#feels strange that one would word such a thing in such a manner but perhaps we are simply living different circumstances.

[solipseismic]

'commonly recognized in the west' by whom. where. and how. 99% of the people i know can't distinguish ANY asian writing from another much less recognize it as east asian LET ALONE recognize it as KOREAN. again! unless they are koreaboo freaks*.

[gloomwitchwrites]

What If 141 and the best enemies to lovers line of all time...

"Who did this to you?"

Cue protective instincts and sexiness

hehe I am giggling!! Okay. Listen. I am fully aware that this is an enemies to lovers trope, but I don't think it applies to all of the 141 guys in that manner. Is there protectiveness? Yes. Is there a bit of spice? Yes, if you squint really hard. Is there also some sweetness thrown in? Absolutely there is. I had lots of fun with this one. I hope you enjoy it!

Presented in four double drabbles.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x 141!Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief blood and injury, hurt/comfort, brief suggestive themes, protectiveness, light angst

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Who did this?” Kyle bends forward at the waist, pressing a bag of frozen peas to your face. His concern is genuine. You can see that, but it’s strange. The two of you get on, but this is something else.

Kyle looks…angry like your injury personally offends him.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur. “Things happen during sparing. It’s fine.”

Kyle’s frown only deepens. He doesn’t believe you. And why should he? The person you were placed with took it too far. And it was all to impress him as if putting you in your place would somehow grant his favor.

It’s clearly done the opposite. He could care less about your sparring partner.

“It was your sparring partner, wasn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Just press the peas to your forehead a little harder.

This time, Kyle’s frown turns slightly upward. “Jokes on them, ya?”

You glance at him sideways. “How so?”

Kyle is grinning. It’s stunning. All pearly white teeth.

“Because I have my eye on someone else,” he says simply, as if that answers everything.

Though you cannot see yourself, you feel your face growing hot under Kyle’s gaze.

“You shouldn’t say thing like that,” you reply.

“Why? It’s true.”

John Price

“Who did this?”

“Why do you care so much, John?”

You attempt to pull your face out of his grasp but he holds firm.

“Of course I care,” he replies. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, chests heaving. John is close. Too close. So close he could easily brush his lips against yours.

“I don’t know why,” you murmur.

“You do,” he affirms, authority in his tone.

Do you? Maybe. Perhaps. Deep within yourself you truly know the reason but can’t decide to speak it to the air. That would make this real. Whatever this is between the two of you.

‘Tell me who did this?”

“And do that what?”

“What the fuck I want to them, love.”

“It’s nothing. You shouldn’t worry about it,” you reply, again trying to escape from him.

But John isn’t having it. His other hand hooks around your upper arm, and then you’re pressed closed to him. He is so warm. All strength.

“Let go,” you say, but there is no volume behind it. It is weak. Not even a protest.

“Tell me,” he repeats, head dipping slightly.

Yes. Close enough to kiss.

“Tell me,” he says again, this time softer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon’s blood beats heavy. It is tinged with metal. A lace of fire that cannot abate.

His boots slap against the linoleum floor. The overhead lights are bright. Clinical. He is a shadow here. A dark specter.

No one stops him. No one glances his way.

And why should they?

He is a man made fury.

There were hands put upon you. A training exercise taken too far. Simon was not there. And he doesn’t know why. Not exactly. But he’s furious. Protective. The fact that he could not stop this only infuriates him further.

To him, this is a failure.

He doesn’t come to a stop. Doesn’t knock. He barges right on in.

The nurse yelps. Spins suddenly. Face red.

You glance up, eyes wide at first but soothing slightly as they land on Simon. You’re bruised. Stitched up.

Fucking hell.

“Out,” barks Simon.

The nurse leaves but stares him down the entire time. He approaches the table, and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers against the wound on your forehead.

“Who did this?” he asks.

“Simon—”

“Which fucker?” he growls, bending forward slightly to look into your eyes.

“Should see the other guy,” you joke, smiling.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t. You’re not his. Even if he wishes it were so.

Every swing of his fist sends the building frustration outward, shooting into the massive boxing bag before him. It’s a poor substitute for the face he truly wants to smash. Several faces that is. Two specifically.

Who did this?

The words slipped from him unbidden. An instant anger. You had only scowled. Told him you could handle yourself. And you can. Johnny knows this. But he’s still fucking pissed about it. Still seething.

All the fucker got was a quick slap on the wrist. A promise to not do it again.

That sits sour in Johnny’s belly.

But you didn’t cave, no matter how much Johnny insisted that he’d take care of it on your behalf. So he is here, punching the shit out of something that isn’t flesh.

He wishes he could take away your pain. Take away the memory. Give it to himself to carry. You don’t turn on your own. There’s no honor in what happened.

But as much as he wants it to be true, Johnny can do nothing.

You are not his.

Even if he wants to be.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@pearljamislife @heeheehoohoohahahihi @eternallyvenus @burn1ngw00d @taysarchive

[misseviehyde]

De-Mentor

Sarah couldn’t be prouder of her younger sister Annabelle. She was definitely following in her big sister’s footsteps and living up to the family expectations. Head of the student council, a committed feminist and a straight A student, she had cultivated a happy and positive lifestyle just like Sarah. Just like her big sister she was also a vegan and she was deeply into politics.

Annabelle would often tell Sarah that she was her inspiration.  As a staffer for a local left-wing political organisation, Sarah had graduated top of her class and was now a rising star. She was making a difference. Annabelle looked up to her sister and wanted to be just like her once she graduated. She already had plans to become an environmental activist and work in the charity sector, something their rich but radical parents fully supported.  She first needed to complete her journalism degree, but once that was done she was ready to do her part to help the world.

The only thing Annabelle worried about was that she was sometimes getting stuck in an echo-chamber.  That was why she had tracked down her older sisters high-school bully Melody and as part of her dissertation was now interviewing her. She wanted to understand why Melody had bullied her sister and also what drove an evil bitch like her.

Melody was gorgeous and pretty. Her parents were super rich and she had been athletically talented.  Why would someone who had everything be so cruel?  Annabelle thought there had to be some deep reason, something she could discover and write about. Perhaps Melody was unhappy with her own life, perhaps she had changed since school? Maybe she would even want to apologise to Sarah and make up for all the bad, evil things she had done or said.

Sarah had told Annabelle horror stories about the rich, bratty, cheerleader and her clique. How Melody had taunted, teased and manipulated the school. Everyone had been afraid of her.  Annabelle wasn’t sure what to expect once she began interviewing the bully, but she had to try.

***

“Regrets?  No I don’t have any regrets. I fucking LOVED bullying your pathetic sister and making her my little bitch. Highschool was such fun, I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, and no one could stop me. Mmmmmh, it still makes me wet just thinking about it.”

Annabelle was listening back to her recordings from todays interview. She could barely believe it as she listened to the evil poison dripping out of Melody’s bitchy mouth. She couldn’t believe how open and honest the other woman was being, but it made her feel physically sick to listen to.

And yet…

Melody’s voice was aptly melodic. Soft and seductive, full of wicked intonation and glee.  The recorder seemed to greedily suck it up.  Annabelle knew she would end up listening to it again just to hear that voice… that damn pretty voice.

“You should be glad you weren’t at school when I was. I would have bullied you too. I mean, you’re so fucking pathetic - you dress like Sarah, ape her mannerisms, you even sound like that dumb bitch. Aren’t you embarrassed that you basically are your sisters mini-me?  Wouldn’t you rather be your own person?”

In the recording, Annabelle stuttered some more questions, but Melody was only interested in talking about what she wanted to talk about.

“You know, you have a decent bone structure and you’re prettier than your sister. You could be hot if you wore more makeup - dressed a little sluttier. You should try it. You should try acting more like ME and seeing if you like it.  You should live a little, eat some red meat… be a bad girl. It wouldn’t hurt for you to be more of a bitch.”

Annabelle re-wound the recording and listened again… then again… then again.

There was something about Melody’s voice. The poision in those words was soooo fucking hot somehow. Just listening to another girl admit she enjoyed being an evil bitch, that she revelled in her bratty bullying nature made Annabelle think strange thoughts.

You should try acting like a bitch.  You should eat more red meat, you should dress like a slut.

Again and again Annabelle listened to the words. They made her body tingle and made her think things she had never thought before.  Was she just a boring clone of her sister? Was she just a pathetic copy of Sarah, too afraid to think independently and be herself?

