest, but he just chuckled, carrying you across the room with infuriating ease.

“put me down, you bastard—” your words cut off as he dropped you, not gently, onto your knees. the stone bit into your skin, cold and unforgiving, and you glared up at him, chest heaving.

he didn’t say a word. just smirked, stepping back to grab something from the edge of the room—a mirror, tall and angled, dragging it over until it faced you dead-on. your reflection stared back: disheveled, flushed, the choker glowing like a neon fucking sign.

the candles flickered as he adjusted the mirror, the scrape of its base against the floor loud in the tense silence. you stayed on your knees, the sashes still binding your wrists behind you, your tail flicking uselessly against the stone. every muscle screamed to lunge at him, to sink your claws into that smug face, but the choker’s enchantment weighed you down, dulling your strength to something pitifully human. it pissed you off. he pissed you off. and yet, your body was buzzing, the heat from his touch still lingering, the choker’s glow a constant reminder of how fucked you were.

he didn’t rush. he savored it, peeling off his tunic slow enough to make you twitch with impatience, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars crisscrossing his skin—proof he wasn’t just some prissy knight playing hero. he was a fighter, a killer, and now he was your goddamn captor. the pants came next, sliding down his hips, and you couldn’t help it—your eyes flicked to the bulge straining his undercloth, thick and heavy, and the choker pulsed brighter. fuck. he caught it, of course, his grin widening as he stepped closer, cock springing free when he shoved the fabric down.

“like what you see, princess?” he taunted, fisting himself lazily, the tip already glistening. “don’t worry, you’ll get a real good taste.”

you snarled, baring your teeth again. “i’d rather choke on glass.”

“cute.” he closed the distance, towering over you, the mirror framing the whole filthy scene—your knees on the stone, his shadow swallowing you whole. “but you’re gonna choke on this instead.”

you fought the urge to vomit, glaring up, defiance blazing in your chest, lips sealed tight, jaw clenched. no fucking way you were giving him this. not without a fight.

“open up,” he said, voice all smooth mockery, like he was coaxing a stray dog. “don’t make me ask twice, princess.”

“make me,” you shot back, flashing your fangs, a bratty snarl curling your lips. your tail flicked behind you, smacking the floor, and his eyes gleamed—dark, perverted, like he’d been waiting for that exact answer.

“oh, i will,” he said, and he moved—fast as hell. one hand clamped your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open just enough, and the other swung his cock down, slapping it against your cheek with a wet, humiliating smack. your head jerked, a snarl caught in your throat, and the choker flared bright, glowing like a fucking spotlight in the mirror.

he did it again—harder, the head smearing pre-cum across your skin, the sound echoing sharp and filthy. your eyes watered, not from pain but from the sheer rage boiling up, tears welling up as you glared, unblinking, refusing to let them fall.

“look at that,” he purred, leaning down, breath hot against your ear. “tears already? didn’t know demons could get so worked up.” his thumb brushed the corner of your eye, smearing the dampness, and you snapped your teeth at him, missing by an inch. he laughed—low, nasty, and it made your stomach twist.

“you’re not a princess anymore,” he growled, straightening up, fisting his cock right in front of you. “you’re my wife. say it.”

“fuck. you,” you hissed, voice dripping venom, tears brimming but holding, your glare cutting through the haze. the choker glowed brighter, betraying the heat pooling low in your gut, and he grinned, all teeth and sick delight.

“wrong answer,” he said, and then he shoved himself in—no warning, no buildup, just the thick, hot length of him filling your mouth, hitting the back of your throat so fast you gagged hard. your eyes widened, tears welling hotter, stinging as you fought to breathe, your throat spasming around him. he groaned, deep and guttural, like it was the best fucking thing he’d ever felt, and his hand fisted in your hair, yanking the sash tied there, pulling tight enough to make your scalp burn.

“that’s it,” he grunted, hips rocking slow at first, dragging it out, letting you feel every inch. “take it, you nasty demon slut. choke on your holy knight.”

you did—fuck, you couldn’t stop it. your throat clenched, spit dripping down your chin, and every gag made him thrust deeper, harder, picking up speed until your head spun. the tears wouldn’t stay back now, pooling in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you glared through them, locking onto his face—his smug, perverted grin, the way his blue eyes drank in every twitch, every flinch. he slid his free hand down, fingers wrapping around your throat, pressing the choker into your skin, cutting off your air just enough to make your chest tighten.

“can’t breathe, huh?” he cooed, voice dripping with fake sympathy as he squeezed tighter, fucking your throat with a rhythm that left you dizzy. “poor little half-breed, choking on my cock. just relax—let it happen. i’ll take care of you.”

you gagged again, harder, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth, and the tears brimmed over, not falling yet, just sitting there, heavy and hot, as you glared up at him, defiant even with your air gone. your tail lashed out, smacking his thigh, and he tightened his grip, cutting off more, his thumb stroking the glowing choker like it was a toy.

“keep fighting,” he rasped, voice rough with lust, hips snapping faster. “makes it better when you break. look at those eyes—fuck, you’re gorgeous like this, all teary and pissed.”

your lungs burned, your throat raw, every thrust making you gag louder, wetter, until your vision swam. he talked you through it, nasty and low—“breathe when i let you, slut. yeah, just like that, gag on it, let me feel that throat”—and you hated how your body reacted, hated the slick pooling between your thighs, the choker pulsing wild and bright like a damn beacon. he groaned again, louder, his grip on your hair tightening, and then he pushed deeper—nose pressed to his pelvis, air completely gone, holding you there as your throat spasmed helplessly.

“fuck, yes,” he growled, watching your eyes, the tears trembling but not spilling, your glare still burning through the haze. “look at you, choking so pretty. holy salvation’s too much for you, huh?”

you wanted to claw his face off. wanted to scream, bite, anything—but all you could do was glare, tears welling thicker, chest heaving as he finally eased up, pulling back just enough to let you suck in a ragged, desperate breath. spit strung from your lips to his cock, and he smirked, wiping it with his thumb, smearing it across your cheek.

“aw, poor thing,” he said, sarcastic as hell, when you coughed, gasping, throat wrecked. “can’t take it? too bad—i’m not done.” he shoved back in, slower this time, dragging it out, letting you feel every inch as he fucked your mouth again, hand still on your throat, squeezing light then hard, playing with your air like a game. “cry for me, princess. let me see those tears fall.”

they didn’t—fuck him, you wouldn’t let them to—but they sat there, heavy and defiant, as you gagged and glared, the choker glowing so bright it lit up the mirror behind you. your reflection showed it all: your wrecked face, his cock stretching your lips, the sashes binding you tight. his breaths grew ragged, his thrusts sloppy, and then he came—hot, thick, spilling down your throat in pulses you couldn’t escape. he held you there, choking you through it, forcing you to swallow every drop, his fingers digging into your neck as he groaned, long and filthy.

“good girl,” he purred, pulling out slow, a string of spit and cum connecting your lips to his tip. “look at you, all messy and fucked out.” he wiped your mouth with his hand, smearing it more, and you coughed, gasping, the taste of him bitter and overwhelming. your eyes burned, tears still welling but not falling, and you glared up, chest heaving, tail twitching uselessly behind you.

he didn’t give you a second to recover—just hauled you up by the arms, your legs wobbling, weak from kneeling, and threw you over his shoulder like a sack. your tail dangled against his back, smacking him weakly, and the mirror caught it: your flushed, teary-eyed glare, his smug grin, the choker still glowing faintly as he carried you off, ready to break you more.

the room spun as he carried you, the candles flickering low, wax dripping onto the stone like little tears he couldn’t wring from you. your throat ached, raw and bruised, spit and cum still slick on your chin, and those damn tears sat heavy in your eyes, stinging but stubborn, refusing to spill.

your tail flicked against his back, a weak protest he ignored, and your wrists burned where the sashes dug in, your body buzzing with rage and something darker—something the choker wouldn’t let you hide. he crossed the room in long strides, the mirror looming ahead, and then he dropped you—hard—onto your knees, the stone biting into your skin. you hissed, tail lashing out to smack his leg, and he laughed, kicking your thighs apart with his boot, setting you up for the next round.

the mirror threw it all back at you—your knees pressed into the cold stone, your flushed face staring back, hair wild, the choker glowing like a fucking spotlight around your throat. your tattered silk hung off you in shreds, barely covering shit, and satoru loomed behind you, all muscle and menace, his tunic long gone, scars crisscrossing his chest like some holy warrior’s badge. but there was nothing holy about the way his hands slid down to grip your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, or the way he tore the silk aside with one rough yank, exposing your ass and the dripping mess between your legs. the air hit your skin, sharp and humiliating, and he groaned low in his throat, like he’d just unwrapped a goddamn present he couldn’t wait to ruin.

“look at that,” he muttered, voice crude and thick, one hand sliding up to grab your tail, yanking it hard enough to make you yelp. the jolt shot through you, your body jerking, and tears welled up fast, hot and heavy in your eyes as you glared at him in the mirror. “already soaked for me, huh? some fucking demon princess you are—dripping like a cheap whore. you sure you’re not some lowly succubus?”

“die,” you snarled, twisting against his grip, claws scraping the stone, but he tightened his hold, pulling your tail up and back, forcing your hips to tilt for him. the choker pulsed violently, glowing brighter with every ounce of heat pooling in your core, and he laughed—dark, filthy, leaning down until his breath ghosted your ear, all teeth and sick delight.

“nah, you don’t get to talk back, slut,” he said, crude as hell for a holy knight, his free hand grabbing his cock—thick, heavy, way too fucking big—and lining it up, the head brushing your entrance, teasing, not pushing in yet. “you’re gonna thank me for this. every thrust—say it. say thank you, or i’ll leave you here, leaking and desperate.”

“like hell—” your words choked off as he slammed into you, no warning, no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. your scream bounced off the walls, raw and ragged, your body jolting forward until your palms slapped the stone, claws digging in hard. fuck, he was huge—too huge—stretching you so wide it burned, splitting you open, and the tears brimmed thicker, stinging your eyes as you glared at him, refusing to let them spill.

“say it,” he growled, hips snapping against your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and obscene. he grabbed your tail tighter, using it like a goddamn leash to yank you back onto him, each thrust deeper, harder, his cock hitting spots that made your vision blur. “thank me, princess, or i’ll stop right now.”

you only gritted your teeth, stubborn, claws raking the floor, defiance burning even as your body shook under him. he stopped—dead still, cock buried so deep you felt it in your guts, the sudden lack of motion making you twitch, your breath hitching. “no? fine. then you don’t get shit,” he said, voice low and mocking, his hand sliding up to press your face against the mirror, smearing your cheek into the glass, your hot breath fogging it up.

“you bastard—” you started, but he pulled your tail again, sharp and punishing, and thrust once—hard, slow, dragging it out—before stopping again. your eyes fluttered, tears welling hotter, the choker glowing so bright it lit up your wrecked reflection—hair tangled, lips parted, those damn tears welling up as you glared.

“say it,” he repeated, voice dark and dangerous, his cock twitching inside you, teasing you with how full you felt. “or i’ll leave you like this, dripping and empty, with that pretty little choker telling everyone what a needy slut you are.”

you hated him—hated the smug tilt of his mouth, the way his blue eyes glittered with perverted glee, drinking in your teary glare like it was fucking wine. but your body was screaming, aching, and the words clawed their way out, bitter and sharp. “thank you,” you muttered, barely audible, venom dripping from every syllable.

“louder,” he snapped, thrusting again, slow and deliberate, dragging his massive cock out then back in, making you feel every inch. “mean it, or i’ll fuck you dry and leave you begging.”

“thank you!” you spat, louder, the humiliation burning hotter than the stretch, your tears trembling on the edge as you glared at him in the mirror. he grinned, satisfied, and then he let loose—fucking you rough and relentless, each thrust shoving you harder against the mirror, your cheek pressed tight, your breath fogging the glass in quick, desperate pants.

“look at you,” he purred, voice dripping with sarcasm, his hand sliding down to grip your hip while the other tugged your tail rhythmically, matching his brutal pace. “being good for once. my holy cock’s ruining you, huh? turning you into my perfect little cocksleeve.”

you couldn’t answer—couldn’t think—your body shaking under the onslaught, the choker glowing like a damn star as he pounded into you. the mirror showed it all: your ass bouncing with every thrust, your tail twitching in his grip, your flushed face with those tears welling up, defiant and furious. he leaned down, teeth grazing your shoulder, and his voice turned crude, nasty, a holy knight gone feral.

“what if your subjects saw you now, huh?” he growled, thrusting harder, his cock stretching you so wide it hurt in the best fucking way. “their proud little princess, ass up, choking on the dick of the knight who slayed her father for mercy. bet they’d love to see you crying for it—tears all pretty, pussy leaking like a tavern wench.”

“shut—up,” you gasped, voice breaking, the tears trembling heavier now, your glare sharpening even as your body betrayed you, clenching around him. he groaned at that, loud and filthy, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your head so you had to watch yourself—watch him fuck you into the stone.

“nah, i’d parade you like this,” he said, crude and gleeful, his cock slamming in so deep you swore you felt it in your throat. “show ‘em how their haughty little half-demon queen takes it—tail yanked, choker glowing, all teary-eyed and fucked stupid. they’d bow to me instead, huh?”

your claws dug into the stone, scraping hard, and you tried to crawl away—knees scraping, tail lashing, anything to escape the heat, the shame, the way his words made you throb despite yourself.

satoru only yanked your tail hard, pulling you back with a growl, his cock grinding in deep, holding you there. “oh no you don’t,” he said, breath hot against your neck, teeth nipping your skin. “you don’t get to run from this.”

he shifted, one hand sliding under you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough while he fucked you, and the tears welled thicker, your glare burning through the mirror as your body tensed. “cry for me,” he muttered, voice low and nasty, his thrusts slowing but hitting harder, deeper, his dick so big it felt like it was rearranging you. “let me see those tears, princess—gimme something to jerk off to later.”

“fucking pervert,” you rasped, voice raw, the tears trembling on the edge, your hips bucking despite yourself as he worked you closer, the heat coiling tight, so fucking tight. he laughed, crude and dark, his fingers relentless, his cock grinding in just right, and you felt it—the edge, right there, your whole body shaking, the choker glowing blindingly bright.

“gonna cum already?” he taunted, leaning down, licking a stripe up your neck, his voice a filthy whisper. “thought you were tougher than that, demon slut. go on—thank me again. louder.”

“thank you,” you choked out, half-snarl, half-moan, the tears trembling, your glare locked on his smug face as your body started to unravel, the pleasure crashing in hard. but he stopped—pulled out completely, fingers off your clit, leaving you hanging right on the brink, a wrecked, shaking mess. your scream was pure frustration, raw and pissed, your tail lashing out to smack his chest, and he laughed, loud and filthy, stepping back to admire you—ass up, dripping, teary-eyed, and glaring like you’d kill him.

“not yet, princess,” he says, voice dark and promising, his cock still hard, glistening with your mess, bobbing as he shifts his weight. he leans in close, breath hot against your neck, and grabs your tail—fingers wrapping tight around its base, yanking it hard enough to make you yelp, tears pricking sharper, your hips jolting back into him.

“we’ve got more to play with,” he growls, crude and gleeful, tugging again, slower now, dragging you backward step by step, your knees scraping the stone as he pulls you toward the bed.

the mattress looms ahead, plush and draped in rich silks, and he shoves you forward, your palms sinking into its softness as you catch yourself, ass still raised, tail twitching in his grip. he releases it with a rough swat, climbing onto the bed, settling back against the headboard, legs spread wide, cock heavy and waiting. he pats his lap, grinning like a bastard, daring you to crawl up, his eyes glinting with perverse hunger.

“if you’re so strong,” he taunted, voice dripping with that sick, perverted glee, “ride me. show me that demon pride you’re so fucking proud of.”

you glared, chest heaving, the choker flickering as your blood boiled, those tears welling up hotter from the sheer audacity of him. no way you were letting this smug prick win easy—he wanted you to climb up and take him? fine. you’d ram it down his throat, make him choke on his own game.

with a snarl, you crawled onto the bed, the silk soft under your knees, and straddled him, your tail flicking behind you like a whip, smacking the mattress in a bratty little tantrum. he grinned, leaning back, one hand stroking his cock slow and deliberate—thick, massive, glistening with your slick from before—the other beckoning you closer like you were some pet he owned.

“go on, princess,” he said, eyes glinting with dark delight, drinking in your glare, the way your lashes fluttered with unshed tears. “prove you’re not just a trophy wife. show me what that half-demon filth can do.”

“watch me, you sanctimonious fuck,” you snapped, bratty as hell, planting your hands on his chest. your claws dug in, scratching red lines across his skin, and he hissed—pure pleasure, not pain, the sadistic freak.

you braced yourself, lining up over him, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance, and fuck, he was huge—bigger than you’d clocked up close, a monster that made your thighs tremble just looking at it. you started to lower, slow, cautious, feeling the stretch burn right away, and your breath hitched, a whimper slipping out before you could bite it back.

how did it even fit inside you earlier?

it was too much—way too fucking much. you got an inch down, maybe two, and the tears welled thicker, stinging your eyes as you glared at him, refusing to let them fall. the choker flared, bright and humiliating, glowing with every twitch of your hips. you forced yourself further, another inch, gasping as the stretch split you open, your claws raking his chest harder, leaving bloody streaks he didn’t even flinch at.

“pathetic, huh?” he muttered, voice low and crude, his eyes a sea of crazed blue, pupils blown wide, locked on your face—on the way your brows knit, your lips parted, the tears trembling as you struggled.

“shut up,” you hissed, panting, shifting your hips to try again. you sank lower, slow and stubborn, determined to take him, and a choked moan tore from your throat as he stretched you wider, deeper, the burn mixing with a heat you hated. your tail lashed wildly, smacking his thigh, and he grabbed it fast, yanking it just enough to make you jolt, the choker glowing brighter, your slick coating him as you squirmed.

you pushed down harder, forcing yourself, and then—fuck—he hit your cervix, the blunt pressure making you cry out, raw and sharp, your whole body shuddering as you finally bottomed out.

the tears spilled then, hot and unwilling, streaking down your cheeks as you glared at him, chest heaving, thighs shaking from the effort. you’d done it—three shaky, agonizing thrusts, riding him slow and deliberate, your claws digging into his chest for balance.

but it wasn’t enough for the impatient bastard beneath you—too slow, too fucking tentative—and he groaned, low and frustrated, his hands slamming onto your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“fuck this,” he growled, crude and impatient, his holy knight patience cracking wide open. “you’re too damn slow, princess—thought you’d ride me like a queen, not whimper like a bitch.” before you could snap back, he took over—lifting you up like you weighed nothing, then slamming you back down onto his cock, full force, the head smashing your cervix again. your scream echoed, raw and desperate, tears streaming now as he filled you completely, the stretch so intense your vision blurred.

he didn’t stop—bounced you again, harder, using you like a fucking ragdoll, his grip iron-tight on your hips. up and down, fast and brutal, each drop driving him deeper, hitting your cervix every time, the wet slap of your ass against his thighs filling the room.

“that’s better,” he grunted, eyes locked on your face, drinking in every tear, every gasp, every twist of your expression like a perverted addict. “look at you—crying on my cock, princess. so fucking pretty when you break.”

“fuck—you—” you gasped, voice cracking with every thrust, your body shaking in his hands, the tears falling freely now, hot and bitter, your glare still burning through them. the choker glowed violently, a pulsing spotlight on how soaked you were, how your thighs clenched around him despite your snarls.

he laughed, dark and filthy, one hand sliding up to grab your tail again, tugging it in time with his rhythm.

“what’s wrong, princess?” he purred, bouncing you faster, his massive cock spearing you, the pressure on your cervix making your sobs louder, your tears streaming harder. “too big for that demon pride? too holy for your filthy little cunt? i’m cleansing you, slut—fucking all that evil right out of you.”

you couldn’t answer—couldn’t think—your claws scrabbling at his chest, leaving bloody trails he ignored, your sobs mixing with moans you hated yourself for. he kept going, watching you fall apart, his breaths ragged but controlled, like he was edging himself too—holding back just to savor how fucking gorgeous you looked, all teary and wrecked.

“cry harder,” he growled, crude and sadistic, his voice rough with lust. “gimme those tears—holy knights like me live for this shit, purifying dirty little demons with big, fat cocks.”

your legs started to give out, muscles trembling, and you slumped forward, chest slamming into his, face buried in his neck as he kept bouncing you, relentless, his dick grinding so deep it hurt in the best way.

“aw, poor thing,” he cooed, sarcastic as hell, one hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back to see your tear-streaked face. “can’t take it? too bad—i’m not even close to done.”

he slowed then, just a little, grinding you down onto him, letting you feel every inch of that massive length, his cock throbbing inside you as he watched you sob, tears dripping onto his chest.

“fuck, you’re too pretty like this,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and crude. “all teary and fucked out—makes me wanna cum, but nah, i’m a patient man. holy, right? gotta drag this out, keep cleansing you till you’re pure.”

you were shaking, sobbing, the heat coiling tight in your gut, every grind pushing you closer, your body betraying you as you rocked against him, chasing it despite the tears, the humiliation. he groaned, eyes fluttering, his own edge creeping up, but he held back, sadistic bastard that he was, loving how you looked too much to let it end.

“gonna cum, huh?” he taunted, voice a filthy whisper as he felt you tense, your sobs turning to desperate gasps. “go on—thank me and i might let you. say it, slut.”

“thank you,” you choked out, half-snarl, half-sob, tears streaming as your glare locked on his smug face, your body right there, teetering on the edge, so fucking close. but he stopped—yanked you off his cock completely, flipping you onto your back in one swift, brutal move, the silk soft against your spine as he pinned you down, his dick hovering over you, hard and dripping, his grin wide and wicked.

“not yet,” he said, voice dark and crude, his chest heaving as he edged himself too, holding back just to watch you writhe. “we’re switching it up, princess—got more filth to fuck out of you.”

he didn’t let you whine about the loss and denial—just yanked the sashes up, tying your wrists tight to the headboard, and forced your legs wide, turning the plush bed into some fucked-up altar. his bite mark throbbed on your shoulder, his cum smeared your skin, and he settled between your thighs, eyes gleaming with that perverted, possessive hunger, ready to wreck you all over again.

he knelt there, all holy knight bullshit on the surface—white hair catching the candlelight, sharp jaw set like he was about to pray—but his hands were pure filth, sliding up your thighs slow, thumbs brushing the slick mess he’d left behind, smearing it like he was marking you. your tail flicked, smacking his wrist in a bratty little rebellion, and he grabbed it fast, pinning it to the bed with a rough tsk, his fingers digging in just enough to sting.

“still got some fight, huh?” he said, voice low and mocking, spreading your legs wider until the stretch burned, exposing your dripping cunt to the cool air. “let’s see how long that lasts, you filthy demon whore.”

his fingers traced your folds, slow and teasing, dipping just barely into your entrance—light, shallow, not enough to do anything but make you twitch. the choker flickered, a faint glow pulsing with your heartbeat, and you hissed, tugging at the sashes, the knots biting your wrists.

“don’t you fucking dare—” you started, ultimately annoyed at his backtracking, but he cut you off, sliding one finger in—just one, knuckle-deep, curling it slow to graze that spot inside that made your hips jerk up, chasing more despite wanting something else.

“shh,” he murmured, crude and dark, his other hand pressing your stomach flat, pinning you still as he worked that finger in and out, agonizingly slow, letting the heat coil tight in your gut. “holy things take time, princess. you’re still a dirty fucking mess—gotta clean you up proper.”

you snarled, thrashing against the sashes, but he held you down, adding a second finger, stretching you just enough to make you gasp, then stopping—completely still, letting you clench around him, your breath hitching as you glared, tears welling up hot and heavy.

“please,” you spat, venom dripping, and he smirked, pulling his fingers out slow, dragging them along your walls until they slipped free, leaving you empty. your sob echoed, raw and pissed, and the choker flared brighter, slick dripping down your thighs as you bucked your hips, desperate for anything.

“not good enough,” he said, voice a filthy lilt, chanting some mock-prayer bullshit—“purify this sinner, wash her clean”—while his fingers went to your clit, rubbing light, maddening circles that made your whole body tense, teetering right on the brink. your tears spilled then, streaking down your cheeks as you glared at him, defiant even through the haze, and he groaned low, like the sight of you crying was better than fucking you.

“look at those tears,” he muttered, crude and gleeful, leaning down to lick one off your cheek, his tongue hot and slow. “crying for my cock already? pathetic little half-breed.” he pulled back, grabbing his dick—still hard, massive, dripping—and slapped it against your clit, the wet smack loud and humiliating. your body jolted, a choked moan tearing out, and the choker glowed violent, lighting up your wrecked face in the dim room.

he didn’t stop—kept it up, relentless, playing you like a damn fiddle. he’d drag his cock along your slit, slow and teasing, nudging your clit with the head, then pull back, slapping it down again, each hit making your hips buck, your sobs louder, tears streaming as you glared through them.

“damn you,” you rasped, voice hoarse, tail lashing out to smack his arm, but he pinned it down, laughing soft and dark as he leaned in, breath hot against your cunt.

“keep crying,” he purred, crude as hell, licking one slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, stopping just shy of your clit. your whole body arched, a scream caught in your throat, and he pulled back, slapping his cock against you again—harder, the sting sharp and electric. “holy knight’s gotta taste that demon filth—wash it out with my tongue, huh?”

he dove in then, but never enough—tongue flicking your clit light and quick, then pulling away right as your thighs started to shake. he’d suck it hard, lips sealing around it, only to pop off with a wet smack, leaving you gasping, sobbing, the tears falling faster as he watched, eyes dark with sick delight.

“so fucking pretty,” he muttered, sliding two fingers back in, pumping them deep, curling them just right until your hips rocked, your breath hitching, then yanking them out, smearing your slick across your thigh.

“please—fuck—please,” you choked out, half-snarl, half-sob, the tears burning your eyes as you glared, your pride shredded, your body screaming for release. he grinned, grabbing his cock again, slapping it against your clit in a quick, brutal rhythm—smack, smack, smack—each hit making you flinch, your sobs turning to desperate gasps, the choker glowing so bright it hurt to look at.

“begging now, huh?” he said, voice rough with lust, leaning over you, his cock brushing your oversensitive folds, teasing, not pushing in. “thought you’d kill me—where’s that fire, princess? all i see is a teary little slut, dripping for me.”

he slapped his cock down again, harder, the wet sound obscene, and your tail lashed out, smacking his chest, weak but furious. he grabbed it, yanking it hard, making you yelp, tears streaming as he pinned it to the bed.

“gonna break you slow,” he growled, sliding his fingers back in—three this time, stretching you wide, pumping them fast and deep, curling them just right until your whole body tensed, your sobs loud and broken. he’d pull them out right as you started to shake, leaving you clenching around nothing, then slap his cock against your clit again, over and over, the sting mixing with the heat until your mind was a haze of need and rage.

he kept it going—hours, minutes, who fucking knew—switching it up just when you thought you’d snap. he’d lick you slow, tongue dragging along your folds, then stop to suck your clit hard, pulling off with a grin as you screamed. he’d fuck you shallow with his fingers, then deep, then pull out, slapping your cunt with his hand, then his cock, each hit making your tears fall faster, your glare burning through the haze.

“holy work’s never quick,” he’d murmur, crude and dark, licking your tears again, groaning against your skin. “gotta purify you, my filthy bride—cry all you want, it’s just making me harder.”

your body was a wreck—shaking, sobbing, slick pooling beneath you, the choker glowing blindingly bright as he played you, every nerve on fire. he’d tease his cock against your entrance, pushing in just the tip, letting you feel the stretch, then pull out, slapping it against your clit again, laughing as you bucked, your sobs turning to desperate, broken pleas.

“i’ll kill you,” you rasped, voice raw, tears streaming as he hovered over you, his dick brushing your folds, his eyes locked on your teary glare.

“cute,” satoru only purred, slapping his cock down one last time, hard and wet, making you flinch, your whole body trembling, right on the edge, so fucking close you could taste it.

but he didn’t let you—pulled back completely, leaving you panting, sobbing, a wrecked mess tied to the bed, as he loomed over you, his massive dick hard and dripping, his eyes dark with that perverted hunger, chest heaving from his own restraint. he untied the sashes, letting your arms flop uselessly, then grabbed your hips, flipping you onto your back with a cocky smirk.

he didn’t waste a second—hands clamped on your hips, yanking you down the bed until your ass hit his thighs, your legs splayed wide over his. the silk bunched under your back, damp and warm, sticking to your skin as he knelt between your legs, his cock hovering over your cunt, thick and heavy, the head glistening with pre-cum and your slick.

your chest heaved, tears still streaming, your glare burning through the haze as you rasped, “you’re a fucking monster,” voice raw and broken from sobbing.

“and you’re my filthy little demon,” he shot back, crude and dark, grabbing his dick and slapping it against your clit one last time—smack—the wet sound loud and obscene, making you flinch, a sob tearing out as the choker flared. “gonna breed that evil right out of you, princess—fill you up till you’re clean.”

he lined up, the head nudging your entrance, and thrust in—hard, deep, no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal snap of his hips. your scream was instant, guttural, your body arching off the bed as he stretched you wide, his cock slamming past your limits, hitting your cervix with a dull, aching thud.

thee tears fell faster, your glare dissolving into a desperate, teary mess as the heat exploded, the orgasm crashing through you immediately—weeks, hours, who fucking knew—of pent-up need unraveling in a single thrust. your cunt clenched around him, tight and pulsing, slick gushing out, soaking his thighs as your legs shook, toes curling, a raw, “fuck—fuck—” spilling from your lips.

“there it is,” he groaned, voice rough and filthy, his hands digging into your hips, holding you still as you spasmed around him, your first release ripping through you like a storm. “cumming already, huh? such a needy little slut—couldn’t even wait for me to move.”

he didn’t stop—didn’t even pause—just started fucking you through it, slow at first, dragging his cock out inch by inch, letting you feel the stretch, the way your walls fluttered, then slamming back in, hard and deep, hitting that aching spot again.

the sensation was overwhelming—his cock filled you completely, thick and unyielding, the head grinding against your cervix with every thrust, a dull, bruising ache mixing with the sharp, electric pleasure still buzzing from your orgasm.

your thighs trembled, spread wide over his, the muscles twitching as he kept your legs pinned, knees bent slightly, feet dangling uselessly in the air. the silk rubbed your back raw, your spine arching every time he drove in, your breasts bouncing with the force, nipples hard and sensitive against the cool air.

“look at you,” he growled, crude and sadistic, one hand sliding up to grab your tail, yanking it hard enough to make you yelp, tears streaming as he twisted it in his fist. “crying like a bitch while i fuck you clean—holy knight’s dick too much for your demon filth, huh?” he thrust harder, faster, the wet slap of his hips against your ass loud and relentless, your slick dripping down onto the silk, pooling beneath you.

your second orgasm hit fast, spurred by his tail yank and the brutal pace—your cunt spasmed again, tighter this time, a hot rush of slick coating him as you screamed, voice breaking, “fuck you—fuck—” the tears wouldn’t stop, your glare flickering, softening into something dazed as your body shook, the pleasure too much, too soon. your clit throbbed, oversensitive from his slaps, and every thrust sent a jolt through it, sharp and searing, making your toes curl harder, your breath hitching in short, desperate gasps.

“that’s two,” he purred, voice dark and gleeful, leaning down to lick a tear off your cheek, his tongue hot and slow, groaning against your skin. “sobbing so pretty—keep it up, princess, i’m gonna flood that filthy womb.” he shifted, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting them slightly, bending your knees more, tilting your hips up so he could hit deeper—straighter—his cock grinding into your cervix with every thrust, the pressure building, aching, making you sob louder.

the position burned—your thighs stretched wide, muscles straining, your hips tilted at an angle that left you completely open, vulnerable, his weight pressing down as he fucked you into the bed. the silk caught every drop of slick, every tear that fell, your arms limp at your sides, claws digging into the bedding as he pounded you, the sensation splitting you apart—sharp pleasure, dull pain, all of it blending into a haze. your third orgasm crept up slow, coiling tight as he kept that brutal rhythm, his cock dragging along your walls, the head smashing your cervix, your clit rubbing against his pelvis with every thrust.

“holy fuck,” he grunted, crude and breathless, his own restraint fraying as he watched you unravel, your tears glistening in the candlelight, your face flushed and wrecked. “look at that—crying and cumming, such a perfect breeding bitch.”

he yanked your tail again, harder, and you screamed, the sound raw and broken as your third hit, your cunt pulsing around him, slick flooding out, soaking his cock, his thighs, the bed—a wet, messy gush that made him groan louder, his thrusts faltering for a second before he picked up again, relentless.

your body shook, legs trembling, the sensation electric—your clit throbbed against him, your walls clenched tight, the pressure on your cervix a deep, aching pulse that made your sobs turn to whimpers, your glare fading into a glassy, teary stare.

“can’t—fuck—can’t take it,” you gasped, voice slurring, your hands clawing at the silk, tail twitching in his grip as he kept fucking you through it, drawing it out, the wet squelch of your cunt loud and obscene.

“you’ll take it,” he growled, crude and dark, shifting again—hands sliding under your ass, lifting you higher, your hips off the bed now, your lower back arching as he folded you more, knees pushed toward your chest. “gonna fuck you till you’re pure—till you’re dripping with me, slut.” the new angle was brutal—his cock hit even deeper, straighter, every thrust slamming your cervix, the pressure sharp and relentless, your clit grinding harder against him, sending jolts through your whole body.

your fourth orgasm crashed in fast, spurred by the angle, the tail yank, the crude filth spilling from his mouth—your cunt spasmed hard, a hot, wet rush soaking him again, your scream turning to a high, broken whine as your eyes fluttered, tears streaming, your face going slack—mouth open, tongue lolling slightly, eyes half-lidded and dazed, a wrecked, mindless mess. your body shook uncontrollably, legs kicking weakly, the sensation overwhelming—his cock filling you, stretching you, the ache in your cervix blending with the sharp, pulsing pleasure in your clit, your whole core a throbbing, soaking wreck.

“fuck, yes,” he groaned, voice rough and filthy, leaning down to lick more tears off your face, his thrusts slowing but still deep, grinding into you as you trembled. “look at you—crying and squirting, such a dirty little demon. holy knight’s breaking you good, huh?”

he didn’t stop—kept fucking you slow now, letting you feel every inch, every pulse, drawing out the aftershocks as your body twitched, your sobs turning to soft, teary whimpers, your glare completely gone, replaced by that glassy, fucked-out stare.

he shifted again, hands sliding up to grip your thighs, pushing them back further, folding you in half—knees nearly at your shoulders, ass lifted high, cunt angled straight up for him. the position was obscene—your legs spread wide, pinned, your slick dripping down your ass, pooling on the silk, his cock poised above you, massive and dripping, ready to plunge back in.

your breath hitched, a weak, “no, please—fuck—no more,” slipping out, but he just grinned, crude and sadistic, slapping his cock against your clit again—smack, smack—making you flinch, a sob tearing out as your oversensitive body jolted.

“oh, we’re not done,” he purred, voice dark and filthy, lining up again, the head nudging your entrance. “gonna breed you till you’re leaking, princess—till that demon filth’s gone and you’re mine.” he thrust in slow this time, dragging it out, letting you feel the stretch, the way your walls fluttered, still pulsing from the last orgasm, and your fifth hit almost instantly—a sharp, searing wave, your cunt clenching hard, another gush of slick soaking him as you screamed, voice breaking into a wrecked, teary mess.

your body felt like a live wire—every thrust sent jolts through you, your clit rubbing against him, your cervix aching, the sensation splitting you apart—sharp and hot, wet and messy, your tears falling faster, your face slack and wild, mouth open, eyes rolling back slightly as you shook, completely lost.

satoru kept going, relentless, fucking you through it, his groans mixing with your sobs, the wet slap of his hips against your ass a constant, filthy rhythm, your slick flooding out, soaking everything.

his hands tightened their grip on your thighs, holding you folded—knees near your shoulders, ass lifted high, cunt angled up like an offering. your voice was gone, a hoarse, “no more,” barely audible, but he just grinned, crude and dark, pulling out and slapping his dick against your clit one last time, making you flinch, a teary whimper slipping out as he lined up again, ready to finish what he started.

“gonna fill you up now,” he growled, voice rough and filthy, his hands tightening on your thighs, keeping you bent in half—your knees pressed close to your shoulders, your ass hanging off the edge of the bed, hips tilted so high your lower back arched sharp, the silk bunching beneath you.

your legs dangled, feet brushing the air, useless and trembling, your cunt spread wide, slick and pulsing from the last round, every nerve raw and screaming. he thrust in slow, dragging it out, letting you feel the stretch—his cock thick and unyielding, sliding past your walls, the head nudging your cervix with a dull, aching thud that made you sob, tears falling faster as your glare flickered, fading into a glassy, teary haze.

“fuck—yes,” he groaned, crude and dark, his hips snapping forward, burying himself deep, the pressure sharp and relentless, your cunt clenching around him instantly.

your sixth orgasm hit hard—immediate, a hot, pulsing wave, your walls fluttering tight, slick coating him as you screamed, voice breaking into a wrecked, “fuck—fuck—” your body shook, thighs trembling against his grip, the sensation splitting you apart—his cock grinding your cervix, your clit rubbing against his pelvis, a searing jolt that made your toes curl, your breath hitching in short, desperate gasps.

“that’s it,” he purred, sadistic glee dripping from every word, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, lifting you higher, keeping you folded tight as he fucked you through it, slow and brutal, letting the aftershocks ripple. “cumming again, huh? you really are such a filthy slut for a princess—can’t stop, can you?”

he didn’t let up—kept thrusting, deep and steady, the wet slap of his hips against your ass loud and obscene, your slick dripping down, soaking the silk beneath you. the position burned—your thighs pressed tight to your chest, your knees bent sharp, pinning your lungs, making every breath shallow and ragged, your spine curved so hard it ached, your ass lifted off the bed, held up by his hands like a prize.

his cock filled you completely, stretching you past your limits, the head smashing your cervix with every thrust, a deep, bruising ache that mixed with the sharp, pulsing pleasure still buzzing from your clit. your tears wouldn’t stop, streaming down your face, pooling in the hollow of your neck as you sobbed, your glare gone, replaced by a dazed, teary stare.

“look at you,” satoru grunted, crude and breathless, one hand sliding up to grab your tail, yanking it hard enough to make you whimper, tears spilling as he twisted it in his fist. “crying like a fucked-out whore—holy knight’s cleansing you good, huh? fucking that demon filth right out.”

he thrust harder, faster, the rhythm brutal, your cunt clenching again, your seventh orgasm building fast, spurred by the tail yank and the relentless pressure.

it hit like a punch—your walls spasmed tight, a hot rush of slick coating him, a messy flood that soaked his thighs, your scream turning to a high, broken whine as your eyes fluttered, tears streaming, your face going slack—mouth open, tongue lolling slightly, eyes half-lidded and wild, a wrecked, mindless mess. your body shook uncontrollably, legs kicking weakly against his grip, the sensation overwhelming—his cock spearing you, the ache in your cervix blending with the sharp, electric heat in your clit, your whole core a throbbing, dripping wreck.

“seven,” he growled, voice dark and filthy, leaning down to lick a tear off your cheek, his tongue slow and hot, groaning against your skin as he kept fucking you, drawing it out. “sobbing so pretty—gonna breed you till you realize that you’re mine, princess.”

he shifted, hands sliding under your thighs, pushing them back further, your knees brushing your ears now, your ass lifted higher, your hips tilted so steep your cunt was practically vertical, his cock plunging straight down, hitting deeper, harder, the pressure on your cervix a constant, aching pulse.

the new angle was brutal—your legs folded tight, thighs pressed to your chest, your feet dangling near your head, toes brushing your own hair, your spine curved so sharp it hurt, your ass hanging in his grip, completely exposed. every thrust drove him straight into your core, his cock grinding your cervix with a force that made your sobs louder, your tears falling in a steady stream, your breath shallow and ragged, lungs burning from the squeeze. your clit rubbed hard against him, every snap of his hips sending a jolt through it, sharp and searing, making your whole body twitch.

