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hoseoksluna · 1 month

Text

STEAM | myg ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!yoongi x oc (feat. jungkook)

genre: smut

word count: 9.2k

summary: one video call awakens your neediness for two cocks.

playlist: steam / pinterest board: steam

warnings: female masturbation, mentions of shower sex, praise kink, toying with the idea of polyamory, a hint of voyeurism, oc rly goes through it and faces mental battles, fear, intoxication, punishment, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, choking, cum eating, manhandling, degradation, provocation, mutual masturbation, rough & raw sex, brief oral sex (f. receiving), pet names

note: IT'S FINALLY HEREEEEEE SKFDSFLSFJ, okay so—let me introduce to you a new yoongi series featuring JUNGKOOK oh my god. i am SO EXCITED about this and i wanna apologize for my insane ideas in advance... i'm so sorry, guys. nevertheless, i hope you like this as much as i do, i literally went mad writing this and i smoked so many cigarettes i lost count. please, let me kNOW UR FAVORITE PARTS CUZ I HAVE SO MANY AND I WANNA TALK ABOUT THEM. oh fuck, guys. ENJOY READING SDKFJSD. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

side note: btw, the playlist i made is literally perfect and depicts the fic wonderfully. you can listen while you read! <3

The scent of mangoes finds its way up your nostrils, heating your senses through its balmy touch as you rub the body butter over the damp skin of your arms. Fingers graze along your décolletage, tucking in the fragrance for your boyfriend to breathe in when he comes home. He’s out for the night—said something about his friend finishing his military service, so the whole group was going out to celebrate it. Yoongi was so frantic in his excitement, hastily putting on the first outfit that sparked his eye. Didn’t even touch his hair, only sprayed a mist of his sandalwood and tangerine-tinged perfume. Grabbed his phone, keys, wallet. Barely kissed you goodbye before he fled out of the door.

He didn’t even ask you if you wanted to come along.

You didn’t mind, though—you’re only in the early stages of your relationship. It hasn’t even been half a year since you’ve started dating. And you figure he deserves a night out with his closest friends because you’ve been attached to the hip since the beginning. Funnily enough, you no longer live at your own place. Somehow, you’ve settled in Yoongi’s apartment, never setting foot outside, save for your walks, grocery shopping, the few dates with your friends and work. There wasn’t any conversation about it; you just mostly spend your free time with your boyfriend.

And all you do is fuck, eat and watch movies.

The last time Yoongi took you out was during the first two months you’d been getting to know him. The realization of how long it’s been sends a trail of chills down your arms and you rub it away.

But because you’ve been spending all your time together, you’re glad to have a moment to yourself—glad to be able to take a long hot shower, to do your hair and skincare. Perhaps, you’ll even have time to do your nails and that energizes you, propels you to spread the body butter further down the rest of your body. It is your rose garden, these night times reserved for your hot showers. The place you go to—your hideaway from the pressure and nerves of life that the steam loosens and soothes, especially when you let your sultry playlist echo through the mightiness of Yoongi’s bathroom, your favorite singer’s voice reaching your veins like the growing stems of those roses; pretty, pink and so feminine. Yes, Yoongi’s therapy sessions and thick length might have been a great help, the best in fact, but there’s something about letting yourself be burned off of all that’s been weighing you down and watching it trickle down the drain that is just so satisfying.

It was all that you were once used to. That is, until you met Yoongi.

Showers with him are something else.

Something you never thought you could ever have the blessing to encounter. Showers with Yoongi are intense, so out of pocket that you find yourself thinking about them fondly whenever you’re alone with your thoughts. There, beneath the downpour of the warm water, he lets you see the other side of his ever unyielding stern façade. While holding you, he would make you laugh, then make you moan and break that sound with each hard plunge of his cock. Hair slicked back, smirk adorning that delicious wet mouth, causing him to look like a Mafioso bent on absolutely ruining you. He would tell you the most insane story he heard from his friend, then talk you through the build-up of your orgasm while continuing to the point of that story—seamlessly waving through, never losing tempo. “Then, he went up to his hyung to ask him about what he did—yes, just like that, honey, take it. I know you’re almost there, just listen.” You would come all over his cock, sprinkling him with your essence, right there at the end of his story and like a hungry man, he’d get on his knees and eat you up, muttering how good you are and how well you did along with each swipe of his tongue. Your lungs would heave due to the overstimulation, your legs would tremble, unable to stand and he’d gather you into his arms, fold you like paper into the crooks of his body and let his thick duvet drape over you. He’d fall asleep first, breathing in the scent of your shampoo, snoring softly behind you while spooning you, never letting go of his deathly grip around you. And while you would breathe in the haze of lilac sprayed on his pillows, you’d become aware of the drowsy rhythm of his heartbeat, the lift and fall of his chest against your back, the snug heat of his body and it would lull you to sleep.

That has become your new version of hot long showers.

And if it isn’t this, then it’s Yoongi letting you quickly wash yourself before he’d steal you away, dragging you into this bed, only to carry you back there an hour later.

You speculate he has a serious, adorable case of attachment issues.

That is why you enjoy your exceptional alone shower all the more—you haven’t had it in so long. Only this time, it’s quite different.

You feel him everywhere.

You feel him in the drift of your hand down your tummy because you recollect the way he likes to pepper kisses there on his way to eat you out. You feel him when you round your palms across your backside because you know he particularly likes to leave traces of saliva when he presses open-mouthed kisses there. His love for you circulates in your bloodstream, mingling with the little love you have for yourself, making it bigger, turning it into a turbulent rush of liquid. You sense it tapping beneath your skin, asking for more of your body just like Yoongi does, always begging, begging for more—for more skin to kiss and lick, for more sensitive parts of you to find and nibble on.

Your hands sense the ghost of him even when your fingers slip past your mound and realize that the film of your memories dampened your cunt. You hear the words of praise he’d utter into your ear at the discovery and you sigh at your tender touch.

That’s a good girl. Messy for me.

The rotund case of your body butter remains opened, forgotten. You suddenly have better things to do—like give your body the self-care, the self-love it deserves.

It’s a part of the solo girl's night.

A mewl comes out of your mouth at the first round of circles on your clit. Furrowing your brows at the pleasure, you prop your free hand on the edge of the bathroom counter, riding the pads of your fingers. And then, just like Yoongi taught you, you take your digits away, edging yourself, taking them elsewhere. You cry out at the contact of your wet fingertips on your stiff nipple and you pinch the nub, a spasm of delight coursing through your sensitiveness.

You imagine Yoongi standing behind you. Not touching you, merely guiding you, telling you when to stop, when to pick up the pace—when to fill your hole. Watching you in the mirror, hands in his pockets, having a perfect view of your slick-caked folds, of your clit swollen and asking for his tongue. Determined to make you lose your mind by teasing you, letting you only slap your pussy once you’re close. Your essence drips out of you at that thought, making a mess on the floor and you plug it in with your finger, fucking yourself steadily, inflamed by how slippery your heat is, how easy it is to slip the digit inside. Hot flashes close over your body, pearls of perspiration kissing the crook of your neck. You fuck yourself faster and—

A sudden ring of your phone jolts you. And the picture of your boyfriend, half dressed, with the early morning sunlight leaking over the scars and tattoo on his shoulder, crammed inside your screen, greets you.

You pant hard, your finger still inside of you. Delirious.

He must be on his way home. You don’t even know what time it is.

Leaning forward, you hide your breasts behind your forearm and you swipe your finger to accept his video call.

Blurry Yoongi. The night sky, starlit and alive, behind him. A shoal of silhouettes, some lanky and some buff, all short-haired and all as woozy-lidded as you. The picture smooths into a crystal clear view and there you see your boyfriend, the nocturnal breeze brushing his ebony hair back. Not just him, however, but another male craning his neck to regard you fully.

His eyes flicking from your neck to the smallest of your exposed décolletage, a smirk blossoming on his face like your imaginary roses.

Yoongi slaps his phone face down. You withdraw your finger from your heat, a cacophony of giggles, whiny cries and the exclamations of his name emitting out of your mouth.

He is not, in fact, on his way home.

It is a warning, his low and strict call of your name back and, heeding it, you take your phone into your hands, so he’s only able to see your deeply flushed face. Device back in his hand, he’s not looking at you at all. As a matter of fact, he’s shooting daggers fueled with deadly nightshade at his friend, grumbling something that you can’t quite make out amidst the chaos and bustle of the outing. The shoal of the rest of his friends and strangers disappear out of the perspective, as if threatened by the cold energy.

You wish you knew what he’s saying to him. Even your pussy aches to hear it. The principle of him scolding his friend for looking at you at your most private moment scorches you and you’re red, flattered and majestically horny.

Yoongi turns his head to see if you’re well-behaved and you beam at him, the pulse on your clit intensifying, forcing you to say, “come home, Yoongi.”

He chuckles, aware of the reason behind your words, pretends he isn’t. “What were you doing, baby?”

The growth of your grin doesn’t falter. You show him the sheen of your wet finger in the ivory bathroom light, the glint, the stickiness as you push your index finger to your middle and pull away, your arousal on full, filthy display.

He curses under his breath. Doesn’t give a fuck that his friend sits beside him and adjusts in his seat. Bites his lip briefly. “Stick it in your mouth for me.”

Doesn’t say the words that so very often follow after in that sentence. Taste yourself.

Why he doesn’t step aside to take this video call eludes you, but something about you being watched by two pairs of eyes excites you. Enough for you to do as he says. Perhaps it’s due to the fact you don’t know the male sitting beside him and Yoongi is letting him keep his sight glued to the screen.

Two sharp inhales of breath. Not one of yours. Yoongi readies his hook to feignedly lash out at his friend and you press your thighs together to alleviate yourself of the unbearable feeling between your legs. Confidence, a bad, bad version of confidence suffuses you whole, turning you into a person gone mad by lust. You swirl your tongue around your digit, the tanginess of your taste causing your eyes to narrow, the principle of driving not just one, but two men mad just the same intoxicates you, as if you were there among them, drinking.

A pair of round eyes peek at the corner of the screen. Soft, naive, so terribly innocent. A dash of sobriety washes over you, owed to those brownish effervescent orbs, a sprinkle shame pooling low in your core. A reality check. You sense some kind of stability of that reality beneath those eyelashes of his, the stability that whispers—is this the right thing to do?

It’s not rough, it’s not stern, it’s not Yoongi coded—it’s anything but. Gentleness is what you detect, free of any prejudice.

You sigh. Millions of thoughts about how you could toy with them pass through your mind, but you decide against them, the stability a pillar that blends into your spine, helping it unbend. You can’t do this; you can’t do this to Yoongi and you need to keep your dignity intact in some way, despite the fact that every fiber of your body compels you to do the opposite. You distract yourself by screwing the lid of your body butter back on.

“Good girl,” Yoongi coos, causing you to whisk your eyes to the screen in perhaps disbelief, shame or your still pending arousal—you’re not sure. How can you be a good girl when you let another man see something so lewd? How can your boyfriend validate something like that? “One more beer and I’ll be home. Wait for me on the bed. As you are.”

Naked.

Heat rushes to your cheeks, to the surface of every part of your skin, dragging away small ounces of shame. You curse, mentally, running a hand down your face. Yoongi downs his drink without taking his gaze off of you, watching your reaction, adds once he swallows, “and don’t touch yourself.”

And with that, he hangs up.

The harsh comprehension of what the fuck just happened envelops you in a confining embrace, the precipitately increasing weight of shame now a burden on your shoulders that you just can’t shake off, even when you slink your arms through sleeves of your silky robe and welcome in the summer breeze coming to caress your face on the balcony—even when you burst your lighter to a flame and light up your cigarette, inhaling the smoke that you hoped would rid you of its such uncomfortable hold around you.

You licked your cum clean under the gape of a guy you don’t know in front of your boyfriend.

His friend heard the order. Don’t touch yourself. Yoongi didn’t whisper it. Didn’t camouflage his words in any way. Uttered them straight and bare, allowing his friend to hear them, despite the fact he almost fought him then and there for sneaking one glance at your moderately naked form.

Question marks hover in your mind and the pulse on your clit cries, seemingly knowing the answer.

Did Yoongi like it as much as you did, the aspect of having an audience?

The wetness in your heat dribbles out, staining your thighs. You squeeze them together, the drag of your cigarette hard and long, expecting to feel your nerves burn off. You gain no such thing—no relief, no lifting of the burden, just constricting tangles in your tummy, zippy spasms of butterflies going mad, mad, mad.

Perhaps Yoongi didn’t like it at first until he perceived the auspicious debauched look on your face. Saw the way you didn’t hesitate to oblige him when he told you to stick your finger in your mouth. And perhaps the fact that you didn’t express any signal of discomfort was the key to unfastening the leash on his possessiveness over you.

What have you done? What have you so selfishly and disgustingly done?

You hang your head in your hands, the white smoke intertwining with the burden on your shoulders and pressing down harder on you.

That’s why he let his friend hear the command. Don’t touch yourself. He saw the way you indulged in it, and that awakened his liking for it.

Yoongi lied when he said he’d have one more beer.

By the time you hear the thunder of his voice, all the roses in your garden have wilted, leaving faded, withered petals in its wake—leaving a path of your internal battle all around the apartment for Yoongi to follow. You’ve paced, your bare feet stepping on them. Tried to untangle yourself from the incarceration of your mind by chain-smoking, but to no avail. The only change that took place in your body was the decline of your shame, for you couldn’t help but imagine what could have happened, had you let free rein to your desire—had those round eyes never looked at you with such purity. You figured there wasn’t anything bad about letting your imagination be colored like that, and so you sat on your boyfriend’s couch, cigarette switched to a coconut-flavored vape, and dreamed.

You dreamed about those two men being of service to you, right here on the same couch, where they would lay you down and make you squirt over and over again, betting between each other who could make you come the fastest, counting down your orgasms until the number was a mere blur to you.

The throb on your clit heightened to heavenly levels and when you emerged from your dream, you found yourself being able to breathe—your momentary disappearance tricking your shame into leaving. It was difficult for you not to touch yourself and you opted to adhere to Yoongi’s wish, not risking to feel worse than you already had.

The war ended, undeterred by the fact you never expected it to.

Loud swear words roar in Korean. You rise to your feet to open the front door for Yoongi and you discover that he’s not alone at all.

The same pair of round eyes, the cause of all the ruckus you just departed from, meet yours, hauling you back there with a force. Your mouth falls agape and before you can react any further, Yoongi stumbles into you. You almost topple over, realizing you didn’t care to steal a glance at the state of him, but the male grabs a hold of Yoongi’s jacket and pulls him back. You wish you had tumbled over and the floor had opened up and swallowed you whole. It would have been less embarrassing than to be stuck in this situation. You want to run, you want to scream—

“He’s drunk out of his own mind,” the male says, his voice deep like the warm wind before a tumultuous storm, fitting just right with the thunder of Yoongi’s intonation, his gaze wandering over the entirety of your shock-stricken face, taking it in; giving you the same attention that fucked you up hours ago. Yoongi begins to mumble something you can’t momentarily focus on, his hands grasping your waist, lips latching onto your neck. No, you cannot for the life of you focus because the man steals you all over again and you hate how easy it is for him to do that, when you’re far from being available. “Don’t ask what made him drink this much.”

Did Yoongi get drunk because he let his friend in on your most intimate moment?

Humiliated, turned on and angry altogether, a concoction that simply worsens everything, you draw back from your boyfriend. You want to beat at his chest with your fists just to have some sort of relief from blaming him—because if you blame yourself, only doom consumes you. Why did he call you? Or, essentially, why didn’t he step away to take that damned video call?

“Thanks for walking him home,” you say eventually, your voice smooth, despite the violence of your feelings, despite wanting to say something else entirely. Your first words to him and, wholeheartedly—despite it all, you hope they aren’t last, even if that possibly makes you a despicable person.

Yoongi’s friend nods. Chews his bottom lip and lowers his gaze to the ground for a split second. You wonder if he feels the need to remove himself from this uncomfortable situation as much as you do because you can’t read anything in that paleness of his countenance. Not a hint of any emotion whatsoever, just blandness of expression, slightly dimmed by the few thick strands of black hair that have fallen from his disheveled, pushed back mullet. As if they did fight after all, perhaps on the way home, or wrestled if Yoongi was being difficult.

You don’t realize you and the male are just staring at each other until Yoongi places his hand on your cheek, brushing back a wisp of your tresses. Only then do your eyes flick to Yoongi’s and you finally notice him, the gloss in his hooded irises searching and searching for you, the rosy blush on his cheeks, dry parted mouth and the dart of his tongue as he wets it, softening the flecks that have been created there.

This is it. If you are focused on him, all things are made right—all things that have been stained get purified and dreams get turned into dust. This is the man you’ve fallen for, who puts you before himself and has done so every day since the moment he made you his. You can’t let anyone else get in the way of the home that your relationship has become, you can’t let your feelings flee—

“For the record,” Yoongi’s friend starts, hand massaging circles on the nape of his neck, the leather of his jacket tight around his arm. Your heart jumps and beats against your chest ferociously. “I didn’t see anything, if that helps you sleep better tonight.”