You should try acting more like ME.  Eat more red meat…

Annabelle felt her mouth salivate suddenly at the thought of a juicy burger. She hadn’t eaten meat in six years, she had decided it was immoral to eat meat. Eat more red meat. Grabbing her keys and her purse from the counter she snuck out of the front door, Melody’s voice still echoing in her mind.

****

The queue in Five Guys wasn’t very long and Annabelle’s hands trembled as she lifted the hamburger to her salivating mouth. She’d watched them fry the thick patty, the meat sizzling and juices running and now she greedily bit down and moaned, actually making an orgasmic gasp of pleasure, as she tasted the meat.

Fuck… yes…

Mmmmmmmh, Annabelle chewed - a damn seeming to burst inside her and a wicked smile growing on her face as she took another delicious bite. She could do whatever the fuck she wanted. She was all that mattered. If she wanted meat, she’d have meat.  Not too much of course, she had to look after her figure… but even now she could feel the protein filling her up, causing her body to react.

Sarah was short, underdeveloped, anaemic… well Annabelle wasn’t going to fall into the same trap. She was a meat eater now and she loved it. Breaking the taboo, doing something she knew was wrong… evil in fact… just made her feel so fucking… yummy. 

Suddenly she felt guilt. What the fuck was wrong with her? One meeting with Melody and she ready to turn her back on five years of being a vegan. No… this was just a one off, she instantly regretted this and wouldn’t be doing it again.

But deep inside Annabelle knew she didn’t regret it. She was hungry now. Hungry for more.

*******

Annabelle sat on the bus, the recording of Melody’s perfect voice oozing evil into her ears. She’d missed her stop ages ago, now the bus was heading into town - but that was okay. Annabelle wanted to go shopping.

“The first step to being a bitch has always been to look the part. It’s important that you work out, eat healthy, tone up your body. Join a gym, make sure your ass is perfect. You need to show off your body and be proud of it. Clothing is next. You can never dress down, every outfit has to be carefully chosen. You have to look hot all the time. Makeup, nails, hair, full outfit - focus on getting those right and you’ll start to be seen as popular and hot. Personality wise you need to be fake friendly to other girls, but make it clear you’re the bitch… the boss. Bully them if you have to, pick on the weaker ones and make them yours - then bring down the leaders until you’re the dominant Alpha. That’s how I ruled school when your pathetic Mom attended.”

Annabelle’s eyes rolled back in her head as strange visions burned through her mind. Visions that made her feel very good indeed. Smiling, she looked back down at her phone and began to cancel all of her charity subscriptions.  Annabelle had plenty of money, she was a careful saver and she donated most of it to charity.  Now though she had a better use for the money. For herself.

Join a gym, make sure your ass is perfect… every outift has to be carefully chosen.

Annabelle’s mouth repeated Melody’s words without even realising it as she stepped off the bus and walked into the gym.

Make sure your ass is perfect…

***

Annabelle admired her new reflection in the mirror as Melody’s droning voice continued to blare out of the speakers behind her.  She’d thrown out most of her old clothes and adapted now to the short skirts, tight dresses, knee stockings and heavy makeup that she had come to prefer. She no longer looked innocent. She looked like a teasing bitch. 

She looked like Belle.

Annabelle had started to go by Belle a few days ago when she’d decided she needed a hotter name to go with her hotter look.  Her gym membership was starting to pay off - she’d really toned up already. Maybe the diet of meat and protein shakes was paying off too. Even her boobs looked slightly bigger.

She practically salivated as she regarded herself narcissistically in the mirror. “Fuck yes. I'm so much hotter than I used to be. I feel like I'm finally becoming my own person. I’m finally breaking free of my dumb sister.”

Belle's waste paper bin was piled full of books and jotters. She’d needed more room for her makeup and this dumb crap was just in the way. She'd torn down her greenpeace posters and torn her signed photo of Greta Thurnburg in half. She couldn't give a shit about that stuff anymore.

She was rearranging her life. Plastic bags lined the wall, ready to be ditched. They were full of the fugly outfits she used to wear. A lot of them were Sarah's hand-me-downs. Belle wouldn't be seen dead in something that dumb bitch used to wear.

Melody's voice droned on repeat, filling Belle with the delicious thoughts she'd come to enjoy so much. She had an audio file of Melody's greatest sayings. She loved listening to her.

Your sister was always such a fucking loser, but you seem different. Have you done something with your hair? You look fucking hot babe. Those clothes look really good on you too. You know, I'm kinda rich. How about I support you in getting a new wardrobe, a new look? Start dressing like a popular girl and things will happen. You do wanna be popular right? It's more important than being nice. Popularity is ALL that matters.

Belle applied more lip gloss and repeated her new mentors words. Yes… popularity was all that mattered. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it until now. She couldn't believe she had spent so many years trying to be a Sarah, when she should have been a Melody.

But she was so far behind. She was eighteen and had never been popular before. All those years wasted. All that time she could have been positioning herself to be the hottest girl at school.

She had another session with Melody tomorrow. She couldn't wait. She wanted to learn more.

***

Belle should have felt nervous. But she was just excited. The fact that Jason already had a girlfriend just made this even hotter.

Melody had told her it would feel this way. Her desire to get fucked was both physical and mental. A hunger inside her she needed to fulfil.

She had cummed night after night, rubbing her tight pussy and squirting to the sound of Melody's voice - but she needed the real thing. To truly become Belle she needed to experience cock. She needed to get railed like a bitch.

“Annabelle… ohhh shit we shouldn't be doing this. I didn't know you were like this…”

Belle squeezed his cock, digging her sharp new acrylic fingernails in slightly and making him moan. “I told you… don't call me that. I'm Belle now… and we both know you don't want me to stop right?”

Belle was pumping Jason's big cock slowly up and down, her tiny hand somehow managing to wrap round the magnificent girth. His cock felt great in her hands. 

They had met at his house, everyone was out and Jason’s girlfriend Carlie was hanging out with her friends. 

Belle had chosen Jason because he was fit, sexually experienced, and the most popular boy at college.

“I want you to take my virginity Jason. I want you to fuck me.”

“You're a virgin? I… are you sure you want to do this? I mean we don't have to…”

“Mmmmmh. Does it look like I'm messing around here?” purred Belle as she sank to her knees and slid her hot wet mouth around his cock.

“Holy shit… I thought you were a good girl, a prude.”

Belle giggled. “Not anymore. I'm a dirty fucking slut now baby, and my tight virgin holes need pounding. I wanna learn everything about being a slut. Use my body and fuck my holes as deep as you like till I tell you to stop…”

Jason moaned as Belle resumed her sucking and he knew he was in for a great night…

***

At the dinner table, Sarah watched her sister in barely disguised horror. What the hell had happened to Annabelle?

The girl was eating meat. She had somehow convinced their parents to start eating meat again too, and now the three of them were sat eating juicy steaks whilst Sarah picked at her quinoa salad.

“Mmmmmh dont you fucking love how good this tastes Mom and Dad. You know - I thought vegans were meant to be thin, so it’s kind of mad that Sarah is so fucking fat even though she eats that plant based shit.”

Neither parent said anything, they just looked embarassed. What Sarah didn't know of course was that Belle had evidence their Dad was embezzling money from his company and their Mom was having an affair with the pastor. Their hypocrisy had given her total control of the house and Melody had taught Belle exactly how to leverage this to her advantage.

Sarah just couldn’t believe it. Her once smart, kind, feminist, vegan, sister was now a selfish, bratty bitch and a bully. She almost reminded Sarah of someone else, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

“Do you want some steak too Sarah?” giggled Belle as she deliberately tossed a piece onto her sisters plate and watched maliciously for a reaction.

Standing up Sarah pushed her chair under the table and glared at Belle. “What the hell has happened to you Annabelle? You're my sister but you're acting like a total bitch. Im not hungry right now, enjoy your meat.”

Storming off to Belle's laughter Sarah decided she had to act. Something had changed a few months ago to start Belle down this path, but what?

She let herself into her sisters room. It was unrecognisable. Designer clothes hung from racks, a sex toy lay discarded next to the bed… white stains on the bed sheet evidence of where Belle had orgasmed that morning. 

Makeup and perfume covered every available surface, lingerie was stuffed into drawers. How could she afford all this stuff?

Next to the bed was a pair of Bluetooth headphones. They were still connected to Belle's phone. Sarah slipped them on and pressed play.

You're a fucking bitch now Belle and it feels good. You exist now to bully girls like Sarah. You're my little mini-me and you love it. Keep cumming as you listen to my voice and imagine yourself become more evil and bratty. You don't care about anything but yourself anymore. You have become a perfect bitch.