“holy fuck,” he groaned, crude and sadistic, his thrusts slowing but hitting harder, grinding deep as your eighth orgasm crept up, coiling tight in your gut. “look at that—crying and cumming, such a perfect little cocksleeve. gonna fill that filthy womb—make it pure.”

he yanked your tail again, sharp and punishing, and you screamed, the sound raw and broken as your eighth hit, your cunt pulsing around him, a hot, wet rush soaking him, your body shaking, your face slack and wild—mouth gaping, eyes rolling back slightly, tongue slipping out, a teary, fucked-out wreck.

he didn’t stop—shifted again, hands sliding to your hips, flipping you onto your stomach in one rough move, the silk soft under your chest as he yanked your ass up, knees sinking into the bed, your thighs spread wide, your face pressed into the damp bedding.

your arms stayed limp, too weak to move, claws digging into the silk as he thrust back in, deep and brutal, his cock slamming your cervix from behind, the angle sharper, straighter, the pressure a constant, aching thud. your ninth orgasm hit fast, spurred by the shift—your walls clenched tight, slick dripping out, not a squirt but a steady leak that soaked the bed, your scream muffled into the silk, tears pooling beneath your face as you shook, completely lost.

“nine,” he purred, voice rough and filthy, one hand gripping your hip, the other yanking your tail up, using it like a leash to pull you back onto him with every thrust. “crying into the bed—you’re so pretty and pathetic, taking my holy cock like this.”

he fucked you harder, the wet squelch of your cunt loud and obscene, your clit rubbing against the silk with every slam, sending jolts through you, sharp and hot, your tenth building fast, your mind fraying at the edges.

he shifted again, climbing over you, his chest pressing your back into the bed, his knees bracketing your thighs, pinning you flat, your ass tilted up just enough for him to keep thrusting—deep, slow, grinding now, his cock buried so far it felt like it was in your stomach, the head smashing your cervix with every roll of his hips.

your legs were trapped under him, bent slightly at the knees, feet brushing his calves, your arms pinned by your sides, claws scraping the silk as he fucked you down into the mattress, his weight heavy and unyielding, your breath shallow and desperate.

“fuck—yes,” he groaned, crude and dark, his breath hot against your neck as he licked another tear off your skin, his thrusts slowing but hitting harder, grinding deep. your tenth orgasm crashed through—a sharp, searing wave, your cunt pulsing tight, slick flooding out, soaking his cock, your scream a broken, teary whimper as your face went slack—mouth wide, tongue lolling, eyes rolling back, a wild, wrecked mess.

your body shook, pinned under him, the sensation overwhelming—his cock filling you, the ache in your cervix a constant pulse, your clit grinding into the silk, your whole core a throbbing, dripping ruin.

“ten,” he grunted, voice filthy and triumphant, his hands sliding under you, cupping your stomach as he thrust deeper, grinding into you. “gonna cum now—fill you up, princess. breed that demon filth out of you.” he didn’t rush—kept it slow, deliberate, letting you feel every pulse, every twitch, his cock throbbing inside you as he groaned, low and filthy, his breath ragged against your neck. then he came—hot, thick, spilling into you in heavy pulses, flooding your cunt, the sensation sharp and hot, your walls clenching around him as he ground it in, creaming you deep, the excess dripping out, pooling on the silk.

“fuck—take it,” he growled, crude and sadistic, shifting again—hands grabbing your thighs, flipping you back onto your back, lifting your legs high, pressing your knees to your chest, your ass off the bed, your hips tilted up in his grip, his cock still buried deep, cum leaking out around him as he thrust back in, slow and brutal, pushing his seed deeper.

your eleventh orgasm hit instantly—a hot, pulsing wave, your cunt spasming, a sharp squirt soaking his stomach, your scream a wrecked, teary mess as your face stayed slack, eyes wild and unfocused, tongue lolling, a mindless, fucked-out shell.

“good girl,” he purred, voice dark and filthy, fucking you through it, his cock grinding his cum into your womb, the position tight and brutal—your thighs pressed to your chest, knees bent sharp, feet dangling near your shoulders, your spine curved, your ass lifted, his weight pinning you as he bred you, relentless, your tears falling, your sobs soft and broken, your mind gone, shattered under the onslaught.

he stayed buried inside you, cock softening but still thick, plugging his cum deep as he caught his breath, chest heaving against yours. your thighs trembled in his grip, muscles twitching, your knees still shoved up near your ears, feet dangling uselessly, toes brushing your own hair from how tight he’d folded you.

the silk were a soaked mess beneath you—slick, cum, tears, all mixing into a damp, sticky ruin that clung to your back, your ass, your thighs, the sensation warm and gross, a constant reminder of how he’d wrecked you. your arms lay limp at your sides, claws flexing weakly, scraping the bedding, your breath shallow and ragged, lungs burning from the squeeze of his last position.

“fuck,” he muttered, crude and low, his voice rough with exertion as he pulled back slightly, his cock slipping out slow, a thick, wet squelch echoing as more cum leaked from you, dripping down your ass, pooling on the silk.

he groaned at the sight, one hand sliding under your stomach, pressing down to feel the bulge where he’d filled you, his thumb rubbing slow, possessive circles over your womb. “look at that—stuffed you good, huh? cleansed that demon filth with my holy seed.”

your eyes fluttered, tears still streaming, hot and bitter, pooling in the hollow of your neck as you lay there, wrecked and shaking, your face a slack, wild mess—mouth open, tongue lolling slightly, eyes half-lidded and dazed, unfocused, staring at the ceiling. the choker pulsed faint, a dull glow that matched your slowing heartbeat, your cunt throbbing, oversensitive, every nerve fried from the marathon.

your tail twitched, brushing his knee, a weak, involuntary flick, and he grabbed it fast, yanking it just enough to make you whimper, a soft, teary sound that made him grin, crude and dark.

“so pretty like this,” he purred, sadistic glee dripping from every word, leaning down to lick a tear off your cheek, his tongue hot and slow, tracing the salty streak up to your eye. “all fucked out, crying, full of me—lovely wife, huh?”

his hand slid up, cupping your face, thumb brushing your trembling lips, smearing spit and tears as he tilted your head, forcing you to meet his gaze. those blue eyes gleamed, perverse and triumphant, drinking in your wreckage like it was a fucking masterpiece.

you couldn’t speak—voice gone, throat raw from screaming, sobbing, begging through the hours he’d ruined you. your chest heaved, breaths short and shaky, your body too heavy to move, every muscle spent, your cunt aching, stuffed full of his cum, a dull, pulsing heat that made you twitch.

“mine,” he murmured, crude and low, licking another tear off your skin, his breath hot against your neck as he nipped the bruise he’d left earlier, making you flinch, a soft, broken whimper slipping out. “mine. mine.” his fingers dug into your hips, possessive, his cock brushing your thigh, half-hard again, smearing cum and slick as he pressed it against you, teasing, not thrusting in yet, just letting you feel it. “gonna keep you like this—bred, broken, all mine.”

he leaned back, kneeling there, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his scarred skin, his white hair damp and messy, sticking to his forehead as he watched you—watched the cum leak from your cunt, watched your tears glisten in the candlelight, watched your body tremble under his hands.

“holy fuck,” he muttered, crude and reverent, his voice rough with lust and exhaustion. “look at you—wrecked, dripping, crying like a little bitch. my pretty filthy bride, huh?”

he shifted, sliding down beside you, one arm draping over your stomach, pulling you against his chest, his cock pressing against your ass, still half-hard, smearing more mess as he settled in. your legs stayed splayed, thighs quaking, your breath hitching as he nuzzled your neck, licking the sweat and tears off your skin, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, making you twitch, a soft, teary sob slipping out.

“so good,” he murmured, voice softening but still crude, his breath hot against your ear. “took it all—every drop, every thrust, every fucking tear. you’ll love me. they all do. eventually,”

his hand stroked your stomach, pressing down where he’d filled you, like he was claiming it all over again. your eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion pulling you under, your body too wrecked to move, too broken to fight, the tears slowing, your breath evening out as you drifted, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

but then—fuck—it sparked. not life. not hope. just pride. that brittle, burning ember he hadn’t managed to fuck out of you. not yet. not ever.

your eyes cracked open, glassy and bruised, but gleaming with that same imperious spite, the same loathing that had never once faltered—not through the screams, the begging, the breaking. your voice was a rasp, torn from somewhere buried deep, meant not to fight him off but to wound him where it mattered.

“as if i’d ever love a holy mutt who only fucks like he’s trying to prove something.” your lip curled, defiant even as your voice trembled. “must be hard, knowing the only crown you’ll ever have is between my legs.”

the words clawed out, weak but venomous, your tail twitching against his grip, smacking his thigh with what little strength you had left, a final, defiant snap.

he froze—breath catching, his hand stalling on your stomach, his cock twitching hard against your thigh—and for a heartbeat, the room went dead, the candles flickering low, wax dripping silent onto the stone. then his face split into a grin—wide, cruel, unhinged, his eyes flashing with sadistic, perverted delight, his love twisting into something vicious as he moved—fast, brutal, flipping you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so hard your knees sank deep into the silk, your ass lifted high, your face shoved into the soaked bedding, his seed and slick smearing your cheek, the scent choking you.

“oh, my filthy bride,” he snarled, voice sharp and scolding, dripping with cruel glee as he fisted your hair, pulling until your scalp burned, his other hand grabbing your tail, twisting it so viciously you screamed, tears spilling fresh, your body jerking under his grip.

“thought you’d learned your place, huh? mouthing off like a brainless brat—guess my cock didn’t fuck enough sense into you.” he scolded you like a child caught stealing, his cock—hard again, massive—slapping against your cunt, smack, smack, smack, each hit wet and stinging, making you flinch, your oversensitive clit throbbing, your sobs raw and loud.

“you don’t get it, do you?” he growled, leaning over you, his chest pinning your back, his breath hot and heavy against your ear as he scolded, voice cruel and cutting. “you’re mine. my wife, my trophy, my fucking prize. you insult me? you spit that venom? i’ll carve it out of you, brat—fuck you till you’re choking on your own screams, till you’re begging me to keep you.”

he yanked your tail harder, twisting it like a rope, his hand cracking down on your ass—slap, slap, slap—each hit sharp and brutal, leaving welts, your body jolting, your tears soaking the silk, your glare flickering back, weak but defiant, burning through the haze.

“pathetic,” he sneered, crude and sadistic, his cock nudging your entrance, teasing, the head slipping in just enough to stretch you, then pulling out, leaving you empty, shaking, sobbing. “look at you—crying, leaking, talking big like you’re not supposed to be my breeding bitch. you think you’re tough, huh? i’ll fuck that attitude till you’re nothing but a whimpering mess, till you’re crawling for my mercy.”

he slapped his cock against your clit again—smack, smack—harder, the wet sound obscene, your body bucking, your screams muffled, your tears endless, the choker flaring bright as he leaned in, licking your cheek, groaning at the taste.

“i hate you,” you rasped again, weaker but sharper, venom dripping, your tail snapping against his grip, a frail but furious smack to his wrist, your claws tearing deeper into the silk, shredding the silk, defiance blazing through the tears, the pain, the wreckage. his laugh was cold, cruel, slicing the air as he shoved your face harder into the bedding, muffling your sobs, his hand cracking down on your ass again—slap, slap—welts blooming, your body trembling, his cock poised to ruin you again.

“go on, keep cursing me like that,” he growled, voice dark and filthy, scolding you like a king to a rebel, his sadistic glee a living thing as he lined up, the head nudging your cunt, teasing, promising pain. “i’ll make you pray to me by the time i’m done.”

1K notes · View notes

syluses · 4 months ago

Text

love is a bitch

sylus x female reader

sylus will tolerate your tantrums if you insist on having them- but he’ll have to address them somehow, too.

▻ cw. smut, noncon elements, implied kidnapping, breeding if you squint, sylus is soft but the consent is still very dubious, 18+ characters, dark/yandere content, possessive behavior, stockholm syndrome

▻ notes. no explanation tbh. its around like 6k words i think.. with SEEMINGLY minimum plot but sylus is so whipped for mc. like truly whipped. this dynamic has a very special place in my heart its like canon to me. i wanna make a dragon sylus fic next… maybe another caleb one OR do a siren! raf thing. hope the girlies enjoy this <3

ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 (๑´ `๑)♡

You’re stubborn, tonight.

Between two days spent enduring your mean cold shoulder and the precious vase you threw to the ground, sending it sprawling in a million bits across the floor that Sylus fears will end up lodged in your feet, he’s a little emotionally-charged as well.

Sylus has never been one to bend over, no- his two most reliable henchmen are there for that, and they do it gladly. But there is something about you that makes him stick his neck out time and time again… So, without a word, just a resigning glance thrown your way, he lowers himself to a crouch and sweeps the glass shards into a dustpan.

Love will do that to you, he supposes with the ghost of an obliging grin.

It’s not in his nature to roll belly-up, but he’ll meet you halfway somewhere on his side.

It’s not the first time he bent a knee for you, anyway, and certainly won’t be the last. Still, Sylus holds abundant self-awareness and knows this is more than a bad look for him; fortunately, his weak spots only ever reveal themselves in the privacy of his manor’s walls where you hold it down in his absence.

The twins- Luke and Kieran- they won’t enter your bedroom, not tonight, regardless if there’s a mess or not. Onychinus’s leader has plans for you and no intentions of allowing any interuptions. With a watchful eye trampolining between the fragments underfoot and your rounded shoulders as you curl up to the headboard and tremble, Sylus decides he can handle this little issue fine enough himself.

With a set jaw, he trawls through the glittering pieces until his gaze darts to something particularly shiny.

He lets out a breath.

…So you did throw it out; Sylus wondered what you were fidgeting with behind your back moments before your sudden outburst, but it’s with a pang of startle- and hurt- that he unearths the nitid wedding ring buried beneath layers of geometric shards. Discarded no different than trash would be.

It’s not like he needs physical proof to boast your marriage— even strangers can spare one look at the two of you- the arm forever wrapped around your shoulder or middle, the possessive flair in his eyes paired with a doting, bottomless affection- and make the conclusion that some sort of intimacy runs deep there...

So no, some filed-down gemstone, dazzling as it may be, doesn’t determine your relationship. It certainly makes him feel good, though, to see it wrapped around your finger as a perfect match to his- a tangible token of your bond. It’s a beautiful reminder of you that he absently toys with throughout the evenings to the backdrop of a silent stopwatch, mentally counting down the seconds until he can return home to you.

It’s all the more reason to adorn you in pretty things, anyway. Jewelry and twinkling beads that clang loudly together no matter how quietly your feet fall.

And he likes that, to be fair- not to be superficial, but it’s one of his simpler joys, to pamper you like a princess in every sense of the word.

You don’t need to like it, to want for it; Sylus has always stared at you like you were the epitome of royalty. And royalty only deserves the best, doesn’t it?

He dresses you in fine silks that you slip out of as soon as he’ll allow, trading designer brands you can’t even name out in favor of one of his sweaters or shirts. Stood behind you, he’ll insist on threading dainty, flax chains around your neck, smiling softly in the reflection of the full-body mirror.

You never meet him in the eye, then, too put off by the delight that practically oozes off him as he spoils you rotten to look at him right.

Sometime later that night, his hand- large but always careful- will resume that chain’s place around your neck, and thumb over your pulse affectionately.

You never did find much use, or joy, in any of his glitzy expenditures.

If- If you’re being perfectly honest you’d much rather he buy you a ticket home. Maybe that’s the one wish of yours he’ll never bring life to, much less humor in the first place.

But you’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, sweetie, Sylus has been made abundantly aware of that fact. He takes it like water off his back, though: just another little quirk of yours to catalogue to memory and dote over.

His stubborn, precious girl.

Tonight, frustration reaches its zenith in you and you snap. Grow teeth and snarl in his face.

You don’t want to be angry— ugly— God knows you loathe what’s becoming of you, but your captor doesn’t leave many other options on the table.

You shriek when he tries to coax you towards the plush fur draped over the bed and he watches with a resigned sort of sorrow as you throw things off the coffee table and shout.

You scream your throat hoarse. You taste copper on your tongue as if you’ve been running. Maybe, the truth isn’t all that far off. A man like Sylus is something to run from; all sentient beings with a sense of self preservation, no matter how small, would take off on foot immediately.

There’s not many places you can run to, though. Not when there’s constant surveillance on you- iron-wrought gates and a damned bird that soars watchfully overhead if you so much as step into the courtyard.

Your tantrum lasts all of three minutes before you retreat to the nearest corner- Sylus’s lavish bed- and quietly lick your proverbial wounds.

He’s never hit you before, no, not physically, but he’s the kind of man to leave everything within his radius reeling sooner or later. Doesn’t matter where his loyalties lie. It will happen.

And, you know, he’ll treat you like you’re some exception to that rule- to his streak of cruelty and the chaos that he lets unravel around him- but you’re not. You’re really not and you just desperately wish he could see that—

“Talk to me, sweetie,” a low tone draws you from your reverie.

You don’t let your eyelids flutter open right away; you’re re-experiencing a vivid memory in your head- a sunny afternoon in Linkon with a warm hand woven in yours by the shore- and don’t want it to slip away just yet. It’s a comforting piece of your past you want to hold onto.

As pathetic as that may be, despite Sylus having all but birched your hope for rescue to a bloody pulp, you still look back on better days with bittersweet longing and pray someone will come and save you. If not them- your old buddies in the Hunters Association and your closer friends that Sylus has voiced a particular enmity to- then yourself. You want more than anything to save yourself, but it’s not like he gives much opportunity for that.

This is your home, now. It always was. He’s dogged in his attempts to prove it to you, purring in your ear while he fucks you slow and deep that he’ll take as long as it needs to convince you of that simple fact. It’s indisputable: you’re his.

You’ll… come around to it eventually, Sweetie.

Biting your tongue, you hold off on responding to him.

There was nothing to say, really- you’d already just screamed your throat raw and still it wasn’t enough to make him budge or even at least reconsider this awful arrangement he’d launched you into a number of months ago.

If you open your mouth, you tell yourself in a mix of childish bravery and cooling ire, sloped against the headboard defiantly, it’ll be to bite him. Certainly not talk to him. Especially not in any civil manner. You think he’s lost that right ages ago- the priviledge of your softness.

You hear him heave a faint sigh, but for the moment, he leaves it at that. “Okay, then,” he murmurs with a tinge of understanding that you hate, “You cool off, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths. Lie down if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

You remain sat upright. One half of it is because you don’t quite feel safe going prone right now with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and the other half is for the sole purpose of spiting him.

Sometimes it feels like you can’t. Spite him, you mean. His wounded eyes, which resemble a kicked puppy’s to a shocking degree, are as rare as they are effective. You really shouldn’t harbor any capacity of guilt for the man, but you’re human. Glaringly human. And his forlorn little frowns after you’ve winced under his harmless pets or refuse to face him after he’s fucked you within an inch of your life and wants to curl up to you like some overgrown cat- they tug on a vulnerable part of you.

It’s- It’s not Stockholm Syndrome at all, or even the latent stirrings of it. It’s just— It’s just a basic human trait to feel, and…

You suppose that might be the one veritable thing he hasn’t quite ripped from you. Maybe more so for his benefit than yours.

After Sylus is done sweeping up your mess, he approaches the bed and caresses the blade of your shoulder. The movement is just barely hesitant, like he doesn’t want to send you flying five feet in the air with some violent flinch response. It’s happened before on more than one occasion.

You don’t know whether to count his caution as endearing, oddly sweet, or fucking maddening. Perhaps it’s a fair combination of all of that as well as sickening.

Your consolation that came in the form of a now distant memory peters out into heavy, intermittent throbs of your chest. Sadness thumping a gentle song. The smell of sea salt spraying up from the ocean fully wafts away as he brings a hand up to your forehead, gentle as ever, and guides you to turn to face him.

His own scent- a base amber with notes of vanilla underneath, in two words: warm and rich- replaces that. You draw it in in small, shallow breaths and feel it tingle behind the bridge of your nose.

Sometimes it comes like a precursor to his hands- something that’ll have you bracing for impact in fetal position. Other times, when he’e got your thighs pinned either side of your head and his cock delving in and out of your pussy, hitting so deep in your belly you think nothing will sate your appetite for days, it’s a dizzying smell.

Consuming and concentrated, rubbing off on you like a bad influence as he grabs and gropes and nips.

You hate to admit it (and don’t know how it got to this point) but on occasion, Sylus’s scent is even comforting.

You would never tell him that. In fear of it getting to his head, if nothing else.

His warmth tickles the shell of your ear, his lips peppering a chaste kiss to your shoulder as he settles in beside you. Your frenzied heart, just as it began to slow, begins to thump faster, but you remain otherwise composed. When he moves a hand to lift the blanket over you, fuzzy and stupid-expensive, you make a grunting sound and shove his wrist away.

Stubborn, Sylus thinks, and bold.

But his. His and perfect.

Behind you, his chest rumbles. He lets out a laugh, gentle and light, but you wonder if it’s the remnants of exasperation that’s interwoven in it. He nestles up at your back and curls a possessive hand around your middle, his other brushing some hair off your shoulder.

You’re not quite dumb enough to interfere with it this time. Or, for that matter, the glittering ring he puts on your finger- back to its rightful spot- and reverently slips down to the slim base of your knuckle.

“You’re not cold, kitten?” He mumbles at your ear, taking you in through slow, decadent breaths,”I guess you did work yourself up by a few degrees, huh?” The proximity used to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck, but he has dulled your fight-or-flight response considerably over the past handful of months.

Kudos to him, for that.

He’s not entirely wrong, though. Your cheeks still feel toasty with anger, your fingers twitching and unfurling by your lap as if to test your own mood.

“Are you…” he starts, contemplative, “still frustrated?”

…Are you still frustrated? You don’t know. Maybe just sad.

Everything you want you can’t have. Everything you want- your veritable livelihood- he’s plucked you out of no different than a mother would her errant puppy, by the scruff. With possessive teeth that latch on painlessly and say mine.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, before quickly remedying the part of you that grows anxious at admitting your own vulnerabilities to him- “yes. I’m upset.”

Sylus gives a little sigh.

Long fingers skim the column of your arm. He leaves behind small goosebumps and a warmth that somehow feels cold over your human flesh; a brush that tingles like a static shock.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, voice becoming oddly heavy. Breathy, rugged. And you wryly suppose the solution he offered is just so helpful, isn’t it?

The palm laced around your middle gradually slips downward, his hooked nose pressing into your jugular like he can smell the hot blood beneath and it’s appetizing, before a feeling of dread overtakes you.

Dread, and another feeling you don’t want to name— a thrill of excitement ghosting down your spine.

When he cups the seat of your panties, you shiver and revolt as if you’ve been burned.

“N-No—“

He’s ready for that, your… hesitance. His other arm, the one that doesn’t end nestled between your bare thighs, keeps you lassoed to him, his breath heavy at your collar. Growing more labored by the second.

He hushes you, using his cheek to stroke against your hair since his hands are otherwise occupied. You don’t give any more fight other than that- the violent flinch- but you remain stiff as a board as he notes your trembling with a genuine, deep frown. Furrowed, sad brows and all as if he actually has the fucking capacity to feel sorry for something—

“It’s okay, kitten,” he breathes out, “Hush.” Four fingers deliver a series of slow, tantalizing rubs to your pussy, marking the beginning of his painless assault as his thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, and you shudder against your will.

You scramble to hold onto his thick forearm, straightening against him as he leisurely works you into a writhing, fiery mess. Your veins warm, but not out of anger- not anymore, at least. Traitorous flames sprout in the pit of your belly, fanning heat across your face— hot-blooded and filled with want over just a few of his touches.

Oh, you hate him.

“Just relax, loosen up. I’ll make you come,” he murmurs against your neck, laving the fleshy space there with amorous kisses.

Man with a mission. Man with a promise. If you know him, then you’ll know he keeps them.

He suckles gently at the sensitive skin before breaking off with a soft pop, a hot tongue lolling out to chase away the redness, rendering you speechless. Speechless and on the brink of forgetting just why exactly you loathe him so much— but a vestige of that repulsion remains, melancholic and weak, and you try one last time to push him away, throwing an ineffective elbow.

He glues his front to your back completely, locking your joints in place, and slips his fingers down your panties. His knuckles peek out from the lacy hem.

Sylus lets out a little groan when you call his name, shivering behind you.

He doesn’t care if you say it like it’s a perjorative or an invocation of some reprehensible, filthy spirit— if he had it his way, it’d sound coated in honey, but he’s learned to take what he can get with you. It still makes his cock throb beneath the white folds of his robe. In any case, it’ll sound real sweet soon enough, ringing out from your lips in pretty, gasping moans as you gouge your nails into his back.

Grudge him all you want, honey. He’ll make you shake and scream, tonight. Squash all the enmity you doggedly hold for him within the span of an hour with worshipful hands and concentrated, ardent thrusts that leave you with little choice but to take it and moan.

When your struggling stops altogether, Sylus takes ahold of your little hand and appreciatively thumbs over your ring finger. “What sort of husband would I be if I left you all hot and bothered, hm? A poor one,” he answers for you.

Gently, he maneuvers you onto your back and insinuates himself between your legs. His eyes are aflame. The look in them steals the last of your shivering breath, your heart doing a perfect backflip in your chest.

Ruby eyes flutter with passion, his pupils so big you can hardly spot the red glint as they dilate unevenly, his lashes dewy. He sucks in oxygen with short, winded intakes, his silvery hair- still slightly damp from his shower- falling over his brow. And to be fair that’s bunched together, too; all the little muscles in his face tight and strained as he lets out a clipped sigh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers on his perusal. His gaze flits all over the place when he hoists shiny silk up your breast (tonight, a royal-blue negligee) and unwraps a stringy pair of panties from your legs.

“You’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you? Or is there any more… frustration you need to let out?”

The invisible apple of your throat bobs. You retain your silence.

He dryly comments, “I guess I owe you that.”

Sylus unties his robe, eyes glossy and intense.

He does so with an affected patience, knuckles moving ridiculously slow as he feigns autonomy over his own rampant emotions. You eye him with a misty desire as he does so, your hips giving an involuntary shimmy as you prepare for what’s to come.

Sylus grasps for the very last of his self-control like a beggar would the lavish tailcoats of passersby, but it’s all for naught. His fingers are shaking when he finally flips open his robe and shucks it from his broad shoulders. Oozing less confidence and more need than anything, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red that you don’t get to see often and nobody else gets to see at all.

He stoops over, then, laying his naked chest flat to your breasts.

“This,” he says, pinning your hand- the one with a flashy wedding band- onto the silky duvet and intwining your fingers with his. “This belongs, with you. So make a mess. Throw your fits and say those cruel things to try to get back at me, sweetie… But don’t ever take this off your ring finger, do you understand?”

He breaks off from your hickey-dotted neck to get a close look at you, pressing his forehead to yours. And right then you’re almost scared to look at him, an instinct existing deep in your gut saying you’ve just been taken into the maw of a big bad wolf— but his nose brushes with yours and he feels… human. Fleshy, warm. Shockingly vulnerable in the moment.

His hands that hold yours greedily are callous and big, sure- and you’ve seen firsthand the destruction they can raise- but they’re not clawed and malicious as they touch you. No, actually, they tremble with unbridled excitement at the opportunity to make you feel good.

And— And you hate him, y-you do.

Sylus cradles you close and nurses a few indulgent kisses from your lips, eating up every precious gasp you can’t stop from slipping in time.

Reluctantly, you return them all with budding desire.

“Do you understand?” He manages to heave out after a breathless moment. There’s no threat masquerading behind his candied words (no, he’s never been one to hold things over your head, surprisingly) but his timber is firm and meaningful. You have the implicit understanding that you must say yes- or, that’s your best option for the moment.

You look up at him and his eyes are wide, unblinking, not exactly the heavy-lidded picture you were expecting and had just witnessed mere moments prior.

And it’s a million things all in one— reverent and intense, enigmatic in its roots, you think, because you never could wrap your head around just what he saw in you and why, but he’s completely besotted. It brightly reflects in his eyes like chopped moonlight over calm waters- and you never once denied that. If you’re being honest, he made denying that- his very real, and unabashed feelings for you- an impossible task.

“Yes,” you mumble. “I understand.”

He seems contented, at that. Sighing and tempered.

He pants and nudges his brow to yours, one hand unloosening from its knot with yours to make a slow descent. Torturous and controlled like he wants you to shrivel up and die from the grudging need for his touch- for him to pivot deep up inside you and erase all conscious thought from your brain.

Sylus captures your lips in another kiss, more heated this time, raunchy and a bit toothy, as he takes his cock and, without any anticapitory strokes or anything, lines it up with your hole.

“M’ sorry, sweetie. I just don’t think I can stay away tonight. You…” His skull throbs with blunt, scalding want. “You’re worth all your trouble, you know that?”

A ripcurrent of fondness, unbidden but strong, gusts through your chest.

There’s just nothing in this world you can do to ward him off you, is there? No way to spook him?

The epiphany, dulled by a lust broiling between your thighs, is as comforting as it is horrifying. You don’t- You don’t know anything more. You just can’t be sure of what Sylus is to you, how he makes you feel— all his disservices done to you a cruel piece of your reality or not.

Tonight, you’ll blame it all on him.

He nudges apart your folds (growingly wet: an unfortunate discovery of yours that makes his chest puff with pride) with the fat head and begins his entrance. It’s grand but gentle; painstaking, almost, as his pelvis draws closer to yours but only at a snail’s rate.

A lewd squelch sounds out. You suppose you’re not entirely beyond the luxury of shame quite yet, because you toss your head to the side and refuse to meet his piercing gaze, embarrassed.

You… suppose you’re also a bit wetter than you’d thought, or wanted, for that matter.

You wince as he feeds inch after inch into you. Sylus is twitching; maybe you’re just hypersensitive or your fresh bout of anger has you experiencing everything in overabundance, but you can feel his long member writhe inside your gooey walls— every ridge and curve as you struggle to make room. On instinct, you clamp down on him and he hisses like he’s been slapped.

“R-Relax, kitten... Let me in. I’ll be gentle with you, I promise. Are… you scared?” He pants.

You swallow hard. Sylus tracks the movement with alarming precision, cardinal eyes watching your throat bob. Sweat beads there. He licks it up without thought, with half the brain to follow up his question with, “Don’t be. I would never hurt you,” he whispers. And to be perfectly honest, you believe him. In his own weird, roundabout way, he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in any physical regard, at least.

(Although, perhaps bullying his thick cock between your plushy, tooth-marked thighs is the exception to that statement.)

“Y-You’re mad at me,” you caterwaul, but it’s really a question in its own, uncertainty blipping past your wet eyes. “You’ll punish me.”

Something like hurt reshapes the hard lines of arousal in his face, tanned skin unfurling with brief sorrow. He looks sweet and puppyish- all momentary, of course, all his slips of vulnerability compiled into these isolated, intimate moments with you.

He frowns, “I won’t punish you, sweetie.”

“I broke the vase. Threw it, and- and my ring.” You reason in a thin voice, your fingers curling thoughtlessly. He takes them in his own. Kisses all the tips of them.

“So?” He dismisses with a breath, “I can buy a million more, honey. You forget who I am. As for your ring,” he pauses, gaze rapidly flipping across the bridge of your nose, as if trying to discern whether or not you’ll do it again somewhere down the line. Of course, it’s an impossible task to tell the future. Sylus wishes that wasn’t the case, though.

“…You wouldn’t do that again, would you? Throw it away, take it off. You’d cherish it, just as I do my own…” he alludes to the own band on his finger, resplendant and with a price tag you’d prefer not to count the zeroes on.

It glitters in the mellow lamp light when you briefly glance to it.

“I want you to look at it,” he decides after a beat, “and think of me. I want it to… make you happy.”

With that, you blink and he’s withdrawing, straightening his back to loom over you again- resuming that position of dominance without issue. He paints the most traditional idea of authority. Tall and muscled, with stoic eyes that glow with the silent dare to challenge him and hands that can make putty of the most rebellious spirit. He molds you like clay on a potter’s wheel. You reel underneath the unexpectedly soft ministrations of his worn palms.

Funnily enough, there was a time where you were convinced he wanted nothing more than to erase your person and rewrite your identity, but now you’re not so sure… It seems if anything, the only thing he wants to strip you of is your fear. Most notably, of him. He’s so violent but… painless. Sylus has always confused you, in that way.

With men like him, you’ve quietly wondered, maybe it’s just better to close your eyes and let your breathing slow.

“You’re doing so good,” he rewards with his words, “Relax your hips… yes, just like that. Maybe I’ve been away too much, mm? I’m sure the twins have been… more than talkative with you. Bothersome. Fuck,” he shudders.

“…You’re all pent up,” he determines out loud. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it better. I’m only asking that you’ll,” you think he gasps faintly, bringing a hand to touch over your belly, “make some room for me here. Could you do that for me, kitten?”

Without fully understanding the possible implications of his words, caught between the sweltering heat of his body and a confusing, inner blend of desire and fading resistance, you give a nod.

Sylus digs a fang in his bottom lip and forces himself to look away. His too-intense eyes settle on the syrupy juncture of your bodies, where he disappears into you and you, for once, eagerly invite him in.

“Sweet kitten.” His praise is cloying. Genuine, sappy. It sticks like frosting to the roof of your mouth— a feeling you can’t quite squirm away from because it’s lodged inside you. He’s smitten, and you think you hate him. You must. You were only screaming your head off about it moments prior and throwing precious, ornate vases to the floor, confessing your repulsion to the whole entire world (more accurately, Luke and Kieran, overhearing it from somewhere down the hall and the damned bird currently perched in his cage).

His words of encouragement, bitten and breathy, keep you from bucking your hips up and away, but only barely.

Your husband keeps you anchored beneath him with a fervid, loving stare and fingers that constantly remind themselves not to dig too deep into the fat of your hip lest they leave bruises. Save for the petal-like hickeys spiraling the pillar of your neck and your thighs- the ones that made you yelp with pleasure as he left them- Sylus doesn’t want to leave anything behind that exists for the sole purpose of hurting.

Right now, everything does. Your pussy lips mouthing around him and desperately trying to receive him, the prominent vein at the base of his cock throbbing under the tight fit.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s nailed you against the headboard or taken you folded over the marble kitchen counters as the twins hurriedly scuttled out— you’ll never quite get used to the sheer length of him. All thick and pulsating, the upper half of it flushed and curved under its own weight.

Terrifying, the first time you saw it and he pried apart your legs all attentively and soft, tracking each and every expression that passed your face despite the drugs in you making every tiny muscle go almost entirely lax.

And it was terrifying the second and third time, too.

…It’s terrifying even now, but that sense of startle is buried deep down under gritty layers of hopelessness and bitterness and a disloyal arousal- your core throbbing with want as it nudges aside all rational thinking. It says to let him in. Let him inside your panties and heart but you still dream of homeward during every sleepless night, familiar, Linkon paths surrounded in hazy serenity. You dream of the sun, too, the buttery light that waits just outside of the N109 Zone and its boundless darkness—

Outside of him. Your stalker, your captor. With the recent addition of a big sparkling gem on your finger- your apparent husband.

Sylus is neat, down there; fine white hairs tickle above your clit as he bottoms out with a final groan- seconds before he stoops back over you and recoils his hips.

He fucks you good and slow. Expert thrusts that he pairs with tentative, darting looks from your pussy to your eyes to note every zipping emotion.

He coaxes honeyed moans out from you with relative ease. Admittedly, it feels heavenly where his body meets and parts with yours— your head made so dull, devoid of thought, your limbs weighed like bags of sand as he ruts into you like a man possessed.

He makes a pleasured sound, pulled deep from the barrel of his chest. “I love you.” You believe him. He definitely looks the part; in love. He can hardly speak. “Kitten. Tell me how it feels, tell me how you want it,”

“Good,” you cry breathlessly. “Feels good.” He watches you clamp your eyes shut and groans with dissatisfaction, taking your jaw in his whole hand and pressing his nose to yours. If he has one wish right now, it’s that you’ll understand in indisputable clarity that you make up the very atoms of his world, that in a wasteland of slate grey and white— you hold color. Hold it like a fully saturated sponge. With every piston of his hips, he drinks his fill from you.

Bitterly, you think with withering rationale, he drains.

“Then open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands. So close he’s near suffocating- every fibre of your being consumed by five letters and an adoration so heady it feels treacly. It emits from him like radiation, poisonous and insidious.

Sylus puffs out humid, minty breaths, and you take them in, recycling it between each other. Your lungs feel like a hearth. He’s gasping like he’s just concluded a several mile long run, perspiring at his temple.

Belatedly, you flutter open your eyes.

He’s handsome. He’s wolfishly handsome and the way he looks at you is both precious and earth-shattering all at once, crushing you under the sheer weight of it like a flimsy object placed under a hydraulic press: you stood no chance. Not against someone like him.

Obedient, you stare at him and whimper, half-tempted to cup his V-shaped jaw and indulge in the feeling.

Sylus moans and rewards you with a hot tongue pressed flatly to your neck. You slam your head as deep as it can go in the duvet. Your eyes fall back into your skull and you hold him tight- tighter than tight- squeezing his thick forearms like they’re fruit to juice. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Your back makes a crescent-moon. He relishes in the way you cling onto him for dear life, branding him with the tips of your fingers as he imparts mind-numbing pleasure. Euphoria thrums in your veins. It’s hard to breathe, your cheeks bloating before you dazedly remind yourself to breathe.

Your inner voice resembles Sylus’s to an unexpected degree.

“Breathe,” he really says, rasping. “Breathe, kitten.”

Your slick cunt winks around him with satisfaction, a gusty breath pouring down your throat.

Pointed teeth tickle your jugular. For a split second, you experience the very real, but perhaps needless fear that he’ll sink down and tear tendon from bone. That he’ll pull away with red spittle and a predatory smile and say, I’ve won. You’ve given in, sweetie.

It’s all for naught, however; instead, he washes you with sloppy, suckling kisses and you mewl unabashed for each and every one.

Molten pleasure sends a violent jolt through you, his saliva marking you and right then you feel no different than a bone to a dog.

Sylus wonders vaguely if you’ll ever come to the realization that while yes, he is a dog, you are his master— you give him name and purpose and occasional tugs on his leash that tell him where to go and what to do. He’ll trail you endlessly. Follow you to hell even if he smells the char clear ahead.

And you just don’t get that, do you? It’s as humorous as it is exasperating.

“Look me in the eyes, sweetie. Tell me how you feel. I want to know how- far you think I reach.” He shudders.

You whimper, “Far. S-So far, Sylus.”

A visible shiver racks his broad shoulders at the sound. His palm, callous and large, cups your chin tenderly and his damp lips shift against yours with every dull clap of his pelvis to yours. His free hand leaves its perch at your waist in favor of your breast, hovering over the valley of them with splayed fingers.

“And what about here?” He croaks, “Am I reaching this spot here?”

Your neck is straining as you plow it deeper into his fancy, expensive mattress. There’s a small uncertainty in you that raises the silent question of whether or not you’re trying to escape the man looming over you or you’re just overstimulated from his handling. Either way, it goes unanswered, put on the back burner to make room for a rattling pleasure.

Comprehension slips away. It’s taking you several seconds to grasp onto what Sylus is asking of you.

You take ahold of a pillow beside you and grab it so hard you think feathers might erupt from your fingertips. You’re getting close, you can feel it; a foamy wave in the distance growing taller and taller as it nears the shore. He’s not fairing any better, the threads of his composure splitting like dead ends.

Your heart, you finally realize in a blink. Is he reaching your heart? And it’s almost delicate, the response your chest has to it, your lungs drawing in a short breath and keeping it there for a long moment as if you need the extra time to process that morsel of information. That unexpected smidgen of fondness that bowls through you and scrunches your brow as you flit between his eyes. Cherry red and agog, wholly invested in your answer.

Before you can provide a real one— the wave crashes.

Bigger than you’d imagined, more powerful. Tsunami-like in nature: it casts its shadow over you in its entirety and steals the breath from your lungs as it curls and flattens. It rolls over you and sprawls to the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, your whole body convulsing as you’re swept up in its waters.

“Y-Yes,” you gasp without consciousness, fucked into perfect dumbness. “I love you, Sylus- I love you I love you I love you—“

Sylus’s hips stutter and fail.