It’s such a fat lie and you’re about to shake your head, but then he looks at you with such sincere regret that, ultimately, you choose to believe him. Just to keep your peace of mind unscarred.

Yoongi tightens his hold around your waist, which grounds you, and a small part of you begins to bloom in healing, disseminating little by little across your whole body.

A healer with big, round eyes. A good man.

With a swing, Yoongi closes the door but you don’t hear the click. No, the light spills in from the hallway. Your hands reach for the doorknob but Yoongi blocks them and wraps them around his waist while swaying on his feet. He traces the shell of your ear with his lips, his alcohol-reeking breath wafting over you, and softly, you whine his name. Shuffling beyond the door, feet never entirely moving—the male is still standing outside and he hears as Yoongi hums at your call, as the sound grows into a groan at the feeling of being alone with you at last, at the feeling of all that makes you feminine under his hands. He hears your gasp as Yoongi pushes your chest flush to his body, kisses you harshly and cups your bare pussy. Hears the smack of your mouths, the pop once he withdraws, the squelch of your wetness. Hears as Yoongi murmurs, “you been horny, baby? Wet for me, hm?”

It’s those words that make him shut the door for you.

You made Yoongi drink a lot of water.

And while he downed the glasses, you ordered him Thai food from his phone, which he now devours. You had wanted to change out of your flimsy robe into your plush pajamas, but Yoongi stopped you with a tight grip on your shoulder and with the nastiest puppy eyes he could manage, considering his plastered state, he begged you not to. Informed you that he wanted to fuck you in your little robe and you told him that if he wanted that, he needed to get sober.

He’s your boyfriend and you trust him, but you don’t feel comfortable having sex with him while he’s wasted and you’re not. It’s a dangerous territory you don’t ever want to cross.

So, now he eats as quietly as a mouse, feeding you every other bite with his chopsticks, meanwhile you’re jittering your leg with your arms crossed across your chest, mind full of the male who walked him home. Of the way he pulled you under and resurfaced with you soon after. Of the calm peace you feel all over the perimeter of your mind that peculiarly stresses you out. Of what would happen if you voiced your little dream to Yoongi, especially.

Was it out of the question or would he consider it?

Your leg jitters harder.

You want to tell him, badly. Seeing his friend in real life changed fucking everything. If you hadn’t, you would’ve forgotten about it in the days to come. Yoongi would’ve fucked it out of you in most probability. But those eyes… those eyes got under your skin.

“Stop fidgeting,” Yoongi scolds with his mouth full of food, no hint of slurring. The hot meal and hydration worked a miracle. “You’re making me nervous.”

He picks up two cut pieces of chicken with his chopsticks and stuffs your mouth, adding a few pieces of vegetables as you’re chewing. Watches you swallow it, noticing how your eyes are focused on nothing in particular on the other side of the room. Tucking his utensils under his palm, he places his hand on your thigh, halting your restless motion.

You still won’t look at him. Too lost in the overthinking maze, debating whether you should speak or remain quiet about your desire. A strong part of you fears his reaction and the other half is horrified at the possibility of being turned down—

Yoongi takes his hand away. Props it on his cheek.

“I can see your pussy from here,” he says, licking his lips. “You’ve shaved?”

You breathe a soft laugh, turning your head to face him, covering yourself with the small fabric. Dark, but tender eyes, void of any glossiness, awake and stirred—amused. Cheeks awash with color. Lips puffy, a dark tinge of red coating them. A sturdy fist on his cheek, the milky jawline underneath. That messy hair, the slicked-back look ruined by the constant rake of his fingers through them, now falling to the side from the middle. That slender body, clad in the night from head to toe—legs outstretched under the table. So fine, so delicious. A beautiful strong man—all yours. Why do you want another one?

You slide your leg across his thighs and Yoongi slouches in his seat, discarding his chopsticks.

“I shaved everything,” you respond, cocking your brow at him—a sly invitation for him to feel its smoothness.

And he does. Runs his hand up and down your skin. Goes as far as lifting your other leg onto his lap, cradling them both, thumb caressing your calf. The movement causes your robe to expose you again and, cursing the fabric, you go to cover yourself, but Yoongi stops you.

“Don’t bother,” he mutters. “I wanna look at it.”

You raise your brows altogether, looking up at him. “You wanna look at her?”

Yoongi smirks. That dangerous tug of one corner of his mouth to the side. Your death, your undoing, the root of your submission to him. “I want to have her at my disposal.”

You gulp and Yoongi catches it, chuckling. Drifts his hand down your calf, to your heel, to the middle of your foot up to your toes. He plays with your pinky. You note the fact he changed the pronoun after you did.

Your arousal returns at full speed.

“Did that make you wet?” Low, low is his voice—you feel it prodding at your core, thrumming vehemently.

You blossom like your roses, thoughts put to the side.

“I’ve been wet this entire time,” you say, zeroing in your gaze on the flick of dimness that whirls past his eyes. “For hours.”

He makes a sound of pitiful nature. “Poor baby.” Furrows his brows and juts his bottom lip out, making you weak. Lets his hand roam on your thigh. “So you listened? You didn’t touch yourself?”

You merely nod your head quickly. You were too distressed to give your body the pleasure it sought. Too busy flaring your lungs with the burn of smoke. And you respected his wish enough to keep your hands to yourself.

Yoongi coos. “Good girl.”

A flashback—your lips wrapping around your slick-coated finger, Yoongi praising you and… another pair of eyes watching. Chills spread across your arms, your stomach flipping. Thankfully, your shame is kept at bay. It relieves you.

“Can I feel how wet you are?”

A sweet, devious smile. “If you can manage to get to her.”

You press your thighs tightly together. Yoongi looks at you as if you’ve greatly offended him and alas, he turns your chair so you face him head-on. Forces your thighs apart without any strain at all—and there you feel it, the embarrassment of fucking with him, once your pussy is at complete disposal to him just like he wanted.

“If your pussy wasn’t so pretty, I’d make you regret your words,” he purrs, eyes fixed on your drenched flesh, hands pushing your thighs back until your knees are at level with your shoulders, folds parting with the movement, revealing more of you. Yoongi wets his mouth with his tongue.

He thumbs your gleaming lips back and forth, collecting your essence, mesmerized by them. Looks at you intently.

“It wouldn’t hurt to say sorry, though,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “Would it?”

You grin at him. “Sorry, Yoongi.”

He rubs your swollen clit in slow circles, still with his bedewed thumb, still with his eyes on you. You choke out a moan at the delight permeating through your being. “That’s not the proper way to apologize, now is it?”

You lean your pelvis into his touch, a natural body reaction unfolding. He disapproves. You scrunch your face. “What should I say?”

Yoongi tuts. “I’m barely touching you and you already forgot your manners?”

The only answer you emit is an uncouth whine.

He shakes his head, putting pressure into his circles for a mere beat of time before he slaps your pussy curtly. A vivid spasm of pleasure fills you and you moan. “Needy girl. Don’t I take care of this pussy enough? What’s this behavior?”

Another whine. A roll of your body, asking for more of his touch. “Spank her again.”

A cock of his brow. Harsh, stern, evil. His hand remains propped on his thigh, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t hear you say please. You wanna be bad? You want me to make you cry?”

You know just how much he’s capable of doing that. You shake your head ‘no’. You want gentleness, the kind you saw in his friend’s eyes—

You flutter your own shut to get rid of that thought. Take a deep breath.

“Spank my pussy again, please.”

Yoongi massages the apex of your thigh, dangerously close to your cunt, squeezing the flesh every once in a while.

“Apologize first.”

“You didn’t tell me how.”

He clicks his tongue and pinches your folds and your clit between his fingers. You cry out, and then Yoongi gets up to his feet, leaning over you, propping his hand on the back of your chair. He begins to swiftly spank your pussy over and over again. You just jump at every contact, moaning, eyes flicked to his, never breaking apart. Taking it, taking it so well that Yoongi kisses you nastily, licking into your mouth. Then, he grunts. Fingers flat against your clit, he moves them from side to side. Roses, a myriad of them, flood your form with their freshness and dewiness, with their beauty and delectation and you shudder, you scream, you arch your back off of the backrest—

“Say, ‘I’m sorry, Yoongi. I’m such a bad girl that I deserve every spank and I’ll take it until it hurts.”

Flabbergasted and horny beyond measure, your mouth falls agape. Your brain turns into mush, the pleasure paralyzing you, your sounds now loud and obscene, the roses in you flitting, growing and murmuring. Yoongi adds more pressure to your clit and your eyes sink back into your head, his darkness wafting over to you, seeping into your skin—now completely yours.

You repeat after him—word for word. With a simper on your face that causes him to scowl at you, as if you dared to toy with your punishment he bestowed upon you. But then, a tongue prods the inside of his cheek and he laughs, taking a hold of his dominant role and making sure you know. He spanks your clit twice in a row, hands lifting to fondle your nipples.

“Good,” he praises. “You like that, don’t you? Spanks on your pussy?”

You don’t like that softness. Like the personified thunder he is, it is the calm before the storm. It unnerves you, the expectation of what might come next and your disliking of it. Nonetheless, you brim with the craving to have his fingers inside of you. Your hole clenches at that and Yoongi notices, hissing under his breath. The language of the darkness rises on your tongue and you figure that if you let loose, you’ll get your wish fulfilled.

“Yeah, it feels so good—” He pinches your nipples between his knuckles and you mewl, your lashes shaking at the impact, another set of wetness coating your folds. “Please, fuck me with your fi—”

You don’t even get to finish your sentence. Yoongi plunges his middle finger into your heat, cursing at your tightness, at how slippery you are and at the delight of being filled at last, you knit your brows. With his other finger, he traces the outline of your puckered mouth, his breathing hard and ragged.

“I’ll do anything for that pout of yours, fuck, no matter if you deserve it or not,” he utters, slipping the digit inside. Instinctively, you suck on it and only then does Yoongi begin to pump you slowly. “You just need a little roughness to be good, don’t you?”

Dumbly, you nod, swirling your tongue around him, but a faint, silenced part of you begs for the gentleness that you know hides somewhere deep inside his chest, never once unfurled during such intimate times.

You pay it no matter, too fucked out to think.

When he adds a second finger into your heat, he does the same thing with his other hand. Two fingers in your cunt, two fingers in your mouth. And he fucks you with both until you gag and a light flashes in his eyes—then, he withdraws all together, leaning against the table, his bedewed fingers coming to rest at his hardened length in his pants.

Roses, opening. Roses, sighing.

You breathe heavily, needing to finish, needing to have him in your mouth—

“You liked being the center of attention today?” he husks, surveying your whole body, bent in half.

There it is—the storm. Just what you expected. Cold sweat dribbles down your spine. And it is fear, what you feel, even when you refuse to admit it. Stiff, tempered fear that pervades each and every vein on your body, regarding being possibly degraded, being made feel dirty—regarding, even, tasting the dark wine of his wrath.

Such a stark, sudden change.

You don’t want this. You don’t want any of it.

Abruptly, an internal question comes and pokes you in the middle of your forehead.

Will you succumb to it or will you, with the wildly fresh darkness within you, fight against it?

You take a deep breath, and in with the air also follows, with the little rationality you have amidst the sensuality of your lecherous appetite, the decision to take a hold of it all. To take charge. Just like he did.

You shall prioritize yourself. Your feelings, your desires—your roses.

Your choice envelops your fear in bubble wrap. It doesn’t dissipate. And as much as it pains you, you take a mental note of that.

“I did,” you spit out, angered by the fact you’re afraid of your boyfriend, and so you stand your ground. “It made me so fucking needy and I want more.”

The relief that hits you almost causes you to weep and you lower your legs to the ground. Not wanting him to see the film of tears clouding your eyes, you avoid his gaze. Yoongi crosses his arms across his chest and clicks his tongue at you, disapproving.

“Keep your legs where they belong.”

“No.”

A lift of his brow. He crouches down to your level and cradles your face in his hand, forcing you to look at him. And there he sees, under the waterfall of your hair, your emotions at his disposal. Yoongi studies you, frowns at you and you want to sob, you want to go home. Shame slithers towards your spine like a ghost, and although it keeps a distance, you feel its presence prickling your back. You cover your cleavage.

“Why are you crying?” Yoongi asks, a silky murmur, eyes flicking between yours. His fingers don’t caress your skin; they merely hold you firmly, making dents in the skin.

You don’t trust that voice, dismayed by what might lie under.

“Why did you do that to me?” you ask in return, and it’s a blue fire shooting out, engulfing the room in stifling heat. You catch a glimpse of its sparks in the dimness of his eyes, of how he’s momentarily stricken by it before it folds beneath the shadows.

“You want to get fucked by someone else?”

A question for a question.

You swallow down the lump in your throat, caused by your frustration.

Your devotion to him didn’t let you go as far as to imagine being fucked by his friend while Yoongi watched, but the brief flash of it in your mind is enough incentive for the heat to spill into you, mingling with the darkness, turning you candescent, traveling through you until it finds your core—and there, it stays. There, it finds home.

The pulse on your clit returns, filling you with abrupt energy.

There’s something about him coming up with it that makes you unhinged, but you’re so utterly sick of the instability of your feelings. You need it to stop.

“And what if I do?” you retort. “What will you do?”

Truthfulness, at last.

Yoongi takes in a sharp inhale of breath, and that is the only reaction you receive from him. Nothing else on his face flickers; no wrath, no sliver of jealousy, not one thing. You stare at an empty canvas, ready for you to paint on. And you simply decide that you want to start.

You push his hand away from your face. Stand up to your feet. But the hardened look he gives you inclines you to sit back down.

You fight against it.

Untangling the knot on your robe, you let him see your bare femininity. The perkiness of your breasts, the long dip of your stomach that he likes to pepper kisses on. Yes, you’re aiming for his weakness.

And you decide to repeat history.

You reach your hand down, lower and lower while he stares you down, and you collect your glimmering essence. Sinking your finger into your mouth, you make a show of rolling your eyes back and moaning faintly, softly. Your other hand, in the meantime, unbuttons his pants.

The breath Yoongi inhaled hitches in his throat.

“Is this not evidence enough?” you purr, dragging down his zipper. “How else am I supposed to show you?”

You pull his manhood out as you suck on your finger, all while maintaining eye contact. You don’t touch him beyond that. In fact, you withdraw your hand altogether.

And then, you collect your essence again.

This time, you smear it across his bottom lip. Yoongi lets you. Your heart thuds, threatening to jump out of your chest.

“Your actions during the video call told me everything,” you whisper, catching the sliver of wooziness scattering along his narrowed eyes. “And I think you liked it more than me—the thought of sharing me. You can’t hide it. Not when I saw it.”

Yoongi growls. Then, he surprises you.

He parts his lips for you.

And the contact of the pad of your finger with his wet tongue coaxes a string of your dewiness to drip down the side of your thigh. You moan for him. Relieved, fucked up, woozy just the same. Finally, finally, finally.

You’re in charge. And it feels divine.

His length twitches against the fabric of his T-shirt. Long, hard, drooling. Such a delight for you—and so you continue.

“I also think it made you hard. Not just because you called me when I was touching myself, but because your friend was right there beside you,” you purr, your voice a seductive sound of silk—leading him to wrap his lips around your digit. You moan for him, showing him how much you like that. “Isn’t that right, baby?” Your walls clench at the pet name, solely due to the fact that these soft terms of endearment have always been addressed to you, never the other way around. It thrills you. “I’d always be devoted to you, even if he fucked me. I’d look at you the entire time. If that’s what you want. I had a different idea, but yours is just—” you pause, and again you make a show of sighing and rolling your eyes back, “better.”

A straight hit to his core. A glee for you.

But you don’t realize how much you fucked up until Yoongi grips your waist and the hold hurts enough that you wince.

And then—then he manhandles you.

Lifting you and laying you down on the table, Yoongi spreads your legs. Watches you drip, watches as the satiny fabric follows the movement of your limbs and reveals you in all your entirety. He pulls you closer to him with a sharp tug until you collide with the tops of his thighs. Bends over you. Hovers his lips above yours. You expect him to kiss you—he even angles his head and rubs the side of his nose against yours—but he never does.

He only leaves you waiting. Leaves you submitted to your empty expectations, taking charge, taking his control back from you. You shiver in anticipation, reaching for him, however he pins your hands down on either side of you. An angel in a rose garden.

Yoongi chuckles, darkly, his teeth glinting in the yellow light. You fight against his hold, hips rolling against the underside of his length, beckoning him to do something, anything. You merely manage to prolong the thunder of his laughter.

“One cock isn’t enough for her, so baby wants two,” he spits. That smirk, the crinkles around his eyes—he’s enjoying this. The hint of degradation doesn’t reflect what’s swarming inside of him, doesn’t reflect the face of pleasure coursing down his body. You smile and he scoffs. “I have enough friends for you to choose from in case you want more. I think you’d be stellar at taking three cocks. Four, even, huh? Would you have enough then? One in your tight little virgin ass, two in your cunt, one down your throat?”