Sarah ripped the headphones off with a gasp. That voice… that evil fucking voice. It was Melody. Her old bully Melody.

“So now you know the truth, sis” giggled a voice behind her and she spun to see Belle standing in the door. 

“Look at you. So fucking pathetic. I can't believe there was ever a time I wanted to be like you. Melody helped open my eyes and show me who I really am.”

Belle advanced into the room with a wicked grin. “Look at me Sarah. I'm so much better than you now. My pussy is tighter, my ass rounder, my boobs bigger. You're a fucking nobody. In a few months I'll have found a rich man to satisfy my needs… just like Melody did.”

“No Annabelle. She's brainwashed you. She always was persuasive, but somehow she's turned you into her puppet. You have to fight this, you have to resist. Can't you see what she is doing?”

Belle just giggled, “Get out of my room loser. I have Jason coming round and then I'm seeing Melody again. Nothing you can say can stop what I'm becoming. Nothing.”

Sarah walked out, tears in her eyes as Belle laughed again. 

Then she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She gasped at how evil and wanton she looked. She looked just like… just like Melody.

She's turned you into a puppet.

Belle gripped her temples. Had she just exchanged one role-model for another? Was she being played by Melody?

No one plays you. You're in control. You get to choose who you want to be.

“But this… this isn't who I wanted to be is it?”

The mirror seemed to shimmer and Bella saw herself as she used to be. Sweet, innocent, a little Sarah copy.

We can go back. Go back to how we were. 

Belle hesitated. 

She looked down at her sexy hands and ran them over her toned body. She remembered the taste of cock in her mouth, the feeling of getting fucked. She shivered as she recalled how good it felt to bully other people and get what she wanted.

No. There is no going back. I fucking LOVE being Belle. 

She laughed as she imagined Annabelle being destroyed, consumed and turned into her. She imagined innocent little Annabelle moaning in pleasure as Belle replaced her.  Yesss that’s right loser. You fucking love being me.  You fucking love being a bitch,

“Mmmmh, fuck Sarah AND fuck Melody. The only person who matters is me. I'm the only one who counts. I’m a fucking bitch and I want what Melody has. The power to make others do everything I want. I need that power and I’m going to get it.”

Laughing she opened her phone and messaged Jason.

She had a plan…

***

Belle moaned as Jason mounted her, his hands in her hair and his cock buried deep in her tight pussy.

“Yessss fuck me harder. Tell me how much better I am than everyone else. Tell me what a slut I am.”

Thwap thwap thwap. Sweat dripped down, Belle's sexy boob's bounced and wet smacks filled the air as Jason pounded Belle's incredible body.

She loved the feeling of him sliding in and out. She squeezed her fussy tight, feeling it grip his cock and make him moan. She threw her hips back so he could go even deeper.

In the last few weeks she’d gone from virgin to pornstar.

Jason didnt even bother to fuck his own girlfriend anymore. Life was brilliant. 

But something Sarah had said bothered Belle. That bit about being a puppet. Had Melody just turned her into an extension of her will? Was she still not really her own person?

“Fuck Belle. You're so much better than anyone else. I'd do anything for you. Anything.”

“Anything…?”

Belle's mind was full of ideas. She had a theory, she just needed to test it.

***

Slipping the headphones over Sarah's ears, Belle grinned as her sisters eyes flickered open. Jason was ready though.

He pinned Sarah down and stopped her from struggling as the specially edited tape Belle had made began to play. Melody's hypnotic voice flowed into Sarah's brain.

“You are worthless… pathetic… beta… loser… nothing… subservient… weak…”

Belle watched as her sister tried to fight, and then as her struggles began to slow and her eyes rolled up into her head, she tossed her the sex toy.

“I’m a dumb cunt that serves Belle. A dumb cunt that serves Belle. My little sister is better than me…”

As Sarah began to repeat the words Belle felt herself get wet. Soon there wouldn't be anything left of who Sarah had been. Melody's voice was the key and Sarah had hours of recordings.

She could make Melody pretty much say anything now…

***

Melody didn't remember much after drinking the juice that Belle had fetched for her. By the time she'd realised the little bitch had set her up it was too late.

Melody felt the gag in her mouth and the headphones jammed on her head. Her own voice was telling her things… things she couldn't resist.

She was telling herself that Belle was best. She was the Mistress that Melody needed to serve. Melody existed to serve Belle. She could no longer use her voice except to serve Belle. She could no longer use her voice against Belle. She was the puppet now and Belle was the Mistress. 

No… that wasn't right. Belle was the puppet Melody had created to torment and destroy her old victim Sarah. She wasn't the Mistress. Melody was. 

Only she wasn't. Melody's own voice was telling her that Belle was the Mistress now and Melody's voice was irresistible. She had worked hard to develop her natural powers and learn the mind conditioning techniques that allowed her to make others do what she wanted. She had loved the power.

In hindsight maybe it had been careless to let the girl take so many recordings. Now the power was hers.

No… not the girl.

Her Mistress…

Belle was the Mistress now and Melody was eager to serve her.

***

Belle cleared her throat and laughed with glee as whispered her corrupting words into her lovers ear. He groaned, his loyalty to his wife now totally destroyed as he fucked her deeper and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Yessss fuck me deeper Daddy… fuck me like a slut.”

She felt him respond, felt his mouth on her nipples… his thick powerful cock pistoning in and out of her responsive body.  She had cum on his cock twice already and could feel a third time approaching.

It was all so fucking intoxicating.

She had the power now and her voice was sexier and deeper. It had taken Melody very little time to teach her the techniques- she was a gifted student after all. 

And once she was sure she had fully mastered the power - that she could drip corruption into another person and shape them to her whims… her first victim had been Melody. She’d brainwashed her completely until her former mentors voice was entirely stripped of its power. Melody could no longer brainwash people.

Only Belle had that power now.

She could make people do whatever she wanted. Make boys suck dick, girls become bullies or losers… even change Sarah from her kind, loving sister into a cold hearted MAGA supporter - which she had done just for fun.

Her once socially liberal and kind sister was now a regressive cruel bitch just like Belle had wanted.  As for Jason - Belle had gotten bored of him at last. His reward for helping her had been to be programmed into a cocksucking sissy boy for her amusement whilst she began fucking his hunky Dad instead.

That was who was now deep inside her - his loyalty to his son and his wife replaced by an uncontrollable lust for Belle.

Perhaps one day she’d get bored of him too.  After all Belle was a bitch and she was the only one who mattered.

The student had become the teacher and no one was ever going to be better at it than Belle.

THE END

[bunnwich]

Uh just a heads up, did you read/saw the Leona and you meeting in the novel? I kinda wanna talk about it

Leona and Yuu Meeting in the Novel

ANON ANON. YOU REALLY BROUGHT MY ATTENTION TO SOMETHING W I L D BC I HAD NEVER ACTUALLY READ THE NOVEL VERSION OF THE MC MEETING LEONA???? Also, I was gonna see if the EN translation had been released but it doesn’t in my area until 8/27 so RAAAAAAAAAAAA. OKAY SO LET'S BREAK IT DOWN. (Using @/yuurei20’s wonderful translation) So as we know, in the game and manga Leona comes off as very… aggressive?

He threatens to “rip out our tooth” which, sir???? Like from the first time, I could tell that this was just a “flex” and he absolutely was saying it in a facetious manner. Though in the manga they further escalate it, even going as far to have him going to kick Yuuken.

BUT, HERE???? IMO this interaction is much more indicative of his character as a whole. There is so much more nuance to his intentions here. Protecting his dorm, deescalating, being smart. All the stuff that I’ve been saying from when I started playing twst about him just keeps being proven to me. Also that perhaps Leona, actually doesn't like fighting. These are my main takeaways.

1.) Leona is a well-respected and liked dorm leader who is looking out for his dorm's best interests.

And his dorm mates follow his word like gospel for the most part. I feel like ppl tend to gloss over this bc he is lazy or w/e but the Savanaclaw students mostly love Leona and would do anything for him. 

It’s just nice to see so much of the stuff you get reading between the lines at the forefront here. He’s so much more calm and menacing here than cranky and aggressive and that feels so much more him? Leona’s intimidation IMO doesn’t come from his physical strength per se, it comes from the authority he commands, his demeanor, as well as his magic I’m sure.