“Fuck, sweetie!” He growls, “Do you mean it, do you—?” He delivers one last onerous ram into your twitching hole before letting out a roar and stilling completely. Rope after rope of hot cum glutting into you, your spasming walls feeling volcanic as he unloads his fat balls inside them.

You tremble and lose your tether to reality, for one moment. Cut off completely and barred from it.

Eventually, he lets out a deep, sated sigh and collapses over you. Drawing your boneless body to his front, tucking you safely under his muscled wing.

You numbly slant yourself against him and press your cheek to the damp, hard planes of his chest. His heart is hammering wildly beneath your ear and you don’t know whether to feel flattered, startled, or a fair mix of both. Perhaps you’re beyond the point of caring- although, sometimes it’s hard to get over the knowledge that Sylus indeed has a functioning heart capable of sorrow and anger and joy.

It’s… confusing, to say the least.

A long while passes afterward.

In the dewy afterglow, he plants a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and uses his center fingers to move away the hair pasted to your forehead. You can tell he’s holding back on something, just don’t know quite what.

Then, he murmurs, with a vulnerability that will never not look stupefying on him— cocksure, devilishly-handsome face warping into the gentle portrait of doubt—

“Did you?” He blinks, slow as he drifts along your sleepy face and watches your eyes hazily lift to meet his. “Mean what you said? Just now, when you came... Did you mean it, kitten?” He whispers softly.

Your mouth opens and wavers.

A plethora of contradictory feelings make quick work of the last of your common sense: loathing, trading itself out for hesitant affection; deepseated fear ducking out the way for the inexplicable want to unfurl your tight limbs against him and allow yourself just to be held... By him, of all people.

Your captor, who utterly uprooted you from your home and cut off every string connecting you to the people you considered most dear. Your tormentor and kidnapper and husband, whether you liked it or not, the relation only recently scrawled in paper in sloping, flowery letters. You signed yourself to him. (Albeit, you had very little say in the whole ordeal.)

You shut your eyes, hard. Your jaw follows.

You don’t give him an answer. Maybe you don’t truly know it anymore, not for certain. What this man has done to you is all too confusing and he’s made you all too tired, tonight. Nothing can keep its foothold for long in your fogged brain.

With a rapid thump of his heart, devastation falling headlong into the pit of his belly, Sylus thinks your silence, that in itself, is your answer.

…Nonetheless. He’s nothing if not persistent. And you’re warming up to him, he can tell— those fuzzy, latent feelings part of your willing acknowledgement or not.

So he arms you impossibly closer and nuzzles his hooked nose into your hair.

You think it’s a wry little smile that prods your temple. “You’re still playing the long game, hm, kitten? …It’s alright,” he breathes. You note the microscopic hitch in his otherwise even words with an unwanted pang of guilt.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

#sylus smut #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x reader smut #lads sylus #love and deepspace x reader #lads smut #lads x reader #lnds sylus #dark content #yandere #sylus #calebrity #now hopefully to write smth for beloved raf 🤞🏻#‧₊ 🍰.┊𝒄𝒂𝒌𝒆𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

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noctiva · 2 months ago

Text

Training Day

Toby Rogers x F!Reader [NSFW!]

This is a commission! Pronouns + names have been changed for your viewing pleasure! If you’re interested in something like this for yourself, hit me up once my commissions are open again!

WC: 6.7k

Summary: Toby’s taken one of his fellow proxies under his wing. Looks to him like she needs a lot more training.

- commission prompt: toby x proxy!reader hatefuck situation. coworkers at best enemies at worst. have toby hold a hatchet to the readers neck during the act

CW: 18+ content, explicit sexual content, CNC, noncon elements, threats and violence, rough handling, semi-clothed sex, outdoor sex, semi-public sex, degradation, definitely toxic relationship, unsafe sex, creampie, sadism + masochism, power dynamics, lowkey dom/sub undertones, mocking, hatefucking lollll, toby and reader hate eachother and then fuck about it

NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

Being a proxy is already a tough job.

Late nights, long hours, an erratic schedule, and a complete lack of free will. It’s the type of profession that no one would willingly choose to be a part of, if they could help it. And, if they were roped into it somehow, it would be a constant day to day battle of just trying to make ends meet whilst being pushed and pulled around by an entity beyond your comprehension.

It’s not something easy by any means, but most find ways to make the strenuous lifestyle a little bit easier to bear. Little victories. Glimpses of sunshine through the fog.

For a proxy like you, finding respite amongst the complete gorefest that was day to day life used to be an easy task. It was easy when you first began - staying far away from all of the other monsters you shared an occupation with. Keeping close to yourself and no one else, it was a breeze to mindlessly drag your feet through the day, just to curl up in bed and do it all over again when the sun rose.

It was glamorous. It wasn’t luxury. But, it was tolerable.

Or, at least it used to be.

Two weeks into being a proxy, your little bubble of solitude was broken. Violently popped by a force so obnoxious, so erratic, that you found herself scrunching your nose up in distaste before the perpetrator even opened their mouth for an introduction.

”H-hey.” He had approached her while you were sat outside your cabin, sewing up a ripped patch in the pair of jeans she was wearing. Now more patches than untainted material, something the man had raised a judging eyebrow at on first glance. “You’re a b-bit of a recluse, aren’t ya’?”

What an amazing first impression.

You could still remember what he had looked like when you first laid eyes on him up close. Shaggy, messy brown hair pushed off of his forehead by a pair of cracked orange goggles. What looked to be a mouth guard hung around his neck, leaving his face completely bare for her viewing. Scarred horribly, like somebody had thrown him through a woodchipper and tugged him back out. A slash in his eyebrow, a crooked nose that looked as if it never healed properly from a fracture. But, the cherry on top was definitely the gash tearing through the left half of his face.

Staring at the corner of his lips and stretching up towards his cheekbone, it was a gnarly sight. Flesh torn from gums to reveal a row of chipped back molars - visibly not properly taken care of, the skin around it jagged and torn.

“What do you want?” Were the first words you had ever spoke to him, each letter packed with as much annoyance as you could muster up.

You knew who he was. Everyone did. Toby rogers. The boss’s golden boy. Some six foot tank of a man who could take the hardest hits, and deal back even more lethal ones in return. He got the hardest missions, had the largest kill count under his belt, and - he had let it get to his head. Leaning into the fact that he was a chosen favourite by some eldritch entity like it was a blessing, not an absolutely abhorrent title to uphold.

You didn’t like him. Hadn’t even met him before you came up with that conclusion. You had seen him work before, trailing behind him, Tim, and Brian when you were still a greenie, learning from them before you went on your own missions. Watched how apathetically he sliced down victims, listened to that wheezing laughter he’d let out as blood dripped onto the lenses of his goggles.

Took note of the way he talked to people. So cocky and apathetic. Completely detached from the lifestyle he lived - like it was all just a game.

Like it was all effortlessly easy.

You hated him for it. Wanted nothing to do with him because of it. And yet here he was, standing in front of you, gazing down at you with that same arrogant twinkle in his eye that made your skin crawl.

”I-It’s not what I want.” Toby had laughed, taking a step closer. “It’s w-what the boss wants.” He lifted his foot to nudge your hand with his muddy boot, knocking the sewing needle you were holding into the dirt. “Better re-results. You’re slow, a-and you suck.” He spoke so bluntly it made your blood boil in your veins, teeth grit as you looked up at him with narrowed green eyes. “Couple other reasons but I d-don’t feel like listing them all. Long story short, you-you’re working with me now.” His lips twitched up into a sinister smile. “You know, someone wh-who actually knows what they’re doing?”

The words he spoke were horrid already, but the knowing look of amusement he paired them with was worse. Like he was aware he had just walked up to you and presented your very worst nightmare all wrapped up in a bloody orange bow. There was nothing more that you’d rather do than shoo Toby away and tell him to simply ‘fuck off’ and find someone else to bother, but if what he said was true, and this was actually an order from Slender themself, then there was no point in fighting. Everyone knew that orders from the boss were non-negotiable, no matter how difficult (or annoying) they were.

And so, that was how it began.

Every single day, whether you liked it or not, you were forced into being Toby’s tag along partner. Accompanying him on missions, having him glued to your side and muttering insults under his breath as you tried to mind your own business. Toby was inescapable. A constant force that persisted even when you wanted him around the least.

It was a constant war whenever you were around each other. Who could deal the worst insults, who could stun the other one into silence from the absolute absurdity of their actions. Both forced into a partnership that neither wanted.

You, were more accustomed to working on your own. Toby, was more accustomed to working with Tim and Brian - who were used to his antics by now. It was almost laughable how easily he could wriggle his way under your skin, a feat that was difficult for him with the other proxies who knew him better. He was a shit-disturber, a nuisance, someone who poked and prodded just to get reactions for the fun of it. People who were used to his attitude didn’t bat an eye at his antics or abrasive nature - so you were the perfect victim.

Easily annoyed. Even more easily flustered. A toy that he could bat around, one that refused to break no matter how rough he got. It was a perfect arrangement, though some people would definitely beg to differ.

He’d spit out an insult and you would just deal back one that was ten times worse. Trip you up while you’re walking, and you’re picking yourself back up just to elbow him in the rib cage. If only he could feel the pain, but the wheeze he’d let out from being winded was enough to satisfy you.

Toby was insufferable, and he knew it. He was a nuisance at best and an absolute hindrance at worst. Missions together were the worst of it. Barely ever able to get a kill in for yourself before Toby was shoving you out of the way and flinging a hatchet at their skull. The ‘teaching experience’ he had advertised this partnership as was barely anything of the sort - more so just you being forced to sit back and watch as he split open another poor victim’s rib cage. Giggling to himself as he reached into the viscera and pulled out a lung or heart, just to fling it in your direction with a cackle slipping from his lips.

Horrible. He was horrible. That opinion of yours didn’t change in the slightest, even as the weeks ticked on. He was barely even a human at all, more so just a hollow shell filled to the brim with bloodlust and spite.

Someone who abided by Slender's every will because he wanted to, not because he was forced to. It was sickening. A way of life that you could never imagine for yourself. If the day ever came that you followed in Toby’s footsteps, finding a sick pleasure in the blood and gore that coated your clothing, you’d much rather be on the receiving end of his hatchet.

But, that day hadn’t come yet.

It’s a cold winter day - frigid winds, ankle deep snow caked to the soles of her boots and seeping into the gap between your pants and socks. The air is brisk, blooming a rosy tint on your pale cheeks as you trekked through the forest - leaving a trail of footprints for Toby to follow in as he trailed behind her closely. You could feel his gaze on your back, hear the sound of his heavy breathing with each step that he took, smell the acrid scent of cigarette smoke wafting off from the smoke perched between his lips. “Hey…” You heard him call, his voice soft and playful, forcing a tenseness into your muscles. Fingers clenched tight around the strap of the bag draped over your body, your jaw clenched, a shaky breath leaving your lungs before visualizing in the air as a cloud of condensation

”What?” You grit out, her voice dripping with that same distaste that you always wore when she was around Toby. An annoyance that you couldn’t shake.

“Y-You can talk to me you know.” Toby huffed out from behind her, his gaze trained on the back of you as he trudged through the snow in front of him. The way the cold December wind tousled the curly tufts of ginger hair atop your head, how your limbs were so frigid and stiff. From the cold, or from him? It was hard to tell. “You’re m-makin’ this harder on yourself by constantly being b-bitchy with me.”

”I’m not being bitchy.” You snapped back to him, turning your head back towards him for just a moment, only to cut him a deadly glare. “You’re just hellbent on being an asshole. Sorry for not wanting to hold a conversation with a prick like you.”

Toby barks out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing the vacant forest they were both traversing. Not a single soul in sight - not except for the two of them. Just miles and miles of snow and dying wood, not even the howl of a wolf in the distance to break up the silence. Just her, him, and the whistle of the wind between them.

”Harsh.” Toby snorts, one eyebrow raising as his eyes scan the figure before him. You were practically the exact opposite of him. Toby - tall and lean, you - short and stout. He often asked himself how you even managed your way around as a proxy. From his perspective, you looked like a weak link. Someone easily thrown around and tossed to the side. The idea of you actually subduing and killing someone was laughable at best, and he honestly wouldn’t believe it was possible if he hadn’t seen it happen with his own eyes. “Y-Y’know, if it weren’t for me you’d probably be dead.” He mutters. “S-Some useless fuck like you sh-shoulda been dealt with a long time ago.” He takes a drag, the hatches on his belt clinking with each step he took. “I-If I wasn’t nice, and I ss-said no to taking you under my wing - the boss would-woulda just axed you.”

”Begging for a ‘thank you’ makes you sound desperate.” You snort, rolling your eyes as you tug your coat further over yourself. “You’re not a hero, Toby. You never have been. You’ve just deluded yourself into thinking you are.”

The words are harsh enough to cut deep, slicing straight through Toby’s tough exterior to seep straight into his bones. Rising goosebumps on his arms, reigniting the fire of guilt he had (thought he had) snuffed out long ago. Such a chilling read on his entire nature, that he found himself faltering in his steps, his jaw going slack before his cigarette fell from his lips - extinguishing against the snow beneath him with a hiss.

“Yeah, well, you’re not a victim - l-like you seem to think you are.” Toby snaps back, eyeing his fallen smoke for just a second before he lets out a scoff and trudges past it. Just another reason for him to be pissed. It wasn’t easy coming across a cigarette, as a wanted criminal. He’d have to go rummaging through Tim’s bag for the third time this week. “Y-You hate me because you’re just like me. A c-cold hearted killer with bodies upon bodies under your belt.” His fingers twitch as he slowly reaches downwards, before closing around the handle of one of his hatchets. “Cry and m-moan about it all you want, but you can’t hide from the truth. You’re just as bad as me. Maybe even worse, because you re-refuse to accept the reality of it.”

You could feel your eye twitch in annoyance. That familiar, white hot sensation of anger brewing in your stomach and making your limbs tremble. He just forced it out so easily, like you was a marionette on strings and he was the puppet master - tugging and pulling you around until you were cracking from the strain.

And so you just can’t help yourself when you’re stopping in your tracks abruptly, whipping around with a scowl on your lips before you hiss out;

”Can you shut the fuck u-“

The whistle of metal cutting through air stops your sentence short. It happened so fast that you could barely even process it, your eyes not even having the chance to lock onto Toby’s weapon before it was flying straight past your skull - only missing you by a hair before it lodged itself in a tree just a few feet away.

The shock was palpable. Wide eyes and breathing cut off abruptly. Silence so deafening that if you really paid close attention, you may just hear the sound of your heart starting to pound in your chest - slowly coming up to speed with the rest of your body as the realization of what’s just happened washes over you like a bucket of ice water.

Stray auburn hairs sliced at the tip, fallen against the snow beneath your feet. Wood, cracked and splintering around the hatchet newly lodged within the trunk of a tree. Toby’s tool belt, uneven on one side now - starkly missing a weapon.

Finally piecing all of the parts together just makes your blood burn hotter.

And the perpetrator? Well, he’s stood before you as if nothing was amiss. As if he hadn’t just taken a shot at your life. Shoulders lax, eyes playful, carelessly toying with the now empty loop on his belt. Horrible. “Are you fucking insane?” You hiss out, eyes wide and manic - darting between Toby’s face and the weapon that had just barely missed your skull. “What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho?“

”T-Target practice.” Toby snorts, his lips curled up into a sly smile. “Treating you l-like the victim you think you are.” Snow crunches under his boots as he takes a few steps closer to you, the cool breeze whipping through his hair. “You luh-look like one, now that I’ve really got m-my eyes peeled.” Closer. Too close, he approaches. Standing tall before her like a pack wolf, his mouth widening into a toothy grin. “Verängstigtes k-kleines Kaninchen.”

In one quick movement, Toby’s darting a hand out to reach behind you - bruised knuckles grasping the handle of his discarded hatchet once more before he’s ripping it back out of the tree with a firm tug, splintered pieces of wood following it and raining down onto the snowy ground. “Sie glaubt, ss-sie sei so stark.” Toby chuckles softly, leaning his head down lower to encroach further on your space. “So kräftig.” Though her blood was rushing in her ears, you couldn’t find it in yourself to back down. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him watch you shrink. “Aber sie ist nichts weiter als eine k-kleine Maus. Jemand, d-den ich unter meinem Stiefel zerquetschen könnte.”

The fact that you hadn’t a single clue what he was saying, added a strange sort of fear to the interaction that you just couldn’t wrap your head around. Voice low and gravelly, you knew that those words were threats - but what kind of threats? On your life? Your livelihood? Worse? Goosebumps rise on your neck and trickle down your spine, and this time, you know it's not from the cold. But again, to give him that satisfaction? To roll over and lay down like he wanted you to? It wasn’t happening. Over your dead body.

”Yeah, act like I can understand you, dumbass.” You spit out before rolling your eyes and turning on your heel. Partially, to end the interaction sooner. Partially, to escape his paralyzing gaze. Soulless brown eyes, looking damn near black under the overcast sky - scrutinizing you, mocking you, sizing you up. “Don’t fuckin’ pull a stunt like that again. If my blood’s on your hands when you get back, you’ll be in shit and you know it.”

A challenge? Maybe, maybe not. But Toby’s brain viewed it more so as the latter. Weeks of pushing you, weeks of trying to stamp down that nasty attitude of yours, and nothing had worked. Not insults, not humiliation, not even badmouthing you to Slender themself. Was it even really his fault, that he was leaning more towards drastic measures now? Had you not forced it out of him? Goading him with that piercing glare and lips tugged down into a perpetual scowl?

No, it was your fault. Your fault for bringing this out in him.

So when his arms stretch out towards you, one of which wielding his hatchet - that’s your fault too.

You only see a flash of metal and a glimpse of Toby’s sweater sleeve before it happens. Before what happens? Well, your beheading was what you expected - eyes widening at the sight of your fellow proxy’s weapon coming so close to your throat. But, that wasn’t what you were dealt. Because that would be too fast. Too easy. Unfulfilling.

Instead you’re left wheezing for air as the handle of Toby’s hatchet presses firm to your throat from behind, the worn wood digging into your windpipe as he pulls you back to him. You’re gasping when his back meets his chest, frantic hands flying up to claw at the handle of the weapon slowly but surely choking you out. It’s a firm, unrelenting pressure. One that made every single breath a chore. And your attempts to free yourself weren’t doing a thing to help. Nails scratching at Toby’s hands, digging in deep enough to draw blood - but Toby wasn’t phased even a little bit.

Of course he wouldn’t be. His arrogance had some merit to it. “Toby-“ Your voice comes out choked off and hoarse, throat feeling dry and scratchy as you struggle to take in air. “Fuck- Fuck’s wrong with you? Let me go! This- This isn’t funny!”

“O-Oh, it totally is.” Toby’s voice meets her ears as stark contrast to your own. Playful. Composed. Amused as he leans his head down lower, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he speaks. “You ss-see what I’m talkin’ about now? You’re pathetic. I’m barely even t-trying and you can’t do a thing to help yourself.” His hands tug the hatchet back further, forcing a strained cough out of your lungs. “Sind Sie w-wirklich so schwach? Oder liegt es daran, dass Sie es tatsächlich mögen?”

He starts to walk backwards, dragging you along with him as you kick your feet and flail your arms. Trying absolutely anything to wriggle free, but not a single thing was working. Not with the beast you had fallen into the clutches of. “H-How’d you even get this far, huh?” Using his hatchet as leverage, he spins you around quick enough that there’s no chance to wiggle away before the handle of his weapon is back to your neck. This time, pinning you completely when your back comes into contact with one of the many trees surrounding the two of you. “You o-obviously don’t fight well, so how’d you even get a kill under your b-belt?”

Face to face with him now, it’s hard for you not to shrink. Purpling lips quivering from the force of your scowl, eyebrows pinched together as you breathe raggedly through her nose. “Did ya’ go all ‘femme fatale’ on them? Wh-Whore yourself out to get their guard lowered, then spill their b-brains when they’re deep up in it?”

”You fucking freak.” You hiss out, trying again to kick at him - this time aiming for his groin - but again, nothing comes of it. God, was he indestructible? “Bet that’s a fantasy of yours isn’t it? You sick fuck.”

Toby cracks a grin, his eyes gleaming with a twisted form of amusement before he lets out a chilling chuckle. It’s menacing. A sound that nothing good could come from, and you knew it.

”C-Caught me.” Toby hums. “Wanna indulge me, hase?” His gaze roams free as his thoughts wander, flicking up and down your body with a scrutinizing gaze before landing back on your face. Your face, pale skin going pink from the lack of circulation - your freckles becoming swallowed up by the flush. “Only, here’s the thing - you w-wouldn’t be winning against me. I th-think you know that already.”

The look in Toby’s eyes is subjugating. Hidden beneath layers and layers of snark and sarcasm, but he’s serious - the glint in his eyes gives him away. If it didn’t, then his unwavering grip sure did. He hadn’t let his hold on you falter for even a second, keeping you pinned to the tree behind you as you watched the display before him with a sickening smirk curving his lips.

And for you, maybe the worst part was that it was equal parts arousing, as it was terrifying. It would be a lie to say you had never thought of Toby in that way, though it was often overshadowed by your complete distaste towards his attitude. You had thought about it a few times, watching Toby’s skin splatter with blood as he hauled off on another victim. A few more times, when you’d catch the way his whole face softened when he let out a genuine laugh.

And you were definitely thinking about it now, with him staring down at you like you were nothing but prey.

”As if.” You snort. “Like you’d even know what to do.” Your eyes flicker up towards his, the fear in your gaze clouded over with that same snark you wore so well. “That’s why you're acting so desperate, right?” Despite the situation, you still find it in yourself to twist your lips into a mocking pout. “Poor guy’s never gotten his dick wet? Gotta put a hatchet to a girl’s throat to actually get some?”

Just like that, you’ve pushed all the wrong buttons. Maybe the right ones actually, depending on how you look at it. Toby’s expression twists, that look of nonchalant amusement melting away for something much darker.

And there's barely even any time for you to think before he’s moving again.

”O-Oh, you’re fuckin’ askin’ for it now.” The hatchet finally leaves your throat, giving you a moment of reprieve to finally take in a few wheezing breaths. It doesn’t leave Toby’s hand though, even as his free hand reaches up to grasp your chin roughly. Out of sight, but barely out of mind. You knew the weapon was just lying in wait. “So eine dumme kleine Schlampe.” He husks out “You’re t-tryin’ to get me riled up on pu-purpose, aren’t you?

”Am not.” You argue back, your stomach flipping when a waver sneaks its way into your words. Just like that, cover blown.

”Are t-too.” Toby snorts, before lifting his arm and lodging his hatchet back in the tree above your head. The sound of wood splintering makes you flinch, but you barely has any time to even think about it before Toby pulls out his ace card. “W-Want me to prove it?”

He asks, but the question seems to just be of courtesy more than anything else. Because before you can think Toby’s free hand is drifting downwards - skirting over the curve of your waist, palm flat against you as he drifts down over your stomach, before finding its destination. Snug between your thighs. The heel of his palm pressing firmly up against your clothed clit as his digits tease your entrance through the thick fabric of your jeans.

The contact has you jolting immediately, mouth dropping open in shock and yet your hips buck towards him. Proving him right, though the words you’d speak would try to refute your own actions. It’s all futile. Toby knows that, and you do too - even if it's buried deep down.

”Fuck off, Toby-“ You grit out, jaw tense as he only presses in closer. A low hum of amusement rumbling from his chest as he adds a little more pressure to his touch. Forcing the crease of your jeans to press roughly up against your clit, sparking an array of tingles down her legs that make your knees feel gooey. You try in earnest to cut him a glare, but it’s a little difficult to be convincing when your expression is buckling just a few seconds later. It’s unavoidable, especially when his palm starts rubbing slow teasing circles against your heat.

If you really wanted to, you could probably shove him off. His guard was down, his hands were free of his weapons. You could easily stun him with a blow to the nose and then sprint off. Every nerve in your body was telling you to do just that, and yet for some reason, you found yourself rooted in place. Slowly but surely melting as the bark pressed into your back. “You’re such a fuckin’ creep.”

”Yeah? A-Am I?” Toby laughs as his other hand finds a home gripping your waist, tugging your hips forwards to meet his movements, forcing even more pressure behind his touch. By this point, the effect is undeniable. You can feel your clit throbbing within the confines of your panties, can feel the flimsy material grow more and more damp with each press of his hand. “Well you’re a Lügnerin.” His head dips down low, stubble scratching at her jawline before he parts his lips - letting his teeth drag against the sensitive flesh. A taunt. “Actin’ like you’re not a-a whore, even though I can smell it on you.” He pinches your skin between his teeth with a sharp nip, making your eyebrows scrunch up. “You’re soaking your panties r-right now, aren’t you? Just from me tossing you a-around a little?”

”Am not.” The lie you spit out is laughable, and it’s fuelled by your pride alone. You know, that if things continue to escalate like they had been, he’ll be finding out about your fallacy soon enough.

”Dirty fuckin’ liar.” Toby husks out against her skin, before pulling his head back. His eyes are dark and predatory as they drop downwards, tracking his own movements as his hand drifts upwards - fingers meeting the cold metal button of your jeans. “Y-You’re just sayin’ that because you want me to find out. Nicht wahr, Hase?”

The button of your jeans is popped, and the zipper is tugged down in quick succession, calloused fingers rough against soft skin when his hand dips below the denim’s hem, wasting no time before he’s cupping your core through your panties. “A-Ah, see?” He gently rubs you through the thin fabric, his smile only widening when he feels the dampness that coats his fingers because of it. “Du bist nur eine dumme Schlampe.”

You’re gasping when Toby’s fingers push the material of your panties to the side, auburn curls falling in front of your eyes as you wriggle in his grip. “D-Don’t act like you don’t want this.” Two fingers dip into your wetness, gathering up all that sweet slick that had accumulated between your folds. “You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He chuckles darkly. “Pussy’s practically beggin’ for it and I’ve barely even done anything.”

His thumb glides against your clit, two fingers teasing your slit but refusing to dip inside. Just to watch you squirm. “C’mon, j-just admit it. Tell me how bad you w-want it.”

Over your dead body.

“Fuck you.” You manage to grit out, eyebrows furrowed as waves of pleasure lick up your spine. But you won’t melt for him, can’t give in to someone like him.

“Ah, alright.” Toby snorts, one eyebrow cocked in amusement as his eyes rave over the pitiful state before him. “B-Be a bitch about it, that’s fine by me.”

In one swift movement his hand slips out of your jeans, and then both hands are on your hips - using his grip to spin you around harshly, pressing the front of your body against the tree you were pinned against. “I-I’ll fuck that attitude outta you, d-don’t you worry.”

The intensity of the situation was increasing exponentially, Toby’s movements growing bolder and bolder as the seconds ticked by. His calloused hands were rough but his actions were rougher - pushing and pulling your body to his will, blunt fingernails scratching at your skin when his fingers hooked under the waistband of your jeans. “Y-You’re so soft.” He hums in appreciation as he tugs the material down your hips, bringing your panties down with it. The cold air surrounding the two of you makes you hiss when it hits your bare cunt. “Aw, you cuh-cold?” Toby snickers. “Keine Sorge, ich w-werde dich aufwärmen.”

“Toby-“ Your words are cut off by a palm pressing to the side of your head, shoving your face against the rough bark of the tree. You sputter for a moment, too stunned to even register the sound of a belt buckle coming undone behind you. “Toby, I’m serious. Get your dirty hands off of me!”

“Y-You’re serious?” Toby chuckles darkly, dark eyes glinting as he raves over the sight before him. His fellow proxy bent over before him, pretty pudgy hips looking like the perfect canvas to leave a collection of bruises on. Your jeans keeping her legs bound at the knees, bare cunt glistening with arousal that told the truth far better than your words did. “Fuh-Funny. So am I.”

With a soft hiss he frees his cock from his boxers, already achingly hard just from batting around this little toy of his. His free hand reaches forwards, harshly gripping your hip and tugging you backwards - making your eyes blow open wide when his length presses up against you from behind. “N-Notice how you’re j-just lettin’ it happen? Die dumme Hure weiß nicht einmal, was sie will.”

He nudges his hips forwards, grinding his cock against your wetness - getting the shaft all nice and coated with your slick as a soft groan rumbles from his chest. “I’ll make the decision f-for you. Aren’t you a lucky thing?”

“T-Toby-“ Your body slumps against the bark, breathing going more ragged each time the head of his dick caught on your entrance. Teasing what was to come. You couldn’t see him, but you could tell he was packing. Just the head causing a stretch that made your stomach flip every time he notched it inside her, only to slip past again. “You- fuck -You can’t-“

“I can’t?” Toby barks out a laugh, his fingers curling deeper into your flesh, watching how it indents from his grip. “From where I-I’m standing, it’s lookin’ like I can.”

Not even given the courtesy of being fingered open a little, your breath catches when you feel the head of his cock press more firmly against you. So much need behind his actions you could practically smell it in the air. “Deep breath, kaninchen.” He murmurs. “This might hurt ya’ a l-little.”

And that’s the only warning he gives you. Because next, he’s nudging his hips forwards - ripping a startled moan from your lungs as his cock bullies its way into her heat. So tight, it makes his teeth grit, eyebrows furrowing and breathing going shallower with each inch he sinks in.

Your legs begin to shake, tears pooling in your eyes as he stuffs you fuller and fuller, to the point where you’re pretty sure he’s going to break you before he even fully sheaths himself. But then, his hips meet yours, right as your ears start to ring. “Hah-“ Toby gasps out, his voice strained. “You-You’re fuckin’ tight. Pussy’s tryna strangle me.”

With another nudge of his hips he gets himself deeper, and your vision starts to blur around the edges. “This cunt was m-made to take me, wasn’t it?”

All he gets in response is a strained whine, but that’s not what he was looking for. Not even close. “Words, slut.” He growls out, using his grip on your hips to keep you pulled back on him - no room to wriggle free. “You were made to take my cock, weren’t you?”

“Fuck off.” You gasp out, the words coming out gargled and breathless. You can barely even think past the feeling of Toby’s cock stretching you open, your inner walls twitching and pulsing around his cock as you struggle to accommodate him. “Cocky bastard.” His hips draw back only minutely, before he’s shoving himself right back in to the hilt - knocking all the air out of your lungs.

“You’re a fuckin’ stubborn bitch, aren’t you?” Toby snaps, releasing your waist with one hand just to reach up above you. In one sharp move he rips his abandoned weapon out of the tree trunk, letting out a soft grunt before he’s raising the metal to your neck. Right under your jawline, the edge of his blade just barely pressing against your skin. An undeniable threat. “How about now? S-Still gonna keep that snark if I lob your pretty head off?”

And then, his hips are moving. His length dragging against your walls on each pull out, just for the head to press against your g-spot on every stroke back in. Harsh, jerky, barely an ounce of care in his actions. His weapon jostling every time his skin smacks against yours, his carelessness only adding to the danger. “C’mon, benimm d-dich wie die Hure, von der ich weiß, dass du sie bist.”

You’re breathing shaky through your nose, your head spinning from a mixture of arousal and unbridled fear - stomach leaping every time the blade of his hatchet presses against your skin just a little too harshly. It’s hard to tell if he’s truly being serious, but your wouldn’t put it past him. If anything, you’re sure he’s done worse. And yet, the pleasure still rears its head, even though it’s bordered by a fear that makes your gut twist. You knew how absolutely pitiful you looked. Could feel the wetness seeping out of you, dirtying both you and Toby - creating a sickening sticky sound every time his hips separated from yours. “Say it. S-Say this sloppy little cunt was made for me.”

“F-Fuck, okay-“ You groan out, eyebrows pinching together as a shiver of pleasure goes down your spine. His cock is throbbing inside you, fucking more slick out of you with each brutal press in. In the otherwise silent forest, the sound of skin on skin is loud. Near deafening every time his hips collide with yours. “This- shit- This pussy was made for you.” You spit out the words like they’re venom on your tongue, barely even able to verbalize them through the gasps and moans leaving your lips. Fingernails gripping the tree trunk before you, you’re ripping bark from the trunk as your fingers scramble to find purchase. Desperate for something to ground you through this brutal onslaught of ecstasy you had been thrown into.

Your skin feels like it’s on fire, despite the frigid air around you. Every nerve in your body set alight, stars dancing behind your eyelids with each stroke Toby was delivering to you. Not a chance of reprieve. No room to breathe. Such an overwhelming sea of pleasure that it’s easy to forget that the person dealing it still has a hatchet to your neck. “Toby, fuck- S’too much-“

”Aw, n-no it’s not.” Toby chuckles softly, his grip only tightening as he fucks into you harder - dark eyes honed in on the sight of your skin rippling every time his hips met yours. On the glistening sheen you were leaving his cock coated in every time he pulled out. “Think I c-can’t feel you tightening up around me?” Despite you abiding to his wishes, he keeps the hatchet nestled right up against your neck. Not enough pressure to break skin, just enough to keep the threat evident. “Feels good, don’t it? Such a slut you’re gonna cum on my cock even though I could kill you in a second?”

“M’not-“ You whine out, but it’s just another lie. You can feel it. Had been able to feel it for a while now. That familiar heat, burning hotter and hotter with each snap of Toby’s hips. Struggling to hold it back, when every press in had him pressed snug up against your g-spot.

”I think you are.” Toby snickers, before finally dropping the hatchet. It hits the snowy ground with a thud, before he’s grabbing your hips with both hands - all restraint gone as he fucks into you with a quicker, faster pace. “C’mon. Give it to me. Y-You’re so close, I can feel it.”

You are. To the point where no amount of willpower could keep your orgasm at bay. Not when Toby was slamming into you like an animal, husky groans slipping out of his lips with each stroke. It only takes a few more before you’re crumpling. Going near limp against the tree as your orgasm hits you like a truck - vision damn near going white as a white hot wave of pleasure washes over you from head to toe. Knees buckling completely, Toby’s firm grip being the only thing keeping you upright as you goes fully pliant in his hold.

So dazed, so fucked out, you barely even hear Toby hiss out a string of curses from behind you, but you feels it when his hips stutter.

Only two more pumps before he’s cumming undone right alongside you - cock still pressed deep when he spills his load. Head dropping down low to rest against your shoulder blades before he’s groaning lowly against your skin. “Hah- Fuck, such a good fuckin’ cunt. T-Tryna milk me dry.”

Trying, or succeeding? Definitely the latter. Because by the time Toby’s pulling out, you’re still stuffed with him - milky white ropes of cum dribbling out of your abused cunt and running down your thighs. Toby lets out an amused hum before reaching down, then he’s scooping it all back up with two fingers and promptly pushing it right back inside you. “Cute.” He snickers. “You made a mess.”

”I made a mess?” You rasp back out, weakly looking over your shoulder to cut him the meanest glare you could muster up. The verdict was, not very convincing, because your face was still flushed with eyes fucked out and hazy.

”Yeah.” Toby chuckles. “Y-You made a mess.” He delivers a sharp slap to one of your ass cheeks before letting out a snort of a laugh. “Don’tcha worry though, th-the boss’ll get a good report from me this time. Looks like you can be useful.”

You rolls your eyes before letting out a shaky breath, trying (and failing) to regulate your heart rate once more.

”Yeah, I guess you can be too.”

—

helloooooo friends! yes yes this was a commission! thank you to the lovely who sent this to me and gave me the permission to post this on my blog <3

as I said up top, my commissions are closed for now, but if you’re interested in something like this for yourself hit me up once they’re open again! I usually take around 5 commissions at a time before I close them for breathing room :)

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obsessivevoidkitten · 8 months ago

Text

Dear Brother

Kinktober Day 14: Incest Yandere brother x male reader CW: Incest, noncon, memory alteration, mind manipulation, possessive yandere, protective yandere, general yandere behavior, versatile reader, anal sex, drugging, sedatives, aphrodisiacs, collaring, murder, Stockholm syndrome, major character death, reader's own cum as lube, masturbation, discrimination against those without powers, dead dove: DO NOT EAT Word Count: 3.8k (This is dark. Sorry for any errors, I did not have it betaread. I hope there are some who will enjoy this.)

The meteor that crashed to the ground generations ago came with it a particularly invasive pathogen. A virus that infected all of humanity, changing the DNA of everyone on Earth, though a large portion of people remained asymptomatic with recessive changes.

Those with symptoms displayed mutations. They varied wildly from animal traits, elemental powers, enhanced strength, super speed, extra limbs, and many others.

Over many years, the DNA that the virus altered became increasingly prominent as mutations were inherited and compounded. Asymptomatics were rarer and rarer. Currently, they made up only 15 percent of the population.

A small portion of people used their extra human abilities for evil, and others became government sanctioned heroes to fight them.

The people who had mutations become highly sought after and fetishized. More laws came into effect to protect them from villains and criminals who would traffic them.

You were a mutationless nobody living in this society.

A brand new law had established a curfew for all people without strong enough mutations. They couldn't go out unless someone with a strong ability was with them.

Another law was that those with no abilities couldn't live alone.

Because of this, you became wholly dependent on your older brother, Drew.

Your older sibling was entirely fine with this arrangement. He had a love for you that wasn't entirely brotherly, though you didn't suspect anything. It seemed to you that his overprotective behavior was the product of being an older brother to someone without a mutation in a world that conditioned people to think of those like you as defenseless. You thought yourself fairly lucky. You weren't forced into an abusive or restrictive marriage or roommate situation because you had Drew. He was always happy to chaperone and escort you.

When he wasn't too busy with his work as a hero. Drew had moved the two of you to a small town due to a lower crime rate and desire to keep you safe and spend as much time with you as possible. It was also to isolate you from any potential suitors. But... you didn't really need to know about that... You had gotten too chummy with people online through various social media and dating websites who lived a bit too close for comfort in the large city you had lived in previously. It was getting burdensome finding them, intimidating them, burying more than one body when they wouldn't get the hint that you were spoken for. That had been rare, though.

If he really needed to, he could use a power no one knew he possessed. He could remove and replace memories. It was a tedious task, requiring a lot of time and energy, and not all minds were susceptible. Even if they were, it couldn't normally be used multiple times on the same person. Which is why he couldn't just make you forget or hate them. Luckily, most people were easily intimidated by Drew. He was tall and muscular, which was enough in some cases, but he also could move things with his mind and produce a psychic barrier around his skin to make him indestructible.

The quieter smaller town was kinda nice, but you were rather bored. Especially when Drew had to do his patrols. He made sure he worked more in the early morning and afternoon since you always liked to be up at night playing video games and going for walks at night with him. Sometimes, he'd take you out to eat at a 24/7 diner that the town had.

He thought of those outings as dates and considered himself to be courting his defenseless brother.

Your brother always ordered ice cream for you to share. Drew loved to watch you eat it, sometimes biting his lip as you so lewdly licked the cold confection from your spoon. It made his cock twitch in his pants. How he wished you were licking his manhood like that. Eager to get every drop of his cum.

The last time you were at the diner you had caught him staring at you with an odd expression.

"What's with that weird face?"

"Oh, uh... I just had a brain freeze."

You had chuckled at him and went back to eating. How he longed for the day when he could tell you how he really loved you. Hopefully it would be soon, but he just didn't know how to broach the topic.

He had let you walk in on him wanking a few times. But all it achieved was you turning red and scrambling out of the room with an immediate apology followed by you pretending that nothing had occurred. Nothing like the pornos.

The other day, you had been comfortable enough to fall asleep on the couch as the two of you watched a movie. He had been admiring your peacefully sleeping form when you slouched over and leaned on his shoulder. He could hear your breathing and felt your drool as it ran down his arm.

It gave him an instant hard-on that he had to address. You had been a busy bee and cleaned the whole house earlier before cooking dinner. You were totally wiped out. Though even on an easy day, you were known for sleeping deeply. Drew carefully shifted the shorts he had been wearing so his large cock was sticking out through the leg and cautiously jerked himself off while imaging you cuddling and clinging to him after a long day.

He had cum so hard that a bit had landed on your lips. He was worried you would wake up, but you remained out like a light as he gently massaged it into your lip like lip gloss.

After that, he had "accidentally" fallen asleep right beside you. He couldn't very well wake a sleeping angel by moving.