You gulp, frozen, eyes widening.

Yoongi bites his shiny lips, nudging the tip of his nose against yours. Kisses you once. Begins to rock his hips, his length sliding across your wet fleshiness. The moan that escapes your throat trembles with each delicious motion.

“You watch too much porn, honey,” he coos, giving you tiny kisses on the mouth. “I’d kill anyone who would come near this pussy. And I’d kill Jungkook, too, if he so much as glanced at her.”

So that’s his name. You mewl, knitting your brows. That’s his pretty name. The entirety of your form shivers at the discovery, at the pleasure given to your throbbing clit.

Yoongi pulls back, setting your hands free.

You prop your elbows on the table, pouting. Yoongi grasps his length, spreads his arousal and begins to jerk himself off.

“You’re not fucking Jungkook. You’re mine.” He groans, squeezing his tip; your hole clenches. “Rub your clit.”

Like him, you spread your arousal on your seashell, the arousal long caused by his presence and now the mention of his name—the reason behind your frustration and his, the reason why you’re spread on the dining table, why your boyfriend is hard. You rub your clit from side to side, amused.

“No,” Yoongi disapproves, knowing you do the motion when you want to prolong the build-up. “Circles. Make yourself come.”

You change direction, obeying him. A sly grin blossoms on your lips, dark eyes looking up into his, permeating them, permeating into his soul. You pick up the pace, moaning into your expression of elation.

“Jungkook is such a pretty name,” you provoke and you heighten your sounds in volume and intensity just to piss him off, just to have your way.

A grunt escapes him, matching your pace. He wraps his fingers around your throat and squeezes. You hum.

“A pretty name to moan in my opinion.” A layer of sweat coats your body. Yoongi grasps your jawline firmly and your satisfied laughter inches you closer to your orgasm. You feel the hot flashes, roses surrounding you—its tender petals grazing your feverish skin. You give in, watching Yoongi do the same, his mouth in a tight line, hissing and sizzling, an open fire, an open fire you want to be radiated by, burned whole by. “Just imagine him here, watching us. Oh my god, imagine him knowing he’s the reason why you and I are doing this.”

Yoongi has had enough.

He pushes you down harshly. Fills your hole to the hilt without letting you adjust, observing himself disappearing inside of you and begins to pound you into the table. The sound of skin slapping, the hard and quick strokes, the ravaged grunts he lets out, the fast change—it all takes your breath away, so much that you can’t, in fact, breathe. He grabs your face and makes you look at him. The dead of the night captured in his features, you absorb it, whining like the brat you are onto his mouth, mingling into your noises your approval, your yes’.

Swallowing it, he kisses you, keeping his eyes open. “He could never fuck you like this.”

You laugh. He swallows that, too, moaning. “What if he could?”

He taps you on the cheek, a warning, giving you an exceptionally hard stroke that causes you to scream. He pauses. Does it again. Over and over—and your screams echo across the room, your own soul slipping out of your body. Petals flutter against you and you’re done for, hanging off the edge. You’re close, so terribly close. Your eyesight blurs and Yoongi pulls out entirely and rams into you. Again and again, abusing your cervix.

You moan his name, gone—entirely gone.

“Yes, moan my name like that. Just mine,” he mutters. “Who’s fucking you this good? Who’s gonna make you come?”

He rams into you more rapidly than before. Your senses leave you until all that you know is Yoongi. His name, his scent, the wholeness of the night encompassing him.

“You, Yoongi, you. Fuck, I—”

Yoongi laughs maniacally. “Yes, that’s right. That’s my good girl.”

He rolls his hips, slowing down the coming of your orgasm, owning you. Lets your senses come back to you momentarily. You swallow, your throat dry and you blink, dazed still. Yoongi kisses you, giving you all that he took from you.

“Who’s only capable of fucking you like this, honey, hm?” he asks, his voice tender and sing-song. “My pretty honey, so fucked out. So out of it.”

You whine and you don’t control what comes out of you, your body answering for you. “You, Yoongi. You’re fucking me so—so good. I can’t—fuck. You’re the only one.”

He smiles down at you fondly, kissing your nose, then your lips, parting your mouth and swirling his tongue around yours briefly. Then he withdraws, begins to fuck you again, slowly, reaching to the side for something.

Once you see his phone in his hand, your heart stops. And when he puts the device to his ear, your throat dries up even more. You suddenly become aware of the silence all around, especially in your chest. You can’t breathe, you can’t blink—

Yoongi jackhammers into you, purposefully luring your loud noises out of you. “My girlfriend wants to fuck you.”

You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut, the suddenness, the quickness of pleasure you haven’t yet felt piercing you. Fuck hot flashes and petals, you feel a heavy urge of your orgasm closing down on you.

“She’s so desperate for you, even when I’m fucking the life out of her.”

You flutter your eyes open to see Yoongi surveying you. You scrunch your face—so close, so fucking close—and then he puts the phone to your ear. Breathing, hard, ragged breathing fills all of your senses and you come.

It’s an explosion. Roses bursting, their dew soaking you and Yoongi whole and you exit. You exit out of this situation, this world, this universe while your soul remains here with them. Vibrancy, colors so beautiful and sensations so vivid, ardent and fierce. You don’t know what it is you’re feeling or where you are. That is, until Yoongi’s voice yanks you back to planet Earth, back into this world, this situation—back to them.

“In fact, she just came for you. Squirted.”

You sob. Overstimulated, rhapsodic, but effulgent. Yes, you emit light and glow. You can see it in Yoongi’s softened eyes.

“Think about it. No pressure. Just know she won’t shut up about you. I recall her saying your name would be pretty to moan while she played with her pussy. I think it’s only right you fuck it out of her.”

With that, he hangs up.

You brim with so many emotions that it numbs you. Happy tears flow out of your tear ducts—and happily, endearingly, Yoongi chortles. You don’t even feel humiliation or shame. On the contrary, you’re ready to come again.

Yoongi kisses you and the sounds he slips into your mouth divulge how happy he is about this, how pleased he is with himself.

You pout, burning your eyesight into his. He begins to rut into you.

“What, you’re not even gonna thank me?” he says, grinning, as if he wasn’t fucking you at all, as if you two were still sitting at the dinner table, conversing.

You stammer, head empty, silencing yourself and trying again. “What—what made you change your mind?”

Yoongi places open-mouthed, wet kisses along the bone of your jaw, and there he seals his answer. “I made up my mind the moment you admitted you wanted to be fucked by him, but you wouldn’t shut up about him. I wanted to hear you babble for me. About me. I just had to mess you up to get to that point.”

You mewl, running your hands through his sweat-slicked hair. Like a cat, he perks up to your touch, lifting his head, angling it. He kisses you, deeply. Kisses your relief.

“Where are your manners, hm?” he whispers onto your mouth, giving you hard strokes that erase your vocabulary. You want to make him come and so you push against his thrusts, but to no avail. The intensity won’t allow you.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you murmur, cradling his face, pecking him, giving him the softest eyes you could muster so you can show him how much it means to you.

He approves of your effort on bettering your manners and to reward you, he lifts you up and fucks you in the air. Your breasts bounce against the material of his T-shirt, stimulating you and he alters between jackhammering into you and sliding you up and down on his length. Your pussy squelches around his girth, tightening and Yoongi—

Yoongi loses his mind.

And it’s him who begins to babble when you snap your hips down on him in circles.

“Just like that, honey, oh fuck. So good, so good for me.”

He takes it until his sounds grow in volume and you focus so much on his pleasure that you forget about yours.

But you don’t let him take charge.

“Let me fuck you, please, Yoongi. I wanna make you come.”

Just like you, he’s out of it and because of that, because you asked so nicely, he lets you.

His chest heaves, staccatos of his choked out breaths sail through the room and you can see it on his face that he’s close. Brows furrowed, bottom lip bleeding due to the way he bites hard on it, the way his mouth pops open and his eyes flutter closed.

You hold onto his neck with your dear life.

“Look at me,” you demand and swirl your hips in slow circles around his tip. “I want you to look at me when you come.”

You’re so stunned that he allows you to be in charge, even more when he truly does open his eyes and pierces his gaze into yours.

“I need to pull out,” he breathes, but you shake your head, snapping your hips down on him harshly.

“No, I want your cum in me. And I want it to be inside of me when Jungkook fucks me.”

Yoongi grunts and this is it for him. His cock twitches in you, over and over again and then you feel it—the hot, thick ropes of his cum stuffing you full. You’re so mesmerized by the feeling, by the blissfulness evident on his face, by the smoothness between his brows at last that you can’t even milk him dry. You’re frozen, stupefied by his beauty, by his personal rapture and you want to feel it in unity with him. You kiss him.

It’s him who fucks him cum into you, burying it deep, moaning into your lip lock.

It’s him who lays you down to your original position and briefly, feebly licks the sheen on your spread lips before devouring your clit.

It’s him who gives you the fastest orgasm of your life.

And it’s him who tells you—in the shower—the story of how he almost beat up Jungkook black and blue once he heard him say how pretty you are.

And it’s you who checks up on him.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

You’re stroking his hair in the bed, the duvet heavy and warm around your body and his, the night overflowing into morning—Yoongi, too.

He’s falling asleep, but still conscious, still here with you, purring.

“I wouldn’t be waking him up in the middle of the night if I wasn’t,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you, to see you enveloped in the extra blanket of the dawn’s rosy light—glowing, throwing the sun off of its throne. “Poor guy just got out of the military and you’ve already rocked his world.”

You smile, fondly, thumb caressing his temple. Yoongi hums in appreciation.

“I’m happy for him he’s getting pussy—one that’s mine. Before he enlisted, he spent all his time painting and getting drunk alone,” he pauses in a thought, blinking at the light. “You still want this?”

You nod, settling into his chest. Yoongi pulls you closer, tucking the duvet into the lines of your form, bringing in comfort and sleepiness.

“I’ll make sure you have the time of your life. I’ll be here the whole time, taking care of you,” he promises against your hair and you squeeze him.

“He hasn’t said yes, though. He could turn me down.”

“I’ve seen the way he looked at you. You have nothing to fear. He’ll come to you like a puppy.”

Yoongi sinks the promise onto the plane of your forehead and holds you as you drift to sleep. Happy, relieved, steamed off of all the negative things you went through. It evaporates into the dawn—far, far away from you.

BACK to masterlist / READ part two

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dreaming-medium · 5 months

Text

Stray Kids Kinktober Day 9

Stray Kids Kinktober Masterlist

A/B/O - Lee Know

Word Count: 11.1 K

Summary: It’s not your fault the Orange Needle Lily only grows in a protected part of the forest. While trying to gather ingredients, you’re confronted by a pack desperate for a healer to aid their injured pack member.

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Running, you were running. Sweat is pouring down your back and the sides of your face. But, there’s no time to stop and wipe it off.

Trees whipped past you with every step, branches caught on your clothes and tore small rips in the fabric, some leaving small slices in your skin.

But that was the least of your worries right now.

You knew you shouldn’t have been here. You knew.

How else were you going to get the ingredients you need? The Orange Needle Lily only grew in a remote area of the Enchanted Forest.

A very well protected area of the Enchanted Forest.

Normally, when you made these trips, you were able to sneak in, pick a large bundle of lilies and then slip out unnoticed.

But from the rain yesterday, the ground was still damp, so you slipped and fell and made one of the loudest noises of your life.

Every single nerve in your body lit up with fear the second it happened. Growls and howls sounded in the distance.

So, you took off.

The snarls have only gotten louder the farther you run from the original area.

Everyone in the Kingdom knew to stay away from that area of the Enchanted Forest. The wolf pack that lives there has made their mark very clearly. Do not enter their land.

And you fucked up.

Loud, heavy, galloping thuds gain on you.

Your eyes scan the woods wildly to search for any sign of familiarity. Are you even running the right way back to your village?

A log is in your way so you hurdle over the top of it.

You need to keep going.

Run, run, run. Keep running. Don’t look back. If you look back for even a second you’re dead meat.

A bone chilling bark comes from right behind you, two over snarls respond to it.

Your village is so close, you can smell the fresh bread being baked.

A dark figure jumps out in front of you and cuts off your path.

You scream and backpedal to get away from its gleaming yellow eyes.

When you turn around you see another dark figure already behind you.

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, pleas for your life are stuck in your mouth.

When the dark figures get closer, you realize they’re two enormous wolves. Of course the pack was chasing you. Of fucking course.

Faster and faster your heart begins to beat. You gulp, hands clutching at your skirts to keep them hiked up.

There’s two wolves encroaching closer and closer. Didn’t you hear three seats of snarls?

“Please,” you beg, your throat getting tighter and tighter with unshed tears of fear. “I was only trying to collect Orange Needle Lilies, look.”

To prove your point, you turn to reach into the pouch that’s hanging around your body.

The wolf in front of you lets out a bone chilling bark. You yelp in response, hands flying up away from your body to show you mean no harm.

“I am so sorry,” you plead, closing your eyes in fear and shrinking in on yourself. “I am a healer!”

With shaky knees, you take a step backwards and the wolf behind you growls.

There’s a long series of snaps and a whoosh to your left. Your head snaps over to look but the wolves keep their eyes on you like prey.

“You are a healer?” A male voice asks from behind a tree.

“Yes! I am from Beckinsale. Please, I mean you no harm.” Tears form in the corners of your eyes. “Orange Needle Lilies only grow within your lands. Please, I mean you no harm. I need them for a tonic.”

From behind a tree, a man with jet black hair and fair skin steps out. He’s only wearing tattered shorts on his muscular body. Dark brown eyes study you carefully.

“How high is your skill?” He asks with a raised brow.

“Very,” you answer quickly. “I am the village healer. All ailments are brought to me.”

He thinks for a moment, keeping his eyes trained on you. “Can you cure infections?”

“Yes, if I have the proper ingredients.”

Why is he asking?

Suddenly, the larger of the two wolves barks at the man and growls after.

“Easy, Changbin,” the man says. “She can heal Minho.”

The other wolf huffs, rolling its amber eyes.

“You have an injury among you?” Your hands grab at the strap of your pouch nervously.

“Aye, we believe it to be an infection.” He shuffles a bit. “Do you think you could take a look?”

A loud huff comes from behind you.

“What other option do we have?” The man grits out between his teeth to the wolf.

The wolf snorts once more.

The man stares directly into your eyes, “You are coming with us. And you’re going to heal our packmate.”

Chills rip down your body, danger is licking at the back of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch together and you swallow nervously.

“Are you going to kill me?” you whisper meagerly.

The man laughs, “We will see once our friend is healed, won’t we, Omega?”

Your jaw clenches with fear at the mention of your secondary gender.

Orange Needle Lilies were used for a specific purpose: scent blockers. Just this morning you had run out of your tonic without realizing your supply of the flower had run out.

The trip was necessary if you had hoped to block your scent at all.

But with the small amount of the blocker tonic and the sheer volume of sweat dripping down your body, there was no way you were going to be able to block your scent. Especially not from a wolf pack.

Lycans’ sense of smell were more powerful than humans. It’s most likely that even if you had put on the full amount of blocker, they would still be able to pick up on your scent.

“Come on, then,” the man says to you and there’s a sharp nudge at your back. One of the wolves was pushing you forward with his snout.

------------------------------------------

The man, who you now know is named Seungmin, walks on your left. The wolf known as Changbin is on your right, and Seungmin told you that the other wolf’s name is Hyunjin.

Neither of you have said a word since then, he just continues to lead you through the Enchanted Forest away from your village.

“You must have a death wish. An omega prancing into a pack’s known territory all by herself.” Seungmin breaks the silence.

“I told you it is the only place the Orange Needle Lily grows,” you murmur, clutching your satchel closer to your body.

“And it is worth your life?”

You answer without hesitating. “Aye.” The next sentence comes out quieter. “A scent blocking tonic saves the life of an unmarked omega.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the three sets of eyes shift to side-eye you. You keep your eyes forward and keep walking.

Eventually, you make it to a small clearing in the woods. Four different hut-like houses sat in a semi-circle. There was a garden off to the side with fresh fruits and vegetables, tables and a spit for cooking over.

“Seungmin!” A voice called over. It sent chills down your spine. Nervously, you look over to see a larger man stalking towards you.

Golden eyes trained on you with an overprotective glint to them. The wind carries past him and his scent wraps around your mind.

Pine and bergamot floods your system. Alpha . He is a pure-blood alpha.

You can’t hold his eye contact, you immediately look down at your shoes in the dirt. Instincts take over and you curl in on yourself in his overbearing presence.

“Who is this?” He growls when he gets closer to you.

“A healer.”

“You brought a stranger into our den?”

“I brought a healer to heal Minho.”

So many scents of different wolves wrap around your brain and overwhelm your senses. Alphas and betas, all of them, but no omegas. At least, none that you’re able to smell.