-- He is wrapped in a strange atmosphere that attracts the stares of everyone around. Even hidden under his school uniform it is clear he is well-muscled, with a scar over his left eye that lends all the more power to his chiseled face. The fists of the older students froze in mid-air at the command, completely throwing off their momentum. Now, like small animals under the watchful eye of a predator, they shrink away, murmuring, 'Leona-san'. Ignoring the confused Deuce entirely, Leona raises an eyebrow at the formerly brawling group. 'Move up a grade and the first thing you do is start a fight in the street--are you all stupid?' 'But that brat is the one who started it first.' 'Huh. And? Don't like what I have to say, then?' 'Impossible! It's not like that at all.' Leona is dressed down, wearing neither the jacket nor the tie to his school uniform, but he does wear the same yellow vest as the three students who had come so close to exchanging blows with Deuce. All three have become properly obedient in front of their fellow dorm member, Leona. --

2.) HE DID WHAT???

SO in my head I always imagined Leona stepped a bit close and sniffed the air around Yuu/MC but in this version HE SNIFFS THE NECK?? LIKE FULL ON PUTS HIS NOSE TO THE BACK OF YUU’S NECK?? WHAT THE HELL???? THATS SO WILD SIR?? I’M CALLING THE POLICE??? YUUYA ,ARE YOU OKAY??

-- ‘Hey. You.''Y-yes?' Yuuya's response leaves him in a sound that is almost a yelp, because Leona has suddenly drawn close enough to place his beautifully-sculpted nose near to the base of Yuuya's neck.Yuuya breaks out in a cold sweat. Having his neck so exposed is frightening in a way he cannot put into words: he is frozen in fear of Leona tearing out his throat at any moment. --

3.) In this Ruggie CALLED Leona over to help Yuu and Deuce fight off the Savanaclaw goons.

That just gives such a layer to Savanaclaw as a whole, that neither one wanted to see Yuu and Deuce get beat up. Leona continues to show he has a soft spot for his underclassmen perhaps. I do think it mostly was about him protecting his dorm mates and not wanting them to get in trouble bc he knew Yuu was taken in by Crowley, the headmaster.

-- 'My name is Ruggie Bucchi.' Ruggie responds, with a deliberate shake of his whole body. 'And this scary personage is Savanaclaw Dorm Housewarden, Leona Kingscholar-san. We already know you're dumb enough to pick fights with upperclassmen, but even you know you won't be winning against our Housewarden, yeah? Times like this, you gotta side with whoever will benefit you the most.' 'Benefit? They're the ones who started this fight, and now they're trying to run away!' 'My my, aren't you a hot-blooded kitten--and here you should be thanking me. I called Leona over because I saw you were in danger, y'know?'Leona looks to Ruggie. 'Tch. Patronizing bastard. You just wanted to give me more to deal with.' 'Shi-shi-shi. That's our housewarden! Settle brawls in an instant like that, and people will start relying on you.' The three students who had been scuffling with Deuce and Yuuya look down at their feet, snickering; they seem to have cooled off after being chided by Leona. As his position in the dorm would lead one to assume, Leona seems to be well-liked.) (!!!) --

4.) Perhaps, Leona’s Lazy demeanor is just a front to something more.

-- Though he has a languid stare, his narrow pupils send a shiver down Yuuya's spine. Yuuya knows, instinctively, that challenging Leona on their own would be disastrously reckless. --

Anyways its just so funny that I never read this bc I assumed (wrongly) that it was just similar to the other version of this meeting and like…whoa. 

I know it doesn't seem like much of a difference now but when twst was newer and we got less depth to Leona, andhe came off as very one-dimensional guy who was aggressive for aggressive sake and most of my HCs were really were speculation for the most part, and at that time as not many bothered to read between the lines about him.

Yes, he is scary (stop sniffing ppl) but also a bit teasing, but lowkey a caring and good leader. I do think his intimidating persona is two-fold. Like…half is so he can command respect from his dorm mates and it’s needed to be the Savanaclaw dorm leader in the first place. And the other half is a front to hide the softer parts of his personality that he denies at every turn, like being idealistic and a good mentor.

5.)  Leona sort of defends Yuu when the 3 goons make a comment implying that Yuu needs to watch who they tangle with.

-- 'Nothing wrong with having guts, but prepare well enough to know who your opponent is.' 'Hahaha! Yeah, just like the Housewarden says!' 'I'm talking to you three, too.' --

IMO He’s clearly looking out for his Savanclaw member’s well being here but I think he does some inkling of respect for Yuu, whether that bc they are strange or simply bc they are affiliated with Crowley and he doesn't want trouble, either or both is interesting to me. 

(TBH I’m still NOT over the neck sniffing thing.)

I will be interested to see the official EN translation of this scene, so I’ll update ya’ll on that once I see it! I NEED to know if they change any of it. Sorry for the ramble but YES please anon, feel free to talk about it with me! I love to yap, thank you for bringing it to my attention!!

(Thanks again to @/yuurei20 for all the translations for this scene!! Your work is so so appreciated!!)

[worldwide-simp]

hello! do u still do request can i ask if u can do yan!scp073 x scp!reader

for some details:

the reader is a safe class cause she doesn't want to hurt people and see them in pain she has healing powers as she usually heals staff or gurads who are injured and she is a total sweetheart!

what will happen if they meet? (u can add any plots and things u wanna add)

*thanks if u are uncomfortable u can decline*!

Ooo I’ve finally got an ask! Sorry, I’m quite late with this. Hope short scenarios will be okay!

consumed by jealousy once again.

Yandere Scp073 x fem reader

Warnings: obsession, implied stalking, corruption, pessimistic thoughts, insecurities, mentions of murder, jealousy

*not proofread, please do notify me if I have missed out a warning, might add some things after posting

How did you both first meet? “…”

• Cain is quite the desirable lad. He’s polite, well-mannered and crosses his legs when seated. Time has carved wisdom into the cadavers of his body; he speaks with many words he’s memorized from dictionaries and occasionally mixes up phrases from different languages.

• When you first met Cain, your sweet and kind nature allured him. He became.. curious, so to speak. Strangely obsessed with admiring you while you’d work with people. Becoming a tad bit jealous when your attention wasn't fixated upon himself. He wouldn't let these thoughts come to light. Not now anyways.

•Always, Cain offered a helping hand. Did you need any assistance carrying that heavy bag? Or perhaps you wanted a glass of water? You could always see him at your service, watching your skilled hands heal others with a passion.

How much time did it take?

“…”

• It had taken him a few months to develop feelings. Cain first believed it was a wonder, why hadn't you excluded him from your table where you would sit? Did you not find his voice uncanny?

•He had only adored you even more after that.

• He had once asked what your occupation in the foundation was, what the foundation declared your function as a cog in one of their elaborate machines. This was the depressing reality. Cain had learned not to question it. They had stuffed his mind full of knowledge to the point he swore it snapped at times, piece by piece.

• Although he had his own mental burdens, Cain would never place them upon you. Endearing innocent soul, let him kiss you to death.

Does his emotions remind him of any past experiences?

“…”

• Cain loathes the feeling of jealousy consuming his heart, it reminded him of a very dark time. Where he had slaughtered his brother out of the same envy he experiences now, just desiring to be injured in any shape or form so he could feel your fingers blessing his cold, still-beating heart and not some guard or doctor undeserving of your touch.

• A rational part of his mind was disgusted at his concerning thoughts. He justified it with a wild vigour.

How would he show his undying love?

“…”

• Sometimes you’d find plastic flowers tucked away in various places, they were always crimson-coloured Morning Glorys and Black roses with sloppy red paint in the shape of a heart. You had giggled and suspected Cain. Though you had never confirmed your thoughts with the man himself. Darling, Sweetheart Cain. Made of sugar and liquorice.

• Every time you discovered your bouquet of flowers, you noticed the hearts had been painted less messily and with more ease, the streaks of red paint precise and pristine.

• Cain felt awkward at the thought of confessing his ever-growing feelings for you. He would only admire you. How your face looked when you smiled, how you rambled about Josie the half-cat’s fluffy pelt and the most adored feature of yours, the way you’d praise him when he did a good job.

•Don’t ever let yourself think he’s going to let such a precious flower like you wilt in his needy grasp.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

Black Celebration (Jaghatai Khan, Mortarion)

Summary: Mortarion befriends Khan's lover and realizes that he has feelings for her… and that she must be saved.

Jaghatai Khan/fem!Reader, Mortarion/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, manipulation, angst

Word count: 1371

Song: Depeche Mode - Black Celebration

I decided to try something new. Jaghatai is a soft yandere, but the focus is not on him, but on Mortarion. Of course, he can also be called a yandere (he is a primarch, they are all a little wierd there), but his fears are still justified.

Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars was a special person. Strange culture, strange manners and isolation from others. He, like Mortarion, was forced to serve the Emperor, but not because of an agreement, but because of the desire to protect his world. But they were not friendly. The only person with whom Warhawk was able to strike up a friendship was Magnus the Red. A witch, no less.

It is not surprising that when Jaghatai became attached to a small mortal woman, no one paid attention to it. And it was so difficult to understand what was on his mind. So why waste time on you when there are much more important things to do.

“Oh, I didn’t think anyone else would be here. You are Mortarion, aren't you? Jaghatai has told so little about you.”

Mortarion takes his eyes off the ivy and turns around. He’s not used to seeing you without your patron. On the other hand, it’s unlikely that anything could threaten you in the Terran greenhouse.

You smile brightly and talk non-stop about how you wanted to see the greenhouse. After all, so many wonders from all worlds are collected here. The Primarch of the Death Guard continues to sit on one knee with an impassive gaze, looking at your words. During all this time, he never changed his face or said a word. Simply put, he did not show his passion in the conversation.

“I see you liked this plant. Can you please tell me more about it? Everything is so interesting here.”

You press your hands to your chin and look pointedly at the primarch. Mortarion can do nothing but frown. Something was erroneous here. Something is wrong. In you. You were wrong. Strange. You acted differently.

“Aren't you afraid of me?”

You almost recoil at his words and raise an eyebrow. Not out of disgust. But surprises. Misunderstandings. The primarch watches carefully as your eyes scan the man from head to toe. Your lips curl up and your face takes on a funny look.

"No."

Perhaps now you should be scared. Mortarion is sure that if he didn’t hurt your feelings before, now... you should have run away as fast as you could. A primarch, but he cannot control his own body, what a shame. The eyes widened, the nostrils inhaled deeply. He looked like an enraged monster, ready to rush forward and tear his victim to pieces. Only it wasn't rage.

He had never heard pleasant words.

And didn’t know how to react. But you continue to stand, embarrassedly fiddling with your hands. Waiting for the Pale King to deign to tell you about all the different types of plants in the greenhouse. Mortarion opens his mouth several times, gulping air like a fish. Until he gathers his strength and begins to talk.

***

You started meeting more often. The greenhouse was your secret place. You hardly saw each other in different parts of the Imperial Palace. Or pretended not to notice each other. But you and the primarch didn’t even discuss why you kept your friendship a secret. It just happened that way.

But Mortarion looked forward to all these meetings. Couldn’t calm down his feelings or control his thoughts. He longed to meet again, to hear your laughter. And when these meetings came, he waited with bated breath for their completion. Hoped to the last that the wonderful dream would last as long as possible.

He told you about Barbarus. About the Crusade. Not the most pleasant stories, full of pain and suffering. But you listened to them carefully. You wanted to support him. And when you touched his hand one time during the story about his “adoptive father”... The Pale King was relieved. You didn't mock him. Wasn't afraid.

You were a true ray of light. Mortarion loved listening to your stories about your home planet, customs and traditions. What are your favorite holidays, how is your family doing. Your distant home among the stars seemed like a real paradise. While Mortarion's homeworld rotted alive.

“You know, I really appreciate that you listen so eagerly about my culture.” - you get embarrassed and fidget with your dress while sitting on the floor. - “Jaghatai is also interested. But he has a lot to do and besides, I have to integrate more into the culture of Chogoris. So there is little time for me.”

You say this so calmly. You accept your fate and position like a slave. Mortarion frowns. He doesn't like you being neglected. You were mortal. Small and fragile. You need to be taken care of, not terrorized.

“What is your relationship with my brother?”

You open your mouth and blink your eyes. Until you squeak in embarrassment and hide your face in your hands. Mortarion wants, desperately wants to smile at this sight. Show you at least a little bit of goodness. But he doesn't know how to smile. Besides, he simply cannot calm down until he understands that you are safe.

“Jaghatai... he annexed our world to the Imperium too quickly. We couldn't fight back anyway, peaceful planet. I... we met at one of the holidays, and then we began to meet more and more often. And so unexpectedly! It’s as if fate was favoring us.”

Mortarion hears your heart begin to beat with greater intensity. Or was it his?

“I-I know how it sounds, but I love him. And... and he loves me. Of course I had to leave my home, but nothing could be done. Jaghatai said that he will take care of my family, they will not need anything. Of course, he forbids me to go to a lot of places and my social circle is narrow... but this is all for my safety. Sometimes his care is a little suffocating... but he said that he has never fallen in love and does not know how to show his feelings... He writes me poems, laughs at my jokes. And he also gives me rides on his bike!”

Naivety. Pure and simple-minded naivety. Which his brother brazenly took advantage of and turned a wonderful girl into a slave. And she doesn’t even realize it, greedily accepting what he gives. This is not freedom. Mortarion should have saved you, you deserve better, you need...

Him?

No, Mortarion is not worthy of your care and affection. How can such a beautiful and pure girl desire such a disgusting man like him. He looked terrible, but compared to the Primarch of the White Scars, he must have caused momentary disgust.

Khan was handsome and dressed more flamboyantly than Fulgrim. He looked after you, behaved perfectly and so normally. Mortarion looked simply ridiculous compared to him. He may be a primarch, he may be called the Pale King. But he was pathetic in front of you.

And he doesn't say anything.

***

The next day he doesn't see you in the greenhouse. And in subsequent ones. In truth, it seems as if you have disappeared from the Imperial Palace. Your trace is gone, the scent has cooled and he can’t hear the beat of your heart. You are absent. You're far away.

Mortarion thinks he is going crazy and he doesn't know what to do. Have you decided to leave him? Have you decided to run away? He couldn’t blame you, but resentment and sadness gnawed at his soul. He really wanted to spend time with you again. Feel needed. Beloved.

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Khan.

“I am grateful to you for brightening the days of my nightingale.” -White Hawk doesn't look grateful. - “My moon is already tired. She shouldn't talk to other primarchs so often. Besides, we were delayed on Terra. If you have something to say, then say it. I’ll pass on the words to my beauty.”

Mortarion wants to scream. You have a name. Jaghatai has no right to treat you like this. You deserve better... The Pale King is terrible and disgusting. He's a monster in the flesh. But it seems that your soul makes it better. Mortarion wants to see you again among the flowers, cheerful and alive. Happy. Free.

“Tell her that we will meet again.”

Whatever happens.

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

Pairing | Yandere Jungkook x Reader

Word Count | 2,438

Warnings | +18, kiss and touches noncon, Jungkook is always obsessed and gets a bit angry

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | If she had paid attention earlier to the sin that dwelt behind those obsidian irises, she would never have trusted it.

If she had noticed earlier the devouring love that dwelled in his corrupt heart, she probably would have fled.

She had done none of that, and now she had to come to terms with her new reality.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! Ready for you the fourth chapter of Happy Ending! ❤

If you have any questions, please write to me! 🥰

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @douknowbts

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII / The End

When Y/N opened her eyes that day, she felt strangely physically satisfied, stretched her arms with a smile on her face, thinking that she must have finally had a good night's sleep.

Too bad the environment around her was quite different from what she had become accustomed to for two and a half years now.

The sunlit walls that gently filtered through the window were cream-colored, not gray and gloomy like those in her apartment, plus the mattress she was lying on was too soft to be the uncomfortable second-hand one she had bought to fit in her monthly expenses.

Even the blankets were different, and soon an alarm bell went off in her head.

She stood up abruptly, seized with terror.

"Where the fuck am I?" she muttered to herself, cradling her head in her hands in a vain attempt to think clearly.

Could it be that they had kidnapped her? But who, then-and for what purpose?

Her parents were not rich and wealthy people, she was a normal, average girl, she knew her neighborhood was dangerous, but to go this far?

Maybe... maybe they wanted to sell her.

She had heard of girls disappearing in the middle of the night and never to be found again.

She blanched, seized by a sick feeling, and although she wanted to refuse to believe her own consideration, the well-appointed and elegant room suggested only that one option-why else kidnap her if not to make her work in some illegal brothel frequented by bigwigs?

She shrugged those soft and foreign blankets away from herself and stood up with trembling legs, noticing that she no longer had only her camisole and panties on, a long nightgown that reached her calf covered her body, but she still felt naked given the absence of panties concealing her intimacy. In a flurry of shame she realized that whoever had been abducting her had also seen a lot of her as she blissfully slept.

The girl took a deep breath, walking to the door, which, to her surprise, she found open.

Had they forgotten to lock it? ... Or, was it a trap to test her?