That had been well over a month ago, and his desire for you had only grown. He had taken to stealing your underwear and keeping a pair under his pillows so he could sniff them before bed and dream about you.

He knew one day soon he'd have you in every way.

But there was a setback.

His schedule had shifted temporarily while he was on an assignment to help take down a super villain coalition. For two weeks, he was barely home at all, and a vermin had slipped in.

He came home one day to find you on the porch chatting with some piece of absolute filth who kept brushing his hand against yours.

When he left and you came back inside, Drew was holding back serious rage. You had a look on your face that told him all you needed to know. He didn't even have to question you about who it was. You just kept gushing about him.

"That was Len! He's such a sweetie! He saw me on the porch a few days ago when he was walking by and noticed I was glum."

The way you swooned and gushed made Drew's stomach lurch.

"He's so cool! I'm sure you'll like him. He isn't a hero, but his mutation is awesome. He can spontaneously make fire."

Drew noticed you twiddling your fingers in the way you only did when you were brimming with joy. Would that piece of trash know details like that about you!?

Your brother immediately began planning for Len's demise. This was beyond intimidation, threats, and memory alteration. He lived far too close and touched your perfect weak hands with his disgusting grubby ones. Drew knew exactly how he'd do it. He'd infiltrate Len's home and use his telekinetic abilities to cause him to have a stroke. Then he'd burn the house down. It wasn't unheard of for people's mutations to run out of control.

On the night that Drew planned to end Len, you had been texting Len. Even though it was late, he had invited you over because he was playing a new game that he thought you might enjoy together. If you wanted, he'd leave the door unlocked so you could come in. He knew knocking and waiting made you anxious.

He was such a good listener. He would have come over and walked with you, but it was such a short walk, and you didn't want to wake up Drew. Besides, his house was just a few down from yours. If you ran, you could be there in under a minute. And, honestly, no one took these curfew laws seriously in small towns.

You rushed over as fast as you could and nervously opened the door and stepped inside.

"Dr-Drew? What are you-?"

The question was left unfinished as your gaze lowered to Len laying motionless at your brother's feet. Drew's eyes went wide, and his mouth agape when he noticed you. He obviously had not expected you to walk in on his activities. This was just like when you had just turned 20 and you had caught him killing your parents because they had wanted to convince you to go to an isolated island for the mutationless because they wanted you to feel normal.

He had wiped the events from your brain, made you think they had abandoned you both long ago, and finished by making you think he was the older brother so you'd accept him taking care of you a bit more easily when in reality he was a year younger.

But unlike last time, he couldn't erase Len or what you had witnessed. After doing it once, and so extensively, you were inoculated from it.

Your mind was reeling, struggling to piece together an explanation for what you were seeing. You took a few steps back, planning to just run away and hope you woke up from whatever awful nightmare this night was shaping into. But the door slammed shut before you could finish turning around.

"Y-you have to understand! He was going to steal you away... He didn't deserve you. No one does! Except me."

Drew used his abilities to make you slowly float towards him. The look on his face could only be described as deranged.

"I'm so sorry you had to see this. It was supposed to look like an accident..."

You squirmed in his psychic hold as you began sobbing. Your brain finally registered that your brother killed the man you had started to fall in love with. Nothing made sense.

Once his power brought you to him, he wrapped one arm around you tightly and used his free hand to pull a tiny spray capsule up to your face from his utility belt.

He spritzed you just once, and within a few seconds, you were fast asleep. With you taken care of for the moment, Drew could safely get back to the business at hand.

Your subconscious mind must have still been in denial because you found yourself in a dream pounding Len's muscular ass. He was riding you, and you found yourself bucking into his tight hot hole. In reality, your brother had been watching you sleep and decided to rub your crotch. He figured you needed the stress relief, and if you woke up, maybe the pleasure would prove he was just trying to make you happy.

It made sense in his warped mind.

He was originally just going to jerk you off, but when you got fully hard under his touch... he couldn't resist the urge to ride on it. Drew lubed it up and sank himself down on it. This was perfect, he thought. Your first official act as lovers. It would definitely make you forget about that sack of garbage he just took out.

The look on your face as you drooled in your sleep and let out little lewd gasps went straight to his dick and had him cumming in no time. He briefly lifted off of your cock long enough to smear his semen on it before lowering himself again.

You were fucking his cum into him and it would be mixed with your own once you climaxed. The thought made his stomach flutter as blush crept across his face.

Drew knew you were close, your moans had gotten louder and you had started bucking your hips into him. He was amazed you hadn't woken up yet. Though you had always been a deep sleeper and the stuff he sprayed you with was pretty heavy duty. Your eyes fluttered open as you shot your load inside him and moaned out the name Len.

L e n.

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Your brother, who had never raised a hand to you, slapped you hard across the face.

"That loser is DEAD!! Len is a fucking corpse smoldering in the ashes of his house!"

You were shaking as you stared up at him, still confused about what was going on. Your brain was full of fog and struggled to piece together the events that transpired last night and the fact that your brother was on your dick and angrily yelling in your face.

When he realized the fear in your eyes, he got off of you and pulled you close.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know it's not your fault. You're so innocent, and he wormed his way into your mind like the greedy parasite he was."

He kissed your cheek gently where he had struck you.

"Just... try not to say his name, okay? You gotta forget about him. It isn't healthy to linger on toxic people like that."

He got up and made his way to the bathroom connected to his room.

"I bet a bath will make us both feel a little more relaxed."

You were pretty sure that you would never be relaxed again for the rest of your life. Your brother was a villain and you had no idea what he was capable of doing to you. The sibling you had depended on killed Len, forced himself on you while you were sleeping, and slapped you.

Since he was busy making a bath, you thought you'd take the chance to leave. You pulled up your pants and crept past the bedroom door and down the stairs. When you reached the bottom, you stared in dismay at the blockade he had put in front of the door. There was no other choice but to turn around. But as you did so you slammed right into the chest of your sibling, who was staring down at you darkly.

"I just came downstairs for a sn-snack."

You were trembling and hoped he bought it. You knew he had when his face softened.

"Oh, well after our bath I'll make us a late night snack."

He grabbed you by the hand and led you back upstairs.

"This will be our first bath together! I'm really excited."

The last thing you wanted to do was to bathe with this monster. But there was no escaping it.

"Haha I guess I'm excited in more than one way!"

You glanced over and saw what he meant. His cock was fully erect.

"I-I'm too shy to bathe together!"

"Don't be silly! We're lovers now and we both really need this."

He picked you up like you weighed nothing and took you into the tub with him. He sat down and positioned you on his lap facing towards him. His erection jabbed at you from below. It made you cringe and curl in on yourself.

Despite the bubbles and warm water, you had never felt so filthy.

"You're still so tense, but big bro will make everything better~"

He groped and massaged your ass before starting to rub your hole. You flinched.

"You have to relax to make this easier."

Eventually, he pressed a finger into you.

"Please sto-"

You were cut off by involuntarily moaning as he hit a special spot inside you.

"Oh, you liked that, didn't you? Made you sound so needy~"

As he kept attending to that place inside you, working his way up to three fingers, your mind got more clouded and distracted, and your body went limp and relaxed.

"Sto-ahhh AAAHHHH!!"

Your hole clenched tightly as you spilled your load on his chest.

Before you could catch your breath he slowly replaced his fingers with his cock. Careful not to hurt you as he slowly eased you down on his entire length.

You were already hard again despite being so sensitive. His hard cock entered you with a bit of pain despite the previous stretching.

For Drew, it was bliss. Heaven. His cock was wrapped in the warm paradise that was his beloved brother. Finally, he was with you in the way his heart yearned to be. He should have just done this the second the two of you had moved out here.

The slight bit of pain you had initially felt faded at the feeling of him battering your insides. His tip perfectly kissed that spot inside you, your resolve being fucked away with each thrust.

Drew moaned your name as he came in you all too soon.

"My cum is in you. My cum is in you. My cum is in you. Mycumisinyou."

He never lost his hard on and kept right on making love to you, his precious brother, without stopping for a second. As his movements intensified, the lavender scented water splashed against the two of you.

"I-I knew I could make it all better!"

You prattled on incoherently as drool pooled from the corner of your mouth.

"You're right. We should let our actions do the talking"

Drews lips dominated yours as he kissed you deeply, nibbling on your lower lip and licking up your drool as he made out with you. As both of you came once more, he slid his tongue into your mouth and rubbed it against yours.

He pulled away and kissed your forehead. Your brain was foggy, and your body was exhausted after all you had been made to endure.

"I guess I should clean us up before the water goes completely cold. Don't worry, we can do that some more after we've rested up, okay?"

You muttered something, but you didn't know what you were saying or even what you were responding to.

That didn't stop Drew from hearing whatever he wanted to though.

"Yeah, we can still make out in bed before we fall asleep!"

Drew cleaned you off then sat you down on his bed after dressing you. Then he ran downstairs and came back up with some cookies.

"You wanted a snack right?"

You nodded sheepishly and nibbled a few to maintain the lie you told earlier. When you finished you went to brush your teeth before bed.

You couldn't look at yourself in the mirror. You were ashamed you had let your brother violate you in such a manner. You were ashamed you were brushing your teeth like it was a normal night. Maybe you could escape or call for help when he was working. It was already early in the morning. His schedule had returned to normal, and he would be back to work in a few hours. You just had to play along and get into bed with him...

The trembling of your body didn't betray your fear, Drew just assumed you were cold and held you protectively under the blankets. He stroked your side gently. It would have been comforting before you knew he was a murderer. Now, it only made you tense. Though you did manage to grab a few moments of uneasy rest.

Upon waking, you realized you were oddly calm. Tranquil. When you had finally fallen asleep, he had sprayed you with another substance from his utility belt.

This time, it was just something heroes used to calm people down. Villains and sometimes people in shock. It was pretty harmless, so if he had to keep you mildly sedated with it, he could. Though he hoped he could adjust you to your new circumstances with it and then eventually wean you off. It made you a little calmer, happier, and more accepting of your situation.

You also found yourself collared. The inside was a soft fabric and the outside a rough material. It was locked to a long chain that was mounted to the wall. You could reach the restroom and the minifridge he had by his bed. A minifridge stocked with all your favorite snacks and cold meals, a mounted chain, a custom collar in your favorite color... How long had he planned for this possibility?

There was definitely anger and grief, but they felt much more muted than they should have been.

The first year or so as your brother's boyfriend was a bit messy. Despite the calming drug, you still had emotional outbursts and anxiety. But your brother understood. He wasn't going to abandon you just because you were a bit moody or said hurtful things sometimes.

He endured and the two of you got through. It didn't hurt that he had stockpiled illegal aphrodisiacs confiscated from human traffickers. They made a target especially horny for the first person who's DNA they were exposed to. Whenever he used it, you were hard and needy to the point of crying, and only his dick could make it any better.

It was a great breakthrough when your body finally got hard from his touch without the help of any drugs at all.

And then you started kissing him and leaning on your big strong brother whenever you got lonely from your isolation. He was the only person you were allowed to have any contact with, and the craving for touch became too unbearable.

Your broken mind slowly justified it and changed your perspective on how you saw Drew. The only other option was going insane.

He was just looking out for you and keeping you safe from evil people. It was all for your own good. He took care of all of your needs. Cuddled you, kept you safe, provided you with games and food, and he was always happy to give you his cock or hole whenever you needed it, even when he was tired from work. If you had trouble sleeping, he'd even gently slip his dick into you and rock you to sleep with the thrusts.

It had, at long last, gotten to the point where he could take you outside on dates again with no fear at all that you'd try to escape him. In fact, you'd cling to his arm for dear life no matter where you went.

Drew was so happy. Now everyone could see that you two were the perfect couple.

#yandere x reader #yandere boyfriend #male yandere #male reader #yandere scenario #yandere fic #yandere sibling #yandere brother #My OCs #My OC Len #My OC Drew #Male Yandere x Male reader #Kinktober #Kinktober 2024

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osamucide · 7 months ago

Text

BITCHBOY ⊹

ALL I WANT IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD IS TO BE YOUR BITCHBOY . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: ~6.8k

cw: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. icky pervy stoner roommate!Dazai <333 also pathetic wet cat mess of a man Dazai, afab+gn!reader, established roommate relationship, no established romantic relationship, implied bi!Dazai if you squint, referenced whore!Dazai, weed smoking+intox/noncon (reader says "stop" once and he does not stop), dubcon (becomes 'consenual' but Dazai's coercive+they're high), noncon elements can be interpreted (esp at the end) to be roleplay with prior consent! dirty talk, shotgunning, fingering, squirting, kissing, penetration, creampie, insulting nicknames (Dazai receiving), biting, this is depraved and I will answer for it on judgement day

reid: he’s all i think about.

tags: @kalsplace

You’re grumbling under your breath when you’re about to cross the threshold to your apartment because, as if the rest of your day hadn’t been annoying enough, your stupid key decides to give you extra trouble—as of late, it’s not working unless you jam it in the lock at a very specific angle and jiggle violently until just before you’re sure the knob will fall off, all whilst cursing your landlord’s neglect of the crummy old building like some enchantment or spell that ties the whole rage-inducing, access-granting ritual together.

Couldn’t your good-for-nothing roommate hear you struggling with it?

“Hey, sorry,” he chirps too brightly for the evening hour, floating out of his room as you shut the door behind you with a sigh—ever the mind reader. You forego your eye-roll this time; you’re convinced that one of these days they’ll get stuck in your skull what with how much you do it. You hear Dazai sauntering toward you as you’re shrugging your jacket off, hanging it up, tossing your bag on the table. “Was busy.”

You’re ready to turn and scowl at him, but when you face him, he’s waggling the little pipe in your face—the green one with blue flecks in the glass, undoubtedly what he was busy with while you broke into your own home—and you won’t admit that you already feel your irritation start to melt away when it slides from his fingertips to yours. You clutch it, latch onto the mouthpiece, and watch as the brunette flicks the flame out and lights you up.

You exhale gratefully, take one more pull, and hand the glowing bowl back for him to catch the remainder of before he lights it again. “Thank you," you croak before short cough leaves you. “Was real close to bitching you out for not leaving the door unlocked.”

Dazai blows his smoke directly back in your face with a small grin. “Redeemed by my weed once again.”

You chuckle and wave it away, making a point of sliding by him and toward your room to change. You need to unwind a second before dealing with him for the rest of the night. “‘S’all that ever redeems you. Crack a window, will ya?”

It’s really not a bad arrangement to have a live-in pot dealer—that’s basically what Dazai is and has been as long as you’ve roomed with him. Sure, he's also a pain in your ass; the man can hardly cook, you had to show him how to use the washing machine in the common area when you first moved in, and only a bit ago, after almost half a year of sharing a living space, have you convinced him to keep his mess of discarded socks and food packaging contained within his bedroom. It took a lot of harsh reprimanding about how you're not his parent and he's not your teenage son for you to realize it'd be a little of his own medicine to get him to start taking you seriously. Leaving your empty takeout box on the coffee table right where he liked to eat his, tossing your sweatshirt over his spot on the couch and refusing to move it for days—he took the message, albeit smugly, after that, and hasn't given you trouble since.

Even despite being a pain in the ass, though, especially now that he at least cleans up after himself, you have to admit you don't hate his presence in your home and in your life. You chalk it up to how infuriatingly charming he can be—you know he's a detective, and he's certainly got talents for sniffing out your emotions, solving your day-to-day problems, and smooth-talking, but all of that falls under being nosy and weird when he tries to guilt you into praising him for it. If he was any less annoying, you'd maybe even admit to yourself that he's kind of attractive; only physically, of course, which you've known since the day you met him, but any other way he might be—retaining a heavy air of mystery in spite of how bubbly he is, occasionally inviting you out drinking (mostly so you can drag him home once he overdoes it), smoking you up without asking for money—is just so overshadowed by what a fucking weirdo he is. You can’t separate it.

He certainly keeps you on your toes.

That’s really the worst thing about him. You know you’ll exit your room to grab your leftovers from the fridge and he’ll be pestering you to watch some movie with him—probably one of his cringy rom-coms (the fact that he watches and unironically enjoys them serving only marginally to make him a little more of an interesting character) during which he'll sling his feet across your lap or curl up into you so he can pinch your side once or twice just for your reaction, leaving you red in the face and mildly irritated while he giggles condescendingly at you. But as you always do, you think as you sigh and lift the hem of your sweater to curl it over and off, you’ll concede.

Your head’s caught in your sleep shirt when you hear your door creak open.

“Um, privacy?” you half-yelp—something you’re still figuring your way around with him. You jump out of line of the door as you poke your head through the neckline to shoot him that glare you saved from moments earlier.

Dazai just snickers, eyes wide and innocent. You're naked from the waist down. “Could’ve locked it.”

“As if that would stop you,” you snap back, stretching the hem over your thighs and ass as you skitter awkwardly back over to the edge of your bed where a pair of comfy shorts lay. “Get out!”

“Will you hurry up and put your pants on? I got My Big Fat Greek Wedding locked and loaded.”

“Yes, yes, just get out.”

He’s still snickering when he disappears behind the door. He doesn’t shut it all the way, and you mutter freak beneath your breath, secretly hoping he hears you.

You tug your shorts on and meander back out as the intro rolls, set on your leftover homemade tonkatsu; as you settle cross-legged with your plate on the couch, Dazai reaches over and plucks a piece of cabbage off it.

You side eye him as you chew. He’s already occupying himself with packing another bowl—he must've finished the first one himself. You'd half-expect him to reach for one of the prerolls he keeps in the coffee table drawer so as not to have to go to the trouble again, but he does.

“You eat yet?” you ask carefully.

He shakes his head as he uses the butt of the lighter to press it down. Of course not. Even weed doesn’t make him eat. You’ve expressed concern over his eating habits before, but he always dismisses you with a hum and that smug smile.

You make a point of tearing the remainder of your cutlet in half with your utensils. When he reaches out to pass you the pipe, you reach back, chopsticks pinching a hefty piece of pork.

Dazai raises his eyebrows at you.

You raise yours in reply, as if to say, take it, or I’m not smoking anymore with you.

So he does, reluctance veiled thinly by amusement. You know him well enough by now; or, you think you do, at least. As he chews, he balances the chopsticks back on your plate and turns to you with the lighter, curling his own legs beneath himself.

Only satisfied when he swallows, you set your plate aside, face him, and press the pipe to your lips again, looking to him. To his pretty brown eyes that search you owlishly, that you swear sparkle with a little more vigor after even the smallest bit of sustenance enters his system. Maybe you should just leave him to starve, but then where would you get your weed? You’re an idiot, you’d say if you weren’t waiting on his flame.

But before he can light it for you, he pulls the lighter away, and you chase it with a soft hey—he’s grinning at you again, like a devil, like always.

“You always do that, you know?” he asks.

“Do what?” you mumble impatiently against the piece.

He gives in and dips the flame down into the bowl; you inhale deep, flower crackling softly as you do, and he only answers when the smoke’s halfway down your throat.

“Look up at me all cute like that every time I light it for you.” Those brown eyes bore into yours and you become aware all too quick of the fact that you do—you do indeed peer up at him through your lashes; your eyes water as smoke burns your throat and you blink away, trying not to cough out your hit at how he’s gazing at you, but he doesn’t stop there.

He would never stop there.

“Makes me think bad things.”

So you cough out your hit anyway.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask, choked, face red from more than just the sting of the weed. You busy yourself with pulling another hit while it’s still lit.

“Mhm,” he agrees. “Lots of ‘em.”

Your head swims now—you’ve built up a decent tolerance from living with him, but forgetting to breathe at his words and zeroing the huge puff you take next surely doesn’t help. You cough again, and nothing leaves your lungs this time as you debate whether to take his challenge.

Another thing you’ve learned about Dazai—he loves to fluster people. If living with him wasn't enough proof, you’ve seen him do it millions of times to pretty bartenders, or on the off-chance his partner from work joins you drinking; off-chance, truly, because Kunikida already has to put up with Dazai all day at the office, and anything more than what’s required of him might be better off called torture rather than fun. And beyond loving it, Dazai demonstrates it like a long-honed skill—the exploitation of people’s humiliation, the monopolization on people’s most sensitive spots. He had previous work in it, he’s said, but you can’t imagine what job could possibly entail all that. You think he just doesn’t know when to shut his mouth—no, he’s smart enough to know when to; he just doesn’t like to. He’s what most people would refer to as an asshole.

And yet, you find yourself torn between feeling disgusted and entertained by him all the same. Although you often find yourself the victim of his little mind games, you’re not above jabbing back at him. What does that make you, you wonder? The question briefly crosses your mind, but you shake it off as, in your buzz, you swat away the bait; decidedly, you’d rather watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding in peace, finish your tonkatsu, and then go to bed tonight.

“You’re gross.” The scoff you let out sounds more like a chuckle.

Dazai tilts his head, flicking the lighter for you again; he sparks the bowl as he watches you, as if in exceptional contemplation, and you make a point not to do it again—you inhale and gaze straight down at the flame.

“You don’t wanna hear what it makes me think about?” he asks cutely, unwilling to let you get away just yet.

You ignore the slight flush undoubtedly on your own face as you slip the bowl back to him; doubly so, you try not to watch the way his lips wrap around the mouthpiece.

But right now, you can’t seem to help that your bleary-eyed attention is on him. Just as he exhales, you remember you haven’t replied.

You’re not quick enough. He doesn’t take your silence as an invitation; it’s an opportunity. You see it in his smirk, just a second too late.

“Makes me think about how pretty you’d be looking up at me like that from your knees.”

He’s good at his games—he invents them, after all. But you’d be damned if he thought you wouldn’t shut him down when you weren’t in the mood.

“Yeah, no, don’t particularly wanna hear about it, thanks.”

This might be a new low, even for him, you think. Who the fuck just says shit like that?

When you think about it a second longer, though, he really hasn’t brought anyone home to fuck obnoxiously (a boundary you were quick to set with him) in at least a couple weeks, so maybe he’s just pent up. Either way, his comment makes you wrinkle your nose, furrow your brow—hopefully negating the pink inevitably tinting your cheeks. Fucking weirdo.

“N’ now you’re blushing all cute, too,” he observes; you scoff again, more pointedly this time. “Thinkin’ about it?”

As if, you want to say, but the words get stuck against the roof of your dry mouth, so you conjure up some of your spit, swallow it down, and hope he doesn’t notice—but it’s Dazai; he will—that your high's settling onto your shoulders swiftly. He’s pointing the bowl back at you, and as you grab it robotically, you’re still trying to speak—a sure sign you should both shut up and keep your places on opposite ends of the couch and watch the movie and finish the tonkatsu, but instead you just balk. No matter what you do, you play right into his hands—that’s how it happens all too often, and you certainly won’t learn now or anytime when his weed’s coursing up to your brain and back down to your thumping heart. Dazai lights your next hit for you, laughing like it’s all some big joke, and maybe it is—maybe you’ll blow your smoke in his face this time and pick up your tonkatsu and shut up and just watch the damn movie.

As if you’d ever be so lucky with his antics.

You’re shaking your head in near-awe when you pass it back to him once more.

“I mean, we basically kiss through this thing all the time,” he says like it’s relevant, waving the pipe about. “I don’t think it’d be so weird if we fucked. Or if you sucked me off, at least.”

“It—it would totally be weird, Osamu,” and when you speak his name so lightly, blinking at trying to muster up your own laughter as a defense mechanism, his sight flickers up to yours. “That doesn’t even—I’m not sucking your dick.”

“Shame,” he purrs. “‘Cause I know how pretty you’d look. Your lips all wet and pouted against my t—”

“Oh, my god, shut up.” Now you laugh, out of pure disbelief at how far he’s taking it. He pokes at the tail end of what’s left in the bowl and chuckles, too, seemingly ready to let it go now that he has you laughing. "You're horrible."

The more you let him talk about it, the more you entertain him, maybe you can let it peter out.

“What about me? Do I look pretty when I do it?” he asks, batting his lashes as he pulls another hit off the pipe.

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” you let your laughter idle as he doesn't tear his gaze away from you. He looks pretty. Whatever. You cross your arms as you feel the familiar tingle of your high behind your eyes.

“Would I look pretty on my knees?” he prods.

You could slap him—if nothing else, just to make his face burn half as much as you know yours is. When he sets the bowl and lighter aside and goes back to observing you, eyes low-lidded and red, chin rested on his hands, propped up by his elbows on his crossed legs, you have half a mind to shrink away from him—but you keep cool, even if the way you're at eye level with his searing stare feels a little too intimate.

You mirror his position. “Hmm, I don't know.” You steal his thoughtful tilt, too, and tack on, “Maybe if you were begging like a little bitch.”

You're prepared for him to laugh tauntingly again and then let this die where it stands because he got a reaction out of you, right? That’s always what he’s looking for, so it’s about time he goes back to his corner of the couch where you'll bully him into a few more bites of tonkatsu.

But he stays locked onto you, quietly.

And then he's shifting forward off the couch and down to the ground.

“Osamu—”

“Uh-uh,” he chides you softly, crawling to situate himself directly in front of your figure. Looking up at you all cute. “I’m gonna be the one begging, remember?”

Your disbelief swirls with refusal as he paws at the hem of your shorts as if to say, turn, please, and fuck—what can you do other than turn red as a rose as he grabs your ankles, unfurls your legs, and props his chin on the cushion between your thighs? You feel alarmingly higher, blearier when his fingers creep up beneath the fabric, slowly, looking at you as if for reassurance.

“We're not—you can quit fooling around, seriously.” You want to laugh again but it comes out deadpan, strict; you feel heavier with each landing of his fingertips against your skin, and he just keeps looking up at you. Cute. Pretty. Taking it too far.

“I want to,” he mumbles, retracting his hands only for them to find your hips, your waistband. “Come on. ‘Wanted you so bad for so long. I know you want me, too,” he speaks your name slyly, quietly, and it prompts your breath to quicken a little; he traces circles into your hipbones with his thumbs, toys with the elastic at your waist, snapping it softly, and you squirm. “Please?”

For so long? you think. How long?

“I—I'm not high enough for this, Osamu,” you try to joke, but he just twists around to the coffee table drawer for one of those prerolls and his lighter.

“I can get you higher,” he offers—tone still much too innocent, motives still haphazardly veiled by what a big jokester he is, and he sticks the joint between his lips and lights it.

Before you can coherently protest, he rises, supporting himself on your thigh with one hand and removing the joint from his mouth full of smoke; when he leans into you, you catch his wrist to keep him from ashing on the back of the couch, grab his face in a half-attempt to stop him in his tracks—but ultimately, when his mouth meets yours, you open for him.

The plume of smoke he shotguns into your mouth is thick; you breathe it in. His palm like a brand against your thigh.

And he doesn’t stop.

“Osamu,” you whine against his lips, still mushing his face away and hating how your dry throat roughens your voice. He just kisses you, kisses you, and your fingers find the pulse point in his wrist—he’s a decent kisser, you think, at the very least. You have half a mind to let your fingers slide to the mess of brown hair beyond the apples of his sharp cheekbones, and—

You backtrack in your mind. You’re actually probably too high for this.

You have to detest the way it feels so heavenly when he squeezes the fat of your thigh, dodges your lips, and works steadily in a line from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, all tongue and teeth in his pursuit. You have to detest it. Fucking weirdo, you repeat in your mind. The joint burns between his fingers. You snatch it from his grasp and pull your head back, raising your feet to kick him weakly in the abdomen, and he relents—your toes feel asleep when they hit the carpet again, and you hoard the joint between your fuzzy fingers when he reaches for it back.

“Osamu,” you say again, stern, eyes wide. The weed. You're high. You're both high, and this is weird. He’s just your weirdo roommate and you got home wanting to end your stressful day without complicating anything else in your life today.

So why, when he looks at you like you’re a caged animal that’s just as afraid of him and he is of you and works the joint from your fingers to take another drag, do you let him cup your face and exhale more smoke down your throat?

Why do you chase his lips when he blissfully, needily, sinks to his knees once again and starts to traverse beneath your shorts?

With the right focus of mind, like staring at your hand when you’re spinning and convincing yourself that the world around you is actually moving and you’re staying still, you can almost pretend he’s a stranger—some sexy, enchanting stranger that you met on the train home after your shit day, meant to relate to you with docile nods and hums as you air your grievances about work or school or whatever, meant to kiss it off you like it’s just a little bit of dirt.

Getting out of your shorts is like getting out of second skin. You're taking another hit, unwise or not, because it's back in your hand and you don't know what else to do; you watch him in your haze with a mix of anticipation and distrust, but right now, anticipation is winning by a small margin. You’re high, you tell yourself—twitching already, in that way that has nothing to do with desire but rather just means you've smoked a little too much too quickly, and the idea that Dazai might still fake you out and send you to bed feeling half-hot and bothered, half-violated, with no pants on and a near-empty stomach bobs around in your inhibited brain—again, you expect him to laugh, say you’re fried, clap you on the shoulder and tell you it's a joke but he doesn’t, he cranes for a hit from the joint and you hold it to his lips shakily and he touches you on the exhale, the pads of two of his fingers nestling carefully between your folds over your underwear and when he brushes your clit it’s—

Fuck, it’s electric.

“Osamu, stop,” you say, hoarse and abrupt, grabbing his wrist. "I'm—"

“What?” he asks, teasing lilt to his tone. Beneath your hand his thumb comes up to replace his fingers, to loop circles around you, and you're shuddering, back bowing, and he's grinning at you wickedly.

“I—I'm high,” you admit, voice feeling thick, soupy as it leaves your throat.

“So? Me too.” He blinks at you, slow like a cat, in a way that you're pretty sure he's still mocking the way you apparently always flutter your gaze at him when he lights you up. “‘S the best way to do it.”

“Yeah, but—”

He doesn't interrupt you with but what?

And yet, you still don't finish your sentence.

You glance down to where he’s rubbing you gently, where you hold him at bay—where you could yank his arm and twist it uncomfortably if you really did want him to stop but the longer he circles over the fabric that’s growing increasingly, alarmingly wetter, the more you melt away from yourself and you think, fuck, he really is gorgeous as he’s resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh.

“Scoot forward f’me, please?” he almost whines; his voice changes, stricter when he says, “And stop letting that burn. Smoke it.”

And you comply, shuffling your hips forward and placing the filter between your teeth.

Dazai looks up at you. All cute. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. Hungry.

And you look back, apprehension sparking but then fading with each drove of smoke you inhale. Heavy-lidded, red-eyed. All cute.

“Let me taste you, please,” he almost whispers. You almost find yourself a little endeared by his pointed pleases.

“This is fucking absurd,” you croak, but your resolve is leaving you. He’s a little blurry. “You’re such a sicko.”

His smile widens against the word. Sicko. Almost like he’s pleased to hear it leave your mouth. “Surprised it took you this long to figure out, baby.”

His touch is impatient and restless and crawling as your underwear goes, too—and you don’t appreciate how good it felt when his thumb was on your clit until it’s back again and you’re slipping the joint out of your mouth to let you jaw fall slack; you tangle a hand up in that messy hair that is much softer than you could’ve imagined and all but yank him back toward your cunt.

“Please,” you echo him, finally. “It felt so good—do it again.”

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you in your whimpering, fingers prodding at your hole and tongue landing a feather-light lick to your wetness. “I know you want it.”

The sounds are lewd. Disgusting, really—fitting for how he’s acting. Dazai swirls his tongue in circles around your clit as he works his middle and ring fingers into you; cracked gasps leave you at the intrusion, and you can’t keep your eyes open when he curls them upward ever so slightly as he makes out with your clit. If you were sober you’d, of course, be embarrassed at how you’re already gushing for him, but all your mushy brain can think about right now is the sparks bolting to your otherwise-numb fingers and toes with each suction of his pretty pink lips against you—isn’t this wrong? Shouldn’t you feel weird? Yeah, probably—but you’re forgetting why, and you’re forgetting to care.

He hums against you and it sends a shockwave throughout your already-vibrating body; the moan you release into the air is like song, even to yourself. Is he really good at this, you wonder, or is it the weed?

Oh right, the weed. The weed, the weed, the weed.

You pull his mouth off you, almost dropping the joint that’s not much of a joint anymore—only the filter remains.

“I don’t think this is—”

Fuck, you keep going back and forth. You keep breaching the surface just for him to tug you beneath the water again and convince you the drowning feels nice. And it does, for a few seconds—until it starts burning your lungs to a crisp again, at which point you tear away from him kick up, and in the moments you spend sucking in air you don’t get how he stays beneath for so long, like it’s nothing, how he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t stop, his fingers still curling inside of you, and you’re going under again to the sound of his voice.

You feel suffocated. More delirious by the second. It’s nice.

“You already told me it feels good,” he mumbles against you, lapping at you, and you’re letting up on his hair, letting him become a weight again where you should float.

And the lack of oxygen must be getting to your brain because, even though you still don’t think you want to drown, you cease your kicking. For the last time.

“Osamu,” you cry. It sounds like a moan. It might be.

“I know, I’m such a sicko.” There’s no remorse in his words; there can’t be, not when he’s still curling up into your g-spot in just the way that makes you croon his name again—undoubtedly a moan this time—but when he comes into focus again, he looks so apologetic. “You can say it again, baby. It’s okay.”

“S—sicko,” you mutter disapprovingly, but rolling your hips all the same.

He smiles. Soft, kind, apologetic.

You’re scared to move. You know if you do, you’ll both be able to see the wet stain collecting beneath you on the cushion. You feel it.

So you barrage him with more.

“You—you’re a fucking pervert. You’re disgusting.” You feel wetness on your face, too. You deduce that it’s from how perfect his fingers feel inside you, goading that warm slick out of you and into his palm, onto the couch; regardless, you don't stop berating him, your tone harshly contrasting your wriggling hips. “You disgust me.”

“I think you like it.” He presses up, hard, and you gush, gasping. A short, clear spurt narrowly misses his face; he leans back down to lick it off, off the cushion, off your thighs, off your crying cunt. “I think you like how nasty I am.”

“Disgusting,” you whisper. “Disgusting. You're disgusting.” It’s a little chant you hold onto as he rises again to kiss you, messily—a means to replace his lips with his wet fingers, shoving them past your lips and against your tongue where you lap at them instinctually, like you’ve been waiting for it. It’s so wrong to be tasting yourself on his fingers, but your eyes roll back anyway, just to lurch forward as his hand retracts and you find him grinning once more as he slips his sweatpants and boxers down in one swipe. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” Dazai mocks, giggling. “You just tasted how fucking wet you are.”

“Osamu,” you whine as he kicks his garments aside; you begin to draw your feet up, your knees to your chin, but his hands, stronger than you anticipate, pry you open and flip you to your back and he grins, biting into his bottom lip all the while. Why, you wonder, when the dim living room light glints off his teeth as he situates himself between your legs and leans down to cage you in between his arms, do your hips hitch toward his? Why are you so adamant to deny him?

“You gonna say it again? C’mon, I love hearing my name,” he breathes, ducking down to lick across your jawline. “But I love when you call me those words. Say it again. Tell me how nasty I am.”

“You’re the worst,” you groan, but it sounds comical, even to your own ears, because you’re scratching at his shoulders in a way that draws him closer to you rather than further away.

“More, baby,” Dazai hums into your neck, reaching down to swirl his tip against your wetness. When you feel him, you jump.

It feels good. It feels even better than his thumb and you don’t know if you’re still on your way up but you feel higher and higher by the second and the instinct to push him off is slipping further beyond your grasp. When he pulls back to watch your mouth fall open as he rubs himself into you, you almost let the word pretty slip past your lips—he looks so pretty, tongue flicking, eyes dark, and you catch yourself with your lower lip between your teeth, reflecting the desperation he conceals in everything but his words.

Pretty isn’t what he wants right now, though—and suddenly you feel compelled to give him what he wants, if only it means he’ll keep touching you like this.

“S’fucking nasty—degenerate fucking freak—” you eek out; you don’t know much longer you can tiptoe the line between repulsion and sheer need, but you’re tilting further and further with each circle of his dick and you can tell he’s getting off on the way you’re lurching into him now, running toward his touch instead of away from it.

You think you need him to fuck you, now, or you’ll cry.

“Osamu, please,” you continue, sounding on the verge of tears now—where you should’ve been before, when you genuinely wanted him off you, yes. You wanted him off of you before. Didn’t you? There was a time, a mere few minutes ago, when his fingers in your skin and his animalistic gaze were revolting. Right?

“What’re you beggin’ me for?” Dazai asks like he doesn’t know. He knows. He knows what you don’t want to admit to yourself and he’s going to dangle it over your head, he’s going to rub it in your face, he’s going to make you answer through your hazy high that he never should’ve come onto you through to begin with, and you’re going to give him what he wants—you always give him what he wants, even if you don’t mean to, even if you don’t want to, but now you think you want to. You want to, because it feels so good, and he’s slowing down, he’s stopping and when he takes his hand away to swipe his thumb across your chin, pull your lip from between your teeth and work your mouth open with his fingers again, the loss almost hurts. You want it. You want to.

It’s going to hurt even more to say it, but you want it. And before you can even get it out, before the words even hit what little air is between your lips and his, Dazai looks thrilled at what you say next.

“Please, fuck me,” you whisper.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—” He reaches back down, but the smugness doesn’t waver; his tip catches on your entrance—emitting a lewd squelch that should make you cringe but instead prompts your lip to fly between your teeth again—and you hook your tingling feet behind his back, legs astride his waist as you're pushing his bangs from his face all in one motion. “I guess I’ll fuck you, pretty baby.”

"Yes," the dreaded word falls from your lips when he finally works his way into you, past that tight ring of muscle, to nestle snugly inside you until the head of his cock kisses your cervix.

The noise you draw from him—something between a sigh and a moan—is heavenly. His nose nuzzles the trail he licked across your jaw before and you find your hands linked behind his neck, urging him down, onto you, into you—and when he recoils his hips to thrust back in again, quick and short, you keen against him, pathetically, in a way your past self—the one from four or five touches ago—would hate you for.

You should hate how gross this is. How gross he is for this.

But you don't, and you're not going to torture yourself with asking why anymore.

The friction inside you doesn't feel comparable to anything; for the first time in a second, you feel grateful for the weed pulsing through you. You let your eyes roll back and flutter shut without consequence.

Dazai moves against you like water. Water you're content to drown in this time; his touch doesn't crawl anymore as much as it seems to soothe and as he picks up his pace, brings a hand to your cheek to wake you back up, pull you back above the surface.

"You sound s'fuckin cute," he sighs; those eyes, predatory before, are now just brown and melty, honey-colored backgrounded with red fog, not so searching as much as they seem attentive, not making you feel so uncomfortably vulnerable as they do softly seen. He thinks you sound cute. You giggle through the unrivaled pleasure, giggling through your own moans which hit your ears and do sound cute—sound especially cute woven through his.

"Y'sound... so," you start, "so fucking—unh, Osamu, don't stop!"

He chuckles now, low and breathy, and you push his hair back from his face again; his eyes roll back when you do it, and you just do it over, over, over, drawing clipped groans out of him, stealing the words from his throat as he steals yours and you tug, you tug on his hair and the moan he lets out, broken between thrusts, is so raw and laced with need that you moan in reply, clenching around him because, fuck, he sounds so cute, too. "Wanted this for so long, baby. Pussy feels s—so much fuckin' better than I could've imagined."

"How long?" you finally poke back—you want to know. You want to know how long he's been holed up in the mess of his room, jerking off to the thought of his cute little roommate finally falling between his fingers—you want to know how bad he's wanted this, and if getting you high out of your mind just to get it was worth it. You focus your voice to ask him. "How long you wanted this, 'Samu?"

"So long—since—" he gasps, fucking into you harder, faster, deeper; you tug his hair again, exposing his neck, and yank him down to sink your teeth into his neck. You need the reprieve as he starts hammering against the deepest parts of you, eliciting wet smack! after smack! from between your writhing bodies. You jostle beneath him as he finds his breath; "Since I fuckin' met you. Always wanted you."

"Yeah?" You mean it to be a teasing little rhetorical question but it comes out more like encouragement amidst the bliss radiating from your cunt throughout your whole body, but you find it in you to continue— "You been—you been thinkin' of me under you like this? Like the sicko you are?"