“She is not getting near Minho.”

“Chan, he is going to die if we do not have him healed!” Seungmin barks back at his alpha.

The pheromones that pour out of them make your skin crawl. Seungmin is only a beta, and yet he is standing up to his alpha so confidently.

He stands nose to nose with Chan, keeping his eye contact. Chan bares his teeth.

The same crackling and whooshing noise comes from behind you.

“Chan, someone needs to heal him. Our remedies are not working.” Changbin says to him.

Chan doesn’t break eye contact with Seungmin, but Seungmin doesn’t back down either.

“He will pull through, we do not need a healer.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your eyes on the dirt. Your voice comes out weak. “What are you using on his wound?”

Chan’s head snaps over to you. “It does not matter to you.”

“Your protective nature will be the death of him!” Seungmin hisses. “Let her heal him before we all lose him.”

Chan bristles and snarls at Seungmin, but he doesn’t flinch away, he stands firm in his stance.

“We are crushing up Snow Weed and laying the paste on the wound.” Hyunjin answers you finally.

You look up at the beta with alarmed eyes. “That will only create a cover over the wound, you are trapping the infection inside his system with no exit!”

Alarmed, you look over at Chan, who is eyeing you closely. “If there truly is an infection, your packmate is in dire need of care. Please, let me heal him. I mean you all no harm.”

The alpha stares at you. Ignoring your instincts, you hold his searing eye contact.

“Chan,” Seungmin draws his attention. Chan doesn’t look away from you but turns his chin slightly towards Seungmin to show he’s listening. “It is our only option.”

The alpha thinks for a long moment before he speaks. “You will heal him, then you will leave.”

“Aye, as you wish.”

“If you harm a hair on my packmate’s head, we will kill you, understood?”

You gulp. “Aye, understood.”

He eyes you closely for four more heartbeats. “Come then, omega.”

------------------------------------------

You could smell the infection before you saw it; you were also able to hear the sound of shallow, wheeze-like breathing the moment you stepped foot inside the hut.

A man lay on a bed in the back of the hut, a blanket covering him. A damp towel sat on his forehead to try and keep him cool. His eyes were squinted shut in pain, mouth open to intake each pathetic pant and gasp for air.

A thick layer of sweat covered his flushed face.

When you rounded the corner and took another step towards him, another person stepped in front of you with bared teeth. A beta– and a protective one at that.

“She is here to heal Minho, Jisung. Back off.” Seungmin called out quickly.

Jisung’s jaw clenches and he hesitates for a moment before taking a step away from you.

Quickly, you walk over to the edge of the bed. You go to reach for the blankets, but you stop your hands over the top.

You turn around and look at Chan, at the Alpha of the pack. “May I?”

His gaze softens for a moment at your sign of respect. Chan nods and you turn back, slowly peeling back the covers.

Minho’s eyes squint tighter and he winces in pain.

The gauze wrapped around his stomach is already soaked through with pus and blood.

Your heart drops to your gut and you place your satchel of healing ingredients on the bed next to him.

“I’m going to cut the gauze off,” you say out loud to the room before picking up a small dagger.

The air thickens in the room as your fingers curl around the weapon. Gingerly, you reach forward and slice through the soaked bandages.

Minho groans in pain and squirms a bit, he’s awake, but obviously feverish. Placing your hand on his cheek, it’s like you put your hands over a fire, he’s burning up.

Once the gauze is off a gasp catches in your throat. Yes, the wound is covered in crushed Snow Weed, but the infection is leaking out all around it.

The skin surrounding the wound is purple and angry. How has he survived this long?

“What happened to make him this way?” You asked, inspecting the wound.

“Arrow wound,” Jisung answers quickly. “He told no one about it until he suddenly collapsed in pain days later. The infection had already taken root by that time.”

You look up at his face, twisted in pain. So, he’s a stubborn bastard.

“I am going to need a fresh pale of water and a clean rag. Do any of you know of the Dusk Tulip?”

When you receive no response, you turn around and look over your shoulder. Five lycans stare back at you blankly.

“Do any of you know what a Tulip looks like?”

Hyunjin nods. You zero in on him. “It is a Tulip that grows at the base of Maple trees. Dark purple in color. I need as many as you can get me.”

Hyunjin nods and immediately turns around to sprint out of the shack.

Jisung moves quickly as well, gathering fresh water and a rag for you.

You move briskly, dipping the rag in the cold water and ringing out the excess.

“Hail, Minho,” you say to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know he can hear you. “My name is Y/N, I am the village healer for Beckinsale. And I apologize, this is not going to feel pleasant at all.”

Taking a deep breath, you bring the cloth down to wipe away the Snow Weed coating and the infection that’s seeping out.

Minho grunts and tenses up.

With great care, you clean his wound. The coolness of the water brings a slight bit of relief to his feverish skin.

“Jisung,” you say without looking over at him. “Can you fetch a second pail of water, please?”

Wordlessly, he walks away to grab it.

Chan has not left the corner of the room, he watches you work on Minho wordlessly. His amber gaze scrutinizes every single move you make.

With the wound cleaned off, you watch as the outside edges go from purple to a deep red. You’re giving the wound a few moments to breathe before taking the next step.

The pail of fresh water is placed next to you. You thank Jisung and dip the new, clean rag into it.

You take the sweat covered rag off Minho’s forehead and begin to dab away at his flushed skin. His breathing is extremely labored and hot against your bare arm.

You let your eyes roam over his face. Even pulled in pain, he’s absolutely gorgeous.

The rag with cold water runs all over his face. He keens and leans into it, eyes still closed. Your fingers push his hair off his forehead.

“Chan,” you address the alpha. “You may need to hold him down as I draw the infection out.”

“It will hurt?”

You bite your lip and look down at Minho’s pained face. “Aye, very much so.”

Chan’s boots thud against the wooden floor as he approaches the bed.

“Apologies, Minho. Please know my intentions are not ill.”

Reluctantly, you move away from Minho’s side after placing the fresh, water soaked rag on his forehead.

Chan stands over Minho, hands hovering over his shoulders, ready to grab him.

You move your palms to slightly waver over the wound. Slowly, your eyes shut and you concentrate on the energy within you.

Your hands begin to heat up and emanate a soft, yellow glow.

Within a few seconds, Minho begins to groan in pain. Since your eyes are shut, you’re not able to look at his face and see the way he writhes in anguish.

Chan grabs his shoulders tightly and keeps him down on the bed.

The heat from your palm draws out the infection slowly. With each passing second, Minho’s grunts and growls grow louder and deeper.

“How long will this take?” Chan asks through gritted teeth.

“Only a few more moments, apologies. The infection was in his system for days.”

Since Minho is so lost in the throes of his mind, he doesn’t fight back nearly as much as you thought he would. Either that, or his pain tolerance is something out of this world.

Sweat drips down your face from concentration.

Once you’re sure the entire infection is clear from his system, you drop the spell and take a deep breath. Your eyes open and you look down at the wound.

It looks entirely clean.

Hyunjin comes barreling through the door before you can say anything.

Both you and Chan’s heads whip around.

“Are these correct?” He holds out a bushel full of Dusk Tulips.

“Aye,” you say, relieved, and take them from him. “Perfect. I just need to stitch the wound closed first before I can use these. Thank you.”

Pulling out a needle and thread, you get everything ready to suture the wound shut.

“We did not shut the wound previously because we thought the Snow Weed took away infection,” Seungmin says from behind you.

“Snow Weed creates an impenetrable covering for wounds. You should use it for when large chunks of skin are missing and cannot be sewn shut.” The thread goes through the eye of the needle. “It is still a smart move to put Snow Weed over a wound, do not misinterpret my words.

“In the case of infection, you need to let it come out of the wound, you were mistakenly keeping it in.”

Chan huffs and takes a few steps away from the bed now that he doesn’t need to hold Minho down.

Minho’s face seems to have relaxed considerably. His eyebrows are no longer pinched together, lips parted in a sleeping manner.

“Just a few more moments, Minho. This will not hurt.” You whisper down to him before making the first stitch.

He doesn’t even flinch. But you were also known for being extremely gentle when it came to sutures.

You stick a hand full of Dusk Tulip petals in your mouth and start grinding them between your teeth. Spitting the mass in your hand, you start to press the paste down on the now-closed wound.

“Do you have any fresh bandages?” You turn to Jisung to ask. He nods and rummages through a drawer and gives you the roll.

“I can assist and sit him up.” Seungmin comes closer to the bed. He gently sits Minho up whose muscles are so limp he may as well be a ragdoll.

With the bandage secure around his stomach, Minho is laid back down on the bed.

You grab the rag and dip it in water once more, dabbing any excess sweat from his beautiful skin. You run the rag over his cheeks, down his neck and around the top of his chest.

After swiping over his scent gland, the smell hits you like a ton of bricks.��

A fresh citrus and woodsy aroma wraps around you like a python. All of your senses light up like a flame.

Every muscle in your body seizes.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

No way. He’s your…

Quickly, you place the wet rag on his forehead once more and start gathering up your equipment.

“He should wake up in a few hours. Allow him to get plenty of rest. You can change his gauze twice a day. Apply more crushed Dusk Tulips to the wound if the infection persists, but it should be completely gone from his system.”

Your voice wavers and everything falls out quickly. Clearing your throat, you throw everything back into your satchel.

Minho shifts around on the bed, his nose twitching.

“ M…Mate… ”

You cough loudly and turn around to face the other lycans.

“May I please return to my village now?”

Chan eyes you closely, then Minho, then back to you. With each moment, you can feel your heart rate increasing. He’s deadpan for a second and then nods.

“Aye, we will have someone accompany you back to Beckinsale.”

“No need,” you blurt out quickly and walk briskly towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you all.”

Before they can respond, you’re out the door, and back into the Enchanted Forest.

Back in the hut, Jisung walks back to Minho’s side and sits on the stool next to the bed.

“Thank the Gods we crossed paths with her,” he says, adjusting the blanket around Minho.

“I have a feeling it will not be the last time we see her,” Hyunjin says cockily, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What do you mean?” Jisung turns to him.

“You will find out soon enough.”

------------------------------------------

Minho was floating in a pool of pain for so long. His mind kept coming in and out to the sound of his pack member’s voices.

They were talking to him, trying to get him to open his eyes. He just couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried.

The infection took him by the heart and had him in its evil grip.

For days he went in and out, he had no idea how much time had passed since he was shot with that arrow.

All Minho knew was that he was going to be dead soon. That much was certain.

Until the door to the hut opened and it was like he walked into a Holiday Bakery; cinnamon, apples, and vanilla twisted around his soul and sped up his slowing heart rate.

What was that beautiful smell?

“She is here to heal Minho, Jisung. Back off.”

Who? Who was here to heal him? They brought a healer in? Chan allowed them to bring a healer to their den?

The scent gets stronger and stronger. It’s almost enough motivation for Minho to pry his eyes open.

“May I?”

Oh, that sweet, melodic voice. Angels are jealous of that sound, Minho is certain of that.

Your touch is so ginger, he could cry. Minho’s almost forgotten all about the wound drawing his very soul down to the Underworld.

“Hail, Minho.”

Every nerve in his body sings at the sound of his name tumbling from your mouth. He’s not even sure what you look like, but he knows you’re gorgeous. An angel, you have to look like an angel. If he was able to open his eyes, you would have a halo above your head.

“My name is Y/N, I am the village healer for Beckinsale. And I apologize, this is not going to feel pleasant at all.”

Beckinsale? Are you sure you’re not a being of the afterlife here to hold him and keep him safe?

Y/N from Beckinsale who smells like the sweetest pastry he could ever hope to sink his sharp teeth into.

A rag is dipped into water and the cool bite brings relief over his feverish skin. A sigh of relief comes from his nose.

He falls into the feeling of you surrounding him. The way your scent wafts through his body and soothes his very soul.

The pain of his wound is long forgotten about.

“Apologies, Minho. Please know my intentions are not ill.”

Whatever you say, Angel.

Minho is vaguely aware of the pain that grips his stomach, it’s searing, like it’s being cauterized.

But your scent, your beautiful, angelic scent keeps his mind distracted and in the clouds.

Second by second, the pain gets less and less. The weight that’s been sitting in his chest begins to lift. Heat still hovers over his body, but it only feels like he sat a bit too close to a campfire.

Then, for the first time since his injury, Minho begins to drift off to a peaceful sleep. Not one where he’s riddled with fever dreams and infection induced nightmares. No, a dreamless sleep surrounded by cinnamon, apples, and vanilla.

Will you still be here when he wakes up?

He needs you there.

He hasn’t even seen your face! You’re his fated other half!

Minho tries with all his might to wake up, but the comfort of sleep finally wins when you run your beautifully soft fingers through his sweaty hair.

There’s a slight spike in your scent.

You pull away from him quickly.

No, no, no.

Come back. No, please.

“M… Mate.”

You don’t hear him, you mustn’t have. You’re still leaving, please don’t go. No, please.

Your scent gets weaker and weaker. It no longer sits in the room with you.

Minho gives up and falls asleep on the sweat covered bed.

Y/N from Beckinsale.

It definitely won’t be the last time he’s in a room with you.

------------------------------------------

“Now,” you put your hands on your hips after tying the tiniest bandage around a little boy’s knee. “What did we learn about running in the alley?”

“Not to…” he sniffles and wipes the snot leaking from his nose.

You laugh and reach forward, wiping the tears from his eyes gently.

“Exactly, now go on back home for dinner.” You laugh and ruffle his hair. “There’s a basket full of sweets by the door, make sure you grab one. I read in a book somewhere that they make wounds heal faster.”

His eyes light up and he hops off the table, running towards the door and grabbing an entire handful of sweets.

“Thank you, Y/N!” he yells as he runs outside.

Another laugh falls from your lips and you clean up the patient table he was sitting on.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see an almost empty tonic bottle sitting on your workbench.

It’s been three weeks since you healed Minho in the middle of the Enchanted Forest. It’s been three weeks since you had access to Orange Needle Lilies

And it’s been three weeks since you’ve found your mate.

You need more flowers for your own safety. But if you venture back into their land, would they let you leave this time?

Biting your lip nervously, you pace around the floor.

You should’ve asked. You should’ve said that was your one condition for healing him. But were you really in the position to be making demands?

“Shit,” you mutter, still staring at the bottle.

Not having the scent blocker is not a chance you’re willing to take. Especially since there’s an alpha in your village that has been eyeing you up like fresh meat for months now.

You need those flowers.

If you run into the pack, maybe they’ll spare you. You did save Minho’s life after all.

Within a few moments, you have your travel boots laced up and your satchel across your body. A dagger sits comfortably in your pocket.

You’re out the door and walking into the enchanted forest before you can think twice about it.

The air gets thicker the deeper you get into the woods, that’s something you always noticed. It gets heavier and inflates your lungs differently.

A hum rings low through the trees.

Get in, pick the flowers, get out. Get in, pick the flowers, get out.

Your usual area is a clearing in the trees by a babbling brook. The sound of the water flowing over the rocks is usually enough to help conceal your presence to the wolf pack.

You will not slip and fall again.

With a racing heart, you lean down and start clipping the Lilies out of the ground. All of your senses on high alert to your surroundings.

After only about 4 flowers, a twig snaps behind you.

All of your muscles freeze, your blood runs cold.

Slowly, you stand up and look around. Maybe it was just an animal that ran by. Could’ve been a rabbit, or a squirrel.

“You have a lot of nerve coming back here, I will give you that.”

Or a wolf.

“Seungmin,” you gulp and look at the ground nervously. “I apologize, I truly mean no disrespect, I just need these-“

“Flowers, yes, I understand.”

He walks closer to you, face completely unreadable. You look up from the ground at the beta.

Tattered shorts and a mostly ripped shirt adorn his body.

“You cannot keep coming here, Y/N.”

“Please, you do not understand I-“

“Y/N.”

His tone is somewhat begging.

“Seungmin, they do not grow anywhere else.”

“You will have to find an alternative.”

Your jaw clenches and your heart squeezes. An alternative to a scent blocker?

“I do not see the harm in my being here. I only require flowers.”

Your own bravery surprises you.

“If we let you galavant all over our land, we would have to let everyone do so.”

“Galavant? I am picking flowers!” You sputter and frown, an angry look begins pulling at your face. You take a few steps closer to Seungmin.

The beta bristles outwardly at your confrontation but holds his ground.

“Do you forget that I saved your packmate’s life? I am only asking to come pick flowers. Flowers that will save my life.”

His eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Your life?”

“I am unmarked, Seungmin. If he catches a whiff I-“

You cut yourself off. Looking down at the ground, you sigh, throat constricting with frustrated tears.

“Just forget it. I will not bother your pack anymore.”

Both of you stand in silence for a long moment before you gather yourself and brush past Seungmin.

You bump your shoulder into his.

It’s petty, but you do it.

“By the way,” you start without looking back. “I can tell by the redness of your eyes you are beginning to fall ill with a seasonal sickness. Chew on onion stems to help keep the symptoms at bay.”