She opened it wide slowly, her heart caged in a powerful grip of anxiety, the first thing she saw was a long dark hallway with artistic paintings hanging on the walls, to Y/N that style seemed similar to something she had seen before, but she could not give herself an answer.

She went into the corridor hugging herself with her own body, she did not know what she would find during her exploration, perhaps a group of kidnappers with sullen faces and brutal manners?

She noticed a bright glimmer at the end of the corridor and reached it at a slow pace, her bare feet stepped on soft carpeting that kept her from feeling cold, and even that made her say that the house must belong to someone wealthy. She could only dream of such an abode, so the idea that she had been abducted for her body grew stronger as the seconds ticked by in her mind.

When she opened the door from which the light reflected in the hallway came, a choked breath caught in her throat at the sight.

The boy with his back turned, busy among the stove, seemed all too familiar, she prayed it was not him, her beloved professor, but the sight of the tattoos on his arm, visible thanks to the short sleeves of his dark shirt, spoke volumes.

It was him, her captor was Jeon Jungkook, the same boy who had promised to protect her only the day before.

"Professor?" she asked anxiously, the young man at the stove froze.

There were a few seconds of stalemate that weighed in the air like boulders, then the boy turned around, revealing the handsome, jovial face of her teacher.

It was really him.

The bewildered girl took a step back, a gesture that did not escape Jungkook's notice.

The latter narrowed his gaze, "Y/N, you've woken up!" he exclaimed coming toward her.

Y/N shook her head, made to put further distance between them, but Jungkook grabbed her by the arm and this reminded the girl of Yoozu's attack the previous day, she found herself shaking and this alerted Jungkook.

"Sweetheart, are you sick?" he gently placed a palm on the girl's forehead, fortunately she was not burning hot, but something in her pallidness told him that something was wrong, "No...you're not hot, maybe.... It's because you're here, isn't it?" he smiled gently in her direction, Y/N would have liked to answer, but her voice wouldn't come out of her throat.

"I know it might feel strange at first, but I'm sure you'll soon get used to it, after all, I did it for your sake, baby."

Baby.

Trying to ignore the all too affectionate nickname, Y/N opened her mouth, forcing herself to answer, "You said you would protect me, that I just had to trust you," she croaked, shocked.

Jungkook frowned, "That's right, here I will protect you from all those people who have always treated you badly or never believed in you! I believe in you, and I love you, honey!" he brought his perfect face closer to the girl's, trying to steal a kiss from her, but Y/N managed to break free from his grip, not that it had been a feat, Jungkook had softened his grip for fear of hurting her, he had already seen the bruises Yoozu had given her without regard, to say Jungkook was pissed off was little, at the next opportunity he would eviscerate that useless blowhard.

Y/N, for her part, recorded his words confusedly, had he really said "I love you" to her?

She denied with her head, it couldn't be true, the professor she had so admired and had a crush on...was a psychopath.

"You can't be serious, tell me this is just a joke," begged the boy, who frowned.

"I'm not joking, Y/N, I'm sure that past this moment of confusion you'll realize that you love me too, and you'll accept me," he concluded confidently, "Now, which breakfast do you prefer? Sweet or savory?" he continued cheerfully, approaching the stove, Y/N saw toast already crispy and ready to be topped with chocolate or scrambled eggs, she took the opportunity to run out of the kitchen.

Jungkook sprinted toward her, missing her by a whisker, "Y/N!" he exclaimed shocked, not understanding the young woman's hostile attitude. He only wanted to protect her, give her the gift of a fairy tale happy ending, why didn't she understand?

Y/N returned to the previous hallway, ignoring the bedroom she had come out of, and spotting that and the kitchen, the front door must have been further down on the opposite side.

Too bad that was not a normal house, it was in fact structured differently and what she found as she pushed open yet another door was just a storage room.

She imprecated mentally, trying to turn back, but her race to safety ended with Jungkook managing to tackle her from a corner.

Y/N shrieked, terrified.

"Let go of me! Let go of me! I don't know what you want from me!" she burst into tears, she wanted to go home, her parents had done so much for her, she could not waste the opportunity they had given her to study and make a name for herself in this way, especially after they had shown themselves to be so displeased. She just wanted to make them proud.

How mocking the world was, just yesterday she had shouted those exact words, and had been saved by the very person who was now showing herself as the real danger.

Jungkook clutched her to his body, causing her to turn abruptly as the back of the small figure in his arms went crashing against the wall.

The boy inhaled in irritation and to shut her up he attached his lips to those of the woman, who widened her eyes trying to push him away.

The boy pressed even more against her, biting angrily on her lower lip, Y/N had to open her mouth wide because of the tremendous twinge she received and the man's tongue invaded her completely, demanding absolute dominance.

Y/N felt violated as the boy expertly entwined their tongues, unaware that the night before Jungkook had dared to do much more with that same tongue.

Jungkook moaned in that violent kiss, enjoying in the taste in which he was willingly drowning himself.

He reached down with one hand between their bodies, lifting one of the young woman's legs and bringing it around his hips, pushing his already hard cock against her pussy covered only by her nightgown, Jungkook could only feel the softness of that area so delicate and delicious, Y/N's eyes widened, between the lack of air and that vulgar gesture that shocked her, she began to moan shakily without any more resistance, in a pitiful surrender that made Jungkook pull away from her lips with a loud pop.

The breathing of both of them was labored and Jungkook's wild eyes met Y/N's tear-filled ones and begged him to stop.

Jungkook did not want to get that far so quickly, but the girl's actions had not pleased him, not at all.

"If you'll be good, I promise I'll stop," he hissed, "We'll go to the kitchen, where you'll eat your breakfast and we'll talk about how it's going to be between us from now on, understand?"

The girl nodded, obediently, and followed him into the kitchen, and when Jungkook let go of her wrist she sat clutching her legs, unable to banish the heavy sensation of a cock against her folds.

She had never had a boyfriend, consequently had never received such attention; it had been shocking and strange.

Why did someone like him want to be with someone like her?

Jungkook put some toast in front of her with a variety of toppings next to it, there was jam and butter, chocolate and even eggs with bacon and cheese, he filled a glass with juice for her.

The boy wanted her to eat and feel good, he really wanted the best for Y/N and was very sorry to see her so uncooperative.

He took a seat in front of her and began to eat, giving her a look that intimated her to do the same, the girl tremblingly took the butter, beginning to spread it on her toast, she did not want to anger him again, she had yet to find the entrance and realized that in order to get the go-ahead, she had to first keep the landlord happy.

"Y/N" she lifted her eyes to his, a twinge of guilt hit the boy in the stomach in front of those red, shiny eyes, "I only wish you to be happy" he began, but Y/N interrupted him.

"But you kidnapped me" she said in a huff, Jungkook for a moment did not know what to say.

"No, I didn't kidnap you, we belong together since we first met," he said confidently, "Do you remember that? You were completely wet with rain, I saw you and you bound me to you with one look, my job is to protect you and make you feel loved."

Y/N remembered that day, which took place seven months earlier, but she did not think she had left such an indelible mark on her teacher, in short, he had never shown any interest and she had never given herself false hope.

"Why didn't you say anything before, because-"

"Jungkook." the boy blocked her, "Call me Jungkook, I'm not your professor outside of school," he pointed out, disturbed by the continuous distance Y/N seemed to want to put in the dialogue.

The girl sucked it up and agreed with him.

"Why didn't you ever come forward, Jungkook?"

In a normal way, she would have liked to add, but did not want to dare too much.

The young man took a moment to absorb as best he could the girl's voice as she spoke his name with what seemed to him to be familiarity; he found the sound of those syllables coming from his woman's lips enchanting.

Y/N did not understand, why had he suddenly approached her and in such a crazy way then?

"Because I'm your professor and it wasn't ethically correct, plus you had never given me a reason to step forward...until yesterday, I couldn't allow them to go on with their torture," he said harshly, "You'll be safe with me forever."

The girl took a deep breath before she began to speak.

"You can't keep me here forever, I have a family and studies to complete, take me back to my home, Jungkook," she begged him again, the boy shook his head.

"You are home, and don't worry about your studies, I will help you and you will get your degree one hundred percent, the principal is a good friend of mine...as for your family, they were the first to hurt you."

The girl's blood drained from her face, she began to finally understand where Jungkook was going with this. He wanted to isolate her from the world, because the world had been evil to her.

Jungkook in those months had been researching the young girl's parents, neighbors told him about how they were always rude and irritated with Y/N, went around saying that the girl was squandering all their savings on that absurd belief that she wanted to continue her studies, not understanding the sacrifices they had made to raise her.