Unbelievably faster and harder. You choke on a scream; Dazai's grunting above you, and it hits you that those names really do spur him on. You're far from offending him—you're bringing him closer and closer to filling you up with each and every insult and jab you throw his way and if you were any less cockdrunk you'd be hurling even more barbs at him about how that makes him so much worse, so much more gross but it just spurs you on, too, right now—and you realize, when he looks at you with those fucking eyes again how bad you want him, how bad you've wanted him, too, for so long; you couldn't—wouldn't admit it because he's just your weirdo roommate but really, maybe that's what you love about him. You certainly love the way he makes your toes curl when he reaches down to play with your clit again. You cry out against him.

"Osamu, fuck!"

"Say it again," he begs you, pretty brown eyes glassy as they fall shut, as the tip of his nose touches yours. "Say it again, please, baby."

You know what he wants.

"F—fucking pervert," you huff, doing everything you can to hold onto the rope that's uncoiling rapidly inside you, coming further and further undone with each slam of his hips into your ass. "Ah—you're disgusting. Disgusting."

You fall back on your mantra and it has his thumb moving faster, harder, just like his thrusts, just like his voice, even if it sounds unconvincing through the shockwaves of pleasure; you feel it, the unraveling, it's washing up on you so quickly, so much quicker than it should be at the hands of your weirdo roommate.

"Don't stop," he pleads like he's not the one fucking you to orgasm; you see white, you feel as light as air—god, has cumming always felt like this? Shouldn't you hate it? Shouldn't you hate that it might never feel like this again?

You do, you do—you hate weed and you hate sex and you hate your weirdo roommate Osamu Dazai for coaxing the most mind-blowing climax you've ever felt out of you, but you don't hate any of those things, not really; you hate that it's never felt like this before, and that it can again if only you can push your pride down for a few more moments and call him a—

"Freak—gonna—gonna cum in me?" you goad, breathless, lucky for speech as he fucks you through the otherworldly high, as you clamp down on him and screw your eyes shut until you can keep going. "Gonna fill me up like the nasty motherfucker you are?"

"Ngh—yeah, yeah, yeah...!"

Dazai, in all his depraved beauty, fucks his fat load into you mercilessly; you twitch, shake beneath him, driving strained sobs from his chest and talking him through with soft yeahs, want y'r cum, filthy fucking sicko freak, you disgust me. He loves it. He falls apart, and you tug on his hair once more as he slows, as he spills out of you, as he looks at you with so much adoration in his eyes.

"You—" Dazai's breathless, heaving. "You're amazing."

You giggle again, wiggling a bit and trapping him further close to you, fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. Soft. You don't feel any less high; just blissed out. "You're cute."

"Knew you thought so," he sighs, lopsided smile coming back; you don't know where in the pleasure he'd lost it, but its return has you tilting your chin up to kiss him once more. Soft. Gentle, sweet, no tongue; not gross, not hungry, just sweet. Satisfied.

"But you're still weird," you tease against his lips. Sly.

When Dazai pulls back, the hunger in those eyes sparks again.

"Want me to show you how weird I can get?" he threatens.

"I dare you," you taunt back.

And he grins, fully and wickedly, once more; you can count on it. He'll show you, alright.

#i want to first thank italics. id be nowhere without italics #dazai x reader #dazai smut #bsd x reader #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs smut #nnnsfw.ᐟ #mdni #with love—reid

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9151967 · 1 month ago

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Hey, don't cry. 5 Della Van Hise fics in PDF form, saved by the WayBack, all available for download ♡

DVH notoriously had her fics pulled from AO3 and she never uploaded them again. Outside of purchasing the zines she wrote for and created—and given her 14 confirmed pseuds, good luck tracking down everything—finding the odd scan of a zine online or the occasional working archived link from her AO3 is not easy.

(All of these works are linked on Fanlore on the fic's individual pages, but as it always goes with Fanlore, organization is not the best and DVH's main page links to an older version of her site before she offered these stories for free; this is to just get the awareness out and ramble on my blog about it, tiny though it is. As my friend put it went I sent these to her, "This is like Christmas in May!")

For those of us who can't afford to drop $40+ on a zine (average cost; we've all seen higher), lack the space for keeping old zines, or are afraid of opening the door of Buying All The Zines, may this find you well ♡

Front and back cover artwork from Hise's zine Styx and Stones. Left image by Marilyn Cole, served as the inspiration for the fic Styx and Stones; Right image by Jackie Zoost

On Wings of Ice (1987)

"Stranded on a frozen planet when their shuttlecraft is sabotaged, Kirk and Spock share love as they wait for death." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in KSX #1 My 2 cents: I cried with this one and it was worth it. There's phrasing in this one that has me rending my garments.

Collaboration (1987)

"When Kirk points out that their relationship may have become complacent, he and Spock put their heads together to see what can be done to breathe life back into the bedroom. But of course, nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems… A twisted little K/S tale." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Styx and Stones My 2 cents: One part fic, one part meta about K/S and why fans create (yes, really! She pulled it off beautifully), all fluffy feelings.

Styx and Stones (1987)

"Spock awakens in a new land after dying and waits for Jim, who is in a coma following a shuttle crash." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Styx and Stones My 2 cents: I wish I knew what it was like to read this before On Wings of Ice. I'm not saying this was bad or boring - far from it! Hise used a lot of poetic creativity in her depictions - but my brain kept thinking back to On Wings of Ice and that does this story a disservice.

Someone to Watch Over Thee (1988)

"Spock, Kirk, and an ambassador are given aphrodisiacs by the leader of a hedonistic society and itʼs up to the security men to make sure they get who and what they need." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Naked Times #18 CW: rape/noncon elements (your mileage my vary on this, however, I'm noting it out of an abundance of caution) My 2 cents: it's Aliens Made Them Do It but told from the perspective of a Redshirt.

The Gol Letters (1988)

"Apart, Kirk and Spock each write letters to each other, each believing that the other will never read them." [More on Fanlore]; originally published in Naked Times #18 My 2 cents: I personally felt like a pumpkin with its innards scooped out but then became a ball of fluff. Heed that as you will.

More about DVH:

She's both a pillar of the fandom for her prolific work as the publisher and editor for the Pon Farr Press (and its many zines) and for her many works of poetry and fanfic, be they short stories, novellas, or novels. In the professional realm, Hise is perhaps best known for the (in)famous Killing Time. (Really, read the link for (in)famous. DVH certainly got screwed over by that contract, although highlight the text here and she's banking on the reputation of it, lol. DVH, I can never hate you. And peep the other link too for a surprise ♡)

She passed away on March 3, 2021 and is survived by her partner Natasha Solten. (Her AO3 for anyone who wants that directly. The bulk of her Star Trek fics are locked to registered users-only.)

#spirk #k/s #the premise #star trek #star trek tos #della van hise #alexis fegan black #fandom history #fanzine era fanfic #fanzine era fanart #marilyn cole #jackie zoost #natasha solten #now i really need to browse through my other bookmarks and see what else i have been hoarding like some dragon ||orz #going on fanlore dives is really fun. 2 hours pass and you'll have 20+ tabs open to wade through 10/10 use of time #if this gets eaten by tumblr..... god help me i will be recreating this later #i really should make an account on fanlore to help edit things and wrangle links

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ink-n-shadow · 10 months ago

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angel!reader escapes demon!ghosts place and he goes on a whole manhunt please oh please

omg this would definitely take place a day or two after angel was taken down to the Underworld by demon!ghost. like before they get close

[ RUNAWAY ] 𝜗𝜚 the one where angel!reader tries to escape demon!ghost's palace

𝜗𝜚 pairing: broken angel!reader x demon!ghost 𝜗𝜚 cw: angel attempting to escape, demon!ghost chasing after angel, might be slight noncon? (minors—DNI), demon!ghost referring to you as a pet, unedited (as usual) 𝜗𝜚 link to all my works in the demon!ghost au can be found here

you should've known that a demon wasn't really going to help you. the amount of stories and fables you had been told since you were a baby fledgling should've been enough to tell you that demons couldn't be trusted.

and yet here you were, sitting in some swinging gold cage suspended up above what looked to be a seating area of a brooding castle with a still very broken wing. the panic is beginning to course through your veins, making your lungs seize up with each ragged breath you take.

you had to get out of here.

so the next time the demon lowers your cage down onto the floor, leaving the cage door unlocked as he digs through a box of putrid snacks for you to refuse to eat, you make your break for it.

your vision becomes a blur as you whirl through the expansive hallways of whatever palace you're being kept in, wings pulled tight against your body and legs pumping to carry you as quickly as they can.

the demon's following behind you at a leisurely pace, chuckling lowly as he calls out, "ya won't get very far, little fledgling."

and the demon is right. the palace is sprawling, multiple hallways and foyers of doors that seemingly lead nowhere. you're running in circles, tugging on locked handles and banging on windows that seemingly have no latches to even pull them open.

you eventually find a door to the outside world of Hell, scrambling across burnt ashy ground as you claw your way across what you can only hope is the front yard. until you find yourself running through an intricate labyrinth, shrubs of thorny rose bushes and hollyhocks forcing you to stay on a path you could only hope would lead to the exit.

your lungs are burning on Hell's air, eyes stinging from the ash and soot being kicked up by your quick feet. your wings are bristling, tucked close to your body as if to cocoon yourself away from the outside elements.

you don't even know how long you've been running circles in this labyrinth until the exhaustion suddenly catches up to you, limbs turning to molasses and your heaving breaths morphing into wallowing sobs and whimpers. you catch your collapsing body on a marbled statue in the middle of the labyrinth, choking on a sob as you slowly crumble into a pile of twitching muscles and ash.

when the demon eventually catches up to you, you're too burnt out to even try and fight against his clawed hands as he scoops you up into his arms with ease, wiping at the ash and soot slicking your sweaty skin. his fork tongue clicks against his teeth, mixing with a grumbled chuckle as he begins walking back through the labyrinth with practiced ease.

"tried to tell you, didn't i?" the demon murmurs softly, smoothing the unruly hairs in front of your eyes with the fat of his thumb. "ya won't get away from me—i caught you fair 'n fuckin' square. s'okay though, i'll take good care of ya. just might have to make you keep you leashed."

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley headcanons #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #call of duty #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #iNs Simon “Ghost” Riley 💀#iNs demon!ghost ⭒#iNs requests ⭒

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soapcloth · 5 months ago

Text

CW: 18+ MDNI, mech!ghost x pilot!reader, scifi, noncon/dubcon elements, guided masturbation, temperature play, voyeurism - 1.6K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

Another long night in the cockpit.

You could only grin and bear it at this point. Reaching compatibility with your assigned vessel was slowly eating away at your psyche- and worst of all, you couldn’t even leave; not when your prospected affinity levels with the infamous machine had been deemed unprecedented, and certainly not when you knew what happened to deserters.

Conscription was non-negotiable these days; the large colony you had grown up in now ravaged by some otherworldly force and desperately bleeding out resources in response, be it weaponry, rations, or bodies.

The faction had been gifted the GH-05t Mech as an act of goodwill, but ask any official and you’d be informed that the powerful, unused machine would serve better as scrap parts- the real kicker being that they were no longer equipped with the resources or the manpower to dismantle the damned thing.

GH-05t was a battle vessel; had been lauded as a ground-breaker and a boundary-pusher with the integration of an intelligent battle protocol system, all trained posthumously off the stored memories of some long-dead pilot, surely without his consent- Simon, they had named it in an attempt to make it more user friendly and assistant-like in nature.

Hubris. The system failed to run, turning the fully-functional mech into a glorified mountainous paperweight due to all of the instrumental functions being locked behind unresponsive intelligence. You speculated that the machine had passed hands to save face- to keep the public hopeful despite the system refusing to wake up.

-Wake up. You groaned, slapping lightly at your face.

You hated it here, longing for lazy days on the bleak outer walls, surrounded by the buzz of cicadas and rustling long grass as you waited for your father to get back from the drillsite. Your parents had been so proud when officials showed up at your dilapidated front porch, neat suits, shining eyes, and big smiles blissfully ignoring the very same surroundings they had left to rot; all while you reeled internally- shaken by the worst news you had received in your life. It was a death sentence.

It had been years since that day, and you were absolutely sure you had only been given a position like this because of some made-up numbers all while they tried to remind you that you were special, somehow different from your peers.

All damned to the same fate in your eyes.

“-load of shit.” you hissed, rubbing at the uncomfortable neuro-valve hooked into the back of your flight suit. Frustrated, you kicked at the mechanical console snug against your leg, the low rumbling whirr of the machine staying the same in response- apathetic to your misdirected rage.

A moment passed before you finally leaned back in your seat with a grimace.

You still weren’t used to the flight suits in the mech pilot regs. You almost missed the starchy cargo pants that were worn throughout training- both had been unbearably stiff, but at least the latter hadn’t been so form-fitting.It always freaked you out a bit; the pilot suits were more akin to sleek exodermis, responsive and shock absorbent- It felt wrong to have something so foreign covering your entire body; unnatural.

Your hips squirmed in the seat, friction suddenly becoming apparent the more you thought about it. The low tone of your monitored vitals raised gradually with the fuzzy heat beginning to shamefully pool in your gut; making you all too glad these late night bonding-sessions were done in an all but abandoned mech bay- your observed progress dwindling along with your prospects as time went on without result.

Grinding into the seat, you swallowed back the thick saliva coating your mouth, teeth catching on your dry bottom lip as you held back a low, audible shudder; eyes fluttering shut.

The bulky panel separating your legs became all too appealing as you acknowledged the press of it at your sealed cunt, nudging your apex into the blunt peak while your gloved hands curled around the padding of the built-in armrests.

Then, there was a pulse at your core.

Eyes snapping open, you became all too aware that the sensation hadn’t come from your body. Straightening up in your seat you were met with a dull blinking text on the panel that had never been there before-

‘Battle Intelligence System

STATUS: LOADING’

You were rooted in place as you witnessed the glowing, digital bar slowly fill.

‘Battle Intelligence System

STATUS: ONLINE’

You scrambled to pull at the neuro-valve connecting your suit to the mech, only for the small port’s flight locks to engage; a stark hiss emitting from the cockpit door’s airlock.

“Disengage locks.” you commanded, completely lost on what was happening.

There was a low, fractured robotic groan directly in your comms “-Fuck…” the voice was deep, aggressively masculine and breathy in your ear- the sound holding more human emotion than you were prepared to rationalize. “Where am I?”

“-Disengage locks.” you repeated firmly.

“The fuck is this?” he snarled, apparently coming to as he barked out questions, disoriented. “-Who are you- why are you in m’head- Fuck, why can’t I see?”

Your suit was flexing and constricting, going haywire in the confusion. “C-calm down!” you stuttered, a pendulum in your head swinging between gripping dread and the low, heady heat of unmet needs. “Just-Just let me see if I can fix this.”

Panting shakily, you swiped at the flight panel’s screen- spotting something containing the words ‘optical’ and ‘sensors’, you tapped frantically.

There was an audible wince deep in your ear, then a growling hum met with silence.

“M'dead, aren’t I?”

“-You’re a memory bank- not a person.” you asserted, clarification necessary when it came to a massive mobile death machine. ”C-Can you lay off the suit, please?”

A pulsing wave passed the length of your suit as he listened to your embarrassed response over the comms, the sound of his voice bouncing around in your head. “Fuck, bet tha’ feels nice, yeah?”

A whine bubbled at your lips before you could stop it. “I- You’re not l-listening, Simon.”

There was a long silence following your plea- air electric and tense.

“Tha’ name- How do you know it?”

“N-not the point!” you argued, only to be met with a full body squeeze- a threat. “-It’s the name of the o-operating system! P-please!”

He relented, your chest heaving as your muscles released tension.

“Well, if you an'I are so close...”

The screen flashed with a notice.

‘[Main Cockpit Camera Feed - Status: Active]’

Followed by another

‘[Manual Override - Feed Transmission Blocked]’

“-Keep things between us, yeah?”

Your head swivelled around to look for a camera, landing on a lackadaisical red blink coming from right above the reinforced windshield.

“You're a sight, aren’t you?" listening closely, you could hear the audible scroll of the lens focusing.

You frowned. “Let me out-”

You gasped as a cold heat focused at your core, reminding you that your suit’s temperature regulating measures were completely under his control. “-No need for fuss, we were just getting t’know each other.”

“Th…” you paused, panting softly. “-This doesn’t make any sense.”

“What’s not to get, Love?” there was a pause as your seat adjusted forward, bumping your cunt into the console. “Give us a show, yeah?”

You whimpered in response, pressure unbearable.

“Look at you.” he snarled, the deep sound goading your rocking hips onward. “Fuck- Wish I could taste you…”

There was a small noise from the screen that had your heavy lids pulling upwards- database bringing up the low-res file of a soldier.

“-Look at the man doing this to you, love.”

Your lips parted, eyebrows drawing downwards in confusion as you looked at the attached image; a masked man with voids for pupils staring back at you.

“Y-You’re not-” you gasped as a concentrated cold rushed your breast, nipples pearling up uncomfortably at the sensation- the friction of your undergarments and the newly dropping temperatures sending your head soaring as your hips worked at grinding into the blunt metal. ”-not r-real.”

“-I am.” His voice was a sharp, humorous growl that threatened you to challenge his word, followed by a single deep laugh. “Eyes up- on me, love.”

Your head bobbed as you glanced lazily at the file, unable to make any sense of the written data- not that it mattered anyway.

“Think you can finish for me?”

The suit pulsed rhythmically as you practically humped your seat with eyes screwed shut, the humiliation of your current position itching at something unfamiliar deep in your abdomen. With flushed cheeks, you chased the bubbling pot that made a home in your gut; willing it to boil over.

“Look at me.” he ordered. “Need y'to look at me.”

Glancing at the screen in a haze, the exomuscles of your suit flexed in response.

“No- Up.”

your head shot towards the camera, holding contact with the whirring lens as the overstimulation finally became too much- pussy fluttering in euphoria with elbows bracing you, hips pathetically grinding out the high.

Struggling to catch your breath, you slumped back into the chair- gears adjusting your seat back into a comfortable position.

“Good.” the voice in your ear barked, before lowering incrementally. “-Good…”

The screen lit up with a notice that compatibility requirements had been met- although it didn't mean much to you in your state; chest heaving slowly while you tried to make sense of what happened.

“Gonna’ let you out- but this has got to stay our secret, yeah?”

You swallowed, eyelids tugging open as your suit tensed in warning.

“How copy?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Good,” he paused. “-don't need anyone but you poking around up here.”

#was debating whether i should post this or not #i am going to run away from my computer now. maybe flee the planet.#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost #x reader #au #alternate universe #tw noncon #cloth writes

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syluses · 4 months ago

Text

june seems too late

caleb (xia yizhou) x female reader (mc)

for your graduation, caleb takes two weeks off to visit. things don’t go like they should.

▻ cw. noncon elements, pseudo-cest, light smut/nsfw, dark themes, caleb is a yandere what’s new, lots of pining and unrequited love, characters are 18+

▻ notes. hey yall so caleb’s mullet is actually killing me in catch-22. anyways heed the warnings & do enjoy 🤍 you can read this on ao3 (username caked) if you prefer that :3 homeboy is actually insane but i love him he’s precious . 10k words slowburn buckle up. im planning to post lotssss of caleb, raf, and sylus stuff so keep an eye peeled!! :P

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 (๑´ `๑)♡

June comes at a breakneck speed.

Before they step out the door, she’s fussing all over the wrinkle in her robe and worrying that the cap will sit weirdly on her head.

In the car, on the way there, she doesn’t voice any more of her fears lest they intensify, but Caleb spots them all as if they’re written on her face. She fidgets and does not notice the way he looks at her.

Probably for the better, he thinks.

When they part, he gives her a pat on the shoulder (as opposed to rustling her meticulously-styled hair) and tells her not to worry. She’ll do great. This is a big day for her; he pleasantly remembers his own ceremony and urges that hers will be just as smooth.

It seems good enough for her. She’s dragged off by her friend, skipping hand-in-hand, and her nervous giggles ring in his head in a building full of noisy people. It might as well be a little pin dropping in a quiet room.

Sometimes Caleb almost forgets just how much stock that girl- his precious little meimei- puts into him and his words. It stirs something tender in his heart, and then he recalls his true feelings and it twists. Twists like a knife or the bitter truth.

There’s only a couple years between them, and yet during her graduation, Caleb can’t help but feel a sense of pride tug in his chest alongside something deeply bittersweet.

She’ll for sure be spreading her wings now. She’ll for sure be leavin’ him behind.

And he’ll have to say yes to it, that it’s fine with him. Pretend like he doesn’t care. He’s got a natural talent at dissimulating his intriciate, troublesome feelings, but it doesn’t mean he enjoys it. No, sometimes he just wishes she’d… see him. See him for what he truly is and not run in the other direction screaming, who are you and what did you do to my gege?

But that’s selfish, isn’t it? He huffs with a small, wry smile.

While waiting for the event to commence, Gran eagerly watches the stage, and Caleb lowers his head.

She’ll be spreading her wings for real, an inner voice murmurs again, rubbing it in his face. And then she’ll fly away. Never come back to you. Leave our nest to make a new one.

That, oh, that thought— Caleb’s not a generally angry person, but that has choler flaring in his chest... Imagining somebody standing by her side that isn’t him fills him with a darkness he cannot label. But he’s trying to be good, a good older brother. He’s been… trying for so long, and…

Even if he knows deep down that if he doesn’t do something, she’ll fly away—

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Gran says beside him. She tucks her hand in the crook of his strong arm and he returns half the dimpled smile on her face.

Her words cannot be truer. His little sister is breathtaking; it’s the kind of beauty that will bring a man to his knees and plant soft longing in his heart. Evidently, though, it’s not the kind of beauty to bring a dog to heel…: she’s like a bowl of kibble and something rotten in him salivates at the smell of it.

It’s funny, you know, how much of a hypocrite he is. He gives her the saddest puppy eyes to get what he wants but there’s a big mean dog hiding in his heart. Barking and wanting.

Caleb curses himself. On the outside, he hums fondly. “Always. Hm… To be able to say I’m her big brother feels like an accomplishment in itself. I’m real proud’a her.”

Gran’s not looking at him; all eyes in the auditorium, including his, are leveled towards the stage and the spotlight raining over students shuffling in gowns. Caleb is thankful for that. Caleb has had a distinct self awareness since middle school, and he knows better than to let the love in his eyes- the kind that’s not entirely brotherly- reveal itself to any onlookers.

He’s kept on his toes by all the secrets he walks with. He’s kept on his toes by her.

“I can’t believe this day has come,” the elderly woman beside him (not tied to him by any biological means, but he loves her regardless) holds a tissue to her eyes and fights a teary smile. Caleb, utterly entranced by the familiar figure slowly inching closer to the podium and administrator, gives a noncomittal hum to show he’s heard, but his heart is knocking at the sight of his little sister. He can’t stop it. He can’t even slow it.

“Ah, my sweet girl…” (And why her sorrow-tinged, doting words echo some of the ones he keeps to himself, Caleb stopped caring.)

Gran, still not glancing at her adopted boy (albeit, there is close to nothing about Caleb that now resembles a boy), takes his large hand in her wrinkled one. Her free one dabs away an elusive tear.

“It’ll be even harder to see once she moves out and all. I’m sure she’ll want to keep exploring the world. I just… I just hope she visits more than you do, dear,” her voice warbles with sadness, but she’s only teasing him out of love.

A breathy, uneven laugh escapes his pursed lips. Caleb swallows thickly, “Yep. But that’s natural, wantin’ to find new opportunities and such... She’s really coming outta her shell, isn’t she? And… she’d better visit,” he says playfully, “The dinner table would feel awfully quiet without her during the holidays, huh?”

He’s not conscious of half the things he’s saying, operating under autopilot: robotically, he speaks in the voice of a teasing, somewhat protective older brother and nobody bats an eye to it.

On the inside, his feelings experience endless turbulence.

But he’d miss her if she left, that’s for certain. Words could never do him justice. He’s never exactly deserved that, though, has he?

He smiles to himself. Pathetic.

He told a nosey friend, once, that he had lost his marbles long ago. He’d said it with a smile- a genuine one, too- and as if it was no big deal. Because Caleb reconciled with his sin nature long ago.

He’s so proud of his meimei. So caught up by her.

Wants to marry her. Wants to blow all his pilot earnings on a big glittering ring for her precious little finger, wants to make all those childhood games, the ones where he played the dad and she the mom, come to life. Oh, if he’s being perfectly honest, he wants to—

“Caleb, honey, are you coming?”

A papery hand gives his bicep a gentle squeeze beneath his button-up. He’s pulled from his reveries and he blinks, noting the crowd as it begins to thin out and the stage that meimei has stepped off of. “She’ll be waiting for us, I’m sure. And nervous,” she explains with a light laugh, “but I think she’s very excited, too.”

(So excited to start your new life apart from me, huh, sis?)

The lower half of his face reshapes into a small smile as he looks down at Gran and nods with reassurance. He’s so good at providing consolation to others but somehow consistently fails to do so during his lone moments of self-reflection.

“I’d promised her I’d treat her to some ice cream at that new stall that just opened up,” he chuckles, and this time it does harbor some real mirth there, his eyes lighting, “I honestly think she was more excited for a special dessert than her own graduation.”

Gran laughs at that, too.

Then, he’s led away. Led to her and happy as a child.

After the ceremony ends, his very real fears of her suddenly leaving are put to rest for a moment when she leaps into his arms- just as she did when they were younger- and locks him in a hug.

He’ll always be a willing prisoner, in that regard. A slave to her affections and the strange sickness that rears its head in the pit of his stomach even when he tries his best to drown it.

She’s his lifering. The one thing keeping him afloat.

He looks over his shoulder, back at the shore. There’s a striking realization that he’s been dragged so far from it… And then he looks back out to sea.

Sometimes, Caleb thinks he’s closer to the point where the waves converge on the endless horizon than he is to dry land. And that’s fine with him. Because Meimei is holding his hand, doggy-paddling beside him.

He knows he shouldn’t try to drag her under. But sometimes, that’s all he fucking wants. For her to feel this way, too.

What a selfish gege.

✷✷✷

Caleb’s frame is hugged by an intense, golden light. Windchimes tinkle in the breeze and bring a nexus of soothing sounds.

The air is balmy. Unsmistakably summer.

You kick a pebble from your shoe and look over to Caleb with a small smile, his long legs keeping an even pace with you despite your slower one and all the dillydallying. The sun flares off one side of his head and it’s so bright you have to squint.

“It’s nearly time for dinner, you know,” even as he reminds you, he can’t fight off the grin playing at his own lips. It’s not exactly like he wants to truncate this moment with you, but hunger is creeping up on you both just as sundown is, and this brisk walk is urging it out. Your belly has voiced as much. After his laugh had died down, Caleb showed his concern but sighed when you brushed it off.

“It’s fine,” you tell him again. “I’m not fully dependent on snacks, you know,” and a dirty voice in the back of his head, a very dark corner, accuses, then what do you depend on? “We won’t starve if we eat one hour later... I mean, how hungry are you?” You poke.

(A lot. So much, Meimei.)

A casual smile curls his lips. Everything about him is so outwardly relaxed when he’s with you; it’d take some intense scrutiny to pick up on the little tells of restlessness he constantly shoehorns down inside him.

Anything to protect you though, right? Even if that means from himself.

He replies with thought, “Ehh… I guess walking a little farther wouldn’t hurt,” he shrugs with one shoulder, a teasing edge to his voice because those old habits die hard.

“Just don’t tell me to carry you if your feet start to hurt, pipsqueak.”

“Hah. As if! You know, I’ve been training a lot. Those hunter exams might even be harder than the Aviation’s.” Your light banter is rewarded with a small, incredulous laugh and a playful raise of his brow. Right now, he looks so boyish, youth lighting his face even as you pass under the tinsel-like leaves of a shady willow tree. “I’m serious, Caleb! My body’s probably more endurant than yours now.”

A challenge is brewing, and the signs are obvious. The anticipating glint in his eye, the slight posturing in his steps and the downright valorous grin you pin at him— all are suggestive of an upcoming game. He just has to throw his own hat over the wall to officially mark its start.

Of course, he does just that.

“Oh, really now?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle with amusement. He gives his head a tilt. “Are you trying to provoke me, sis? ‘Cause I’ll have you know that these muscles aren’t just for show...”

With a pout, you give his arm, thick and fully exposed under the frayed fabric of his tank, a harmless shove. Caleb’s heart has an anomalistic skip and his bicep tingles. It takes a considerable amount of effort to not snatch your little wrist up and force you to do it again.

“Oh, c’mon, you may be all big and strong now, but all that muscle will just slow you down.” (You’re getting him all sorts of riled up today, aren’t you? It’s good to know you look at him, that you acknowledge the man he’s become.)

“Do you wanna test that theory? We could do a race,” he suggests simply, a fluctuation of excitement in his voice betraying itself. “Because I’m ready to go right now.”

You huff, competitive as ever. “Oh, we’ll see about that!”

You roll your cropped sleeves an inch over your shoulders (as if to replicate his sleeveless tee) and Caleb watches with humor as they unfurl immediately. You dart your head around and land on a streetlamp at the end of the quiet, cobbled path.

”There,” you point, “that light over there will be the finish line. You have to touch it before the other person does or you lose. You’ll be a rotten egg.”

“You’re so childish.”

“You’re racing too, y’know.”

“Alright, alright,” he easily surrenders, lifting his palms up. Truthfully, he has no intentions of backing out now, try as he might to pretend he’s not equally invested in this as you. He sets his feet behind a crack in the paved stone, right beside yours, and nonchalantly prepares himself for liftoff. “But when I win—“

“Your toe’s in front of the line, Gege! Don’t think I didn’t see it!”

“—Don’t go cryin’ to Gran like old times and ignore me for the rest of the day, okay?”

A fleeting pink colors your cheeks, flowering across your face like a bruise at the mention. “Geez,” you deflect bashfully, “You’re so caught up in the past, Caleb.”

The accusation isn’t unwarranted. Your older brother has this strange penchant to keep all your childhood traits like a bag of tokens in his back pocket, forever ready to pull one out on a whim.

His gaze lowers for a moment at your innocuous teasing, and you watch with a mix of confusion and guilt as an offhand sadness weighs in his expression.

You open your mouth, about to find something to remedy the ever so slight shift in the air, but he lifts his head and his eyes are cheerful. Sunny and bottomless.

He looks at you infinitely. It’s as startling as it is endearing.

Your brow relaxes when you give him a once-over and sense no lingering sorrow there, or any evidence that it even appeared to begin with. Maybe it’s just the heat getting to you.

“Well,” he smiles, teasing to a fault. “You ready, or… do you plan on chickenin’ out? I’ll let you if you admit defeat right now. Otherwise, don’t be a sore loser.”

You wave him off and level your eyes forward. “Psssh, sore loser….” Thrill beats in your ears with a rushing current of blood. You plant your hands to the gritty cobblestone and lean forward.

“The moment you agreed,” your little grin sparks back to life, “you lost, Gege.”

Oh, and he is just the rotten egg, isn’t he? The perverted dud and the lying, selfish asshole.

The wormy apple.

✷✷✷

There’s just some things in life you can never quite wipe from your memory.

Here’s one: The first time Caleb was called a sister-fucker.

He remembers that day and how condemning it felt. Like he’d been made the object of some irrevocable curse. It was unwarranted, it was: some stupid playground bullies were mouthing off after he rushed to your rescue for the umpteenth time, and the word flew like a witch would on a broom. Caleb was not prepared for that stab in his little heart.

That was in middle school, and he was angry. Ashamed, too. All sorts of clashing feelings, really. Those little brats said the f-word in front of you, his innocent little meimei, and to make matters worse, Caleb was not sure if the majority of his anger should lie with their accusation or his inability to determine whether it was grounded or not.

He was hardly fourteen, then, and you were twelve. He never laid his hands on you that way. No, never thought about it. He hardly had the capacity to, at that time.

At that time.

But that moment stayed with him,… and that dirty, dirty epithet was one that remained around the block until one day something peaked in him- that shame climbing to its point- and he beat it from their mouths.

It never did end up getting back around to you. For a number of reasons, Caleb is glad for that. Just to name a couple: It saved him from the flaming red ears, and the awkward chat the bird-and-the-bees topic surely would have been.

When it got around to Gran, though…

‘Caleb, dear, is there…’ The elderly woman, for all her experience in fostering children, was not exactly sure how to broach the subject- which was oddly risqué, and downright horrifying it if were to be true- with her young boy.

But she didn’t think it was true: sure, the two were exceptionally close, she trailed him like a lost puppy and he had some underlying impulse to anchor himself beside her at any given time, but they laughed and played and Caleb was always the archetype of a- sometimes cheeky, sometimes clingy- older brother.

Their behavior was considered very normal for their circumstances, she’d thought. They seemed inseparable upon the first meet. With their close bond came the occasional spat and meaningless argument, but that only served as more proof of their strictly sibling dynamic, too.

Gran thought about it for only a moment before finding her peace, and shortly after her words.

‘Why are those boys saying such things? What did you do to make them have it out for you?’ She was gentle but firm with him. Caleb was not afraid of her; just maybe the awful, creeping feeling in his gut that told him he was in the wrong after all.

‘N-Nothin’, Gran… They got upset because I wouldn’t let them pick on Meimei… Don’t worry though, I covered her ears so she wouldn’t hear them.’

But it’s not like he ever imagined actually laying his hands on you— L-Let alone fucking. Even as a boy, he had the sound-enough subconscious to shut away those fleeting, invasive thoughts and put some space between you two when he was feeling… extra confused.

Caleb’s twenty-one now, though. And you’re nineteen and things are different. Those tender, innocent feelings of love from your shared youths- the one-sided romance of your bond- has by now fully realized itself. It’s bled out into ruby-red fingers of desire like watercolor on a page, and they grasp Caleb tight. Refuse to let go. He’s not a boy anymore. And he’s not particularly kind anymore, either. His softness is a luxury that only you’re entitled to but every touch feels like a beatdown because of it.

Yeah he might be overbearing sometimes but you’re just as abrasive. You cut him in ways you could never know.

But Caleb’s not a sister-fucker. He’s not.

And he’s not all the shame associated with that title and the big fat cluster of intricate emotions like guilt, loneliness, and terrible, terrible longing… H-He’s not.

No— He hasn’t even fucked you yet.

✷✷✷

Two weeks. Caleb is allotted two weeks off from his responsibilities at the Aerospace Academy to spend the start of summer with you.

Late June marks your graduation and the beginning of an exciting break the both of you had been planning for months to share. Between a taxing schedule and study papers that pile up if he so much as thinks about holding off on them, Caleb is a bit pressed for free time. He’d been counting down the days until he arrived back in Linkon.

Now that it’s finally here- your mini summer ‘vacation’, as you’d called it- he won’t take any of it for granted.

He’s savored every little moment with you since childhood- no stranger to the sentimental. But as you emerge from your bedroom with a cute bikini with a white frilly skirt that hardly covers your ass, Caleb decides this memory needs to be given a little extra care.

You flutter past him and down the hall, sheepishly nodding for him to follow, and he realizes he’s been staring a little too long without saying anything. He plasters on a nonchalant grin and sticks his hands in the pockets of his swim trousers. “Okay, sis…” He compliments in his tone.

“You, uh… you ready to go now?” He asks, propping himself against the kitchen arch to watch you pour yourself some water. He reminds that there’s juice in the fridge and you quickly forego the tap. He chuckles at that.

You try to hide a shy smile from him, too much energy in your heels to not sway as you move around the kitchen. There’s a small ball of nerves in your belly and you can’t help but feel a bit naked in your two-piece. You bought it because you’d thought it was adorable, but truthfully you feel a bit out of place- under scrutiny, maybe- as you uncap the fruit juice.

“I’m ready,” you announce casually. “But did you see my bathing suit?”

“W-What about it? Yeah, it… looks nice.” He answers a bit breathlessly.

You look over your shoulder before picking up your glass and marching over. His gaze flutters when you do, like he’s bracing himself for something. In stature, he’s nothing like the round-faced kid you grew up with, standing over six feet tall with lean muscle to hug his broad frame, but right now, he looks almost boyish with anticipation.

On the way to him, you stuff down that inexplicable kernel of unease. You pretend your pulse isn’t fastening, too.

A quasi reaction of fight-or-flight stirs in your chest. For the life of you you don’t know why. Maybe you don’t wanna know.

You smile. Gege, solid arms folded over his muscled chest, regards you with a strange look. It disappears under a veneer of brotherly charm— gone like a feverish hot flash of something unreal.

You stop a few inches in front of him. “See?” You chirp, piking your shoulder up for him to observe. “The red polka dots are actually apples. Since you like them so much.”

After a pause- one that seems to stretch infinitely but is actually only brief- you watch Caleb’s cheeks turn to rubies. Heat flares at his ears.

He sets his jaw and lets out a small scoff, eyes flitting everywhere. “W-What are you sayin’, pipsqueak? You got it… just for me?”

“Ugh, no, Caleb!” You giggle with a hint of disbelief. “I just thought it was cute but wanted to show you.”

With an annoyed pout, you spin away from him and head for the island. On top of it, a cooler sits, its lid open. You nurse from your icy drink as you wedge a variety of cold beverages and the sandwiches he made at the bottom.

“Yeah, yeah,” he recollects himself and joins you at the counter, coming to your aid without prompting. “Well, I think it’s cute too. But don’tcha think it’s a little… showy? I’ll be sweating bullets the whole time we’re at the beach.”

You laugh under your breath, only half paying attention. Certainly not to the intense glint in his eye as he watches your profile, anyway. “Why? And you won’t be sweating if we’re in the water.”

“I don’t want any guys gettin’ the wrong idea,” he lilts, but there’s a notable tinge of seriousness there. “Thinkin’ my pipsqueak isn’t off limits.”

A soft pink warms your cheeks this time. “It’s fine, Caleb,” you murmur, dutifully ignoring his gaze- which you are now exceedingly aware of. “Everyone’ll be minding their own business- they’ll hardly be looking at me.”

Wryly, Caleb closes the cooler and raises his brow.

“Doubt it.”

He seems as if he has a lot more to say, but apparently holds off on it.

When you return home, it’s close to five and Gran has finished her errands. She sits in the living room on the lovechair, holding a cushion on her lap as she watches the news.

You hardly have time to greet her on the way down the hall: you bump shoulders and race with Caleb for the bathroom shower. Maybe he’s going a little easy on you (per usual), but you’re too tunneled in on reaching it in time to scold him for it.

“Ladies first!” You say with victory, grinning through the crack in the door as it groans with pressure, halfway open. Caleb crams his elbow in it to show he won’t give up so easily. You’re met with his bunched brow, his sun-dried, messy hair and a grudging smile he can’t quite fight off.

“Be a good gege and wait your turn!” You tell him.

The title weakens him. His hand falters and you manage to shut the door. The lock clicks softly.

“Alright, alright,” his voice sounds muted from the other side. His footsteps, retreating down the hallway after a belated few seconds, emit defeat.

Maybe some frustration, too.

Either that, or his feet have just gotten heavy.

“But if you use up all the hot water,” he warns, “I won’t let you help me with dinner. Just remember that. And let’s be real, I know you’re hungry.”

Well, he has you beat there. Maybe he knows you just as well as you do him.

It’s an endearing thought, actually; as the warm water pours, you slough away the sticky layer of sea salt and the sand glued to it with a smile. Once these two weeks are over, you’ll go right back to your normal life: your brother will return to the clouds and you’ll have to pretend, between a steady stream of pining texts and phonecalls meant to check in on you, that you don’t miss your gege. Even if sometimes, all you want is to leap back into time and hold his hand, cower behind his shoulder to escape the daunting fear of growing up.

You have responsibilities now. Dreams you’re meant to follow. You’ll train to be a hunter and then officially enroll into their program. Caleb will become a bonafide pilot within a couple months, achieving his lifelong dream, and might leave you in his proverbial contrails.

It’ll be just you and Gran, until you pack your boxes for an apartment downtown closer to your future workplace. Family will become a distant memory, a fading speck on the horizon or a phantom pain that tugs at your heart.

But… maybe that’s just what growing up means. Letting go of everything behind you. Caleb would certainly be able to relate with the sentiment that- other than each other and Gran- there was little to hold onto in the first place.