And with that, you walk away from the clearing. Only four Lilies in your satchel.

------------------------------------------

“I am fully healed and you know it, you should have let me go with Seungmin.” Minho’s voice has a sharp bite to it.

Chan continues walking away, not giving Minho the time of day. But the younger wolf walks after him.

“Seungmin can handle one person by himself,” Chan responds, picking up the ax to cut firewood.

“I am aware of that, but you will not let me leave the den. Why am I some sort of prisoner now?”

“Drop it, Minho.”

He splits a log in half with a mighty swing.

“One measly little injury and suddenly you imprison me!”

“Minho.”

Another swing.

“It has been weeks and every time I try to go anywhere you look down upon me.”

“You almost died!” Chan whips around at him, fire in his eyes. “And if it were not for that human you would be dead.” He spits at him.

The way he sneers when he mentions you has Minho’s blood boiling. Anger creeps up under his collar and into his mind.

“Do not speak of her as if she is scum,” Minho growls.

Chan’s eyebrows furrow further in anger. “I never said she was scum, you made that jump yourself.”

Both lycans stare each other in the eye, neither wanting to be the one that breaks the intense eye contact.

“You do not even know her, Minho.”

“I do not need to!”

A whoosh followed by snapping comes from the edge of the woods.

“Another pissing contest?” Seungmin sighs as he walks closer to the two brooding Alphas.

Chan glares at Minho for a moment longer before looking at Seungmin, who was chewing on an onion stem.

“Did you take care of the problem?”

“Aye, it was only-“

“Good.” Chan interrupts him and turns to walk away. He only just started chopping wood; why was he leaving already? And why did he cut Seungmin off?

“Who was it?” Minho presses, lips pursing in confusion.

Seungmin’s eyes flicker from Minho, to Chan, then back to Minho before shaking his head.

“A stray beggar. I took care of the problem.”

He shifts from foot to foot and then walks past Minho. The wind kicks up at that moment.

That’s when Minho smells it.

Cinnamon, apples, and vanilla.

Acting on instinct, Minho’s hand flies out and grabs Seungmin’s tattered shirt in a death-like grip.

He yanks him to be nose to nose.

“It was her,” he grits out between his teeth. “Y/N was there.”

Surprise flickers through Seungmin’s eyes. His hand comes up and grabs Minho’s to try and get him to release his collar.

Chan stops mid step and turns to look at them.

“My mate was here. That’s why you would not allow me to go with Seungmin. Not because you were concerned about my health.”

Minho grips Seungmin even tighter.

“What did you do to her?” He barks. “Did you hurt her? If you even laid a hand on her, I swear to the Gods, I will-“

Seungmin shoves his shoulder roughly. “You will do what? Nothing, now back off. I did not even touch her, she pushed into me as she was leaving.”

“Why was she here?” Minho presses.

“Drop it, Minho.” Chan growls.

He ignores him, “Why does she keep coming here?”

“Flowers.” Seungmin snaps at him, walking away from the two bristling lycans. “She comes here for Orange Needle Lilies, she uses them as a scent blocker.”

“A scent blocker?” Minho asks. Chan doesn’t respond. He stares him down, his alpha gaze does nothing to unnerve his packmate.

A feeling of dread begins to crawl up his spine and settles at the back of his neck.

Minho turns on his heel, his mind made up.

There’s a rough yank on the back of his collar. Involuntarily, Minho growls and turns, teeth bared at whoever grabbed him.

Chan looks down at him with an equally challenging look.

“Where do you think you are going?” Chan barks.

“To Beckinsale,” Minho answers dangerously.

“No, you are not.’

“You are not my father. I am going to see my mate.” Minho shoves away from him.

“I am your pack leader and I am saying no , Minho.”

“To Hell with you, Chan.”

With one last push against his shoulders, Minho frees himself from Chan. They both stare at each other for a long moment, neither wolf saying anything, and neither want to give up.

Eventually, Minho bares his teeth and rolls his eyes before walking away back into the hut.

That nagging, anxious feeling continuously pricks at the back of his neck, making all of his hair stand up on the end.

Something is happening, something is wrong, he just knows it.

------------------------------------------

The last of your scent blocking salve was used three days ago.

Since then you’ve rarely left your home and if you did, you wore a high necked blouse or scarf. You made yourself scarce around the village.

You’re going to have to return to normal life soon, and you will. But not now.

Not when your heat is only a day or so away. It could hit any second now, you can feel the beginning stages thrumming within you. Your skin crawls with tiny pin pricks.

This will be your first heat without scent blockers. And the thought of it is making you a humming ball of anxiety.

There was only one problem– you needed food to make it through the next few days, and that meant leaving your home. Any other alpha or beta will be able to smell you from miles away. As soon as you step outside your door, you’re surely done for.

You bite your thumbnail and pace right by your front door. A tight, high-collared sweater adorned with a thick knit scarf on top rests on your body.

Why didn’t you go out earlier?

Staring down out the window, you find your courage– you need food to get through this, there’s no way you’ll make it through without proper nutrition.

Without another moment to hesitate, you open the door and make your way down to the local market. You wrap the scarf even tighter around your neck and keep your head down.

The sun set about twenty minutes ago, darkness creeping through the sky.

You decide to take back alleys and less populated streets to the market– at the time, it seemed like the best idea.

It wasn’t until you passed by someone and a low growl came from their throat that you realized that it was, in fact, the worst decision you could’ve ever made.

The growl was followed by a deep inhale.

Gulping, you try to walk faster to the market, the end of the alleyway was only about fifteen meters away.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’ You think to yourself.

“Mmm,” the male hums from the back of his throat. “If it isn’t the village healer.”

Your blood runs cold. Out of all the people in Beckinsale, it had to be him. The Blacksmith’s son who had been eyeing you for months, maybe even years– preaching around the village about he was going to lay claim to you one day.

Deciding to ignore him and keep walking, you pick up the pace, your legs carrying you faster down the alleyway.

“Do not be daft, girl, I know you heard me.”

Fear creeps up the back of your neck and into your hair. Just keep walking, Y/N. Get into a more populated area.

A strong, vice grip snatches your wrist and yanks you backwards.

Before you could scream, a hand clamps over your mouth and your body is slammed backwards into the alleyway wall. The stone connects with the back of your skull with a crack.

Rotten, nasty smells surround your nose and your body physically recoils away from it. The Blacksmith’s son was a huge, stocky man whose outward appearance accurately reflected his strength. The hand over your mouth was about as big as your face.

“Is that a heat I smell, little omega?” He leans down further, crowding your space. His greasy hair hangs in front of his eyes.

Alpha eyes getting darker and darker as the smell of your heat seeps through the collar of your shirt and scarf.

His other hand comes up and rips the scarf away from your neck.

You squeal behind his hand and reach up, trying your hardest to pry it off your mouth to scream for help. Your nails scratch at his leathery skin, your entire body writhes around against the stone.

Please, anybody come into the alley, please.

His head ducks down and goes right into the crook of your neck and takes a deep inhale. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you hear the dark growl rumble in his chest.

You shove as hard as you can against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. All those years working as a blacksmith has left him built like a brick wall.

“Holy fuck you smell so good,” he moans into your ear taking in your scent. You’re sure you couldn’t smell that good, not with the fear you’re feeling coursing through your veins and souring the scent.

He leans back, eyes completely black. The tears in your eyes spill down your cheeks.

“Cannot wait to claim you as my omega.”

Thick fingers reach up to the top of your shirt and in one sharp movement, he tears open the front, all of the buttons pop open and fly out onto the stone.

Another cry is muffled by his hand.

Your scent seeps through the alley, filling the cracks in the pavement.

Sobs wrack your chest.

“Good little omega…” His disgusting fingers trail down your neck.

Right as they’re about to touch your scent gland, one of the deepest, darkest, strongest growls shoots down the alley.

Both of you jolt.

Your eyes frantically look over at the source; scream after scream being muffled by the Blacksmith’s hand.

Bright, amber eyes glare down the alleyway with murderous intent.

The very sight of them fills you with an unreal level of relief.

“Get your vile hands off my mate .”

His voice is like a balm over your fear. You’ve never felt such instant relief to your emotions in your life. It’s like putting a safety blanket over your shoulders. A haze falls over your mind at the melody.

Mate, alpha, mate, safe, mate.

“Get the fuck outta here, she is unclaimed,” your captor snarls back.

Another snarl comes from the other man.

He begins to take step after step towards the two of you, each one faster than the other.

Once his face is visible, your heart leaps in your chest.

Minho.

Your mate came to save you.

His eyes lock with yours, they soften considerably as they gaze upon your fear twisted face, the tears still stream down your cheeks.

It’s the first time he’s seeing your face. His entire world seems to stop.

You try to whimper his name but it’s still muffled.

Minho’s eyes flicker back to your captor, darkening once more.

“I am giving you one last opportunity to let her go before I tear your throat out.” Minho snarls, still striding towards you. His boots click on the stone.

“I would love to see you try–” The Blacksmith is cut off when Minho punches a sharp right hook into his nose. He stumbles and falls to the ground, clutching at his face. Blood oozes through his fingers.

You’re able to breathe through your mouth finally.

“Alpha.” Is the only word you’re able to utter at Minho, chest rising and falling with heavy pants. Your mate’s eyes snap to yours.

He takes in your form carefully, sweeping over each of your features lovingly. Your eyebrows pull together, your skin begins burning with a need to be touching him. You need him to hold you, touch you, kiss you– anything.

“Alpha, please,” you hiss.

He steps closer to you, taking his cloak off from around his shoulders. He wraps it around you carefully, closing the front.

Fresh citrus and woods envelopes you and you could cry even more from the relief his scent brings you. A gentle kiss is pressed to your forehead.

“Just one moment, dear.”

Minho steps away from you, face immediately morphing into one of murderous intent as he looks at the Blacksmith.

The pathetic man looks up at him with a frightened yelp. “Get away from me!” He cries out.

Minho’s scent invades your senses, wrapping around you and putting you in a protective bubble. You’re vaguely aware of the sounds of Minho beating the living daylights out of the Blacksmith but you couldn’t care less.

Your heat decided to hit you like a brick wall the moment Minho stepped into your senses. Suddenly, he’s the only thing your brain knows.

You sink down onto the ground, shrinking in on yourself inside Minho’s warm cloak.

Muffled screams and muted punches ring out in the background. But you can only mewl softly, curling further and further into the fabric.

You don’t even register when the fighting stops. Two warm hands are grabbing you gently, bringing your chin up to meet dazzling brown eyes.

Minho looks over every inch of your face, his thumbs come up and wipe the tear streaks off your cheeks.

“Did he hurt you?” Everything about his voice is so tender; its a complete one-eighty from the way he was speaking to the Blacksmith.

You shake your head, unable to tear your eyes away from his. Your lids droop, chest still heaving with pants.

It’s like an unscratchable itch settles in your smalls.

The longer you surround yourself in Minho’s scent, the wetter and wetter your slick gets the fabric.

“Alpha,” you murmur again, leaning into his touch.

His jaw clenches and he cups you closely, his thumb swipes back and forth over the soft skin of your cheek. Every ounce of his self restraint is being tested.

Minho’s cock jumps in his pants at the sight of you desperate before him.

His resolve on following Chan’s wishes broke about two hours ago when his wolf kept screaming at him to find you, that something was wrong.

Chan be damned, his instincts kept you safe.

“Let’s get you home, Y/N.” He reaches forward and scoops you up into his arms.

As the fabric of his cloak shifts around, your scent mixed with his puffs out and into his nose. An audible moan pulls from his throat and he has to shut his eyes and focus on staying calm lest he wanted to take you against the alleyway wall.

The way your warm, homey smells blends together seamlessly with this outdoorsy ones sends Minho’s brain into a frenzy.

Mate, claim, mate, mark, mate. HIs wolf howls at him.

He takes a deep, shaky breath and stands up with you in his arms. You whimper and curl into him further.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck, your nose nudging at his scent gland.

It’s driving him insane.

“Y/N,” he strains out. “Where– Which way?” He asks.

You moan into his neck, rubbing your head all over him, further blending your scents. His knees almost give out right then and there.

“Need you, Alpha.” Your hand comes out of the cloak and grabs at his shirt.

“I am right here, my little omega.” Minho presses his lips to your forehead. “Please,” he whispers into your skin. “Let me get you home and I will do whatever you need, Y/N. Your alpha will take good care of you.”

Releasing his shirt, you point in one direction down the alley.

Minho doesn’t hesitate, he briskly walks in that direction, keeping you close to his chest. Throughout the entire walk, you motion in vague directions while nosing at his neck, leaving small pecks that make his legs turn to jelly.

You coo softly against him, squirming around every few seconds as your heat takes a hold of your body.

The timer on his self control is ticking down by the second.

He’s been dreaming about you ever since you took care of him like some angel from the afterlife, and now that he finally has you in his arms, he never wants to let go.

Finally, you point to a small cottage tucked away in the corner of the village.

Minho heaves a sigh of relief and almost sprints up to the door, opening it and stepping inside so fast you would think someone was chasing him.

The entire cottage smells like you in the best way.

After spending night after night trying to recall just how sweet you smell, being inside your cottage feels like a dip in a hot bath.

He makes his way through the house and into a room that holds a large bed in the middle.

How can a cottage he’s never set foot in feel so familiar ?

With great care, he lays you down on your bed. When he goes to stand up, your arms lock around his neck.

“No, Alpha, please,” you whine into his neck. “Need you so bad. I need my alpha.”

Minho audibly groans, he has to place a hand on the bed to stop his body from crumpling.

“I will be right back, my dove. I only need to check the locks on the door.”

He buried his own face in your neck, inhaling your gorgeous scent. You keen and coo at his attention.

“You will come right back?” You ask.

“Aye, I will. You will not even know I left the room.”

You press one long, last kiss to the crook of his neck before slowly unwinding your arms from around his neck.

Minho peels himself away from you and goes back to the front door, checking each and every lock on the door and windows.

He should take more time to really inspect each one, but his inner wolf is absolutely clawing at his self control.

Mate. Mark. Claim. Mate. Mine.

Sweat drips down the back of his neck, his hands shaking.

But as much as his wolf wanted to claim you, he also wanted to protect you and never let a single thing ever happen to you again. He would make sure that you were never put into harm's way.

The last lock is inspected and secure.

Minho turns on his heel and practically runs back to your room.

The smell of your arousal permeates the air thicker and thicker the closer he gets to your room. You smell so sickeningly sweet, he can’t wait to sink his teeth into you.

Tiny whimpers invade his ears and each one sends a shot of arousal to his cock.

He knocks on your door before entering.

His mouth goes dry, his inner wolf howls.

In the time that it took for him to check the locks, you pushed pillows and blankets into a nest, his cloak right under your head.

You also stripped yourself of all your clothes. Your beautiful nude form right in the middle of the bed.

Fingers buried deep into your cunt.

Slick drips down your folds and onto the sheets.

Your fingers seem to be doing nothing to help your hazy state. There was only one thing that could help.

“Minho,” you moan out, turning your head to look at him. A thin sheen of sweat covers your body. “ Please. ”

His instincts decide to push him into the passenger’s seat.

He’s striding to you as fast as his legs would take him, his hands already working on ripping his own shirt off.

A growl tears from his throat as he climbs on the bed, stalking up your body with predator-like eyes.

“Did you make a pretty nest for us, little one?”

You nod with a scarlet haze over the bridge of your nose and up your cheeks to your ears.

Minho wastes no time smashing your lips together. He licks and sucks your mouth like it’s candy.

He cages you down on the mattress with his strong arms. Your free hand threads into his hair and keeps him as close as possible.

It’s sloppy and disgusting, spit leaks out down your chin. Your tongues dance with one another, he licks around your mouth while you whimper and suck on his tongue.

Neither of you can control the noises you’re making.

Your walls clench down on your own fingers.

“Been dreaming of you every single night, omega.” He growls against your lips before capturing them again. “Your scent has been driving me wild.”

Mewing, you bite his lower lip and pull back for it to snap back against his teeth.

Slowly, Minho can feel the itch of his own rut beginning to tickle at the base of his spine. Your heat must be triggering it.

“I have never smelled anything as good as you do.” Minho trails his wet kisses down your neck to lick all over your skin. He stops at your scent gland, his tongue raking over it in slow, long, wet, strokes.

He’s taking his time like he would with a dessert.

Every single lick makes you moan and keen into his touch. Your fingers start thrusting in and out of yourself faster and faster. But it doesn’t help, it only makes you burn even more.

“Minho,” you pant, pulling on his hair. He fights against your pull, not wanting to be parted from your scent gland. “Minho!” You try again, whining.

He growls low in his throat, one of his hands coming down to glide down the side of your body to your hip. His large palm rests against your red hot skin.

The licks and sucks are sending you wild.