Those statements were enough for the boy to realize that they did not deserve a daughter like her, too good and sweet for such people.

"It's not the same thing!" blurted out Y/N then, ready for another fit of hysterical crying, "I want my freedom!"

"Freedom? For you to live like that is to be free? Living with the constant fear of being attacked at school or in that neighborhood you call home, without a shred of a friend?" he asked, strangled.

Those words struck Y/N, because they were so fucking true they hurt.

But still, those were not good reasons to kidnap a person, and he had done exactly that.

She shut up for a few moments not knowing how to retort, Jungkook looked at her with disappointment.

Y/N felt a pang in her heart, because in spite of everything, that was still the guy who until the night before had given her butterflies in her stomach, seeing such a look in him too made her want to vomit.

[starleska]

Dollface - the Toymaker x Real Toymaker!Reader

As a toymaker, you are delighted when you stumble across MR EMPORIUM'S TOYSHOP. But when you meet its eccentric owner - one eponymous 'Toymaker' - you enter into an impossible game with higher stakes than you ever imagined…with the risk of your deepest fantasy coming true. Rating: Mature. Tags: Dollification; Toyification; Truth or Dare; Reality-Bending; Humiliation; Psychological Torture; Fluff; Teasing; Touching; Forced Dancing; Mentions of Neglect; Cosmic Horror; Horrible Fake German. Reader is presumed female, but has a complicated relationship with gender and enjoys feminine terms of endearment. requested by the lovely @chronicbeans!! whilst this was originally meant to be a few-paragraphs long headcanons bit...but then it sprawled into a 13,000 word fanfic. my apologies to yourself, and to any German speakers in the audience 🙈💖 you can also read this on AO3. i hope you enjoy!

Toys are your life.

For as long as you can remember you have been fascinated by all manner of toys: everything from teddy bears to zoetropes; spinning tops to yo-yos. As a child you weren’t just interested in playing with toys—you wanted to reach inside of them, pick them apart, and understand every little detail about how they worked. Much to the chagrin of your parents, you spent more time trying to put your toys back together than you did actually playing with them. 

But all of your alternative playtime paid off. Now, as an adult, you run a modest yet successful local toymaking business, with your own vendor stall at the market and a popular online shop. Much of your work is custom, using vintage materials to replicate toys of the past, and you occasionally trade and sell real old toys too. As a result, you have something of a monopoly on the local toy scene, and feel you know every single toymaker and toy-collecting enthusiast in a fifty mile radius.

That’s why it’s a real shock when you stumble across MR EMPORIUM’S TOYSHOP late one night. 

The storefront is a gorgeous assault to the senses. Parked in the middle of the cold, grey street, the toyshop beams out crimson and gold onto the snow drifts, with all manner of classic toys peeking out at you through the windows. You are delighted to see an assortment of downy plush bears and hand-painted model motor cars crowding the shelves: so many it feels like the toyshop itself might burst at the seams. Your giddiness only increases as you get closer to the window. You can make out all sorts of fun, bright shapes within: countless colourful toys beckoning you and begging to be taken home. 

Yet it isn’t these treasures which catch your eye the most. Right at the back of the shop, near the counter, you spy a shelf lined with dolls. They are beautiful even at a distance: likely from the early 20th century, masterfully painted and wearing a fine rainbow of little dresses. Even from your vantage point you can see the impeccable craftsmanship. There’s immense detail in their delicate hands, and if you’re not mistaken, each doll has a crop of real human hair.

Perhaps most intriguing of all is the eyes. Their glass sheen looks so sad and wistful…far more emotion than a doll should be able to communicate.

If you didn’t know any better, you would believe the dolls were alive.

Oh, I shouldn’t , you tell yourself. I’m much too old now to be playing with dolls…and I keep all my old ones locked up anyway. I shouldn’t deprive some kid of a toy. This is a deeply silly excuse, and a hypocritical one. The vast majority of your clientele are adults, as are the brilliant toymakers you’re proud to call your friends. This is the perpetual double-standard you constantly believe and are always trying to rally against: that you are uniquely strange, and deserve to be ridiculed for your interests. 

The curious thing is that this idea doesn’t apply to toys more broadly…only to dolls. You have made countless dolls throughout your career, and yet owning dolls and enjoying them is something you’ve long nursed a hang-up over. But that is a can of worms you refuse to open up today. No , you decide, today I am going to be a normal adult who is confident about their interests and doesn’t feel an ounce of shame! I am going to go into this toyshop and look at those dolls, and that’s that! With your mind made up, you shift your backpack onto your shoulder, take a deep breath, and push through the toyshop’s door. 

The door slams shut behind you with the tinkle of a bell. You are immediately enveloped in warmth, and the delicious scent of varnished wood enrobes you like a fine dress. You can’t help but close your eyes and inhale: somehow, the toyshop smells just like your childhood.

“Hallo, meine kleine Mädchen! Komm in, komm in, be ge-removings yourselves from dee kalt! It is ein horrid evenings, is it not?”

You open your eyes in surprise, and see an older, greyish-blond-haired man leaning against the counter. He’s dressed in a most whimsical fashion, wearing a soft white work shirt coupled with a maroon waistcoat, and a brown apron stuffed with woodworking tools. A spotted ascot around his neck and a pair of pince-nez balanced at the end of his nose complete the look.

The man smiles at you like he’s known you all his life. You feel like you’ve been transported to another time.

“It is,” you agree, as you shake the snow drifts from your boots. “So sorry for dropping in so late—I’m surprised you’re still open.”

“Ah, but I am always having times for dee beautiful Fräulein,” says the man with a coy wink. “But vot is it zat is ge-bringings you here?”

You have to stifle a giggle. You know enough of the language to know the man’s German is terribly off, and his accent is borderline offensive. However, you also know that folks in the toymaking community tend to be eccentric, and you can forgive a corny, theatrical accent for the wonderful atmosphere of this shop. Who are you to judge if he wants to LARP as a Bavarian thespian?

Before you can reply, the strange man is suddenly beside you…although you don’t recall seeing him move. He has also removed his pince-nez. You blink, a little taken aback. How did he move so quickly? You wonder if you’ve eaten enough that day.

“I’m…a toymaker,” you say, trying not to sound freaked out. “I’ve never seen your shop before, and I thought I knew everyone in town who makes toys. What’s your name?”

The man’s eyes are blue, you notice—terribly blue, and sparkling in the soft light with unspoken mischief. “You are beings ein toymaker? Vy, zat is a coincidence…” He taps the side of his nose. “Many peoples ge-calls me by many names. But zey most oftens call me the Toymaker, und nothing else. It be gettings dee point across, nein? Und was ist your name?”

You tell him, and the Toymaker’s mouth splits open in a wide grin.  

“Das ist ein schöner name!” he says enthusiastically. “Truly, a magnifizent fit. It is not often zat I am gettings other toymakers in mein shop…I vonder, vot does your eye ge-fallen upon? Could it be mein cuddly collection of teddies? Oh, ja, I sees you are ge-needings ein soft companion for dese frosty nights. Or could it be mein train? Choo-choo! it goes, round and round all dee livelong day! I am ge-havings many customers mit ein eye for dee train.”

The Toymaker’s voice is smooth as butter, rich and inviting, and each word he speaks seems to add a little more colour to his delightful environment. You look around in awe at all of the toys, unable to comprehend the sheer scale of the place. Just moments ago the shop seemed so small, with the abundance of toys seriously crammed in on the shelves, but now it looks impossibly vast: a veritable sea of playful delights. The little choo-choo train in question chugs along on its rails and moves past the doll shelf, drawing your eye back to their pretty little figures.

“Ah, dee Katze hast gotten your tongue,” says the Toymaker. He gestures to the dolls, and the gold ring on his right pinkie finger catches the light. “I too ams often becomings stricken by dee beauty of mein dollen…zey took me many nights to make, ja. Oh, but ge-look! Eins ist out of place. Zose fingers are so fiddly! Und dee hair…zo many eveninks ge-spended brushing out zeir tiny curls."

You watch as the Toymaker reaches up and begins deftly rearranging the dolls. His fingers are long and nimble, and they move with such care and attention, placing each doll’s tiny hands neatly in their laps and smoothing down their dresses. When you’re a toymaker, you grow to appreciate a pair of well-practised hands, and there’s something undeniably… charming , about this Toymaker and his cartoonish whimsy. It’s silly, but you feel a little heat rising in your cheeks. The attention he’s paying to such small, delicate objects…

…well, it’s only natural that your mind should wander to more practical applications of such hands.