But… You’re not so sure about all of it. Maybe you’ll have to ask your gege for advice around the dinner table. You have no clue what will happen a month or year down the line, and to be perfectly honest that terrifies you, but for now—

You’ll make the most of this break with him and Gran all together.

✷✷✷

Half of it flies by in a blur.

Movie nights with buttery popcorn and long strolls by Bloomshore turn into fuzzy lines as soon as you look back at them. Once-quiet suppers with just you and Gran are revived with the cheerful presence of your brother, and the cabinets are filled with new snacks the two of you buy on impulse to test out.

You chase him around your cozy, childhood home demanding he deletes those awful pics of you- and the woman who took you both in as children calls from the couch for him to stop terrorizing you already.

He always swears it’s in good fun, but submits to your whining. Not without a flick to your forehead, though. It never hurts, but you make sure to stick your tongue in his face.

Evenings are spent on the floor by the coffee table.

Caleb busts out an old, wooden box from the closet and speaks in a wistful tone as you pass nostalgic photos and yellowed notes between each other. You’re about to poke at him for being so sentimental, but you spot a little mist in his eyes, so you refrain.

There’s six days left, tonight.

Neither of you remind the other of this ticking clock of sorts, but sometimes it will get quiet after a bout of laughter and you think you can feel it in the blanketing tension— the wordless countdown to zero.

X amount of days until I leave for Skyhaven. And, X amount of days until Caleb leaves us again.

You can hear it snicking like a stopwatch- and not the one Caleb wears.

A fan on the floor cools the balmy evening, but just a little.

You lie on your belly- utterly stuffed from another delicious meal- on his bed while he assembles a model. It’s some aircraft that you can’t hope to remember the name of, but he’s always gravitated towards that kind of thing, in more ways than one.

You kick your feet and moan with boredom when his eyes take on a very concentrated look and he hunches over the figure in his hands. He pokes his tongue out the corner of his mouth, he’s so engrossed.

Many minutes seem to pass. “Are you almost done, Caleb? We were ‘sposed to watch a movie tonight.”

Without glancing up, he chuckles lightly. “Be patient, pipsqueak. You know, it’ll go faster if you help me out here,” he suggests, nodding towards a few wayward pieces on the edge of the mattress. He scoops them up before they call fall off.

”Or are ya just gonna watch me do all the work?” He looks up to you and smiles. It’s soft. Smitten, almost.

You huff. “Fine. Okay, I’ll help.”

“Knew ya wouldn’t leave me hangin’.”

Seemingly pleased, his purple eyes stare for a moment longer before lowering. They remind you of the nebula sometimes: all bottomless and resplendent, and sometimes they get a little starry if you catch them for too long.

You’ve seen them darken like black holes before, though; some deep chasm taking over whenever his protectiveness flares up or he asks you, with his hand held tightly in yours, who made you cry. Then, he’s a force to be reckoned with, devoid of warmth and sharp-edged.

“Caleb, can I… ask you something?”

Caleb glances up immediately. Noting the sobriety of your expression and the lack of playfulness in your tone, he gives a quick nod. He lowers the half-constructed model- the one his hands absolutely dwarf- as if it’s no longer important.

“Of course,” he says. He gives his head a little reassuring tilt. “If there’s anything you’re curious about, you can tell me.”

You let out a small sigh. “Will you visit again? Visit more, I mean?”

He blinks and appears contemplative for a few seconds. Yet, you get the strange feeling that it’s less him trying to formulate an answer and more like he’s trying to figure out just what prompted your asking in the first place.

“Sure, whenever I get time,” he answers with a simple shrug. “You know I wish I could be here all the time, sis… For you and Gran,” but mostly you, he doesn’t clarify, “but the Academy is no joke. I need to work hard if I want to get in.”

His endless scores of A’s and A-pluses reflect his convictions. It’s really only one subject he can’t find it in him to master: Those damned, annoying mental wellness checks. (He thinks that all those less than reputable scores— they don’t reflect him, they reflect you.)

He smiles. “Then, I’ll be able to really support us.”

“Yeah…” You sigh softly after a beat. “But, like… what if you stop visiting? You’ll find a girlfriend and then never come to see me and Gran again,” you mask your very real concerns with a weak laugh.

Caleb’s brow gives a little twitch.

His expression falls, then, like swirling grey clouds that nudge aside white fluffy ones. Something in your chest seizing, you understand it’s disgust that rewrites his pleasant visage.

You just… don’t know why.

“Why would I get a girlfriend?”

You stare on with confusion. For a moment, you feel stunned because you’ve never seen him make that face before.

It takes an extra second or two to lasso in your rationale and laugh. “Well, you’re like twenty-something now. Isn’t that just what happens? You’ll find a girlfriend and I guess I’ll find a boyfriend. I mean, I bet Gran will be happy too if one of us brings home some babies—“

A derisive scoff cuts you off. “Babies?” He throws back, peering up at you through long lashes. He takes on the perfect Kubrick stare.

The scathing sound of his voice and the shadowy look in his eyes is more than enough to zip your lips. “Don’t you think we’re a little too young for that? Besides, we don’t have to do anything right now… If we want to stay single, that’s perfectly fine.”

A few moments of uninterrupted silence pass and leave you with no choice but to reflect on your actions. You inwardly ask yourself if you did something wrong. It certainly feels that way.

You give your throat an inaudible clear. “I was just teasing, Caleb, geez,” you brush off his intense stare by looking down.

The aircraft model looks big and unbreakable in your grasp, a far cry from how it appears when held in his. You distract yourself from the startled beating of your heart by rotating it in your hand.

“Y-You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

You don’t meet his eye when saying that, not when he’s regarding you like you’re little more than prey or tomorrow’s dinner. No, you don’t dare to.

Gege is reliable by nature. But you suppose he can exhibit his fair amount of ‘intimidating’ when need be.

You feel an unseen weight lift off your shoulders (when they became cowed, you don’t know) when Caleb heaves a sigh.

He’s apologetic, “Sorry, sis. You’re right. Talking about it just… freaks me out a little. I mean, I barely have the time to even think about it, let alone prepare.” He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for your input.

When you look back up at him, it’s as if nothing ever happened. As if he never changed.

His eyes beam like indigo gems, sunny and unaffected. He leans forward to pat your head and it takes a strangely high amount of effort to not flinch under the weight of his palm.

If he notices, his mild expression doesn’t betray any signs.

“Why, what’s up?” He quirks a playful brow. “You’re not… Seeing someone, are you?” Caleb questions with a light laugh, hands moving to fold over the plastic plane in his hands, though his gaze remains level on you. Glued there like he physically cannot take it off until you provide him with an answer.

“Did my pipsqueak fall in love with some boy while I was gone?”

A harsh gust of wind escapes you at that. A laugh, you realize, or what’s supposed to be a laugh. You resume inserting pieces into place, adamant on building the miniature aircraft.

Your cheeks feel toasty. He’s managed to make you feel startled, ashamed, and bashful all within the span of a minute or two. It’s as impressive as it is whiplash-inducing.

Your gege is watching you very carefully as you lower your chin and purse your lips. “No…” you say sheepishly. “If I did, I’d be spending the summer with him instead of you,” you tease.

That proclamation rings loud in Caleb’s ears like a gunshot bang.

She’ll spread her wings, and fly away.

He should be joyous that there is still an absence of that ‘special someone’ in your life, that he indeed is the one spending the prelude to summer with you.

But all he feels is a lump of dread forming in his belly.

It fattens and makes it hard to breathe. She’ll spread her wings and fly away. Leave you in her dust and all the memories. All the love.

”Yeah? Well, consider me lucky then.”

Something in his chest plummets. Too rapid to catch it. Too monstrous to hope to.

He lets it sink. Feels himself going with it. It’s getting so hard to hold out, Meimei. But don’t look at him with those eyes of wide startle. It’s still the Caleb you loved from your childhood, your beloved Gege.

Just with a whole lotta love that you couldn’t even begin to fucking fathom.

…Six days. Six days left.

He’s been granted a final, measly six days to change your mind and convince you that he’s still got a place in your life, in your heart. That it’s reserved only for him.

An uncanny smile warps Caleb’s lips.

“I’ll always visit,” he assures. “And don’t worry, sis… Once I get a girlfriend, you’ll definitely be the first one to know, okay?” He chuckles, a pleasant sound.

A pretty smile smooths out the remnant lines of uncertainty in your face. “Okay. And… I can visit you in Skyhaven, too?”

Delirious excitement blips across purple eyes, his grin too bright.

“Sure,” he cheerfully agrees. “Even better.”

✷✷✷

White dots his vision like a light leak seconds before you barge in.

That tight knot, the one that had been wrapping his stomach in threads of want and frustration and need, begins to unfurl at full pelt, and Caleb quivers as it happens.

Those academy girls could never quite compete with his pumping fist or the swirling thoughts in his head he gets himself off to. But he supposes they served their purposes where they could— in those moments of foolish thinking where he thought they could heal him and needed to at least make an attempt. To clear his conscious, if nothing else.

(Spoiler alert, a humored voice in his head says dryly. They didn’t. And of course they didn’t. They were never his precious little Meimei. That’s no one’s fault but his own for believing he could get ‘better.’

No. ‘Better’ is you. It always has been.)

He’s learned from all that, though. Played all those games- and people- ‘til they tuckered him out.

Relief bowls through him. That’s just what he needs, isn’t it? A little help. He’s never considered these short-lived sessions of fucking his fist a way to summon pleasure, no- although that is very much present when he does- but rather as a kind of damage control.

He’s too pent up and needy. He needs to take the edge off, somehow, lest some of that frustration teems over when he’s talking to you and he messes up. Messes up in a way he can’t fix.

After all, he’s entitled to his own self-soothing mechanisms, isn’t he?

Or… what, is he just meant to deny himself of that, too?

Caleb bites down on a deep moan and shakes.

Pleasure courses through his veins and builds to a high peak, certainly not one he can hope to climb down from in the short time it takes you to run down the hall and into his bedroom.

“Caleb, guess what—“

And, you know, it’s already embarrassing as is, being interrupted in a personal moment and caught in such a compromising position, but what makes it worser is when it’s your own little sister who walks in to find you with your cock in your hand.

What makes it… mortifying?

When she hears you saying her name during it.

When she gasps, her eyes losing their initial glitter as they flit down, his cock gives a shameless throb and Caleb can’t decipher if the lurch in his belly is from disgust or newfound arousal.

Either way, he realizes his nakedness and scrambles to fold the sheets over it.

(Bit too late for that though, huh?)

With labored breaths, he makes a sound akin to a whimper, voice thin and pained, and lets his jaw hang dumbly.

You seem to cotton on to reality once more, because you finally take a step back- a shaky, belated one- and begin to retreat into the sunlit hallway.

Evening casts a cherry-orange glow on the white walls that flickers when you backstep into one of the beams filtering from the window. It makes you look fiery and almost hellish. But he’s a sinner. A sinner by nature and so you’re inviting.

(And he came to terms with his sin nature long ago. Sometimes it just feels like he’s waiting on you.)

His love— so deep and fervent, spread in the pit of his being like apple seeds, tearing him apart from the core— brings endless guilt, maybe, but not regret. No, nothing is regrettable about you. And he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry, Meimei, that he’s a monstrous liar and he desperately wishes it wasn’t like this, that you could see him separate from a brother, but—

He can’t stop. He can’t stop.

And there’s a certain instant… where he’s had to pause and really look at himself and ask if he truly wants to.

What he feels for you is suffocating. Like an eldritch river beast snatching his ankle and dragging him down hopeless, louring depths. But he pictures your face in perfect peace and wears your locket close to his heart. He loves you endlessly. Would do it all for you.

Just… Maybe pretending he doesn’t feel what he feels for you isn’t apart of that equation.

He senses your departure with a stab of inexplicable panic. “Meimei,” he quickly stammers, reaching out with his free hand.

His other hand, the one with wet, dripping knuckles, sticky with his own seed, darts to hide behind him, placing a proverbial cloth over his sin.

He has half the brain that already wants to mitigate this situation as it plays out in front of him in real-time, and he’s all but praying a ‘clean-up’ of sorts is viable here...

The scale doesn’t quite seem to be tipping in his favor though and honest to God, he’s not surprised. He deserves it if anything, for being such a selfish, awful big brother. Oh, doesn’t he know.

You look horrified, and you are. It feels as if you’ve been splashed with cold water. Your chest warms like a hearth and tightens, but your limbs frost over. Icy-hot shock keeps you moored in the threshold of his bedroom door with wide, fluttering eyes.

“Wait, don’t go, i-it’s not—“

A feeble lie. Wholly unconvincing.

You’re naive to a fault, that’s been true since you were kids, and too kindhearted for your own good, but this is not a matter wherein you can feign ignorance... It’s not one where you’re running into his arms, either.

No, you look… afraid as you back away from him. Like his arms come dead last on the list of places you want to be.

Paired with the mute horror is abashment. A vivid pink glazes your cheekbones and Caleb, guiltily, thinks you look very pretty (albeit, he can’t remember there ever being a time where he didn’t think that).

You recollect just enough of your composure to pick up your jelly legs and maneuver them out.

The door clicks shut and the sound is too soft to warrant the tempest gusting through his chest. His heart thrums at racehorse speeds.

He said your name, Meimei (or more accurately, moaned it), and you heard it. He came, and you saw that, too- fountaining over the backs of his fingers like white water rapids. You… saw it all. Saw him.

A niggling feeling stirs inside him. Filthy and blinding but brief. It passes like a car in the night, there and then gone.

A voice purrs to life in the back of his head, one of greed and frustration. One of miserable longing. He listens to it for a moment, and it brings him catharsis.

The loneliness constantly enveloping him like fog at a mountain’s foot seems to thin out, but just a little... It allows some wiggle room for a warped sense of accomplishment to settle.

Because you saw him.

(And isn’t that all he ever wanted?)

Slowly, Caleb licks his dry lips and hazily notes the twitch of his cock against his wet abdomen. It’s flushed an angry red as it crawls back to life, but Caleb tucks it under the waistband of his boxers and contemplates his next move.

You’ll be in disarray, in shock, in a boiling pot of disgust and the likely, self-sabotaging questions of, is this somehow my fault? Maybe he’ll even capitalize off them— screwed-up, pathetic gege he is.

But you saw him and there’s just no denying it and now there’s no hiding place for him either. Not anymore.

This truth… you can both navigate it together.

There’s a pulsating mix of terror, guilt, and scorching excitement that takes the breath from his lungs as he lies back down. Relief moves in a thin undercurrent in his blood, reassuring him that it’ll be okay. Somehow, it will.

Little devils perch on either of Caleb’s shoulders. He feels a very odd sense of calm wash over him. You saw it. So…

Do you accept it?

He thinks you might just have to. For your gege’s sake, if nothing else. Because Meimei, this has been killing him for far too long.

Relieve him, why don’t you?

✷✷✷

His vacation of sorts is coming to a close.

Caleb blinks, and a few days scurry underfoot like mice— too quick to stop or comprehend. He steps on the tail ends of them, but they escape anyway.

You’ve been avoiding him.

Stowing yourself away in your bedroom and locking the door just in case he tries to come in; you don’t exactly expect him to come barging in like you did, especially not after what you’d seen, but you’d rather be safe than sorry.

You’re not afraid of your gege, you’re not. You never have been. But these past few days have felt nothing short of hellish.

You tell Gran you’re not feeling well when she asks why you’ve been skipping family dinners. She leaves a water bottle by the door with a tiny orange pill on top and believes you.

Sure, you told your tall tale or two growing up, and Caleb always had your back when you needed to cover up a small wrongdoing, but this is… different. To pretend that nothing is happening right now- or that it’s all fine- would be more than just a white lie.

Something is wrong with your Gege. Terribly.

You… don’t know what to do.

You love him. And you hate him, hate him in a way you never could when he used to steal your snacks as a child or conveniently forget to unlock the attic hatch.

These battling feelings only serve to complicate the situation further; your stomach is a war-ground of guilt, sorrow, and a disgust that viciously razes your wellbeing to the dirt.

How could you do this, Caleb? You think to yourself, curled up on your side, nuzzling into a heap of pillows. You’re under the illusion that this was an overnight thing. That he up and decided just a couple days ago to do the unthinkable- the reprehensible- and vocalize your name in the act. You don’t why he did it. What he was thinking. But whatever the reason could be, perhaps you don’t want to know.

Your own Gege….

Anger beats in your chest. Fear, too- making your belly toss with sickness. Now the future is more blurry than ever, and the one person you always leaned on for counsel has all but spat in your face. That’s what it feels like, at least. Like betrayal.

Hours drag by and you fall victim to endless swarms of butterflies, but not the good kind. The anxious kind. They fly in droves and absolutely piece you apart.

Guilt lances at your heart as you curse him in your head, and you hate that despite it all, you still feel the undercurrents of love for him.

For the entirety of your childhood, he was your shield. Your best friend, your protector, and the one person in the whole entire world you could always count on- perhaps more than Gran- to be there for you. Your teasing but well-meaning older brother. Now, you realize just how strong that sentiment is, because it stubbornly remains. Even now as you clench your teeth and hold back tears.

It’s buried under layers of hurt, though. A feeling of betrayal that pierces bone-deep and spreads all over.

He’s sick. Depraved. A voice in a dark cranny of your brain whispers, bitter and scared. But these new, scathing adjectives you assign your gege are just as surprising as they are uncertain, because no matter how many times you mentally call him a sick monster, your heart sings a weak song against it.

No. No, he’s not a monster. He’s your Gege.

Maybe you can fix this, somehow.

Maybe… Maybe it was a misunderstanding after all! Some rotten delusion you experienced fueled by the summer heat and the humid haze of late June. Even if it wasn’t- maybe you’d just be content to pretend it was. You’ll seal your little pinky with his and he’ll make a vow to never bring it up again; you’ll accept a lie, even, if he says it never happened to begin with.

You’ll do it. You’ll pretend. The two of you will go back to normal and he’ll leave for Skyhaven and you’ll eventually send in your final admission to the Hunter’s Association. You’ll be accepted in and you’ll forget him. Forget him until he pays his one or two occasional visits during the holidays. By that time, though, you’ll already have gotten your new place and it’ll serve as an excuse to never have to fucking see him again—

You don’t want to see him again.

A little sob escapes you.

You feel sick to your stomach. Nausea churns in your gut like milkfat in a butterbell. You shut your eyes desperately to bat away a flurry of intrusive, bitter thoughts, but it hardly works.

How could he do this to the both of you—?

Could you confide in Gran about this? If you told her, would she find help for Caleb or spank him like old times-? or would she start looking at you with cold, repulsed eyes as if it was your fault?

Is… Is it your fault?

A sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

For how gentle they are, you really shouldn’t flinch so hard.

Your breath hitches. Your fingers curl around your blankets and tighten.

“Y/n,” the voice on the other side of the door is honeyed and low. You note the sadness in it and immediately wish you didn’t as a throbbing sweeps through your chest. “It’s…. It’s me. It’s Caleb,” he sighs out. “W-Will you… let me in?”

Your response is quick. “No,” you say dully, feigning meanness. “I don’t feel well.”

“What’s hurting?” He seamlessly chirps in a light voice, concerned. You’re just thankful he hasn’t tried for the knob yet, despite knowing you’d locked it anyway. “You still have your meds out here… I guess Gran left them for you, huh? Do you want me to bring them to you—“

“Just- go away, Caleb,” you manage to say his name, but it’s in a gritted, forced breath. Something in your heart does a 180 degree twist as the title leaves your mouth. A salty tear rolls in and wets your tongue.

You take a shaky breath in and try to mask your sorrow. That’s near impossible.

“L-Leave me alone.”

A pause.

For a second, you’re almost dumb enough to believe he’s turned around and left.

A palm, large and worried, presses to your bedroom door. “Are you crying? Meimei- let me in, please,” comes his fretting voice. “I need to see you.”

Meimei. The title, once wrapped with affection and warmth, sends a cold chill down your spine. You ought to open that door just to give him a black eye and a wake-up slap to reality. He needs that— and desperately.

A wave of anger, frothy and hot, rides over that feeling of disgust- but just for a moment.

You sit up in bed and sneer at the locked door, “I need you to leave. Go, Caleb! I don’t wanna see you anymore, don’t you get it?!”

It’s a strange thing, how you’re currently blind to his expression but you can clearly imagine it regardless: anguish bunching his brow as his whole face falls. You’ve seen that face before, and now you’re seeing it in your head. It’s paired with a very real, pained sound he makes.

You hate the guilt that hits you, barreling through you at the sound of his strained voice. Growing up, there was always a reason why he called you a cry baby, why Gran told you to guard your heart. Because it’s fucking weak. Prone to your gege.

He leans his full weight against the door. Fists planted there as he hangs his head.

“Don’t say that!” he forces out. “You don’t mean it. Let me come in. I’ll explain to you what happened— a-anything you wanna know. Just…” He pauses for a moment, exasperated.

“I only have three days left to see you. Don’t leave me like this.”

Three days…

You force your eyelids shut. Your nostrils flare.

“Please,” he says, and drives the final nail in the coffin home. Your, coffin.

You’re about to get up from your bed, plastering on a cool face as you prepare to untwist your limbs from your blankets. You drag one leg up from your sheets before a mental image- one you never want to acknowledge as real- stops you in place.

(Meimei, he moans. Meimei meimei meimei, nmmph—)

You stoop your head and cry harder.

“Dammit, sis,” his voice warbles opposite the door. “Let me in, you’re not okay- don’t cry, don’t cry,” he hushes, but you cut off his tender, admittedly effective tries at consolation with a sharp shout.

“Tell me,” you grit. “Tell me you didn’t mean it! That all of it was just some- some- I don’t know! Just tell me it won’t happen again,” you whimper, “That it never did.”

“Please, Gege.”

His reply comes quick. After a loud, shuddering breath that rattles the last of your wellbeing and oozes confidence.

“No,” he says lowly, assured. “It did. It did happen, sis. It’s been happening. You just… didn’t know.”

Revulsion lands a punch to your gut. Direct and vomit-inducing.

“N-No—“

“I’m sorry,” he interjects sadly. A very deep convinction bleeds into his words a second later, though, strengthening them. “I never meant to hurt you. But I don’t regret the way I feel. I love you, Y/n. I love you more than you could ever know. So… let me in. C’mon- Let your Gege see you just one more time, or will you send me back to Skyhaven without so much as a goodbye?”

Furious, you shout for as loud as your frightened throat will allow.

“NO! Leave, Caleb! I don’t wanna see—“

The door makes a sound. It echoes around the four walls of your cozy bedroom and you watch in mute horror as the knob, with the tiny slat lock and all, begins to turn.

Without using his hands, Caleb pushes the door open with his Evol.

He takes a proper moment before stepping in- almost as if preparing himself- something flashing across his face before withering away. You think it takes some piece of him with it.

But when he does take that first stride in, you get the cold, unshakable feeling that he is no longer your Gege, not anymore.

Some monster in him has been fully realized: it’s sloughed its skin- the sweet, doting face of your older brother- like a snake and embraced its scales. It can only crawl on its belly and it only crawls towards you.

(And now, all there’s left to do is place that apple in your hand—)

“It’s gonna be okay, sis. I’m right here. Gran doesn’t have to know. And if she finds out- it doesn’t matter. I’ll take you someplace else. Fly you far away, if I had to—“

“C-Caleb, stop,” as he nears your bedside, you demand your legs to move but they won’t- anchored in place like bags of sand. Tears path down your cheeks and put a chink in his armor; his brooding face faltering.

You know, just between the two of you, growing up, he was always a bit soft, too.

“It’ll be just the two of us and no one’ll lay a hand on you, I pinky promise. I’ll be a pilot within a month and get you anything you could ever dream of,” his quivering lips curl into a smile- a genuine, manic one- as he takes your smaller hand in his own and kisses the back of it.

You try to tug it away to no avail. You suppose he was right, a handful of days ago, saying his muscles weren’t just for decoration. If he wants to overpower you, he can, and that’s a terrifying thought you don’t want to believe in but it’s looking like you might have to grow out of this blind trust you always held for him. It’s looking like there’s no better time to start that than now.

Your lungs heave, “Caleb, what are you—?”

“Remember, when we were younger? you’d called me selfish once or twice,” he chuckles, a light sound. “And you were right, Meimei. I am selfish. But you should take a page from my book sometime, too. I’ll let you, ya know. Just say the word, and—“

Panic taking control of you, you regain feeling in your bones and launch a foot at him.

It’s seized, instantly. Suspended in midair— floating unnaturally without so much as a touch or grab. He’s holding it up, keeping you pinned beneath him, with his gravity manipulation skill and you realize with another sob that you cannot escape your Gege, not in heart and not in body, not ever.

His eyes trail to yours after a thick moment, indigo irises dancing with darkness, impatience, and the smallest beat of hurt. As if this pains him more than you.

What an asshole. A lying, selfish— manipulative asshole.

The sweet, kindhearted boy Gran raised to be your brother—

“Are you… tryin’ to hit me?” he laughs, lifting a deceptively flippant brow. “Hm, that’s alright. I can tell what you’re thinking, Meimei, that you don’t recognize me at all right now, right..?”

His fingers, long and slim, do close around your floating leg, then. They draw your calf to his face and he peppers a chaste kiss to it. It lingers and makes you feel sick— butterflies erupting in your stomach at the way he looks up at you, lashes framing a reverent look that borders on delusional.

Mortification settles when you realize they’re not just the anxious kind, those butterflies: Your body seems to be just as traitorous as the brunette hunched over you.

“But it’s me, Caleb. Your own gege,” you wonder if it’s a scoff, the little breath he looses, or something else, but he appears almost disappointed with himself for a fraction of a second—

Gone.

“So let me take care of you. If you don’t let me now… you’ll just be delaying the inevitable. Might as well just… rip the bandaid off, right? It’ll be okay, just have a little faith in me. I- I can’t keep pretending anymore. But it doesn’t have to end with you crying,” he reasons with furrowed brows, hands descending to pin yours to the bed and entwine your fingers with his. He hovers over you and nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, sighing with deep content. It’s a mockery of a lovers’ embrace.

But to Caleb, it’s the real thing.

“I want us to be happy. Just let go, Meimei. Let go and let me take care of you. I… always have, haven’t I?” He murmurs, lips planting a kiss- the first of many- to the thumping column of your throat.

(—All there’s left to do is place that apple in your hand, and watch you take the bite.)

#love and deepspace #lads caleb #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace smut #caleb x you #l&ds #lads smut #l&ds caleb #lads x reader #dark content #your honor i love him #but your honor he has a mullet #‧₊ 🍰.┊𝒄𝒂𝒌𝒆𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

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twistedheartsclub · 3 months ago

Text

Saltblood Bride Merman X Fem Reader

CW: noncon, dubcon, captivity, forced mating, psychological manipulation, obsession, emotional abuse, physical restraint, trauma, body autonomy violations, magical binding, power imbalance, grooming, transformation themes, dark ritual elements, illness, and loss of identity.

The coast always smelled like secrets.

Y/N had grown up in the cliffs above the sea, in a crumbling stone house wrapped in ivy and silence. Her days were simple: gathering herbs for her mother, helping in the market, reading by candlelight. But the nights… the nights were never quiet.

The waves whispered. The wind moaned. And sometimes, just past midnight, she swore she heard singing.

The townspeople avoided the shore after dusk. Fishermen tied iron around their nets. Children were taught never to look too long into the water, in case something looked back.

But Y/N never feared the sea.

She loved it.

She often walked alone, barefoot in the sand, skirts brushing against the foam. The cold didn’t bother her. There was a beauty in it—wild, ancient, unknowable. She thought the stories were just that: stories.

Until the day she saw him.

Below the surface, far beyond human reach, the sea boiled with hunger.

The village of Virellin lay hidden deep within a forest of black coral, guarded by currents that twisted like serpents. It was once a thriving kingdom—home to thousands of merfolk, their voices echoing through the trenches like lullabies and war songs alike.

Now, their numbers dwindled.

The mermaids—their lifeblood—were dying. A sickness, a curse, a vengeance from the gods… no one knew. Only the highborn males remained strong, desperate, and dangerous.

The council made a decision: take from the surface.

Seduce. Steal. Breed.

He had been chosen to lead the hunts.

Kaelen.

The oldest prince. Half-human, half-ancient god. His tail was black obsidian, longer than a ship’s mast. His claws could split bone. His voice could stop hearts—or start them. And his rage… that was legend.

He didn’t waste time with charm.

Other mermen tried to walk on water, to whisper into dreams, to coax girls with flowers and promises. Fools.

Kaelen took what he wanted.

But when he saw her—the girl on the cliffs with wind-tossed hair and eyes like stormlight—something stopped in him.

He watched from the waves, submerged and still, golden eyes tracking her every step.

She smiled at the sky. She sang softly to herself. She didn’t run from the ocean. She loved it.

He would take her. But not yet.

He would watch. Learn her. Lure her.

And then…

He would drag her down so far, she’d forget the sun had ever touched her skin

The wind danced along the coastline that afternoon, catching at skirts and tangled hair as the sun dipped low over the horizon. The sky was painted in strokes of rose and gold, the sea a glittering reflection of both.

Y/N walked carefully along the edge of the path, the cliffs towering beside her, the crashing waves far below. Her soft boots crunched on gravel, her hands wrapped loosely around a bundle of dried lavender—gathered earlier with her friend, Eleanor, who walked just ahead, already laughing about something neither of them would remember.

“Don’t go so close!” chided their chaperone, a stern woman known as Mrs. Weatherby, trailing behind with her heavy shawl wrapped around her arms.

But the girls didn’t listen.

They were eighteen and twenty, caught between obedience and curiosity. They had heard the warnings, yes—but that breeze felt too warm, the ocean too beautiful, the danger too far away to matter.

A gust of wind pulled Eleanor’s bonnet clean off her head.

She shrieked, laughing as her dark curls spun wildly, chasing the fabric as it danced through the air like a spirit set free.

Y/N ran after her, giggling, clutching her own bonnet before it could fly away too. Her cheeks were pink from the chill, her eyes bright with the thrill of it all.

That’s when he saw her again.

Kaelen, submerged just past the rocks, hidden beneath a tangle of kelp, watched.

His arms rested on the curve of a barnacled stone. His long, black tail curled behind him, glistening with sea-slick shadows. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe.

He watched.

Y/N’s voice carried over the wind, soft and sweet, and his pupils dilated with hunger.

Beside him, another shape shifted in the water—a younger merman, paler, leaner, with a wildness in his eyes. Aelric, his closest follower, his loyal shadow. Aelric’s gills fluttered as he rose slightly, peering toward the cliff path.

His gaze wasn’t on Y/N. It was on Eleanor.

“They smell like crushed fruit,” Aelric murmured in their tongue, low and guttural. “The little one laughs like a seal pup. But the tall one… she’s soft. Gentle.”

Kaelen didn’t answer.

He only tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming, nostrils flaring slightly as the wind shifted—bringing her scent to him.

Lavender. Salt. Warm skin.

He tasted her on the air.

Not just human.

Pure.

Rare.

Meant for him.

Aelric licked his lips, the tips of his sharp teeth visible for just a moment. “Shall I take the smaller one tonight?”

“Not yet,” Kaelen said.

“Why?”

“They’re still too loud. Still watched. Let them come again. Let them feel safe.” He stared at Y/N’s pale throat, her exposed ankle, her lips pink from the wind. “Let them believe we’re only stories.”

Aelric grinned. “Then next time?”

Kaelen’s voice was almost a growl. “Next time, she’s mine.”

Far beneath the tide, where no sunlight could reach, the sea did not shimmer.

It pulsed.

The kingdom of Virellin was carved from obsidian cliffs and glowing coral, a drowned cathedral lit by drifting lantern fish and swaying bioluminescent vines. Time moved differently there. The water was heavy with memory, sorrow, and silence.

There were no more songs.

Once, Virellin had been the heart of the ocean—ruled by the line of Kaelen’s father, a god-touched king whose voice could command storms. The mermaids had danced along the current trails, braiding seaweed through their silver hair, gifting their mates pearls and promise. The halls echoed with laughter, with children’s tails flicking through the sacred pools.

Now, it was fading.

The last mermaids—his sisters, his cousins—had withered, their scales falling away like petals, their eyes going glassy and empty. Some blamed the surface world, others the gods, still others the blood they had thinned by mixing with humans.

Kaelen did not blame. He endured.

He had lived over four centuries. His tail had darkened over time, his voice had deepened into something that made sharks flee. His chest was marked with ceremonial scars, and his claws were tipped with pearl from the bones of ancient kings. His people bowed when he passed, but none sang for him.

They waited—for his decision.

And so the council sent him to the cliffs.

To take a bride.

To bring new life.

To begin again.

Above, in the flickering candlelight of Eleanor’s home, Y/N sat cross-legged on the rug, brushing the mud from her worn boots. Rain tapped the windowpanes gently.

Eleanor sat nearby, combing out her curls. “You always bring in the weather when you come, Y/N. You’re cursed, I swear it.”

“I bring the excitement,” Y/N said with a smile, tugging the pins from her hair. “You’d be bored without me.”

“True.” Eleanor flopped back dramatically, her silk nightgown fanned out. “My brothers are dull, and my cousins are worse. But you—you are a poet. And a storm witch.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Just because I like the rain—”

“You like the cliffs. You like the sea. And you look at it like it’s whispering only to you.”

Y/N’s fingers paused.

Was that true?

Maybe.

There was something about the sea. A voice in the waves she couldn’t quite name. Not frightening—but calling.

“I suppose I do,” she admitted softly.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Weatherby we want to walk again tomorrow,” Eleanor said, already plotting. “We’ll pretend we need more thyme. Or rosemary. You’ll wear that shawl I like—the dark one.”

Y/N smiled again, but her heart was suddenly heavy.

She wasn’t sure why.

The chamber was silent, save for the shifting of currents through the coral spires and the rasp of breathing—old breathing.

Kaelen hovered just above the smooth stone floor, his dark tail coiled loosely beneath him. Before him lay Virellin’s last living priestess, her silver-scaled body limp and nearly transparent with age. Her hair floated like strands of moonlight, and her eyes were pale and blind.

But she still heard.

“You are late,” she rasped.

Kaelen bowed his head. “I was watching the cliffs.”

“The one with lavender in her blood?”

He didn’t answer.

The priestess turned her fragile head toward the glowing pool at the center of the room. It shimmered with prophecy, memory, and loss.

“The gods are quiet,” she said. “The old songs have faded. But I see a thread, Prince. Thin. Fragile. Human.”

“Y/N.”

The priestess exhaled slowly. “If you want the bloodline to endure, she must be taken before the moon’s turn. Others will scent her. Claim her. But she will never survive them.”

Kaelen’s fists tightened.

“She will survive me.”

The cliffs again. Another morning. Brighter this time.

Y/N’s boots kicked through the grass as she and Eleanor made their way down the worn path, Mrs. Weatherby trailing behind with her basket.

The sea sparkled beneath a rare clear sky, the waves lazy and warm. Gulls cried overhead, and the breeze carried salt and blossoms.

Eleanor wore lilac ribbons in her hair today. Y/N had helped tie them.

They were giggling over nothing again, sun on their faces, cheeks flushed.

Then they saw him.

A young man on horseback, waiting near the edge of the path—tall, golden-haired, with a navy coat and polished boots. He dismounted as they approached, smiling first at Eleanor, then at Y/N in brief politeness.

Mr. Whitlow.

A local merchant’s son. Well-read, well-mannered, and very taken with Eleanor.

Y/N felt heat rise in her cheeks as she sensed the way he looked at Eleanor—gentle, wanting. The air around them shifted. Hormones. Emotion. Chemistry. Even she, inexperienced and modest, could feel it. It tickled her skin.

And far, far below—two predators reacted.

Kaelen’s eyes opened in the blackness.

Aelric bared his teeth.

“He’s showing his scent,” Aelric growled. “The way a dog would.”

Kaelen’s jaw flexed. “He’s not for her.”

Aelric’s fins flared with agitation. “He looks at the soft one too. The one with the pale throat.”

“She’s mine,” Kaelen growled.

“She smells of want now,” Aelric hissed. “Of blooming heat.”

They surged upward, not close enough to breach—but close enough to taste the current.

Above, Y/N turned to Mrs. Weatherby and touched her arm.

“We forgot to check the rosemary patch,” she said, keeping her voice sweet and distracted. “It’s just around the bend. Should we gather some before the tide rises?”

Mrs. Weatherby hesitated, squinting at Eleanor and Mr. Whitlow deep in conversation, their heads bent close.

“Very well,” she said. “But stay within sight.”

Y/N nodded quickly, heart fluttering—not from fear, but from excitement. Romance made her soft. It wasn’t for her, not really. But watching Eleanor live inside it—even for a moment—felt like stepping into a dream.

She turned toward the patch of green just out of view, skirt brushing against thistles, unaware of the two shadows pacing silently just beneath the surf.

And watching.

Always watching.

The morning was gray again—low clouds crawling across the sky like whispers of something unsettled. The air held a chill, and the waves crashed harder than usual. But still, the girls begged to walk.

Mrs. Weatherby bundled herself in her heaviest shawl and relented, muttering about “wild blood and foolish hearts.”

Y/N and Eleanor ran ahead.

The wind tugged at their cloaks. Their cheeks were red with cold, their laughter softer today. A storm was coming—they could feel it in their bones.

Halfway along the cliffs, Y/N paused, staring down at the dark shore below.

“Wait here,” she said. “I think I dropped my scarf yesterday. I’m going to check near the rocks.”

Mrs. Weatherby opened her mouth to protest, but Eleanor just waved. “We’ll be right here!”

Y/N slipped down the lower path, boots skidding over stone, heart racing for reasons she couldn’t explain.

The tide had pulled back, revealing slick sand and jagged driftwood. Seaweed coiled in lazy knots. The air was thick with salt.

And then—she saw him.

He stood at the edge of the surf, barefoot, tall, and cloaked in a dark blue coat that shimmered like wet silk. His hair was black, shoulder-length, swept back from a face too beautiful to belong to any ordinary man.

His skin was pale with a hint of silver. His eyes—gold.

Not brown. Not amber.

Gold.

He didn’t look surprised to see her. Only… intrigued.

Y/N froze.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was entranced.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her like one might study a delicate creature washed ashore. “You’re not trespassing. This shore belongs to no one.”

His voice was deep. Velvet layered over stone.

She couldn’t stop staring. Her fingers curled around the edge of her cloak. “Are you… are you visiting someone in the village?”

“No.” He stepped forward, slow, smooth. “I’m passing through.”

Y/N swallowed. Her cheeks burned. “You’re not dressed for the wind.”

A smile ghosted over his mouth. “It doesn’t touch me.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Her heart beat too fast.

“I’m Kael,” he said, offering a name—but not a full one.

“Y/N,” she whispered.

His gaze flicked down to her lips. She didn’t notice. He smelled of salt and something strange—ancient.

“You wandered far,” he said. “It’s easy to lose yourself here.”

“I—I was looking for my scarf.”

He stepped closer, and without asking, reached out. His fingers brushed lightly against her collarbone—too close to her throat. He pretended to inspect the clasp of her cloak.

“No scarf,” he murmured. “But I found something prettier.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

She knew she should move. Should step away. But he wasn’t threatening. He wasn’t leering. Just… there.

Looking at her like she was important.

She didn’t understand it.

“You should go back to your chaperone,” he said softly. “Before the tide rises again.”

“Will I see you again?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Kael’s smile deepened. “Yes.”

She turned and hurried back up the path, heart in her throat, eyes wide.

He watched until she disappeared from view.

Then he let the illusion crack. His skin shimmered. The golden eyes burned brighter. His teeth sharpened beneath his smile.

She would never escape now.

Y/N twisted her hair in slow circles as she lay sprawled across Eleanor’s bed, cheeks still pink from the morning’s encounter. The room was bathed in the golden flicker of the hearth, soft shadows dancing across the ceiling. Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes.

“He wasn’t like anyone I’ve ever seen,” Y/N whispered.

Eleanor was curled beside her, chin propped on her hand. “Tell me again—was he truly barefoot?”