“Alpha!” You cry out, his body jolts a bit and he finally lifts his head. Blacked out, hazy eyes watch you closely. “Need you to touch me please. ”

Minho smirks and keeps eye contact with you while kissing down your body. He bites your collarbones, kisses the skin between them, then underneath them.

When he gets down to your breast, he envelopes an entire nipple in his mouth and sucks hard .

You cry out, your head tilting back to arch off the bed.

Minho has none of that, this alpha wants eye contact, he wants submission to him. He fists a hand in your hair and yanks your head so that you look at him.

“Eyes on me, Omega.” He licks around your pebbled bud again, sucking harshly. “Perfect,” he says around your nipple. “Perfect for our pups to suckle on.”

Pride rips through you at your alpha’s words. Your heat has you in its clutches, the only thing your body wants is to make pups, breed, fuck, get pregnant.

Minho switches to the other nipple, keeping his eyes on you. Your hand still in his hair cards through gently, pushing the strands off his forehead.

After a harsh bite, you grab a fistful with a moan.

Meanwhile, your slick is dripping down your fingers and staining the sheets underneath you. Every flick of his tongue makes you clench around your fingers.

You start to thrust in and out in time with his licks.

It’s still not enough.

Your eyebrows knit together and you whine, trying to curl your own fingers to make you feel good.

Minho notices your struggle and smirks. “Do you need your alpha to touch you?”

“Yes!” you cry out, frustration creeping down your collar. “I need my alpha so bad!”

Minho hums and runs his hand down your body to grab your wrist. He sits up after leaving one more mark on your chest.

Carefully, he pulls your fingers out of your cunt with a wet squelch.

“Fuck,” he groans under his breath as he watches your slick drip down your folds. The smell is absolutely intoxicating.

Minho brings your hand up to his mouth, he licks all the way up your forearm, up your hand, to take your fingers into his mouth.

His hips jolt forward at your taste.

If he thought your scent was amazing, then your taste was otherworldly.

His eyes close and he loses himself in your taste, suckling on your lithe fingers, tongue swirling around the digits.

You’re panting while watching him. Wherever he touches you is the only place that stops burning with need and desire.

“Minho…” you coo and your hips wiggle around impatiently.

Bringing your hand out of his mouth, he stares directly at your glistening folds.

“Need to taste you more.”

He practically dives in, tongue licking a long strip from bottom to the top, circling your clit to lap back down at your hole.

Your entire body arcs and you scream out in pleasure. One hand flies down to pull at his hair again, your hips grind into his face.

It feels so good .

Minho grabs your hips, thumbs pressing down on the bone to keep you still.

He’s losing himself second by second in your juices. It’s like he’s drinking a honeyed ale, he’s getting absolutely drunk on you.

The entire world could collapse around the two of you right now and he wouldn’t stop.

His rut seems to have taken full control of his body.

Mate, mark, claim, taste, fuck, breed.

His cock is so fucking hard in his trousers but he doesn’t want to take his mouth away from you, not for a second.

Over and over again he laps at your clit, each time you moan and pull his hair.

Incoherent babbles fall from your lips telling him how good he’s making you feel, how much you need him.

“Close, close, close,” you repeat like a prayer, a rubber band pulling tighter and tighter inside you.

One of his hands moves from your hip to thrust two fingers into your pulsing hole. Minho’s eyes roll back in his head at how soft and velvety you feel around his fingers.

His wolf howls at him to fuck you already, to sink his cock inside you and cum over and over again until it takes hold.

But the man wants— no, needs— you to cum in his mouth.

His tongue flicks over your clit at the same time he curls his fingers up to hit a spot within you and your body tenses.

Instead of crying out, your mouth stretches open and no sound comes out.

Your walls clamp down on his fingers and pulse as your orgasm rips through you. The grip on his hair tightens so much.

As your juices leak out around his fingers, he laps it up greedily.

Once the main waves of your orgasm pass, you finally let out a strained grunt, chest heaving with pants and moans.

His name falls from you like a mantra.

The itch within you was scratched, but just for a split second. The moment you come down from your orgasm, that burning begins once more.

He knows it. He knows the only thing that’ll make it go away is his knot.

His fingers slide out of you and he crawls over you to hover over your panting form.

Your hair is frizzy and messy, eyes hazy and fucked out, swollen lips parted. Minho desperately wants this image of you to stay burned into his memory.

“Minho,” you moan to him.

“Taste how delicious you are.” Gently, he pushes his fingers past your lips.

Immediately, your tongue licks around his digits. The feeling causes him to buck his hips forward into yours. His clothed cock ruts into your soaking cunt.

Both of you moan together.

You suck on his fingers and taste whatever you can.

He can only take it for a few seconds before he pulls them away and replaces them with his tongue.

The taste of your juices is swapped between your tongues.

“Need you,” you moan between kisses. “Need my alpha.” Kiss. “Need your knot.”

Once more he bucks into you involuntarily. He needs you just as bad as you need him.

“I will give you what you want.” He bites your lip. “My little omega.”

He pulls away from you. “Flip over for me, little one.”

Immediately, you do what he says.

Minho stands up from the bed to shuck off his trousers and heavy boots. His cock springs free and he strokes himself a few times, eyes following how you arch your back on your hands and knees, presenting yourself for him.

His tongue licks his lips and then it pulls between his teeth.

You’re so fucking gorgeous.

“Alpha, please ,” you whine and look back over your shoulders.

He crawls back onto the mattress and gives your ass cheek a sharp slap.

“Be patient.”

Minho lines up behind you, fisting the base of his cock. He rubs it up and down your slick.

The two of you moan out in unison.

Mewling, you push your hips backwards to try and spear yourself on him. Minho is quick to slap your asscheek again.

“Omegas who do not behave do not get their alpha’s knots.” His hand rubs over where he slapped.

You whine and bury your face into his cloak still bunched underneath you. Your back arches more and you can’t keep still.

Your hips twitch, hole clenching around nothing the more he rubs his cock head in your slick.

“Minho!” You whine, the frustration is killing you.

He clicks his tongue at your impatience. “Fine, then. I will give you what you want.”

His tone is dark and he shoves into you without further notice.

Your walls stretch around him deliciously. He’s so big you think you can feel him in your throat. The pleasure shoots right into your thighs.

Minho’s eyes roll back in his head at the feeling of your wetness surrounding him.

He doesn’t even try to take it slow. His wolf holds the reins tightly and begins slamming into you over and over again.

He’s thrusting so hard, his hips slap into your ass with each stroke.

More babbling comes from your mouth.

Minho reaches forward and grabs a fistful of your hair, lifting your head up from the cloak.

Your tongue lulls out of your mouth.

“Fucking look at that,” he moans in awe. “Only inside you for a minute and you are already cock drunk.”

Your eyes glaze over and you lose yourself in the feeling of him abusing your little hole.

“Feel so fucking good wrapped around me. You were made for me, little omega.”

The only sound you are able to muster is a tiny ‘ mhmm! ’

“So fucking good for me, good for your alpha.”

“Only for you, Alpha!”

A sharp smack lands on your ass again, you cry out.

“That’s right. Just for me. Just for your alpha. No one else. This cunt right here is all mine. ”

He looks down at where he can see his cock disappearing inside you to come back out coated in your delicious slick. It makes him feel insane.

Minho can’t control himself anymore, not that he would want to.

It’s animalistic, the way he wants to devour you.

He tugs on your hair and brings you up so your back is flush with his chest. The hand in your hair moves around to grab your throat. His other hand splays out on your lower stomach.

“Can fucking feel my cock fucking you right here.” He presses down on your stomach and your head falls back against his shoulder.

The moans you’re making are so involuntary.

“Going to stuff you so full of pups. You’ll look so fucking good pregnant, carrying our children. So swollen and full.”

At the base of his cock, Minho can feel his knot begin to form, it prods and catches on your entrance more every stroke.

“Please, please, please,” you cry like a mantra.

“You want that, little girl? You want to carry my pups? You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

“Yes! Please! Please, Minho! It feels so good!”

His inner wolf howls at your pleasure. It’s all he wants.

“Close, Alpha. Please, mark me, please, please.”

Minho’s hips stutter at your words, but when his tempo comes back, it’s rough . Every stroke is unforgiving, he’s racing towards the finish line as fast and hard as he can.

Fuck, he wants to claim you so bad. It’s all he’s wanted for weeks since you first set foot in the hut.

“My omega wants my mark? She wants me to claim her as mine?”

You nod in his grasp, he feels you gulp. “Yes! I need it. Need everyone to know I’m yours.”

Minho growls, his nose buries into the crook of your neck right at your scent gland.

The idea of you wearing his mark proudly makes him feral: you in low collared shirts to purposefully parade your mating mark, you nursing your pups with that bite inches away.

He needs it like he needs air to breathe. How can one person make him feel this way?

His hand squeezes a bit on your throat.

“I’ll give you my mark, Omega. I’ll claim you. You’ll be mine forever.”

He feels you clench down more. The knot at the base of his cock inflates more and more.

His orgasm is dangling in front of him teasingly. But he needs you to cum again, he needs to feel you clench down around him.

The muscles in his abdomen are painfully tight.

The hand on your hip moves to rub circles on your clit in time with his thrusts.

“‘M close, Minho, please. Bite me, please. My mate, please. ”

His mind whites out.

Sharp canines sink into your flesh around your scent gland.

One of the loudest cries of pleasure ever comes from deep within your chest. Your eyes squeeze shut and your walls clench around him as your second orgasm tears through you like a train.

Minho’s knot shoves inside you as his own pleasure peaks and hits him like a ton of bricks. The sweet metallic taste of your blood flooding his mouth, your scent keeping his brain on Earth.

Cum shoots from his cock and floods your walls for what feels like forever.

Neither of you have ever felt something so heavenly before. Two souls merge into one.

Slowly, you both start coming down to earth. Minho’s hand around your neck starts massaging at the sensitive skin.

You whine when he removes his teeth from your skin.

He coos and laps up at the blood streaming down your body. Small kisses pepper the outside of the mark.

Sweet nothings tumble from his lips. “Beautiful, beautiful mate. All mine. So sweet, so beautiful.”

Carefully, he maneuvers the two of you to lay down on your sides, his knot still buried within you. He has a feeling it will be there for a while.

He brings the blankets up over your exhausted bodies.

Your skin is no longer burning with need, instead you’re in a content, happy bubble, your mate’s arms wrapped around you safely.

Never in your life have you felt such comfort. You’re floating on a cloud.

His woodsy smell acts like a second blanket.

Small hums leave you as you snuggle back into his chest more.

Minho chuckles and kisses your bare shoulder.

Your brain comes out of your heat-induced fog. But, instead of panicking, you find yourself happier than ever.

One of your hands comes up to play with the fingers of the hand that’s by your head. His arm acting like a pillow.

“I would have gotten shot with an arrow sooner if it meant I would find you.” He jokes, breaking the silence.

You giggle. It’s music to his ears.

He continues. “Your voice broke through the delirium of the infection.” Another kiss to your shoulder. “I remember thinking you were an Angel here to bring me into the afterlife.”

You flush, embarrassed at his sweet words.

“And I remember thinking you were the most handsome man I have ever seen, even laying on your deathbed.”

He hums happily and leans up on his elbow. You turn around as much as you can to look up at him with a happy smile.

“It is nice to officially meet you, Minho.”

Your fingers come up to brush over his cheek gently.

His heart swells, eyes shine in the candlelight of your room.

“My beautiful mate.” He leans down and kisses you softly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

You’re hardly able to continue the kiss, you’re smiling too much. “And thank you for saving mine.”

His nose rubs against your cheek in a display of affection.

“No one will ever harm you again, my dove.”

You laugh and brush your fingers through his hair. Kiss after kiss lands on your bare skin. He focuses more on your mating mark.

It makes you feel giddy.

“Well,” you giggle. “I think you may need to protect me from your pack leader.”

Minho chuckles. “He will get over it. I would like to see him try and keep us apart now.”

He leans down and presses your lips together. “My beautiful omega.”

“My handsome alpha.”

#lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know smut #lee know x y/n #lee minho smut #skz x reader #skz kinktober #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut

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pseudowho · 30 days

Text

Red

Nanami Kento, the infamous Curse User, is finally captured and sentenced to death after years on the run. The reader feels her grasp on morality quickly unravel, when her ex-boyfriend breaks down any inhibitions she thought she still had.

Warnings: 18+, smut, MDNI, Bad!Nanami, really a reprehensible man, rough sex, bondage, forced orgasm, multiple sessions, coercion, dubcon, tw: gaslighting, tw: abuse, reader is obsessed and hopelessly in love, and Nanami Kento takes full advantage of that.

*I absolutely do not endorse a relationship like this, and I must insist that anyone who reads this sees it as the red flag it is...ANYWAY...*

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You felt sick to your stomach.

"They caught him. Did you hear?"

You stumbled through the rain, barely composed, your heart in your mouth. Anxious desperation clawed up your spine, on your way to get the fix that you had been withdrawing from for so long.

"Yeah, Gojo got him, obviously. No, no, he's alive, for now."

Mud spattered up the backs of your legs, tripping through puddles, passing under rain-hush willows, Torii gates, and so many graves filled by his hand. His hands that you knew. His hands that knew you, so intimately, a body and soul so untouched by anyone else ever since and ever again.

"Nanami Kento. The Nanami Kento...scheduled for execution. Finally."

You reached corridors, a caretaker shouting in indignation as you tracked mud all over his freshly polished floorboards. You gained speed, running, ready for his face his hands his smell his eyes his body his heart and yours that was always his forever his still his--

"You shouldn't go in there." Your hand retracted so briefly over the handle of the door to the execution chambers. Feeling cold drip down your spine, not knowing if it was rainwater, sweat, or Gojo's voice behind you, you shivered. You felt him approach. A long hand on your shoulder; protective, apologetic, grieving.

"I...I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be this way. But you shouldn't go down there. He's...bad for you." You sniffed, straightening yourself, steeling against him. Gojo was so insignificant to you in this moment. "Are you keeping watch? Is there anyone else?" Gojo sighed, knowing better than to argue with you, feeling dread creep through him regardless. He leaned back on the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes downcast. You heard your own heartbeat, amplified hummingbird's wings. You heard the rain, cleansing on the leaves, but weighing you down with your sin. You felt the thread on your finger, trapped beneath that door and running down the stairs.

"No. No, it's just me. I...understand. Whatever you want to do, I...I understand." You felt the ghosts in this corridor. You felt the footsteps long since gone. You felt the shadows of the other half of Gojo's soul. Ah, yes, you thought, raindrops running down your cheeks, you would understand, of course.

"There will be a gap in the guard. At midnight. Just five minutes. Ten, if you're lucky." Gojo turned, facing down the corridor. You could smell the regret. The weight of his own failures haunted him. He sensed your fingers grip the handle, squeezing down, taking your life into your own hands.

He would give you this, what he had prevented you from taking five years ago. He would not see another whole broken into halves. He would not regret, for a moment now or for years to come. Behind him, your other hand, cold and damp, reached out and squeezed Gojo's. He felt the farewell upon your skin. "Thank you, Satoru. I love you." "I love you, too. Be good." You wracked with need, trembling down those spiraled steps. They took you so deeply underground, that you could feel the earthen chill of ages past upon your skin, and you welcomed the death and rebirth, shedding the life you had left at the surface.

You knew Nanami Kento would, inevitably, be your downfall. And yet...you had shared a room with death so many times, now, that you would not fear him reaching for your hand. You paused near the bottom of the stairs, soaked in the soft orange glow of ten thousand illuminated paper charms. You felt him. He beat you to it. "I can smell you." Your knees almost buckled; that voice. It ran through you, spitting hot oil in cold blood. You flurried down the rest of the steps with numb feet, rounding the corner. The breath rushed out of you, into him, and he smiled at you, so much wider than he used to, all canines and white.

Nanami Kento was bound to a small chair, barely enough to hold the sheer width of him. In this short (long too long so long) five years, he had grown from a man, to a beast, his shoulders hulking and mountainous, scars littered across his forearms and collarbones.

His white shirt was bloodstained-- mostly someone else's, you assumed, but some from Kento himself. Kento was scuffed, bruised, red at the corner of his lip. His parting remained, disheveled from his capture. His harness, the brown leather soft and aged, strained against his chest and shoulders. His blunt blade rested, leant against the wall in a dingy corner of the room.

The only thing holding back what you knew would be Kento's enormous, overwhelming power, were the ropes that restrained him. You fingered at the blade of the Cursed tool in your pocket. He was...ethereally beautiful. You felt the last vestiges of yourself pass to him, blissfully unaware he would take so much more from you yet. His smile grew, eyes full of searingly cold ice, sneering at you as tears built in your eyes.

"You're crying for me?" He cooed, soft and mocking, "Why is that? You made your choice, all those years ago." "You were the one who left." "You were the one who stayed," he growled, lurching forwards against his bonds, chest heaving and straining, snarling. Expecting you to step backwards, instead, he felt the sick satisfaction of you stepping closer instead-- drawn in by his gravity. "You didn't give me a choice, Kento," you begged, shameless, "You didn't come for me. I couldn't find you." Kento huffed, scoffing, twisting against his restraints. "Fuck off," he scorned, spitting a wad of blood to the floor, "I came for you. The night I found you in Gojo's bed, of all people." You frowned, remembering the night Kento snapped and executed two dozen colleagues in his offices, years after leaving Jujutsu High. Remembering the news reaching you third-hand, through whispers in the corridors, as you had headed to Jujutsu High to see if anyone had heard from him. Remembering Gojo's grim confirmation, how you had collapsed in his arms, carved in two. Remembering how he had taken you home with him, tucked you into his bed, where you slept fitfully, alcohol-soaked to numb the nightmares. Your stomach filled with ice water. "You were-- you were there?" You choked, tears spilling over, "At Gojo's? You were there?" "Tell me," Kento commanded, his lip curled, "how many hours it was, after you heard? How many hours before you let Gojo Satoru fuck you like some desperate little whore? How many hours it was before I found you in his bed." You shook your head, brutally injured by his venom, punctuating him with sobs and denial as his voice rose.

"Three? Four? So devastated, it took another man fucking his seed into you before you could get over the loss of your lover? And you have the fucking audacity to come in here and cry over me?" Kento strained forwards, teeth bared as he sniffed deeply, breathing out with a satisfied smirk, a laugh, deep and smoky. "Can't smell him on you now, though," he mocked, filthy and merciless, "I thought he liked pathetic little scraps like you, but I suppose one fuck was enough to tell him you belonged to someone else, just as much as he did."

Kento already knew, of course, that Satoru would not have taken you even once. Kento felt his cock swelling against his thigh with your anguished begging. "Is that what he told you? To make you leave?" Your head swam with the revelation that Kento had come back for you, the rage that Satoru had lied and sent Kento away. You shook your head, dropping to your knees before him; desperate for his approval, full of dreadful fear of rejection.

"Nobody else," you pressed, crawling forwards and squeezing his thighs with cold little hands as he scoffed again, looking away, "ever. Kento. Ever, ever, for years. There won't ever be--" Kento suppressed his smirk, reeling you in after you bit so willingly. He leaned down to you, his cock twitching at the memory of the last time you knelt between his legs, looking up at him with wide wet eyes. He allowed his breath to ghost over your neck, seeing your skin prickle. He softened his face, nectar and promise in his eyes. "...you and Gojo...you didn't...?" His voice was soft, gentle, hopeful. Your head shot up, fingers digging deeper into his thighs as your eyes brimmed over again, thrilled by his belief, his trust in you. His lips were so close to yours, that you felt his hot ashen breath upon your tongue, dragon's fire, those whiskey-soaked eyes flicking across your face. God, if I'd known it would be this easy, Kento thought, maliciously possessive, I'd have let you find me years ago. His cock twitched at the feel of your hands clawing his thighs. He imagined fucking you down into the bed while you clawed at him, struggling, gasping and crying.

"Never," you promised, chasing his face with yours, while Kento withdrew just enough to maintain a teasing closeness, "he lied. He lied to you." Kento's cock twitched again, thirsty for your desperation.

Kento smiled again, that beautiful, cloud-parting smile, and you preened into him. He hummed, leaning forwards so briefly to brush his nose against yours. Your breath left you in a shudder as his voice passed over your lips;

"That's good...good girl. I couldn't bear to think of anyone else's hands on my beautiful girlfriend."

You sunk into his sudden warmth, your hands stroking up his thighs, his hips, up his ribs and shoulders. He allowed you to embrace him like this, for just a moment. Prickling with fear, you felt the frost form over him once more. Kento sneered again.

"...she's gone though, I think. Rotting here, festering with the dregs of Jujutsu Society. Willing to live and die a pawn. Scum. Less than scum."

Kento sighed, withdrawing from you fully, his back against the chair, turning his head as you tried to cup his jaw in your hands. He shook you off, face twisted with disgust. He was thrilled to watch a part of you shrivel and recoil, before reaching out harder, begging in fractured whispers, clawing for dry land.

"You had your chance. You're too wet for my life. You couldn't do what I do, live how I live. You couldn't lie, cheat, extort, torture, murder. You're too soft." Kento's lip curled in disgust as you pressed yourself between his legs, begging, beseeching, "To think of all the cum I wasted by fucking it into you." He hoped you couldn't feel him, hard and throbbing against your belly.

"--anything you want-- I'll do anything you want-- please--"

"Please what?" Kento shot, shaking the ropes around him with thick, scarred arms, "I'll be dead before dawn. And I want some peace and quiet. You're nothing to me now."

A part of you died, shattered by his rejection. Clapping a hand over your mouth, your shivers threatening vomit, you sat back on the floor, pressing your face into your knees, sobbing and abandoned for a second time.

"It's a shame," Kento scorned, tutting, "we were beautiful, once. But I'd rather die than have you be my only fucking option."

Kento felt you break, and it was delicious.

You shook within, panicking at his imminent second abandonment...but you were more determined than ever to prove yourself to him. You would sell your soul. You would sell the lives of your fellow sorcerers. You would sell your dignity, your self-respect, your whole being. Having Kento in any form, even this cold-hearted killer, was better than the agony of his death, where you would surely die with him.

From your pocket, hands shaking, you withdrew a blade; a special grade cursed weapon, stolen, illicit. You reached around Kento, breathing deeply of the sweat, sandalwood and copper tang on his skin. You pressed the blade into the hands bound behind his chair. You turned, hesitated...and walked away.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You could not bear to return to your apartment. You had staggered past Gojo, reeling from Kento's biting rebuttal. You had wiled away the evening in some backwater ditch of a bar, sinking into spirits and self-loathing.

You waited to be found...by him, or by your colleagues, for execution as an accomplice to his escape. You didn't care anymore. You would die at his hands, or theirs, and cling onto that final shivering bliss of his bound body against yours. Even as a good man, he had always possessed you, more than you possessed yourself.

Walking to your door just after midnight, fumbling with the keys, you let yourself in, to spend a final night alone before your inevitable execution.

The alcohol numbed your senses, the darkness close around you. You did not feel his approach, this killer in the shadows.

All at once, you felt an enormous hand clasp over your mouth, and another pinning your wrists behind your back, tugging you backwards against a body, such an immovable chilly presence. A whisper, a tongue grazing against the side of your throat.

"I want you screaming...but not yet." You arched back into Kento's body, seeking a warmth he didn't have any more. The man you knew was long-since dead.

You felt his hand loosen, drifting slowly from your mouth, to your throat, squeezing just tightly enough to make your breath hitch, examining the length of your throat from the outside with a hum. You smelled the cigarettes and whiskey on his breath.

"I'm so proud of you," Kento purred, stepping you slowly through your apartment, pushing you towards your bedroom, "such a good girl...I knew you'd pass the test." Your heart swelled with his praise, but a lingering doubt soured the edges of your tongue.

"--how did you-- s'too early, Kento-- the guard--"

"Guard?" Kento laughed, booming with genuine mirth, "Some scrap of a boy in a beanie? Please. They'll find what's left of him in the morning."

"Oh--Ino--" you felt tears prickle on your lash line, your breath leaving you with a gasp as Kento tossed you face down on your bed. You tried to turn back to look at him, but felt his hand grip the back of your neck, shoving you roughly into the sheets. You shivered, fingers clenching as you heard the telltale clink of his belt undoing, the soft shhhk-shhhk-shhhk of Kento unthreading it from his waist.

"Oh, Ino!" Kento mocked, "Shut the fuck up, before I make you shut up," his voice pitched and ruthless. His face twisted as you trembled, noting smears of blood left by his hands on your wrists. You smelled the copper tang over his sweat and stale cologne. You knew you would never reject him, already wet with the promise of him coming back for you.

Kento softened momentarily, knowing he would struggle to fit inside you if you were scared and trembling. The faintest ghost of him wanted to pull you into his arms. The ice over his old soul knew he'd break if it cracked.

Kento crawled over you, his black trousers unzipped, cock straining against the tight fabric of his boxers. He clasped your hands, binding them with his tie to the head of the bed. You were so ready for him to take back what was his, that you didn't hear his next words, rumbling and gravelly on the back of your neck.".

"Keep still, and do as you're told. I'm sure you remember the old safe word...if I care to listen."

You felt your skirt forced up to bunch around your waist, heard a fabric rrriiip of your tights and underwear being shredded away from your core. Kento breathed heavily as he knelt above you, hooking his cock and heavy balls out, stroking himself with one thick hand as his fingers jabbed between your legs, sinking between your folds with little to no regard for your pleasure.

You jolted, squeaking against the sudden intrusion. Kento letting out another rich, smoky laugh as he sunk two thick fingers into your entrance.

"...ahhh, lovely. Can you warm my fingers up for me?" Kento laughed again, drawing out into a stilted growl as he jerked his cock eagerly to your tight wet walls around his digits. You panted into the sheets, Kento releasing his cock you squeeze your arse as he fucked you with his fingers, leaving bruising fingerprints before slapping the skin harshly, groaning as your fat jiggled, flushing with the abuse.

"-- better than some common whore...shit. Such a good girl...getting me out of there. Maybe I'll keep you around...just to fuck, my sweet little cocksleeve. Or are you better than that?"

"--anything, I'll be anything you want-- Kento-- please please take me with you please--" Pleasure burned in your belly as you heard the wet slaps of his hand, masturbating himself again to the sight of his fingers moulding you to the shape of him.

You filled with a burning need to be what he wanted you to be, so exhausted by life, so bitter and ready for someone else to take control. Kento did so, gladly, withdrawing his fingers to your disappointed groan. He slapped your backside again in punishment, once, twice, three times until you learned your lesson, biting your lip against your cries.

"You'll come on my cock, or not at all," he snapped at you, impatient, with his pre-cum dripping down your folds as his cock grazed at the entrance to your prone, bound body. He rammed his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to lick him clean, low voice husky with need at the feeling of your tongue swiping over him.

Pressing one hand down on the back of your neck, before raising it to yank sharply on your hair, Kento fucked into you without warning, pressing hard, to bottom out immediately. Your scream was choked, your neck hyperextended back at the insistent pull of your hair. Your body ached and strained against his use of you, and you revelled in it, in too deep to care about how wrong it was. You stung with the size of him, always big, and so much bigger without preparation.

"--haaaah fuck-- good girl...fuck you through it-- fuck you through it-- scream all you like-- been waiting for this for so long--" Kento crushed your body flush under his, so heavy that he forced the air out of you, making you lightheaded against the raw pleasure of his cock pounding into you without mercy, simply chasing his own orgasm.

Kento's skin electrified with the sinful joy of stealing pleasure from you, ripping his shirt and harness off over his head with a fractured growl. He gripped your bound hands, slipping a hand under you to squeeze your throat, his hips slapping into you with agonising bliss. He cursed and spat against the pleasure, demeaning you and praising you in equal measure.

Breathing hard and fast, Kento saw a bead of his sweat fall to the back of your neck, and leaned down to bite you there, hard, mounting you like an animal as he fucked you harder, faster. Your clit throbbed, untouched, but you lost yourself in the deep primal ecstasy coiling in your belly. You felt the telltale twitches of his thighs and abs against your legs and back, knowing from his frantic jagged moans that Kento was about to cum, before remembering--

"Ken--Kento--oooh--ooh, Ken," you cried, whimpering as his cock bullied against your cervix, "...'m not-- not on-- pull out Ken--"

Kento jerked and groaned, grinning that wide sharp-canined grin again, his laugh leaving him in ragged breaths as his balls drew up close, ready to spill; "--fuck...pull-out? Not a--haaah-- fucking chance, without the safe word, sweetheart." Kento fucked you faster, challenging you as your cock-addled brain clasped at straws, trying desperately to remember, fuck what was it--

Kento gasped, his orgasm starting to wash over him, "Too late," he jeered, and came with a broken hushed roar, rutting his cock inside you so his seed would spurt, coating you, thick and sticky, all over your deepest walls. Kento didn't give a shit that you hadn't come-- and neither did you, trembling and mewling as his length jerked thick heavy ropes inside you.

As Kento pulled out, breathing hard, pumping his length a few more times to spill his last drops of seed across your back, he huffed out a humourless laugh, running his hand back through his hair; "'Pull out'...you'll take what I give you, and be grateful." Kento scooped up some seed, dripping from your cunt, shoving it roughly back inside you.

"What fucking use are you," he spat, ramming his fingers in you until you sobbed, squirming around him, "if you can't even keep my cum inside you? Pathetic." Your breath hitched, tears spilling over at his brutal mockery. Seeing your tears, hearing the lump in your throat, Kento cooed at you, clasping your jaw in one thick hand.

"Oh darling...don't be sad...just be better." He slapped at your cheek a few times, too stinging to be tender, pressing a hot wet kiss just beneath your eye. He stood up, stretching, padding over towards the door.

"I need a drink." Kento mused aloud. You pulled yourself up the bed, still tightly bound, clamping your legs together to keep his cum inside and win his approval. You almost wept with the bitter ache in your shoulders and arms, how your pussy stung, how worthless he thought you were. You heard the clink of bottles and glass in the kitchen.

Kento returned, sitting in the chair at the end of your bed, naked, legs crossed, as he poured himself a full glass of whiskey. You could not see him, your face pressed into the pillow. You couldn't see the cold, impassive gaze upon your bound, shivering form. You couldn't see the way he idly played with his cock, slowly stroking life back into it as his cum glistened on your folds.

"Let's play a game," Kento proposed finally, as sleep began to creep across you, "and if you win, I'll take you with me. If you lose, I'll leave you here for the dogs." Kento took a long drink, draining his glass with a satisfied hum, his cock now half-erect against his thigh.

Your determination peaked again, so certain you could make things right, and make Kento love you like he used to. You were a void, yearning to be filled.

"Yes, I-- I can do it-- anything," you pressed, voice strong and bold now, eager to shed the shell he had left you in. Kento refilled his glass, almost to the brim, grinning wolfishly. He reached into your bedside drawer, tipping his head and raising his eyebrows at you with a smirk, withdrawing a vibrator, and a dildo.

"So confident," Kento teased, a shadow of the way he used to play with you when he was softer, more restrained. He couldn't deny the flicker of joy he had felt at the old you, briefly rearing her head.

Kento emptied his hands for long enough to flip you to your back, binding your arms to the bed again, ripping your shirt and bra open at the middle, exposing your breasts and belly. Kento grabbed your nipple roughly, yanking it until you squealed, slapping it hard with a gravelly chuckle.

"Don't spill my drink." Kento ordered, picking his glass up, placing it on your chest, between your breasts. You faltered, stock still, staring up at him, uncertain.

"...I-- what?" Kento's slim brown eyes burned down at you, teasing the dildo against your sloppy cunt, before ramming it into you. You instinctively moved to squirm away with a cry, understanding almost a moment too late, the meniscus of the whiskey kissing the lip of the glass. You stilled completely, shuddering at the cold rubber filling your cunt to the belly, squelching with Kento's cum.

Kento hissed between his teeth, face twisted with nasty glee. He looked so animated, so alive with this hedonistic torture, such a far cry from who he once was.

"Close," he taunted, leaning down to brush his lips over yours, pulling away as you moved to kiss him, satisfied to hear you swear under your breath as he denied you. Kento flipped the wand vibrator in his hand deftly, switching it on and clicking to max out the vibration.

"Don't...spill my drink." Kento repeated slowly, pressing the brutally vibrating wand directly against your clit.

You saw stars, your body moving to convulse reflexively, and you gritted your teeth, eyes fixed on the wobbling glass on your sternum. Your legs shook, the pleasure too harsh to be enjoyable, feeling yourself being unwillingly dragged towards a bone-wracking orgasm.

"Kento please-- please stop please please-- I can't do it I can't keep still I can't--" You babbled at Kento, tears streaming, certain he may not acknowledge your safe word even if you did squeeze it out. Only your desperation to win him back stopped you from even trying.

"Then die here." Kento shrugged, stroking himself again as he pressed the wand harder against your clit, thrilled to hear you scream in anguish. Your orgasm hit you with stunning force, harsh wracks of pleasure pounding through you as your body remained rigid. Still, the whiskey did not spill.

Your teeth gritted around your cries, and you met Kento's eyes with a ferocity that used to make him hard in seconds. His cock twitched in his hand in memory, pre-cum dripping down to wet his fingers. Baring his teeth in a snarl now, Kento knelt between your legs, grabbing the dildo and fucking it into you with harsh strokes, pressing harder with the punishing vibrations of the wand.

Your body was on fire, every part of you burning, from bruised bound wrists, to your feet, crackling with electric overstimulation. You cursed, spitting out tearful bile at Kento.

"--Kento-- stop it-- you fucking monster-- I hate you-- you fucking left me and I hate you so just stop it--"

Kento grinned, growling out as he continued his messy overstimulation of you; "There! There she is! That's my girl...make me proud!...shit, you're a mess. Don't spill it now." As another orgasm hit you, a primal hideous landslide, you screamed with your head thrown back, woefully unable to dissipate the pleasure through movement.