Y/N nodded, dreamy. “Barefoot. Tall. Dark hair. Eyes like… gold, Eleanor. Gold. Not like the boys here. He didn’t even seem cold. He just stood there like he belonged to the sea.”

Eleanor giggled, tossing a pillow at her. “You are cursed. You’ve gone and found a sea god.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not! I think it’s terribly romantic.” Eleanor sat up and began braiding her damp curls. “You know, in the old stories, the sea would gift kings to lonely maidens. Maybe he’s yours.”

Y/N laughed softly, warmth curling in her belly. “It felt like a dream. He said he was passing through.”

“You didn’t ask where to?”

“No… I forgot how to speak, really.” She buried her face in the quilt. “He touched my cloak.”

Eleanor squealed. “A scandal!”

“I’ll never see him again.”

“You will. I’ll make Mrs. Weatherby walk us again tomorrow.”

But before they could descend deeper into their shared fantasy, a knock rapped sharply at the open door.

“Honestly.”

It was Clara, Eleanor’s older cousin—twenty-five, unmarried, and very tired of girlish nonsense. She entered the room with her sleeves rolled high and a book clutched to her chest.

“You two are like children still babbling over fairytales.”

Y/N sat up quickly, face burning.

“We were only talking,” Eleanor said coolly.

“About strangers on the beach?” Clara scoffed. “Next you’ll be kissing frogs and expecting diamonds.”

“You don’t believe in romance?” Y/N asked gently.

Clara’s lip curled. “I believe in duty. And knowing your place. Men don’t love—they use. Especially the beautiful ones.”

She turned on her heel and left without waiting for a reply.

The silence she left behind was sharp.

Y/N looked down at her hands. “Maybe she’s right.”

Eleanor leaned her head against Y/N’s shoulder. “Even if she is… I’d rather believe in the magic. Just for a while.”

Y/N smiled, faint but full of hope. “Me too.”

Below the waves, things were not so gentle.

Aelric paced along the spine of a sunken ship, tail flicking in agitation, barnacles crumbling beneath his claws.

“She’s seeing him again,” he hissed.

Kaelen floated above, watching a swirl of glowing shrimp scatter in the current. “You’re speaking of Eleanor?”

“She made plans with the human boy. The one who smells of flowers and sweat.” Aelric’s eyes flashed. “He wants to touch her.”

Kaelen said nothing.

“You let them walk free,” Aelric snapped. “You wait and watch while they giggle in the sun like sea birds. You forget who you are.”

Kaelen turned, slow and cold. “I forget nothing.”

“She is not like the others,” Aelric snarled. “She makes you weak.”

Kaelen swam forward, suddenly close, his teeth flashing in the dark. “Careful, Aelric.”

Aelric bared his own. “She should’ve been mine.”

Kaelen’s claws tapped once against the hull of the wreck, echoing.

“She will never be yours.”

The sky was a sheet of dull gray, the clouds low and silent. Fog clung to the rocks like breath on glass. It was the sort of day Mrs. Weatherby would normally forbid walking, but Eleanor had insisted—smiling too brightly, already dressed in her finest shawl.

Y/N had quietly agreed. If Eleanor was planning to meet Mr. Whitlow, she would need time alone… and Y/N didn’t mind the quiet. She liked walking near the sea. It made her feel alive.

They split paths early.

Mrs. Weatherby, distracted by Eleanor’s cheerful chatter, didn’t notice when Y/N veered toward the rocky edge, boots sinking into damp sand. Mist curled around her ankles. She moved slowly, watching the tide.

Then she saw him.

Kael.

He stood exactly where he had before—barefoot, dressed in strange, flowing layers of deep navy and slate-gray. Today, a silver chain hung from his wrist, and something dark glinted between his fingers.

“You,” she breathed, startled.

He smiled, soft and slow. “You came back.”

She stepped forward cautiously, heart stuttering. “I wasn’t sure I would see you again.”

“I knew you would.” He took a slow step toward her. “The sea doesn’t forget its own.”

She blinked. “I’m not of the sea.”

He said nothing.

She noticed how close he was now. She shifted her weight back a little—and flinched as his hand came up, brushing the side of her face. Not hard, not threatening—just fingertips grazing her cheek like wind.

She pulled back instinctively.

Kael didn’t react.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re kind to be cautious.” His voice was steady, unreadable. “But I’m not here to frighten you.”

She lowered her gaze. “You just… surprised me.”

There was silence between them—thick and humming.

Then he held out his hand.

Cradled in his palm was a thin, spiraled shell strung on a black silk cord. Iridescent, glowing faintly blue in the fog.

“For you.”

Y/N stared.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“It’s called a marelith shell,” he said. “Where I come from, it’s… personal.”

“What does it mean?”

He hesitated. “To give it is to choose. To wear it is to be chosen.”

She didn’t understand—but her fingers reached for it anyway. He tied it gently around her neck, his knuckles grazing her collarbone. The shell rested just above her heart.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft and awed.

Then, on instinct, she leaned forward and hugged him.

His arms froze around her for a breathless second, then slowly, carefully, came to rest at her back. He held her like something breakable. Like something already his.

And then—

“Y/N!”

A distant shout. Eleanor’s voice, panicked, echoing through the fog.

Y/N pulled back quickly, eyes wide. “I have to go.”

Kael nodded slowly. “Of course.”

She ran, heart pounding. The shell bounced against her chest with every step.

He watched her go, fingers still tingling from the warmth of her body.

She didn’t know what she’d accepted.

But soon—she would.

Part Eight: Three Weeks

The shell still glowed faintly in the candlelight.

Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, fingers brushing the cool spiral where it rested over her heart. Eleanor watched her from across the room, wide-eyed and breathless.

“He gave that to you?” Eleanor whispered. “Like a gift?”

Y/N nodded slowly. “He said it was personal… but I don’t know what it really means.”

“It means he’s enchanted,” Eleanor said with a grin. “You have a secret admirer—mysterious, handsome, and strange. I’m terribly jealous.”

Y/N blushed. “He’s kind. I think. Gentle, even when he’s… intense.”

Eleanor twirled a strand of her hair. “You must wear it to the masquerade.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t.”

“You must. It would look beautiful with that pale blue gown my mother gave you. And who knows? Maybe he’ll appear again. Maybe he’ll dance with you.”

Y/N laughed shyly. “You think he goes to balls?”

“Everyone wants a dance,” Eleanor said softly, then her voice brightened. “Besides, I hope to dance with Mr. Whitlow. He said he’ll be there.”

Y/N’s smile was warm. “He’ll be lucky if he does.”

Their laughter carried into the night like little bells. But below, in the darkest trench of the sea, laughter had long since died.

Virellin’s Deep Sanctum

Kaelen knelt before the glowing pool again, the weight of the marelith shell still lingering in his hand even though it now hung around Y/N’s neck.

The priestess’s voice was sharper this time.

“You were warned.”

“She accepted it willingly,” he said. “She gave thanks. She touched me.”

The priestess’s sunken eyes opened. “She does not know what it means. To wear the shell is to be bound. In your world. By your laws.”

“She is not of our world,” Kaelen growled. “She will become so.”

The priestess stirred in her coral cradle. “You have three weeks. That is the cycle of the blood. The window of change. After that, the bond withers. She will fall ill. The sea will claim her mind, then her flesh.”

Kaelen’s golden eyes flared. “She will not die.”

“Then take her. Make her yours. Or remove the shell, and let her forget.”

He turned away, jaw tight.

He didn’t want to take her—not yet.

He wanted her to come willingly. To reach for him again. To whisper his name the way she had whispered “thank you.”

He had three weeks.

And a masquerade fast approaching.

The manor was alive with music.

Strings sang beneath the high-vaulted ceiling, golden chandeliers casting pools of warm light across marbled floors. The room glittered with candlelight, laughter, and silk. Everywhere, masks shimmered—some feathered, some jeweled, others dark and mysterious.

Y/N clutched her invitation with shaking fingers as she stepped through the great doors, heart hammering in her chest.

Eleanor had chosen the gown.

Soft blue, embroidered with silver thread, fitted at the waist and flowing like seafoam. Her mask was pale ivory, delicate lace curling like coral around her eyes. The marelith shell rested above her heart, warm against her skin.

“You look like a goddess,” Eleanor whispered beside her. Her own gown was deep violet, her dark curls pinned high. “If he doesn’t fall to his knees, he’s blind.”

Y/N smiled, nerves tangled with excitement. “Do you see Mr. Whitlow?”

“Not yet,” Eleanor murmured. “But I know he’ll come.”

She was right.

Moments later, Mr. Whitlow appeared near the orchestra—a navy mask over his sharp features, silver buttons glinting on his coat. He spotted Eleanor instantly, crossing the floor with a soft smile and a bow so perfect it made her blush.

They moved into the dance without a word.

Y/N stepped back, watching them with a warmth that pulsed like honey in her chest. For a moment, she believed in every story they’d told.

Until her breath caught.

He was here.

Not Mr. Whitlow.

Kael.

He wore black—no mask. None could look him in the eyes long enough to ask why.

He didn’t need a disguise. The crowd parted around him like smoke.

He walked slowly toward her, every step a ripple in the dream she’d built around herself.

“Y/N,” he said lowly.

She looked up. “You’re here.”

“I told you I would be.”

His eyes traveled over her form, lingering on the shell at her chest. “You wear it.”

She blushed. “I… didn’t know it meant something sacred. Not until later. But I couldn’t take it off.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said.

She didn’t know if he meant it as warning or promise.

He offered his hand.

Her fingers trembled as she placed them in his.

They began to dance.

His touch was cold at first—but he moved like water, smooth and commanding. He didn’t speak. He only watched her.

She felt swallowed whole.

Far below, Aelric seethed.

He swam in circles near the cavern where Kaelen’s mantle hung. The shell’s bond was sealed now. The girl had worn it to a human gathering. Let them all see it—let them all smell what she was becoming.

But she still laughed with humans. Still blushed for them.

Aelric watched Eleanor through the portal pool—a scrying current they used to observe the surface.

Her fingers lingered too long on the human boy’s shoulder.

“She should have been taken too,” he muttered. “We should have ripped them both from the cliffs and taught them to sing for us.”

He didn’t care about prophecy. Or patience.

He wanted to taste her breathless. To feel her bones against his claws.

But Kaelen had made his choice.

And Aelric was not done

The music inside swelled, couples spinning in spirals of silk and candlelight. But Y/N barely noticed.

Kaelen’s hand rested lightly against her back as he led her out through the ballroom doors and onto the balcony. The air was cool, salted from the distant waves. The sea was only a shimmer in the distance.

“Do you often attend masquerades?” she asked, voice shy.

“No,” he said softly, eyes fixed on her. “But you asked if we’d meet again.”

She blushed. “I didn’t think you heard me.”

“I heard everything.”

The night wrapped around them in silver mist.

He turned toward her, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek. “The shell you wear—it’s not just a trinket. It binds you to my people.”

“I thought it was just a charm,” she said. “A token.”

“It’s more than that.” His voice dropped. “It marks you. Protects you. It means I’ve chosen you, Y/N.”

She trembled slightly, not from fear—but from something far more confusing. Need. Her body felt warmer. Her skin more aware.

“But I don’t even know what you are,” she whispered.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell at her chest.

“You will.”

Her breath hitched.

He touched her face—slow, reverent. His fingers brushed her jaw, her throat, like he was memorizing her skin. Her eyes fluttered.

But before he could lean in further—

A laugh broke the spell.

A burst of applause. The orchestra struck up again—faster this time.

Y/N blinked, stepping back. “I—I should go find Eleanor.”

Kaelen’s eyes darkened, but he nodded once. “Soon,” he said. “We’ll speak again. When the mask comes off.”

She didn’t understand what he meant.

She ran inside.

Meanwhile, the ballroom had shifted.

Aelric had arrived.

And he was magnificent.

He wore a sleek black suit, tailored to perfection. No mask—but the glint of his silver eyes and the wild wave of his dark-blonde hair made people look away anyway. His beauty was too sharp, too unnatural, like staring into fire.

He found Eleanor before Mr. Whitlow could reach her again.

“May I?” Aelric asked, bowing low, his voice warm and edged with something… dangerous.

Eleanor blinked up at him, stunned. “Of course.”

Mr. Whitlow stepped forward to protest—but Aelric had already swept her into the center of the floor.

Their bodies moved like liquid shadow and moonlight. Eleanor’s gown flared as he spun her, one hand pressed too low on her back, the other gripping her wrist like a whisper of possession.

“You dance like it’s in your blood,” Eleanor said, breathless.

“I’ve been dancing far longer than you can imagine,” Aelric replied, smiling—teeth just a little too white.

She laughed, dazed, unaware how many women on the floor were staring at him.

He pulled her close—too close.

And whispered, “Careful who you let touch your heart. Not all of us are as gentle as we look.”

She shivered.

Across the room, Y/N stood frozen.

Kaelen. Aelric. Neither wore masks.

Both too perfect.

Something wasn’t right. Something ancient. Something coming.

And she was already marked.

The ride back from the masquerade was quiet, both girls curled beneath their cloaks in the carriage, the scent of candle wax and champagne still clinging to their hair.

Y/N clutched the marelith shell against her chest.

It was warm. Almost… pulsing.

She didn’t tell Eleanor.

Not yet.

“I’ve never danced like that before,” Eleanor whispered, staring out the window. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“With Mr. Whitlow?”

Eleanor blinked. “No. With him. The stranger. The one who looked like he came from a painting.”

Y/N stayed silent.

Eleanor turned to her. “You felt it too, didn’t you? With yours.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “It’s like they weren’t real. Like we dreamed them.”

“Then let’s dream again,” Eleanor said. “Let’s go back to the cliffs tomorrow. Without Mrs. Weatherby. Just us.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Because the shell had started to glow.

That night, she dreamed of water.

Dark, endless, velvet-blue water. Hands beneath her. Arms holding her as her body floated weightless. Her lungs didn’t burn. Her limbs didn’t fight.

She dreamed of a voice—Kaelen’s voice—saying her name like a prayer and a curse.

She woke gasping.

The shell burned against her skin.

Below the sea, war almost erupted.

In the ruins of an old palace drowned in coral, Kaelen and Aelric clashed.

Their tails whipped currents into violent spirals, teeth bared, claws flashing in short, vicious bursts.

“She’s not yours to touch!” Kaelen roared, his voice shaking the walls.

“You’ve claimed her but done nothing,” Aelric spat. “She walks free while her body ripens for the taking!”

“She is mine.”

“You had your chance.”

They circled each other, tails lashing, blood from shallow cuts drifting like ink.

But before the next strike could fall, a third voice echoed through the chamber.

The priestess.

“Enough,” she rasped, her voice carried by current and will. “You’ll tear what remains of this kingdom apart over your hunger.”

Both mermen froze.

She turned her pale eyes toward them, unblinking.

“The bond has begun. But it is weak. Your girl still dreams of air. Her spirit floats.”

“Then I will take her,” Kaelen growled.

“No. Not yet,” the priestess said. “You cannot both have the same one.”

She looked to Aelric. “There is another.”

A silence settled between them.

“A trade,” she said coldly. “Take the laughing one first. The rich one. The girl whose heart is soft, but whose blood is unbound.”

Aelric’s jaw tightened.

“Do what you will,” she continued. “Once she is gone, the other will follow.”

In the manor above, Eleanor slept peacefully.

Y/N stood at her window, heart heavy, the shell glowing faintly as the fog rolled in from the sea.

Something was coming.

She could feel it.

The sky was barely touched with light when the girls slipped out.

Y/N carried a woven basket full of bread, cheese, and early figs. Eleanor had packed it herself, smiling like a girl running off to meet a lover—which, in some ways, she was.

They wore simple dresses beneath shawls. No chaperone. No shoes.

The grass was still damp with dew, the fog low and clinging to the earth. Seagulls cried in the distance. The wind was gentle and gray.

“You’re sure he’ll be there?” Y/N whispered as they followed the narrow path down the cliffs.

Eleanor smirked. “He said to meet him before the world woke.”

She twirled once, barefoot in the grass, eyes dancing.

Y/N smiled, but her fingers curled tighter around the basket.

“I want to apologize,” Eleanor added more seriously. “For the other night. For letting that strange man hold me like that. It wasn’t proper.”

Y/N looked away, swallowing. “You didn’t know him.”

“No. But I saw Mr. Whitlow’s face after. And I want him to know I care.”

They reached the shore. The tide had pulled back, revealing a long stretch of smooth, wet sand and seaweed strewn like ribbons.

Eleanor turned to her.

“Walk ahead a while? Let me speak to him first.”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

Eleanor touched her hand gently, then turned and walked the opposite direction, toward the rocks where the mist was thickest.

Y/N moved slowly along the shoreline, humming softly to herself, looking for shells to fill the basket. The sun tried to rise beyond the fog.

She didn’t look back.

She never saw the man waiting in the mist.

Never saw the way Eleanor paused, surprised… and smiled.

“Not who I expected,” she said.

Aelric smiled with teeth far too white.

“But who you’ll remember.”

She didn’t scream.

Not once.

Y/N returned twenty minutes later, basket swinging lightly in her hand.

“Eleanor?” she called.

No answer.

She wandered toward the rocks, scanning the mist.

“Eleanor, are you playing? We should go before Mrs. Weatherby wakes—”

Silence.

Only the sea, the fog, and the faintest trace of something shining in the sand.

Y/N bent down and picked it up.

A lilac ribbon.

Still damp.

Still warm.

Her stomach dropped.

“Eleanor?”

And for the first time in her life, the sea felt like it was watching her.

“Eleanor!”

Y/N’s voice cracked as she shouted, stumbling across the rocks, skirts soaked with seawater.

“Eleanor, stop playing! This isn’t funny—”

But there was nothing. No giggle. No teasing voice. No footprints. No ribboned silhouette in the mist.

Only fog.

Only sea.

Only silence.

Y/N turned and ran.

Her breath caught in her throat as she climbed the slippery cliff path, legs burning, heart pounding. She didn’t stop. Not for breath, not for tears. Her fingers clutched the basket with trembling hands, its weight useless now.

By the time she reached the manor, her dress was clinging to her skin and her voice was raw from shouting.

“She’s gone.”

Mrs. Weatherby paled, her tea cup falling from her hand and shattering on the floor.

“What do you mean ‘gone?’” cried Eleanor’s mother, rushing into the parlor. “Where did you see her last? Did she fall? Did she—”

“No,” Y/N gasped, “she told me to walk ahead… just for a little… she was meeting someone. When I came back she wasn’t—she wasn’t there—”

“Which path? Which rocks? Was there blood? Footprints?”

“No. No, nothing. Just a ribbon. Just fog.”

The household exploded into panic—maids sent running, horses readied, the steward gathering searchers with torches and oilskin coats.

But Y/N didn’t wait to be questioned again.

She fled up the staircase, heart pounding, chest tight.

She reached her room, slammed the door, fell to her knees.

Her fingers flew to the shell at her chest.

The marelith shell.

The gift.

The chain burned.

“You gave her to them,” she whispered to herself. “You knew.”

She yanked it off.

The moment it broke free—

The air shifted.

The sky darkened.

A roll of thunder cracked through the clouds like the tear of a god’s throat.

Below, the sea rose—waves crashing against the cliffs, pounding the earth with a fury too sudden, too focused to be natural.

Windows rattled.

Wind screamed.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, in the deepest trench of Virellin, Kaelen roared.

He felt the break.

He felt the rejection.

The bond had been severed.

She had removed what bound her to him.

And now…

he would take her by force.

The manor had gone still.

After hours of searching—calling Eleanor’s name into the wind, combing the cliffs with lanterns and dogs—everyone had returned cold, soaked, and empty-handed. No footprints. No signs of struggle. No clues. No answers.

Only fog.

And a rising tide.

Y/N sat in Eleanor’s bed, clutching one of her ribbons, her eyes swollen from crying.

Mrs. Weatherby had tried to comfort her. So had the others.

But Y/N knew.

She knew something had taken Eleanor.

And she knew what it was.

She stared at the marelith shell lying cold and severed on the bedside table. A faint crack had formed in its spiral—hairline, but visible. Like it mourned its purpose.

Thunder shook the windowpanes.

Y/N curled beneath the blankets and cried until her throat ached. Then, finally, she slept.

She woke to wetness.

At first, she thought she was dreaming again.

But her feet were soaked.

The rug beneath her bed squished softly with seawater. A stream of brine crept in beneath the door.

The wind outside moaned like something dying.

She sat up. “Mrs. Weatherby?”

No answer.

She stepped to the floor—barefoot—and opened the door.

The hallway was dark. The candle sconces were out.

There were footprints in the water.

Large. Bare.

She backed away.

But it was too late.

He was there.

Standing in the middle of her room—Kaelen. Shirt soaked and clinging to his frame, dark hair hanging wet and wild around his face. His golden eyes no longer warm. No longer human.

They burned like the deepest parts of the sea.

“Where is she?” she whispered. “What did you do to her?”

He said nothing.

“You… you gave her to him.” Her lip trembled. “You took her.”

Kaelen’s jaw flexed. “You broke the bond.”

“You tricked me.”

“I chose you.” His voice cracked like thunder. “I marked you. Protected you. And you threw it away.”

She backed toward the wall, breath hitching. “You think this is love?”

His face twisted.

Then he moved.

Faster than she could scream.

His hand closed around her throat, lifting her to her toes, pinning her to the cold stone wall.

She choked, gasping, fingers clawing at his wrist.

His other hand gripped her waist—claws extended. She could feel the sharp curve of his nails through the fabric. A reminder that he was not a man.

He was the ocean.

And he was angry.

“You will never run again,” he hissed, voice low and inhuman. “You will wear the shell. You will sleep where I sleep. And when I claim you, you will beg the sea for mercy.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

She tried to scream—but his grip held tight.

Then he leaned close, lips brushing her ear.

“You belong to me now.”

Part Fifteen: The Drag Below

The rain fell sideways as Kaelen carried her through the storm.

Y/N kicked and clawed. Her fists beat against his chest, her nails scraping his skin—but he didn’t flinch. His eyes were locked on the cliffs. On the sea below. His grip bruised her arms, her waist. He walked as if she weighed nothing.

“No—please—” she tried to sob, but no sound came.

Her throat was raw from where he had choked her.

She dug her heels into the mud. Grasped at the grass. Reached for tree roots, stones, anything.

It didn’t matter.

He dragged her to the edge of the world.

The sea roared in fury below. Lightning split the sky above. Waves slammed against the rocks with thunderous hunger. Her dress was soaked, clinging to her like second skin, one sleeve torn completely, the hem shredded.

Her hair stuck to her face. Her tears mixed with rain.

He paused at the cliff’s edge.

She tried to crawl back—no voice, no scream, only the frantic shake of her head.

He leaned down, one clawed hand closing around her ankle.

“You should’ve stayed soft,” he whispered. “I would’ve let you dream a little longer.”

Then he pulled her over.

The ocean did not take her—it swallowed her.

The cold slammed into her body like a thousand knives. She thrashed, kicked, screamed into the water—but it moved around her, coiling like hands, pulling her deeper.

Her lungs burned.

Her vision blurred.

She saw Kaelen beneath her, swimming backward as he dragged her with him—his tail unfurled, vast and dark as night, his claws dug into her hips.

The surface disappeared.

Light faded.

Her strength slipped.

She reached for the surface one last time—arms stretching above her like a girl begging heaven—

And then everything went black.

Later…

She woke in a hollow chamber of coral and pearl. The ceiling above her glowed faintly blue. She was wrapped in sea silk—soft, but tight—binding her wrists and ankles to the smooth stone beneath her.

She couldn’t scream.

Her throat ached.

The shell she had once worn sat in a pool of starlit water beside her, whole again. Waiting.

She turned her face away and cried.

Elsewhere in the palace, Kaelen stood before the priestess.

His body still dripped with salt. Blood—hers and his—was rinsed from his skin.

“She fought me,” he said flatly.

“She will fight more,” the priestess rasped. “Until there’s nothing left to fight with.”

“She rejected the bond.”

“But she wore it once.” The priestess reached out, her frail fingers brushing his chest. “She opened the gate. Now it cannot be shut.”

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. “She looks at me with hate.”

“She will learn worship,” the priestess said softly. “Or she will drown in madness. Either way, she will stay.”

Kaelen said nothing.

But inside him, a storm gathered.

Because he didn’t just want her body.

He wanted her to want him.

Part Sixteen: The Weakening

Time had blurred.

Y/N didn’t know how many days had passed. She slept in short, frightened bursts. Ate when forced. Drifted in and out of pain and confusion.

The sea sang constantly.

The chamber—her prison—glowed softly with bioluminescent coral. Everything was beautiful in a sick, dreamlike way. The sea silk that bound her wrists had loosened, but she didn’t try to run. There was nowhere to go.

And sometimes—when the current shifted—she heard Eleanor’s voice.

“Y/N…”

She would jerk upright, heart pounding. “Eleanor?!”

Nothing. Just bubbles and silence.

Other times, she would see her. A glimpse through the coral archways. Standing still, her lilac ribbon tangled in her hair, arms wrapped around herself like a child.

“Why did you leave me?” Y/N whispered once.

But the figure faded like smoke.

Kaelen came often.

He brought strange food—soft pearls that melted in her mouth, strips of something warm and spiced. He would sit beside her, combing her hair with fingers and claws alike.

“You were born for the sea,” he said once. “You just didn’t know it.”

She didn’t speak.

But she didn’t pull away anymore.

That worried him more than her screams.

He returned to the priestess.

Her eyes were dimmer now. Her voice thinner. But she still sat on her throne of ancient coral like she ruled what remained.

“She weakens,” Kaelen said. “She no longer fights.”

The priestess nodded slowly. “Her strength is in her soul. It will serve your children well.”

Kaelen’s throat tightened. “She hates me.”

“She will give you what you want. The bond is nearly complete.”

“I want her… willing.”

The priestess let out a breath like steam.

“You have three days. After that, the bond collapses. Her body will begin to break. You must mate her before then.”

Kaelen’s hands curled into fists. “She will shatter.”

“Then make her pliant.” Her pale eyes gleamed. “Let her see the other one. The one she clings to in dreams.”

“Eleanor.”

“She is already broken. Her sadness will make your captive grateful for gentler chains.”

Later, in the dark glow of Y/N’s chamber…

The sea silk unwrapped.

Kaelen entered without speaking and held out a hand.

“Come.”

Y/N blinked slowly, sluggish from another strange meal. “Why?”

“You need comfort.”

She followed without knowing why.

Down corridors of glowing coral and slow-moving currents. Through archways carved from the bones of sea beasts. Into another chamber—

Where Eleanor sat hunched on a bed of kelp, her hair limp, her body curled small. Her ribbon was gone. Her eyes were dull.

Y/N’s breath broke in her throat.

“Eleanor?”

Her friend looked up.

And began to cry.

Part Seventeen: Soft Chains

Y/N crossed the glowing threshold like she was sleepwalking, unsure if what she saw was real.

But it was.

Eleanor.

Her friend—her sister in all but name—was curled on a bed of sea-kelp, pale and trembling, her eyes rimmed with salt-crusted red. Her once-vibrant curls hung limp. Her body was thinner. Her hands shook in her lap.

“Eleanor?” Y/N whispered.

Eleanor looked up—and her lips trembled into a smile that nearly destroyed Y/N.

They ran to each other.

There were no words—only arms tangled tight, cheeks pressed together, lips brushing each other’s tear-streaked faces in frantic affection.

Y/N clutched her. “I thought you were dead.”

“I wished I was,” Eleanor breathed. “But then I heard you were here.”

Their foreheads pressed. Their fingers clutched tightly. Every breath was shared, shallow and desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” Y/N whispered. “I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve—”

“No,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “Nothing would’ve saved us.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes wide with grief. “Don’t fight them, Y/N. It only makes it worse.”

Y/N’s chest constricted. “What did he do to you?”

Eleanor didn’t answer. But her bruises said enough.

The shimmer of her skin. The hollow of her cheeks. The soft, empty way she spoke. Like a girl already halfway drowned.

They clung to each other tighter.

And then—

A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

Aelric.

Leaning against the coral archway, arms folded, shirt undone just enough to expose the cruel curve of his smile.

“Well,” he said lazily, “isn’t that sweet.”

Y/N turned sharply, shielding Eleanor behind her.

Aelric’s smirk widened. “Two doves in a gilded cage. You’ll keep each other company while the sea claims the rest of you.”

Y/N’s lip curled. “You’re proud of this?”

“I’m delighted.” He pushed off the wall and approached. “I told Kaelen she’d break beautifully. He wouldn’t listen. He’s sentimental, you see.”

He leaned in closer—too close.

“But I? I prefer them ruined.”

Eleanor flinched.

Y/N stood taller, even as her hands trembled.

Aelric’s grin never faltered.

“You’ll see,” he said softly, “it’s not so bad. Once you forget who you used to be.”

Then he vanished into the current.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the soft pulse of bioluminescent moss. The currents flowed slowly, carefully, as if the sea itself dared not disturb what lay inside.

Kaelen entered in silence.

And there they were.

Y/N and Eleanor, curled together on the bed of kelp, their arms still wrapped around each other. Their cheeks rested against one another’s shoulders. Like children. Like sisters.

Like survivors.

Y/N’s brows were furrowed even in sleep, her hand still gently gripping Eleanor’s.

Kaelen stood there for a long time.

Watching.

Feeling something shift in his chest—not pity, not guilt—but curiosity.

How could she still care for someone so broken?

How could she still protect, even in chains?

Her strength is good for your children, the priestess had said.

But this wasn’t the kind of strength he could command.

And he hated that.

Later, in a trench far deeper than any mortal had touched, Kaelen approached the black reef.

The coral here was sharp and dead. The water cold, even to him. And the light—there was none.

Only darkness.

And a voice.

“You seek what the priestess cannot give,” the sea witch said, rising from the shadows like smoke in water.

She was ancient—half stone, half kelp, eyes blind but all-seeing.

“I need her to choose me,” Kaelen said. “Willingly. I have three days left.”

“Then you must show her something deeper than fear.”

“She fears me. She resists.”

“And yet,” the sea witch hissed, “she clings to the girl. Even now. Even in sleep.”

“I’ve tried everything.”

“No,” she said. “You’ve tried to control. You haven’t tried to understand.”

Kaelen’s jaw clenched. “Tell me what to do.”

The sea witch smiled, and her teeth were jagged pearls.

“You must make her want to stay.”

“How?”

“Give her a choice… and make sure both lead back to you.”

Y/N was awake when Kaelen returned.

She sat cross-legged beside Eleanor, brushing soft strands of hair back from her friend’s face, humming something fragile and off-key.

She didn’t look up when he entered.

Only when his shadow fell over them did she turn—and her eyes were hollow but sharp.

“You’ve come to punish us?” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. “Or just to watch?”

He crouched slowly, careful not to touch her yet.

“I’ve come to talk.”

Y/N laughed bitterly. “You don’t talk. You take.”

Kaelen’s eyes flicked to Eleanor, still asleep and curled like a child.

“You care for her,” he said.

“I love her,” Y/N snapped. “More than I could ever love you.”

He was silent a moment. Then:

“I believe you.”

That startled her. She flinched, wary.

He leaned in, voice calm. Almost… kind.

“I don’t want to break you, Y/N. I want you to choose to stay.”

“I’d rather drown.”

He ignored that. “So I’m giving you a choice.”

She stilled.

He let the silence stretch like a net before delivering the hook.

“You may remain here. With me. Willingly. I’ll give you more freedom. I’ll protect her. I’ll even begin to treat you like a mate.”

Her lip curled.

“Or,” he continued, “you can refuse. And I will give Eleanor to Aelric. Fully. As his own.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Kaelen tilted his head, voice low. “She won’t survive him, you know that. You’ve seen what he does.”

“You’re a monster,” she whispered.

“I’m your future.”

She shook her head. “No… no, this is a game.”

“It’s a choice,” he said firmly. “Your first real one down here. But don’t take too long. The sea waits for no one. Least of all fragile little humans.”

He stood slowly.

“I’ll return when the tide turns. Make your decision by then.”

And then he was gone—vanishing into the current like a shadow that had never belonged to the light.

Eleanor stirred behind her.

Y/N broke.

She clutched her friend tightly and wept into her hair, knowing exactly what she would have to do.

Because cruelty disguised as mercy was the cruelest trap of all.

She said yes.

Not because she wanted to.

Because she had to.

Because Eleanor’s life—what little remained of it—hung in the balance. And Kaelen had made sure Y/N knew the weight of her refusal.

So when he returned, she didn’t look at him. She only whispered, “I’ll stay.”

Kaelen nodded, as if this were a solemn vow.

And without a word, he held out his hand.

She took it.

He led her through winding corridors lit with dim blue light, past quiet chambers and still pools, deeper than she’d ever been allowed before. The pressure grew heavier, the sea darker.

Until they reached his chamber.

It was carved into the stone of a drowned temple—walls etched with symbols that glowed faintly when she entered. The floor was smooth, covered in soft seagrass and folded layers of dark silk.

A bed waited in the center. Raised. Prepared.

Kaelen turned to face her.

“Remove your gown.”

She hesitated.

His eyes burned gold.

“You said yes, Y/N.”

So she obeyed.

The silk slipped from her shoulders, slow and trembling. Her skin glistened in the dim light—fragile, human, exposed.

Kaelen stepped forward.

He lifted the marelith shell—once severed, now whole.

Without asking, he fastened it around her throat again.

It pulsed warm.

Alive.

“You remember how it felt,” he said softly. “When you first wore it. Before you knew what it meant.”

She didn’t answer.

“Lie down.”

She moved stiffly toward the bed, each step echoing with dread.

“On your back.”

She obeyed.

“Bend your knees. Spread your thighs for me.”

She closed her eyes.

She did as he said.

Kaelen climbed over her, tail coiling beneath, his weight settling between her legs. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her lips.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

She nodded—because she had no voice left.

He entered her slowly.

It burned.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out—but the pain crawled through her body like fire through ice. Her hands fisted the silk. Her thighs trembled.

Kaelen groaned above her, pressing deeper, watching her with something close to reverence.

The shell at her throat began to glow.

Brighter.

Warmer.

Claimed.

She turned her face away, silent tears slipping into her hair.

When he finished, he held her close like a lover.

But Y/N didn’t feel loved.

She felt claimed. Branded. Gone.

Y/N woke in darkness.

Not silence.

Kaelen’s arms were wrapped around her, heavy and possessive, his breath stirring the hair at her neck. Her body ached—not just from what he’d done, but from what it meant. The shell still glowed faintly against her chest.

“Wife,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer.

But he kissed her shoulder anyway.

Later, they came for her.

Servants of the deep—silent merfolk women with soft, expressionless faces. They bathed her in a pool of perfumed seafoam, combed her hair with pearl-handled tools, dressed her in flowing ceremonial silk spun from kelp and light.

Her stomach churned.

When they were done, she was led—barefoot and pale—through a wide coral hall, where dozens of glowing eyes turned to watch her.

Kaelen’s court.

He stood at the center, radiant and terrible. His tail coiled like a throne beneath him. His hand reached out—expectant.

Y/N stepped forward.

The priestess stood beside him, ancient and unblinking. “The bond is sealed,” she announced, her voice echoing through the deep. “Her womb is quickening. The future begins.”

A soft cheer rippled through the court.

Y/N felt sick.

Later, she was summoned

The chamber was deep, still, and cold.

Y/N stood alone, her ceremonial silk clinging to her damp skin, the marelith shell still pulsing faintly against her chest. She was thinner now. Paler. But sharper, too.

The priestess watched her from the center of the grotto—frail, almost translucent, eyes milk-white but piercing. Her bones showed through her silver skin. She was breathing shallowly, her gills flickering slow.

“You summoned me,” Y/N said carefully.

“You are changed,” the priestess murmured. “But not lost.”

Y/N didn’t sit. She stepped forward.

“I’ve been watching. Listening. And I know what’s happening to your kind.”

The priestess tilted her head, amused. “Do you?”

Y/N’s voice strengthened. “The mermaid women. They’re dying. Not because of the surface. Not because of humans. Because of what you’ve done to your water.”

The priestess stilled.

“It’s the coral,” Y/N said. “The glowing kind that lines your sacred pools. It’s not meant to grow this deep. It’s leeching minerals from the water. Poisoning the wombs of the women who rest near it for healing.”

The priestess’s fingers trembled on her throne.

“I read it in a book back home—studies of reef behavior. Coral like yours becomes toxic when overgrown. And I’ve seen the symptoms in the women. In you.”

Silence.

Then—a breathless laugh.

“You speak of science,” the priestess rasped. “But your logic holds.”

Y/N stepped closer. “I can help you. I can stop the extinction. I know what to remove. What to filter. What to plant instead. I can bring your kind back from the brink.”

The priestess’s voice dropped. “And what will you want in return?”

Y/N’s eyes glinted. “Freedom. For me. For Eleanor. For any woman dragged down here again.”

The priestess watched her in silence.

And then—nodded.

“Then we will see,” she said softly. “If knowledge can do what power could not

The nights belonged to Kaelen.

He came to her chamber like clockwork, silent and cold-eyed. She’d lie still as he moved over her, kissed her with possessive reverence, and whispered things she forced herself not to hear.

Sometimes he was gentle.

Other times, rough.

But always, he called her “wife.”

She never cried aloud again. But her fingers clenched the kelp-woven bedding until her knuckles went white.

When he finally left each night, she’d curl away, skin raw, and whisper Eleanor’s name like a prayer.

The days, though—those were hers.

Quietly, Y/N worked beneath the court’s notice. With the priestess’s silent permission, she wandered through the sacred chambers and bathing pools. She directed servants—under the guise of Kaelen’s authority—to begin removing the glowing coral, replacing it with flora from higher reefs.

No one questioned her.

And the results were swift.

The sick mermaid women, once dim and fading, began to stir. Their eyes brightened. Their gills strengthened. The color returned to their scales.

Even the priestess, long resigned to death, stood taller.

“You’ve done it,” she murmured one evening. “You’ve saved them.”

Y/N didn’t smile. “Not all.”

Eleanor was the exception.

But Y/N refused to give up.

She demanded Eleanor be moved—away from Aelric, away from the darker chambers of the palace. The priestess granted it.

And slowly, Eleanor began to change.

She was placed in a quiet coral garden where sunlight touched the water through cracks above. There, surrounded by warmth and softness, she began to laugh again—lightly. Cautiously.

Her skin began to glow again.

She swam for the first time without trembling.

One day, Y/N watched from behind a veil of kelp as Eleanor turned her face toward the light, closed her eyes, and smiled.

She’s coming back, Y/N thought. We both are.

But that night, Kaelen came again.

Harder. Hungrier.

As if he could feel something slipping from his grip.

He kissed her neck where the shell pulsed. Whispered promises of children. Of kingdoms.

She bit her lip until it bled.

She let him take her.

But in her mind, she held onto the image of Eleanor in the garden, glowing.

Healing.

Because the tide was turning.

And soon… it would rise for her.

#yandere #dark fantasy #fantasy #tw noncon #x reader #sfw noncom #age g4p #dark romance #power dynamics #breeding k1nk #merman #sea #twistedheartsclub

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melliemell · 7 months ago

Text

Pairing: Jouno x reader

Contents: SFWish, interrogator jouno, reader has a mind control ability, improper use of tea, CW for noncon and dubcon elements but nothing too major, he's an ass and there are consequences duh, Approx 2.8k

The problem with having an unconventional ability–

–is that it rarely goes as you planned, yes, but boy does it do good for entertainment.

“My, you seem to be in good spirits today.” Jouno sipped from his teacup leisurely before resting it back down on the saucer. The audible clink of porcelain rang in the small room like a ripple. You swallowed the sound up as your heart thumped fast suddenly. Your eyes bore into where it rested in his hands.

Tea. He brought tea.

“Such a shame to waste it all up in here, wouldn’t you agree?” he said. Jouno smiled at you then, lips pulled in a pleasant, almost friendly expression. And entirely fake.

He was tormenting you and enjoying it, yet he had no idea what he’d just done. None at all. You could fall into hysterical laughter then and there just by the thought of it. The…

The opportunity.

Hopefully… soon. Yes, soon.