Suddenly full of unbridled rage, the years of grief and abandonment pouring out of you, you snapped, certain you wanted to hurt him as he had hurt you.

The glinting madness in Kento's eyes, the way his hand worked his rigid cock harder as he released his grasp on the dildo, now ramming it back into you with his knee...he wanted this. He wanted you pouring with spite. With rage. He wanted the venom and the hatred. He wanted the raw unbridled loyalty that you promised him through this humid obsession.

"--let me go-- KENTO. I'm warning you--"

Kento laughed, rich and earthy, as he gripped you by the throat, pinning you to the bed. Your body was exhausted, groaning, all bone-deep and guttural aches. By the time your third orgasm hit, you were floppy, the whiskey glass tilting on you just too sharply--

--before being snatched up by Kento, who drained it in one thirsty gulp. Pulling the sex toys out of you and tossing them aside, Kento moved to line his cock up with your entrance. Full of tearful anger, you kicked, hard, fighting back against him as he laughed, encouraging you-- "Fight me-- come on girl, COME ON--"

Kicking out again, spitting acid at Kento, berating him for leaving you, berating him for the twisted hatred you had endured alone for the miserable job you did, you cried, all bitter spite and loneliness. Kento caught your legs, forcing them open, pressing himself between them. He jabbed his cock between your folds as you squirmed, struggling up the bed, until Kento folded over you, grasping you by the back of the neck, and pulling you up for a searing kiss-- the first time you had tasted him in years.

Kento took advantage of your gasp, and invaded you with his tongue and cock, fucking sloppily between your legs, cursing into your mouth, until he met your entrance, slamming himself in to the hilt. Kento gripped you by the hips, thrusting into you while he slammed your pussy against him. He immediately set a feral pace, intent on claiming the last scraps of you, if he couldn't get you out of Jujutsu society alive. "--not gonna-- haaah-- let you die here-- fuck, good girl, good fucking girl, take it-- FIGHT ME--"

Every time you tried to buck and kick, and throw him out of you, Kento cupped your jaw, kissing you just like he used to, disarming you as you bit into his forearm planted beside your cheek. Kento kept up his punishing pace, reaching up to release the belt as he groaned into your throat, biting the delicate skin there. The briefest flicker of warmth passed over him, to feel your hands clutch at his chest, still trying weakly to push him off you. Kento reveled in your fight, your incessant struggling beneath him making his need to cum, to fill you again and make you his, urgent. You felt this in him, in his trembling arms and sloppy thrusts, all at once splitting you in two and completing you. Relenting, you allowed him to claim your mouth again, lips smooth and supple against yours, whiskey on his breath. Kento couldn't last any longer, and didn't want to; he finished with a broken rumble, all groans and whispered curses in your hair. Crushing you to the bed beneath his hulking body, you whimpered to feel his cock twitch and bound inside you, filling you again with sweet ache and seed. Kento rested on you, ignoring your gasping little breaths as you saw stars, buried beneath him. Swallowing away the lump in your throat, your mind swam with your fates; killed in battle or executed or on the run or hiding with filthy curse users or begging the higher-ups for mercy but all alone every one of them alone-- "...come with me." You blinked. Kento's back still heaved with exertion, his face buried in your neck. You felt a twinge, a prickle down your spine-- Cursed energy, approaching from a distance. "You have to decide...there's no time. I lie. I steal, and extort. I blackmail. I murder. I live in...in absolute luxury. You will never want for anything, while you're with me-- but you must be with me." You smiled. Another door had opened. Kento was the easiest decision you ever made.

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ddarker-dreams · 2 months

Text

Better The Devil You Know.

Yandere Chrollo x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, discussions of past minor character death, and descriptions of anxiety. Word count: 2.6k.

You awake to cold sheets and damp cheeks.

It isn’t a peaceful transition into consciousness. You fight for each breath, a losing battle that swaddles your mind in thick fog. The vapors thin out as time drags along. It doesn’t dissipate in its entirety, preferring to linger and prolong your disorientation.

You wipe at your face with your wrists, ignoring the sting accompanying the action. Hesitatingly, you appraise it in a ray of moonlight that snuck past the blinds. It’s clear, not crimson and thick. A normal product of a healthy body. You should feel relieved, you think. Every organ is as it should be. Your brain remains in your cranium, your lungs expand and contract, and your heart pumps, albeit at an alarming speed.

It’s better than the chill of encroaching death.

…

You are alive, aren’t you?

This question prompts an investigation.

Nothing hurts. Your throat, maybe, but that’s a minor ache spurred from thirst. Your skin is warm and clammy. Peeling the comforter off, you squint, assessing your body’s condition. Weary eyes take in everything. Your socks, the lace trimming of your nightgown, its diaphanous midriff, then your chest. Everything appears in order.

Would your incorporeal form accurately reflect your physical body?

You shake your head.

This can’t be heaven — no pantheon would be cruel enough to set the stage of your paradise with props from your captivity.

It can’t be hell either. If it were, you wouldn’t be alone right now.

You blink.

You’re alone?

Chrollo’s side of the bed is notably empty. He must’ve got up in a hurry, the sheets are in disarray. The adjoining restroom is dark and unoccupied, confirming he must be elsewhere. Your stomach churns. Determined to do away with this creeping anxiety, you get up, padding across the hardwood floor.

The night gifts shivers and goosebumps. Wishing to ward off its unwanted advances, you wrap your arms around yourself. You pass through the door that connects to the common area. Although it’s dimly lit, you can tell he isn’t here. The attached balcony is similarly uninhabited. A quick foray into the study confirms your status; you’re truly by yourself.

What should be a triumph or a relief delivers nothing but dread.

You return to the common room to assess the situation.

You’ve never been left alone before. Not without him telling you in advance, normally with a rough estimate of when he’ll return. There’s no way an important detail like that would slip your mind. At a loss, you dredge through your memories for some sign you may have missed. His voice pierces through your head like an arrow. You wince but ignore your body’s displeasure at anything associated with him. The unintelligible noises sharpen, forming consonants and vowels.

The thrum of the air conditioner eases away.

You’re left in absolute silence, until Chrollo’s voice fades away, replaced by another.

“... She was five or six, I think. Right around the age where you start losing baby teeth. There’d been this game she wanted and, y’know, kids aren’t rolling in cash. So she figured, what better way to pay for it than through the tooth fairy? I caught ‘er with my wrench, determined as anything, ready to speed up the process. It ended up being a little inside joke between us.”

Your lower lip trembles.

“... That’s how she ended up getting identified. Her teeth, I mean. Wasn’t anything else left to go off of. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. A whole life she lived, sometimes getting into trouble, but mostly helping others outta theirs. And to have that— all that— reduced to just… just a couple, couple fuckin’— teeth? What kinda joke is that?”

You fill a glass with water until it overflows.

“Hey, tell me. Has that fucker ever mentioned ‘er? … Probably not, right? Probably never knew she existed in the first place.”

Head thrown back, you gulp down the liquid, fighting the lump that longs to form in your throat.

“Who knows? Maybe I’m the one in the wrong ‘ere. Hell, you don’t look much older than her yourself. I don’t— don’t wanna hurt ya. But…”

Tears prick the corner of your eyes.

“There’s no other way to hurt him.”

Someone’s beside you.

You can hear their voice, though it sounds like it’s coming from miles away, carried over by the wind. Warmth sears your bare shoulders. You smell the faint aroma of sandalwood and amber. It’s distinct, this cologne that serves as an ill-omen better than any blackbird or cracked mirror. You couldn’t scrub it from your memory if you tried. That, or the scent of old books, leather, coffee, and red wine.

You dig your nails into something — fabric, perhaps — but nothing grounds you. It’s like you’ve been transported outside of space and time. Existing, yet far from alive. Your stomach falls while your head floats away. Up, up, up, lifting you higher and higher. From this impossible vantage point, you sway, your limbs gleefully ignoring every attempt to regain control.

And there it is again. Your name echoes throughout the atmosphere, beckoning you to acknowledge the sound’s source.

Maybe you should.

Even if you’ll come to regret it.

When you first met Chrollo, his eyes stood out the most, like the universe itself deemed them worthy of veneration. You found the gray depths captivating. The undertone varied, you never could ascertain if they were a cool or warm shade. All you knew was that once they found you, they boasted a vitality siphoned at the expense of your own.

Presently, they can’t. Their unwitting host has been exsanguinated.

“Where were—” You silence yourself, aghast by the implication.

You’d sought him out. So desperate for an anchor, you would’ve latched onto the culprit behind your drowning. There’s no doubt he’d find some twisted satisfaction in the accidental admission. You shrink away, but the solid counter presses against your spine, halting your retreat. He doesn’t advance, you’d barely created any distance.

“There’d been something that required my immediate attention,” Chrollo answers your unfinished question. There’s no thinly veiled derision or curiosity in his voice. You miss the familiarity. “Does anything hurt?”

It’s then that you recall your predicament.

You’re on the kitchen floor, surrounded by scintillating shards of glass. A pool of water gathers to your right. Chrollo’s bent down before you, wearing a heavy coat and a tint of pink on his nose. He must’ve come from outside. He stares unblinkingly, awaiting your verdict, which you deliver by shaking your head. There’s a dull ache in your tailbone but you keep that to yourself. It’s awkward enough that he found you in this state.

You’re sitting on the floor with one leg extended and the other bent at the knee, allowing your short nightgown to ride up. The compromising position stokes your embarrassment. You shuffle around to maintain some dignity. In doing so, you forget the pointed glass strewn about. Before you make contact, you’re hoisted up. Chrollo foresees your struggle and holds you tight enough to thwart its success.

“You’re alright,” he reassures, his sincere gentleness unbecoming. "Everything's alright."

He places you down on the closest couch and sits beside you. While you regain your bearings, he shrugs off his jacket, then drapes it around your trembling form. His scent and warmth flood your senses. You consider throwing it off out of spite, only to decide against it. You’d be the one to suffer the most. Chrollo remains unusually silent as you cocoon yourself in the thick wool jacket. It’s big on you, but not big enough to swallow you whole like you’d prefer.

“Should I grab your propranolol?”

Another head shake.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Foreseeing your tepid response, he adds, “Verbally?”

You clear your throat as quietly as you can. “I got thirsty.”

“Hm.”

You both know he isn’t convinced. It’d be easy for him to poke and prod until you revealed everything — intentionally or not — but his lips remain in a thin line. You shuffle in your seat. The fabric brushes against your wrists, eliciting a sharp inhale. The burn is short-lived yet the memories associated with it rage on.

“... Chrollo?”

He blinks, likely unused to the sound of his name on your lips. “Yes, love?”

“If that man killed me, would it have hurt you?”

A shadow falls over his visage, like a waxing crescent transitioning to a new moon. When you shiver, it isn’t from the cold. Dark hair frames a far darker expression. His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to see you better, beyond your flesh, at the crux of your soul. You await whatever comes next, returning his stare with equal intensity.

Finally, he slowly replies, “Yes, it would’ve.”

“Then why was it so easy for you to kill his daughter?” You ask, the words weighing heavily upon you. “You might’ve liked her, if you’d gotten to know her.”

The man revealed enough for you to feel like you knew her. Lana Ellis — a woman with an iron will, sharp tongue, and golden heart. She’d recently been hired to work as a waitress at a business that catered high-end events. Galas, celebrity birthdays and weddings, those sorts of things. It wasn’t going to be a permanent arrangement. Lana planned to ditch the gig after saving up tuition money, where she’d then aim for a doctorate in veterinary medicine. According to him, he’d squandered her college fund after the unexpected death of her mother; his childhood sweetheart. He said he’d never forgive himself or the Troupe.

“She wasn’t s’posed to have been there,” he wheezed. “She never should’ve been there…!”

Chrollo shuts his eyes. “What are you getting at, dear?”

His words come out light, though they’re anything but.

“She could’ve been me.”

“Yet she wasn’t.”

“But—!” Your voice cracks, so you take a deep breath and try again. “You… you deprive the world of people you could’ve come to like, be friends with, whatever! All for stuff you eventually do away with. How is that… how can you…”

Righteous anger suits you. It's a sword and shield that requires no skill to wield, reaching for the instruments have become second nature. Their effectiveness doesn't matter so long as you can hold onto something.

“You don’t need to understand.”

This isn't a parry or pivot, he's disarmed you.

“Huh?”

“Yes… if anything, it’s best if you don’t,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His eyes find yours again. “I can’t make sense of your empathy any more than you can grasp my lack of it. If I could, you’d no longer be yourself. Your self-limiting, bleeding heart should remain as is. It’s the one part of you I’ll leave untouched.”

You don’t know what you were expecting.

You slump back into your seat. “... Don’t you think you’re overestimating yourself?”

“Hardly,” he replies. Then, in a softer voice, “You torment yourself, love. This—”

He rests his hand over your heart.

“—Hurts you more than anything I’ve ever done. Yet you believe it unthinkable I’d do away with such an inconvenience.”

“So you’re a coward,” you mumble. The insult is uninspired but it suits your purposes. “You can’t handle it, so you took the easy way out.”

“Rationalize it anyway you'd like.”

Chrollo reaches for your forearm and coaxes it into view. His fingers brush along your wrists, where the man’s restraints left rope burn behind. The irritated skin is slowly recovering. The deeper wounds, those without a cure, will linger after the surface heals. They’re etched into your bones.

“Isn’t going against your morals worse than having none?" Chrollo queries. “That girl’s father knew you had no involvement in his daughter’s death. You’re an unwilling third party, same as she was. And he was ready to hurt you regardless."

Your mouth feels dry. “He didn't hurt me—”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow, causing head to flood your cheeks.

“—All... that... much. I don’t think he was going to...?”

“No, not until he was intoxicated enough to stomach it,” Chrollo retorts. “We’ll never know for certain, darling. Thankfully, I interrupted before it could get to that point."

That point, that point, that point...

What could that man have done to you?

Chrollo appraises you like he's yet to decide on something.

After a moment passes, he leans in, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your muscles stiffen as he pulls you close. He exerts none of the force you know him to be capable of. The gesture's languid nature gives the impression you could wriggle free if you tried. You don't test this theory. Chrollo's mood seems pensive, not amorous, hence your hesitant compliance.

He speaks your name. Then, he asks, "What's really bothering you?"

Biting your lip, you turn your head away from him.

He doesn't relent. "You can tell me anything, you know."

If you weren't so utterly exhausted, you might've laughed.

"You wouldn't be my first choice for a heart-to-heart."

"How about your second?"

You look at him like he's just suggested the world is flat. He smiles softly, allowing you time to think.

It's weird.

This is weird.

The lack of verbal finesse, designed to extract any emotion or confession he desires. You're used to his cunning, his depravity, his unfiltered self. You've come to expect it, as one would the sunrise and sunset. Briefly, you search for it. The expedition is futile. His normal tells are gone.

Truly, you could almost forget the imbalanced nature of this dynamic and pretend it's normal.

It isn't, however.

So you'll need to keep your wits about you.

"Could... er..." you trail off, uncertain of the best parlance, "Will something like that... happen... again...?"

The claustrophobia of being shut in a trunk. Blindfolded, hands and feet bound, gagged by a rag. Terrified and sobbing. Unable to breathe, unable to scream.

You feel as small now as you did then.

The man told you his reasoning. It tugged on your heart. Wringed the organ for everything it was worth. He deserved justice. He deserved revenge. At that lone instance, the playing field was even. The immeasurable gap in strength between him and the Phantom Troupe's boss meant nothing if Chrollo wasn't physically present. There was a chance for this bereaved father to return the pain unfairly inflicted on him.

But why on you?

Why do you have to be cast into hell for the sins of another?

And why was it so tempting to forgive the devil's transgressions against you, if he provided salvation just this once?

You don't know when you began shaking, but you do know it won't be easy to stop.

"You must've been scared," he murmurs.

This observation makes your throat feel impossibly tight, as if a serpent coiled around your neck. His eyelashes flutter shut and he rests his forehead against yours. He contents himself on breathing in your air while you wrestle with the odd intimacy of it all; this simplicity untainted by needling or provocations.

"I never make the same mistake twice," Chrollo eventually says. "In light of recent events, I've made it clear that you are off limits. Those who still wish to try their luck, well..."

The air itself writhes like a malicious entity. The sensation is brief, but the impression lingers, chilling you on a primordial level. You're reminded that his control, while impressive, isn't flawless. Every surface can fissure, allowing the noxious contents contained within to break free. This concentration of ill-intent isn't even focused at you. To be on the receiving end must be to face the inevitably of death.

"... They can be made examples of too."

Curiosity nips at your heels, demanding satiation.

Your part your lips.

Then his eyes reopen. They're dull, lacking any illumination, like light itself felt the urge to flee.

It's an understandable sentiment.

For that reason, you decide some questions are better left unanswered.

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