The hunting dog came here from time to time. Trotting in, chair in toll and all. But it was hard to draw an exact pattern. The small white room you’ve been confined to seemed suspended in time and devoid of all life. Except you– its sole occupant for, hmm, days? Definitely days, but how many weeks? You had to give it to them; their tactics of extracting information were very creative, in an unpleasant, cruel type of way. Your eyebags were proof enough of it.

Maybe they were hoping the isolation would bring about your betrayal of the Agency. Sooner or later you’d give in and beg for freedom. It was a close call, you couldn’t deny it. It was taking its toll on you, and that’s why… it had to work. Now. If not now…

“Can’t I enjoy your company without your jabs?” you said, forcing a calm demeanour. “We both know you won’t be letting me out anytime soon.”

“Quite observant, aren’t you?” Jouno said, voice pleased. “I see you’ve had some time to ponder.”

You held your tongue. The first time Jouno came here, all smugness and not a filter to his mouth your fist flew right through his face, the small white particles dispersing before they rearranged into his twisted grin. You could barely stand him then. Now he was merely a pest. An entertaining one, yes, but still unpleasant.

You really didn’t like him.

“All I can do here is that, thanks to your wrongful accusations,” you said evenly.

Jouno laughed, light and completely devoid of merit. “Your loyalty is admirable, I’ll give you that. Actually I’m impressed by it.” He leaned in. Even with his eyes closed you felt him bore into your soul. “I’ve always upheld the belief in equal devotion. And yet here you are, completely forgotten by the ones you’d give all for. Left to rot away. A shame.”

You couldn’t deny it, Jouno was really good at jabbing right where it hurt. Yet his visits were the only form of stimuli you got in here. He might be the only thing keeping you from completely losing it, yet he never failed to struck at your nerves, playing you like a fiddle each and every time.

You held your ground, you did. As hard as it was. But this time, he needed to feel like he was winning if he were to trust you enough for your plan. Or fall for it.

You looked down, keeping still.

“What’s the matter?” Jouno probed, the bastard enjoying this. “I apologise for my frankness, but I can only offer the truth.”

“Shut it,” you said quietly, voice honeyed with self-doubt to the fucking moon.

Jouno only hummed, raising his cup for another sip.

Your eyes followed the entire movement; from his firm grip over the handle to the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Forcing your body to react as strongly as it could brought a strain, but it was worth it. Jouno might be blind but he relied on his other senses to read his opponents. Every detail counted.

He had to pick up your signs. You were going to force him.

You saw his lashes flutter, head cocked to the side as though observing you. You held your breath.

Finally… “In that case,” Jouno said, straightening up with a lazy stretch. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to our little chats but since you wish me gone–”

Your heart dropped, panic engulfing you. “No,” you said before you could stop. “Please don’t go.”

Damn it.

“Oh?” Jouno swirled the tea around in his cup. That smile was back in place, spreading wider by the second. “You change your mind so quick lately; this place really has a bad effect on you.”

You bit back your reply. It’s what he wanted, after all. You could do better than that.

“Well you should up your game on the decor, it’s depressing just looking at it.” You hesitated, before, “Food too. Is only white rice the best you could do? Talk about a small budget.”

Jouno considered you, remaining quiet for a few seconds too long to your liking. Maybe it was more a game of chance, all this. Who knew what the other was thinking?

“Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?” Jouno asked, head tilted. “How delusional.”

“From you?” You laughed, voice hollow. “No, I know there’s no point in that.”

“So we’ve learned quite a bit about each other, it seems. How educational.” Jouno tapped against his cup, humming. “And boring.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“You should be, yes. I have no interest in you personally. And your quietness has been disappointing, ” Jouno said, sighing. “What a waste of good time it’s been. Anyway, we’ve been dealing with your little friends of late. Not much need of you now then, I'm afraid.”

Your body froze, heart seizing as worry engulfed you. “Dealing how?”

“No one can escape judgment.” Jouno ignored you, hand swirling his tea in his cup. “Sooner or later. Just as you now, and seeing as you won’t be needed I believe this will be our last little chat.”

He waited for your answer, relaxed as ever.

You could only laugh heartlessly at this. He could be playing you for all you knew. But a small tug at the back of your mind screamed.

Last chance, your ass. He’d be back. He will be. But when? How long until next time?

How long until you can help your people?

Act now and regret it later sounded so much sweeter now.

“Thrown away like a stray, huh,” you finally said.

“Oh, don’t worry.” Jouno’s lips curved. “You’ll be safe and sound– right here.”

You looked up at the ceiling, gut twisting. You certainly looked the part of a depressed person. “Can I get at least a small mercy? Or am I too lucky to have you as my guarding dog?”

“Of course you may ask,” Jouno said. “I’d be happy to hear your sorrows and provide no absolvement for them.”

You looked at him then. To this stupid man and his stupid smug face who would rather spend hours enjoying your torment than do his job. Upholding the law sounded like bullshit coming from him. What law? He could hardly discern being played with by his real enemies, how could you ever trust him to uphold the law?

If he so liked being deceived then let him be your guest.

Let him.

“That tea,” you began quietly, wetting your lips. “May I have of it? Please,” you added, looking anywhere but at Jouno.

There. You sounded pathetic enough. Hopefully desperate too. But it wasn’t for you to decide.

You waited.

“Is that so?” Jouno trailed a finger over the cup’s rim.

“You can just say no,” you said, forcing the words out. “No need to be an ass.”

Jouno tapped the handle, head rising up. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m considering.”

“You are?”

“I really don’t like people like you, you know,” Jouno said. “Trying to squeeze by unscratched, believing yourself to be above the rest. You run and run, and then you get caught because that’s how it is. Yet the shock is still there. It’s not hard to connect the dots; you reap what you sow.”

Ah. He was going on his favourite little rant again. Not good. “So you’ve said.”

“Then you know what my answer is.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I see.”

You had a guess; not a pleasant one. You wouldn’t be getting anything unless you gave back in return. The golden rule. Like you hadn’t already said the truth. All the rest was details they were sure to use in fucking up even further. But…

There was a gamble in this. One that wasn’t of much use, but it would surely be worth at least a damned cup of tea.

You didn’t even need to drink the whole thing, really, you just needed your lips to touch it. Only that. Transferring saliva was a tricky thing, but if done unnoticed, Jouno’d be at your mercy.

“I could…” you began, eyes boring into Jouno’s face. “I could tell you of my ability, then.”

“My my,” Jouno whistled. “You must despise rice that much.”

Your nose flared. Food felt more like a chore here, the necessity of it the only driving force behind you eating it. Some days even chewing was hard; forcing your weak body to rise from bed only to swallow a spoon of cardboard rice was too much before you huddled back onto your small bed.

Pathetic.

But not eating meant death.

“It’s what I offer,” you said, forcing your voice to be stern.

“Hmm, tempting. Yours and your allies’ as well.”

“No. Only mine.”

“Then I’m afraid I’ll decline,” Jouno said.

Damn him. Like hell you were going to say all that.

“That tea must have gold leaves in it if you want so much,” you said.

“It’s not what’s inside, it’s how much you want it.” Jouno smiled.

Damn him. You were getting impatient. “My ability and how to deactivate it. Nothing more.”

Jouno peaked. “Deactivate?” You didn’t like the look on his face. “So it’s effect-based.”

“Why, if you want to know more– you know how,” you said, voice sweet.

Talking to him always sent you back and forth. It’s no wonder they chose Jouno as your interrogator; he was truly marvellous at crawling under your skin. Types like his were better to deal with first lest they cause more problems.

“Fine,” Jouno finally said, your eyes widening at the sudden change. “You have yourself a deal.”

The moment your hands touched the porcelain, Jouno stretching it out to you, your mind blanked. The water was dark, maybe black tea? it smelled nice but you were never good with smells. A deep scent that engulfed your senses as your stomach growled just from the proximity.

This… you’ve– damnit. You could almost cry. Such a small thing and they’ve managed to get you to a point where a stupid cup of tea could almost bring you to a meltdown. You tried to push away the memories of your warm bed, the curtains flapping to a distant breeze as light seeped in. Daylight.

Not the hospital white they had here.

But it didn’t matter. Not when you knew Jouno’s whole attention was directed to you.

You brought the cup to your lips, your movements slow.

You’ve… never done this before. The idea of it so absurd you began to now doubt its success. And yet, you licked your lips; try as best you could to transfer part of your saliva into the liquid. Just a drop; no need for more.

Any liquid from your body should do the trick. Blood was ideal, yes, but it’s not like you could shove a bloodied palm in Jouno’s face and say ‘drink’. He’d probably have an opinion on the matter.

No, no– this was best. The only option. As far-fetched as it was…

You knew mind control abilities were as powerful as they were rare. But only if the right conditions were met. Yours just happened to be on the peculiar side.

So long as your target ingested it… Not that you knew how exactly you’d make Jouno. The best guess was if he’d drink from the tea after you. But–

You drank a few gulps, barely stopping yourself from more. It wasn’t part of the plan.

“Well?” Jouno asked.

You swallowed, the segments of an idea forming. You looked down at the tea, your heart racing with the possibility. Jouno’s brows furrowed.

“Yeah,” you said absently. You stretched your hand. A starving prisoner would goble the entire thing; not just sip like a dainty lady and then give it back obediently. You knew that.

And most importantly– Jouno did too.

There wasn’t time to self-doubt. He wouldn’t drink from it. Not when he expected your answer. No, the tea was nice, warm. It left a pleasant tingle inside your mouth; one you let engulf your senses as you gripped the handle harder, pulling back just enough to set the momentum of throwing the hot water against Jouno’s face.

It was rather comical. Jouno sitting before you, face straight as his hand went to the sword at his waist– only to have your wrist flick tea at his face a second later, the droplets falling down his perturbed face as you both sat still in silence.

“Oh, sorry,” you said, blinking at him. “My bad.”

A swishing sound and you found the end of a sharp blade pressing into your neck with Jouno standing over you.

He… looked angry. About eighty percent angry, maybe. Hopefully. The tea trailed down the curve of his cheeks, nose… the cupid bow of his lips. A few fell onto your thighs, staining your pants dark.

“I see you’re finding ways to amuse yourself. How is that turning out for you?” Jouno said, the blade pressing into your skin.

You winced, head tilting. You focused on a drop trickling down Jouno’s cheek, only to stop at the end of his lips. You smiled. “Pretty good.”

“Amusement time’s over then. We’ll see how lucky you’d…”

Jouno’s words felt distant, your focus entirely drawn to the sensation in your body. The ever-recognisable tingle of your ability on the crisp of activation. The pull was barely there, you doubted it would hold for much of anything, so you had to make do with what you had until now.

You imagined your hands reaching out and clasping at a string. And you pulled.

“Jouno,” you said, cutting him mid-sentence. “Don’t move.”

A cool wave washed over you as Jouno had but a second to scoff indignantly before his body seized up, muscles locked in position as his face relaxed into the all too familiar expression of blank obedience.

You stood up quickly, nearly toppling as your sight turned black. But it didn’t matter. Your hands found purchase in Jouno’s triceps as you pulled him in, smashing your lips against his.

The tea was barely enough for one command. And you were just getting started.

You reached up, hand clasping Jouno’s jaw as you forced his lips open. He tasted of coffee, not at all what you expected as your tongue moved against his. You didn’t know how long you had to do this, it’s not like there was a manual on ability use. But you held him in place, your worry spiking until you could sense the strings wrapping around Jouno, your ability building up in strength by the second.

“Relax,” you whispered against Jouno’s lips, the command forcing you to tighten your grip around him as he staggered against your body. “Not that much, fuck!” you said, scrambling to keep you both up. The sword slipped down with a loud cling.

Okay, this was… good. Manageable. Could have been worse. You pulled at the strings, feeling him being engulfed by them entirely.

You drew back to look at Jouno’s face. The annoyed pull at his muscles was gone, his expression bordering on serenity that barely suited him. For all his cruelty, you didn’t feel like throwing the same back at him. Your thumb trailed down his cheek, caressing curiously. He could almost be pretty if those smiles had any real emotion behind him.

It’s a shame people like him existed. Kindness was foreign to him, all the more reasons to not feel bad for doing this.

“Jouno,” you began, drawing his attention to your words. “Get me out of here. Discreetly, please,” you added.

Jouno straightened up, picking up his sword. Within seconds you were in a long hallway, your steps echoing into the vast emptiness beyond.

Your entire body tingled with excitement. Hope. The place you were in could have been at the other end of the world for all you knew, but as long as you held Jouno under your ability– yeah, you’ll be okay.

You thought you’d feel bad about it, at least a bit. But the emotion wasn’t there and it didn’t come the longer you moved, your steps steady behind Jouno’s the entire time.

You began to smile. If luck would have it, you might end up bringing a hunting dog to the agency yourself. You doubted Jouno would mind.

Not anytime soon at least.

...

and now I crave jouno hate sex, love it when that happens

thanks for reading!

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd x reader #bsd fanfic #bungou stray dogs #bsd x y/n #bsd x you #jouno saigiku #bsd jouno #jouno x reader #jouno x you #jono saigiku #hunting dogs bsd

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osamucide · 5 months ago

Text

⊹ PUT ME IN A MOVIE

IF HE LIKES ME, TAKES ME HOME . . . ft. Nikolai Gogol

wc: ~5.8k

cw: NSFW—MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT—PLEASE READ ALL TAGS BEFORE PROCEEDING, snuff film maker!nikolai, alternate universe—no abilities, gn+afab!reader, 2nd person pov, siglai easter egg if you squint, stalking, implied/referenced dissociation, substance use/abuse, intoxication, drugging, abduction, choking, filming, restraints, graphic depictions of violence and gore, graphic noncon elements, mindbreak(?), spanking, object insertion (knife handle), knives/cutting, murder, reader.. dies(?)

reid: brilliant idea courtesy of my friend @berryzai thank u for planting this thought in my little freak brain. this was a fun little practice in suspense building and i would love feedback <3 .......if anyone would be tickled by a gross and gratuitous part 2 lmk lollll

It would happen to you.

At what’s felt like your goddamn lowest, too. There’s been a distant echo of a warning in your brain—perhaps from your mother or your father a long while ago; it rings now, still—that you hadn’t been heeding from the second the alluring silver-haired man placed himself with grace next to you at the bar. Be aware of your surroundings. Don’t go out by yourself. Don’t let your guard down. Sentiments you know to arm yourself to the teeth with—or, knew to, at some point, anyway.

You’re vigilant, always have been. Maybe aside from the going out by yourself part, but you could hardly help that living in a new city, sans friends and family, would prove more exhausting and isolating than you could’ve imagined in the technological age. No amount of text messages or FaceTimes or stupid Tiktoks sent to you from familiar, faraway fingers has translated into anything other than bitter little reminders that you’re really on your own this time.

Your social life has fallen completely by the wayside in light of your frantic work schedule. You’re never off the clock for more than twelve hours at a time, what with how criminally expensive your shiny, brand-new rent is—you could laugh to yourself right now if you were less delirious, thinking about paying so much for a room where you slept three feet from the shitter—and even if you did have friends, or nice coworkers, or a day off, would you even be able to muster up the dignity to bring anyone to your excuse of a place? You doubt it. You can barely stand being cooped up in there as it is, which is why, so often, you find yourself waggling your empty glass for the fourth time each evening at some bartender who by now recognizes you better than you recognize them.

And who could blame you? You have never felt so fucking alone.

You’ve been feeling caught in the spiraling downstream with all the other excreta Yokohama pushes from the pipes in the slums out into the ocean. It’s probably why you so eagerly welcomed the not-so-subtle curiosity of the man who introduced himself to you as Nikolai, proclaiming himself an avid drinker of your cocktail of choice—whiskey and whiskey—and commenting with enthusiasm on the glow of your skin even in the stale light of the bar. The apology for the awkwardness of such a compliment that followed it was just as bubbly; it was perhaps the first thing in weeks, if not months, that had made you crack a scoff of a laugh and raise your eyes to another human being outside the pretense of a monetary transaction.

He was stunning, really. You’d even felt lucky, momentarily, to have your attention stolen from your sorrows by this man whom you learned was visiting from Ukraine, was a filmmaker and photographer, was blind in one eye—it was true, it seemed, as his own skin was unblemished, perfect and not unlike porcelain, aside from a vertical scar plunging through his right eyebrow to below, just above his cheek, which did not detract from his beauty one bit, by the way. His teeth gleamed, wide and often, in low-contrast to his pale complexion when he tangented about his artistic endeavors which, according to him, explored the depth of the soul and the capabilities of the mind. He was fascinated with people, he told you. Fascinated, to a spiritual extent it seemed, with the billions of different possible human conceptions of the word freedom.

Freedom. It felt ironic now.

He could tell you had a certain depth, he’d said—one he liked to find and study in people. His testimony went like this: he’d have drinks and movies and a double bed for you to crash in, and it sounded a world more appealing than drowning your organs in liquor alone another night before slumping to your abominable makeshift-cell of a home before throwing up your hangover, sleeping a half-hour over the toilet, and heading in for your morning shift.

So, you agreed, on behalf of the fact that you’d felt fascinated by him, too. You noticed he’d gone on blabbering so long that you’d sobered up adequately enough to nod and accept, in what you assumed was your right mind, his invitation to go back to his place with him. In retrospect, he could’ve asked you to come over and do this—whatever was happening right now—and you’re not sure you wouldn’t have just laughed and resisted only playfully.

You’ve been so desperate for any interruption in the mind-numbing, feet-dragging routine that’s consumed your pathetic life that if you weren’t a dose of sedative short of completely panicking right now, you’d probably still be thinking this isn’t too bad.

But that’s silly, of course. You do, above all, feel like an idiot through your haze. You’d done everything right—everything except the going out by yourself thing, and that's how you've wound up in this man's dingy apartment, cuffed to the radiator with no less than three layers of tape wrapped around your head and ankles respectively. Alone. Alone is what you're used to these days, and it’s looking like it’s all going to come to a screeching halt the very same way.

You have no idea where he's gone. You just hope he’ll save the mutilation for after you’re dead.

Hey, you can forget about paying rent for that shithole of yours, at least.

His own's not a sight to behold, and you've gotten pretty familiar with it since you've woken up. He was showing you pictures before he left—before he knocked you unconscious, cleanly and with whatever he obviously slipped in the homemade whiskey and whiskey as far as your memory serves, but the throbbing, sore patch at the back of your skull that's obviously bruised when you lean it against the wall says otherwise. He must've hit you. But maybe he didn't. At your brightest and most alert, you can't say you'd be able to differentiate between blunt-force fog, roofie brain sludge, or the mixture of both.

The photographs started out elegant, really. Men and women alike posed solo, side by side, or in small groups, with knives and guns, mostly—pretty lines, sharp contours, silhouettes that prompted you to ask if he was a student. No, he'd replied, here for work; this is just a hobby. More men and women—a few recurring ones, including an androgynous-looking person with the most artful pastel split-dye you'd ever seen and a side profile to die for—in intricate shibari. A coworker? you'd asked; you could say that, he had replied with a wink. You'd drawn your legs up into yourself onto his bed where you leaned into him closer than could be considered friendly and you fawned. You weren't sure you'd met anyone like him. You hadn't met anyone in a very long time, it felt like.

The photos got strange rather quickly. Same photoshoots, same models, same weapons—but with blood. Bullet holes and brain matter and exposed bones. He has a passion for practical effects, he'd told you. See that little bit of brains there? he'd pointed out. Wet cauliflower rubbed with food coloring. Just like that. Easy! Blown-off skin was exceptionally simple to recreate using deli meat, you learned. You remember ogling a particularly convincing pile of innards with half-disgust, half-astonishment. He had photos of similar nature pinned up, collaged, ripped and repieced all over his water-damaged walls, all taken by him; there must've been hundreds. He’d love to do a shoot with you, if you’d be up for it, he said. He’d make sure you’re comfortable—show you just how simple it is to create such images with practical, do-it-yourself effects.

It hadn't started to sink in until too late just how practical the effects in those pictures might've been.

But by then, you were seeing two of him. When did he grow another trailing, milky braid? You'd reached out drunkenly to touch it, take it between your fingers, and there was two of your one hand, as well; there had to be, for when you looked down at your glass, now empty, there were two of those, too. You had four hands, and his two smiles were as charming as ever when he giggled and asked if you liked his hair. Yeah, you're pretty sure you'd slurred, maybe once, maybe twice, but after that, it's all dark.

You should've scalped and strangled him with it.

Your guess is as good as anyone's how long you've been here, how long he—Nikolai—has been gone, if or when he's coming back.

But there's no room for guesses when you're hyperventilating manually through your nostrils just to keep yourself awake. You've been searching frenetically, yanking uselessly, screaming into plastic for at least a couple of hours now—long enough to be reduced to whimpering, rocking, and absent surveying of your surroundings. A fridge with the handle duct taped on. An unmade bed with black and white striped sheets stretched over it. Cutlery all over the countertop. Laminated floors curling up beneath the cupboards. A birdcage, tipped over and with no bird in it. Smoke stains on the ceilings. Boxes. Boxes. Cardboard boxes piled up next to the dresser and spilling out of the meager closet, among other trash. A video camera silent on a tripod in the far corner. A distinct and hollow smell that reminds you, for some reason, of your elementary school. A small analog television. All those photos, everywhere.

You've cried enough in your life to know the taste of tears. It's odd when they run, like raindrops down a window, across the tape and you find the salt inaccessible.

Please, succumb to dehydration, or starvation, or let the will just leave my body—who hasn't wanted to drop dead a time or two in their life? You just never expected these prayers of yours to be so immediate. So visceral.

You think back to the pile of innards in that photo. Gelatin, he'd told you. As if to prove himself, he bounced over to his kitchen cabinets and produced a tin mold that looked readily liver-like.

So much trouble, just to get you here. Inevitably.

The last words you remember him uttering to you—quiz time had preceded them—while he tucked your hair behind your ear and grinned toothily, don’t haunt you as much as they feel like drying cement in your stomach.

“At what point tonight did I start lying to you?”

Even now—especially now—you can’t say.

You’re rather annoyed with the squeaking, wheezing sound that pulses through the space until you remember it’s coming from yourself. Your lungs and throat. It’s getting easier to slip out of your body like that, the longer you sit here.

You hope the dissociative blessing will find you again at the right times.

It would be nicer—not to be so aware of everything right now. The metal digging into your wrists, your elbows and knees knocking against the humming radiator, the absurd way your cheeks puff up like a squirrel’s before your airways can remember you’re not allowed to draw breath in through your mouth anymore. You’re aware of the ache at the base of your neck and the nail marks you dig into your own palms and loads of other physical stimuli, in the form of nothing, barraging you from inside this apartment where nothing, dreadfully, happens. Nothing.

But again, your awareness does not reach your sense of passing time.

So, when he does come back, it might’ve been an hour since you’d woken up—or it might’ve been a few, or it might’ve been longer.

You don’t know.

“Oh, my friend! Terribly sorry to keep you waiting,” he chirps, as if you’re lounging on the couch with the next episode of your favorite show loaded up and ready to watch.

The tears come fresh when he walks over and squats down in front of you, at your eye level, muttering hey, hey like you’re a small dog, smiling the smile that was once charming—now it makes your jaw tighten, your breathing quicken, your back hit the wall.

“I promised movies, didn't I?”

You could mistake his tone for warm if you closed your eyes. You want to. You can't.

After regarding you and finding some satisfaction—you're not sure what in—Nikolai hops up, whistling. Your gaze follows him, dutifully, as if watching him will keep him at bay. That white braid swishes out of time with your breath as the little television crackles to life.

His rifling through one of the boxes produces a stack of DVDs in telltale white paper sleeves, each with its own permanent-marker-scribbled identifier like a love letter—you see these, make these out when he kneels back down in front of you, still whistling as he fans them like a deck of cards, like he wants you to pick one, any one.

But then he clicks his tongue.

“So impolite of me.” He seems to remember the predicament he’s placed you in. Setting the discs aside, he digs in his pocket. “Let's try something, okay?”

On its own, your head shakes side to side. No, is what the tape keeps in your mouth.

But it's a small key, and he's reaching for your cuffs—some sick part of you feels ready to forgive him if he just unlocks you and lets you go. Maybe he'll let you go. You would've stayed for movies had he not done this to you, you swear, unintelligible in your mewling—you’d been so lonely, he could’ve shown you anything and you would’ve stayed. Just let me go, you think now. Just let me go.

Before the tooth of the key slides in—so close—he tells you, "Nothing funny, now. This hand—" he taps the one closest to him, "—is for picking only, got it?"

He's frozen; you realize he's waiting for an answer. Your sight has never wavered from him, but you feel like you're zeroing back in on him and his expectancy from behind closed eyes as he tilts his head forward, toward you. Yes begins to form on his lips, like he's speaking it into you. You nod harshly. It hurts your neck.

But when the key clicks, a caged animal cannot be expected not to pounce.

Your free hand flies up to claw at his face, hard, unforgiving and without knowing what exactly you hope to accomplish. Nail tracks and fingertips find purchase as quickly and comfortably as they can into an eye socket. If your mouth was free, you'd be spitting. Shouting.

But he just peels you away and twists your arm in a way that forces your torso to follow and you screech into the tape; he twists, toward your chest and then down, and you're no match for him and his manic clenched teeth and the way he rises up to plant his foot upon your wrist, in the middle of your back.

Your chin hits the floor.

Something in your shoulder tears loose with a nauseating crack.

You scream. It's not loud enough.

“It's only gonna get worse if you don't just listen to me, sweetheart,” he growls, leaning down, grinding your carpal bones to dust beneath his heel.

Sweetheart. The first time he calls you anything other than friend is when it's really started. He's hurting you and the gutting certainty that he won't stop here is washing over you like a frigid wave.

Those pathetic, annoying sounds again—whining, whimpering. It's harder to remember it's coming from you when your eyes are screwed shut. If you close them tight enough maybe you can pretend this is all happening to somebody else.

“Obviously, that won’t work,” Nikolai says more to himself than you, yanking you back up, putting you back together off the radiator in a few motions you can’t keep up with before he lets you fall again.

You ragdoll.

You would like to think you might’ve had more fight in a situation like this one. But a steady ache is spreading from your shoulder down into your back and the angle at which he presses you into an arch reminds you your dignity is not something of his concern. You ragdoll.

“No, no, baby, we’re gonna get up now.” He drags you up by your wrists and hair and you groan and ache and try to ragdoll yourself into a bag of sand but he kicks your bound ankles and the negative spaces your knocking knees cut out until you’re sitting on your ass on the edge of his bed, in front of the buzzing TV, tears aglide in a new wave when he threatens you, with so little as a bruising grip on your face, to stay upright. “You’ll be okay,” he purrs emptily.

You’re past the liberty of choice, so the thin stack of DVDs hit the dresser with a papery thwack—all but one, which he jams into the slot before he crawls behind you on the bed.

It wouldn’t have been so difficult to turn you into a lover, really. You wish you could tell him this while he sets either thigh on each side of your own, slides his arms around your middle, beneath your arms, the dishonesty of his fingertips beneath the hem of your shirt so welcoming. You still wish he wouldn’t have lied to you. You wish he wouldn’t have put drugs in your drink. You wish he’d take the tape off and let you wake up from the pain careening parallel to your spine and in your hand and you’d cover his arms with your own and tell him thank you, you’ve needed this, it’s been so long since you’ve felt physical affection from a human being that you think you could cry. His fingers wander between your legs and away again and you are crying.

But Nikolai doesn’t want to turn you into a lover. The staticy screen hosts a shaky frame trained on where a cracked alleyway swallows up the foot of a brick building in shifty evening light and when it pans up to a window, there you are, impossibly, between a sliver of blinds. When you turn your head away—hearing those suffocated garbles from someone else’s throat—he creeps back up to your jaw, hard, like he wants to leave his fingerprints on the teeth they’ll use to identify you.

You watch yourself get undressed. You watch yourself wrap a towel around your waist and step halfway out of sight behind the frosted glass of your shower door.

He gets up, periodically, to change the disc. Whistling, leaving you shivering in your bones, glaring sharply at you when you writhe until he guides your wet eyes to another film of yourself. And another. And another. And another. Ones where you’re on your way to work, on the bus. Ones where you carry groceries. Ones where your back faces him, on that barstool of yours. Ones where he gets close enough to touch you and then retreats. Ones where he’s picked up the convenience store receipt that slips out of your pocket. He uncrumbles it for the camera and scans the text and discerns your fate between your case of wine and bag of chips, laughing to himself. He’s a filmmaker. You’re his muse and we’re going to make the best movie ever, you think you hear him whispering to you or shouting at you with vigor when the television finally zaps dead beneath his touch. It’s going to be an exploration, he says, and he’s so lucky it’s you, who did everything right, sweetheart.

“How many days,” he begins, moving you like a mannequin to face him on the bed, your legs curling up uncomfortably as if they’re one, “did I follow you, do you think? Give me your best guess.”

You desperately don’t want to vomit behind the tape, so you don’t make a sound.

But he’s looking to you like he’s waiting for you to take your turn in the game, most likely unwilling to give you a leg up after your little outburst earlier. The tiny red crescents between his brows, barely visible beneath his snowy bangs, do not miss you.

Chain link clicking, you lift up your one ten-fingered hand—no more four hands for a wider array of guesses—and present six shaky fingers. You think about going for his neck.

Nikolai shakes his head as if he’s pleased to be winning. “Try again.”

You spare a middle finger. Without looking at your seven, he shakes no once more. You don’t have to cast your eyes down to his arms, filling out the sleeves of his plain white shirt, to remember how strong they were around you without even trying to be. You’d have to be quick and you’d have to squeeze hard.

Your thumb pokes out.

No.

The rest of your planning time rests like a marble between your last two fingers and when your ring finger flicks up you feel it slipping—slipping because what will you do after? You’ll have to choke him until he’s out cold. You’ll have to be certain he’s subdued before you’ll be able to waddle on your bound feet to his door to undo the latch and deadbolt—forbid you shouldn’t have enough time before you can make it out, pound on a neighbor’s door, get to a phone so someone, anyone can help you get out of here.

Happily, Nikolai shakes his head once more.

And you’re uncurling your pinky, making your way to a mockery of jazz hands.

But before you get there, you lunge at him with everything left in your body and shattered hand—your ridiculously stringy reserve of willpower, funneled down through your dislocated shoulder and hours of frantic breath and trembling next to that radiator so that when your nails land this time in half-moons around his throat you groan; you get his jugular with two palms, one assured, one numb, insistent knuckles, and vengeant fingertips and his eyes widen so sweetly, his mouth twists down in the first and only displeased expression you’ll see on his angel-white face and you grit your hidden teeth and squeeze. You can taste the outside air and the blood from inside your cheek.

Frowning and flailing backwards, Nikolai gives you the privilege of a little performance.

You think you could kill him before he kills you. You want to see the blue rise up his pretty skin. You grit your teeth. Your groan becomes a shriek. You squeeze.

And when he’s on his back he pries you off. Does you one better.

He’s grinning before he can get you off him—you’ve lost. You’ve lost a long time ago—when are you going to believe him? Does he have to spit it in your tear-streaked face? Surely you’ll understand, after his knuckles ripple into the space between your upper and lower jaws, now that he stamps his knee into the back of your neck in another choreography-perfect motion you never stood a chance against. Jazz hands against your chest, elbows jabbing your stomach.

“It was thirteen, anyway,” he growls like he’s angry with you for guessing incorrectly. “Thirteen days. Feisty one.” You had no extra hands or mouth to make such a speculation, and now his heavy leg bears down on you. Hand on your back, grappling toward the curve of your ass, almost soothing. Almost. Your eyes are pressed into a blur of black and white stripes.

Smack.

It’s one of the kinder touches, still.

“I don’t like having to discipline my subjects into submission, you know.” Nikolai almost sounds regretful. “If you’ll just—” Smack— “trust me to do my work, I can trust you to be good for me.”

Your spinal cord could snap like the head off a flower and he just smacks your ass, over, over. All your permission to make sound is trapped between his kneecap and his mattress, him and his rough hands, one of which knots in your hair and yanks, yanks until you can’t pretend this is nice anymore. You should’ve struck faster, gripped harder, shaken him with all your might but you should’ve done lots of things prior to now, and he’s the disappointed discipliner and you’re sorry, alright—you’re sorry you caused either of you all this trouble and you just want to go home. You just want to go back to your shithole apartment and let your chafed wrists heal and allow the long-term pain of a few dodged medical bills remind you that this wasn’t quite a dream, but at least you’ll be alive.

At least you’d be alive.

“Don’t fucking move,” he doesn’t bark at you. He’s not unkind. It’s a simple instruction. All the air rushes back in when he gets up, off you. Moves somewhere in the room to make a soft clatter.

At least you’d be alive. But for what? To slog back to the machine? With all this added weight on you?

Would you want to be? You hadn’t begun with much when you crossed the threshold of the bar into the night he swept you up in. You had the stifling promise of work, home, work, home, feel alone, drink yourself to sleep, and you would be dumbly hopeful—no, pitiably lying to yourself to think anything more, anything different would be waiting for you on the other side of this.

Another clatter, dull and short, sounds on the bed next to you and you dip with the weight of him following. From the clatter he chooses scissors—you know this because your shirt goes first, the cotton ripping, before your pants which too rip, rip, rip in places all over before he shucks it all, undergarments too, off you like the skin of a fruit.

At least you’d be alive. But what is it you’d aim to become after being Nikolai’s pretty little victim? A work of his art? Surely this isn’t something you want to carry with you, you think in the margin between rationality and ruin—between you and the door you’re not certain you’ll ever reach again. Certainly, not in one piece.

You roll over, exposed. He’s so pretty, biceps flexing, jaw clenching while he situates a body that is not yours into an adequate position where he can sever the duct tape binding the ankles with a few back-and-forth flourishes of his serrated knife like it’s a saw. This is a hobby, you remember. You wonder if he’s a butcher or a mortuary scientist or what he does to make his living and if he looks just as beautiful doing it. You’ve been granted the point-of-view of specimen. You can’t think of a perspective you’d rather watch him splay himself across your thighs from.

Your feet twitch to kick. Your brain doesn’t follow through.

“I told you you’d be comfortable, didn’t I?” He’s back to grinning that grin you’re holding onto. You can be a pretty model if you keep reminding yourself that if you weren’t weakened and restrained in his bed, that grin would look so inviting. His joy and passion are what drew you into him in the first place, after all. He talks to you, looks at you so softly while you feel broken. Isn’t that all you’ve been craving for someone to do? “Let’s get you comfortable, dovey.”

He kisses you—not rough, especially gentle in fact—over the tape as he’s tucking the same knife between your bodies. The kiss of an angel, the kiss of death.

It’s not comfortable when the stainless steel handle finds its way inside you. You can’t even get wet, looking at him, seeming so patient now that he’s got you bending nice and far, and his teasing from earlier has done nothing; he’s so pretty and you would’ve wanted him before this. He didn’t have to do this to you.

It’s uncomfortable, too, when he fucks you with it, slow at first—gradually faster. You don’t think you even moan, or whine. You just watch him, silky braid fallen in the crook of his neck, as he alternately studies your face, the knife, how you don’t react. When he fucks you faster, risking cuts upon his own hand, you let your eyes flutter shut, your fingers curling and uncurling subtly like they’re the only part of you that registers what’s happening. You don’t want to watch him anymore, going to the trouble. For you.

He pushes it so deep for you, so deep you start to feel the serrated teeth. Your toes echo your fingers and finally, you give him sound in the form of a cry.

“Oh, that’s good,” Nikolai tells you. A laugh bubbles through the words.

Stop, you think you’re saying. Don’t. It’s anyone’s guess and his guess is more.

So you leave. You remember this is all happening to someone who isn’t you—you have to feel it, but it’s not happening to you. You leave and you pretend it’s two of his fingers in you—they’re cold, that’s all—pretend the tape and the cuffs are some kink thing you were thrilled to indulge him in. Pretend you’re not concussed. Pretend your faculties can come back to you anytime you want in this little daze of yours—he’s just making you comfortable, he’s just making you feel good because your life isn’t so sad that you don’t deserve even that.

He’s just making you feel good.

Your tears have no end. They unravel out of you like string.

“Don’t cry, baby,” his voice shakes with the speed. You jostle with his pace but you pretend you’re floating. “Don’t cry, pretty thing.” But he’s cutting you open from the worst place and when he grabs your chin again, his hands’ slick with his blood or maybe yours and you jolt back home into your body to find him again and the knife is still inside you.

You hurt all over. He’s just making you feel good.

Your sobs come loud and violent, withheld only by tape. He’s patient with you. He’ll be patient with you while you purge it, surely. You blur over, the string undoing faster and faster and he’s wiping your tears away, replacing them with something else, something red. It gets in your eyes. You miss his grin this time but if you were to see it, you would not think it the same one from before.

When your body rejects the knife he scoops it up, licks the handle clean of all you’ve given him so far, with care.

And he hushes you.

“It feels good,” he reaffirms to you. “You’re doing so good.”

You’re doing better than you ever have. You’re good—you must be. It’s the first time you’ve heard that in what feels like lifetimes. You’re good beneath his touch. He smears your blood or his blood down your cheek, down the tape, and you cry for him. Stop. Don’t. Be cruel to me again. It’s what I know. It’s easier to die when burning hatred is the one burying you. His affection makes your stomach turn. You loll into the palm cupping your face. You’re doing so good.

And he’s grinning, sharp and wide, when your eyes roll back and forth. Back into your skull, forward onto him. Nikolai grants your wish when his fingers worm beneath, between the tape and your skin, while he’s telling you don’t scream or I won’t be so nice anymore and when he tears it away your face feels cold and you scream anyway—you scream for your crumpled arm and the violation and the knife life’s held above your throat come to materialize now in the third strike against him and there is a thick, flowing gash that leaves you feeling waterboarded as it seethes and gurgles its way through your teeth and around your shoulders all at once like a crimson harness to keep you flat on your back while Nikolai looks at you like you didn’t learn.

“Ultimately—” His cloud-colored eyes burn as he towers over you like a god. Your god. The only one that can set you free, now. “—you made such easy little snuffbait,” he quips, running the blade once, twice along the cloth of his shirt before turning it on the thin, tender skin keeping him from your sternum. You and your first-floor housing and your melancholia. “Too caught up in your woes to notice the man following you around each corner for—god, weeks now. So little to live for anymore, sweetheart—it wouldn’t be so much of a shame to put you out of your misery now, would it?”

The look you give him must be delirious and begging; you swear a flicker of the most genuine sympathy you’ve ever seen crosses his face until he’s laughing, softly, rumbling to your ears like a fan’s whir.

“Oh, it would be such a waste of you,” he waves away. “Besides, I’ve already given you my artist statement.”

His artist statement. From the bar.

Freedom.

His work—work, the word is bitter and foamy mixed with your blood—explores different conceptions of freedom.

Freedom. What could it possibly have to do with an innocent person, bound and drugged with their throat slit on film? What exploration is being made? What endeavor toward enlightenment are you when your mouth is too full of blood to ask him to stop?

Freedom. He’s been following you for weeks, if all he’s said is truthful, while you’ve been swirling in that downstream like a helpless fucking bug. And like a kid looking for an insectile test subject, Nikolai plucked you right up, splayed out your limbs, and stuck you beneath the microscope. Next he’d pin you, dry you, feed the story of your mortality to someone—his next victim, an empty roll of film, his own reflection, some god that wasn’t listening to you—and you would be another nameless face, a decomposing body, a snapshot demonstration of how well deli ham apparently mimics peeled-back human skin. A lesson in deliverance.

You haven’t been free in a long time. Perhaps, even, since before you moved to Yokohama and all your shit uprooted itself to the forefront of your mind and landed you on your back in the Devil’s bed.

“You should know well by now I’m interested in more than just seeing you bleed.”

Your hands reach out, trembling for his face like it’s salvation, while he leans to rest with his chin above yours. The Devil traces white heat, a bullseye for where he’ll stab into that tender skin on your chest, drag down, cut you open for him to begin the messy part of his project.

You tilt ninety degrees and the red light of the camera winks at you. At least you’re not alone.

“I told you, I’m going to set you free.”

#nikolai x reader #nikolai smut #bsd x reader #bsd smut #bsd dead dove #dead dove #dead dove do not eat #mdni #nnnsfw.ᐟ #with love—reid

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