“The dolls are gorgeous,” you say. “Do you offer any toymaking classes? The dolls I make have a bit more of a modern touch.”

That’s when the Toymaker laughs, and it is a strange laugh: it tinkles out of his mouth like a jingle, in a musical, ‘Ha ha ha HA ha ha ha!’

“Oh, mein dollen are sehr modern…moreso zan you sink,” says the Toymaker. He gives you another wink, as it seems he likes to give them out for free.

That’s when you feel the little clench in your chest. Oh dear, he really is quite handsome. This wouldn’t be the first time you’d caught feelings for a quirky, attractive stranger, and they were often not as well-dressed as the Toymaker. You have a tendency to get caught up in the realms of imagination, and have thought up more than a few daring trysts with pretty-faced people with whom you’d only exchanged a couple of words. You ought to grab a doll, leave, and have a quiet little panic attack about this interaction at home.

You force your eyes away from the handsome man and back to the shelf.

That’s when you spot her.

Somehow, a doll had escaped your notice. Right in the middle of her sad-looking rainbow sisters is another doll, simply and prettily done up in a powder-blue be-ribboned frock. Unlike the other dolls, this one is smiling in a dimpled way, and her eyes sparkle with a magical sheen not unlike that of the Toymaker’s. You note with some amusement that the doll has the same eye colour as you—hair colour, too. This isn’t strange on a doll, but it gives you the same jolt of satisfaction and déjá vu you get when meeting someone who shares your name.

“Ah,” says the Toymaker (now on your other side). “Dee dollen…zey speak to you, ja? Zey are ge-having ein chitter-chatter, all high up on dee shelf. Vot fun games zey have ven I ge-leaves the shoppen!”

Dollen isn’t even the German word for dolls, you know—it’s Puppen. But you get the sense that the Toymaker’s German accent is less an earnest recreation (and it’s certainly not his natural accent), but a pantomime version intended to amuse and entertain.

“I’m sure they do,” you say, but you’re distracted from the Toymaker’s little act. The longer you look at the doll, the stranger you feel.

You move closer to the shelf to get a better look, and are startled by what you discover.

It isn’t just that the doll on the shelf has similar hair and eyes to you: they’re both the exact same shade, even down to the imperfect flecks in your irises. 

You study the doll intently for a moment, blink, and— what? The doll’s hair is now the same length as yours. Was it always? No, you could have sworn just a moment ago it was not just a completely different length, but style.

You rise up on your tiptoes to get a better look at the doll, and are baffled by what you see. It’s as if detail is stacking on the doll right before your eyes, the way some video game maps load in piece-by-piece. You watch as texture is added to her hair, and light pools in her eyes. This level of craftsmanship is uncanny; it’s as if the Toymaker went out of their way to create a doll which resembles you.

“How did you do that?” You turn to the Toymaker, confused. “Did you know I was coming here?"

The Toymaker’s mouth contorts into an offended pout. “Now, you ge-vounds me. It is ein special privilege, having another Spielzeugmacher in mein shop. Tell me, vot do you sink of her hair? Es ist pretty, ja?”

“But that doll looks exactly like me,” you say.

You can feel your heart hammering in your chest. Suddenly the warm, cosy atmosphere of the toyshop feels more claustrophobic and oppressive. The Toymaker looks unbothered; he rests his chin on his hand and contemplates the shelf. 

“Zere ist ein…certain resemblance,” says the Toymaker, with an unusual, almost French affectation on the last word. “But you are just ge-havings, as zey say, ‘von of zose faces’. Ja, das ist richtig: ein dollface. Puppengesicht. All smooth und sveet. Vy, vot a lucky lady you are! She simply must be goings home vith you.”

You’re scrambling to work out what kind of practical joke this is, and how the Toymaker was pulling it off. You’d met a few eccentric toymakers with God complexes before, as they tend to go hand-in-hand: you’d briefly dated one who designed escape rooms in his spare time. But this is on another level…creating a doll which can be imperceptibly altered to resemble a person in real-time? You’d never heard of such a thing, and you can’t think of a non-creepy reason why someone would go to the trouble of making one.

Oh, hang on a minute, you think. This guy might just be a genius. “This is a marketing trick, isn’t it?”

You pull away from the Toymaker and lean against his counter, feeling terribly smug for having figured it out.

The Toymaker puts his head on one side, quizzical. Playing dumb, you think.

“I am not ge-followings you,” the Toymaker says. 

“You make dolls of the people you see ahead of time,” you explain. “People you know who will come in here at some point…collectors, other toymakers. Then you wait and put them on the shelf when they come in, maybe behind some hidden panel so you can spin them around when they get close. Then when they come in, it’s like they’ve found the perfect toy!” 

You’re so proud of yourself for having cracked the case, you want to pump your fist in the air. For a moment, you envision yourself wearing a deerstalker hat and smoking a pipe. Go me! But your victory is short-lived. During your diatribe, the Toymaker’s bright, childish grin had frozen on his face, and remained in place even during your brief mental celebration. But now the smile slowly slips like a mask peeling away from too-tight skin. In its place sits a stormy frown: one which clenches the muscles and wrinkles of the Toymaker’s face into an expression which says ‘insulted’.

“For shame,” says the Toymaker. “That’s twice you’ve accused me of cheating now. You really do me a disservice. I am bound by the Rules of Play, and would never resort to such cheap tricks.”

What the hell…? The Toymaker’s accent is completely different. Where before his voice was a thick soup of faux German, now it is a soft British breeze: a proper, formal accent which speaks the way trees rustle. You gape at him, dumbfounded. 

“Your accent is different,” you can’t help but say. You’re no longer just leaning against the counter—you’re actively pushing into it, with the edge of the countertop pushing into the small of your back.

The Toymaker raises an eyebrow at you, and smirks. “You are not half as stupids as you are ge-lookings,” he says, slipping the German back on like a heavy cloak. “But zen, I know you are playing ein game mit me, aren’t you?” 

You stare at the Toymaker. Something has shifted: the air is thick with a tension you cannot identify, but which you want to run away from. You keep staring, thinking that if you look away from those too-blue eyes for even a moment, you might just lose your grip.

You know for a fact that if you look back at that doll on the shelf, it will look even more like you than before.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, and you wish you weren’t lying.

The Toymaker laughs his musical laugh and wags his finger in your face. “Sehr naughty!” he says. “Oh, how natürlich dee lies kommen to sie, mein Schatz. You be ge-knowinks how to play games…zis ist ein lecker human mind game, und you are ge-tryings to deceive me.”

His voice slips smoothly back into the British:

“Do you think I don’t know all about your little fantasy?”

Your eyes go wide, and a choked noise escapes your mouth. No. There is no way that this man…this impossible toymaker could possibly know. You were always so careful, so sure to keep it all to yourself! Familiar shame and embarrassment wash over you in a hot wave as the Toymaker looks at you, looks into you, as if he can see the inner workings of your mind. Your mind grabs at the old, familiar justifications the way one might grab a newspaper for modesty if they found themselves naked on a bus. It’s perfectly normal to have fun little flights of fancy. Everyone plays make-believe sometimes, right? “But zey are embarrassing, zese thoughts of yours,” the Toymaker giggles. “Not dee kind of thoughts you can share mit deine Mutter. I am not ge-thinkinks zat you have shared your desires mit ein Partnerin…” There goes the eyebrow again, cocked sardonically to match the wicked curl of his lips. “Is zis true?” You feel nauseous. The firm pressure of the countertop underneath your palms is all that stops you from shaking. It feels as if the Toymaker is probing the inside of your skull, and using those skilled fingers to strip back the whorls of your brain and grab at the fleshy thoughts inside. 

“Get out of my head,” you say quietly.

“Oh, but zis is dee game I ge-likes!” says the Toymaker. “Humans mit zeir internal struggles. Desires mit dee most fun ideas, but you are too ge-frightened to say vot you vant. So you play games mit dein loved ones…dee hunting und dee exasperation. Oh, you simply vill not communicate!"

You don’t know when the Toymaker got so close to you, but now he’s towering over you, with his hands firmly planted on either side of the countertop. You’re close enough to count the spots on his ascot, and examine the year-lines etched around his mouth and eyes. When he smiles those lines crinkle, but not naturally: it’s the way a puppet’s arms reach for the stars when the marionette twists them upwards.

“Okay, you’ve had your fun,” you whisper. “I’ll buy the doll and leave.”

This close, the Toymaker radiates heat. He smells like rose petals and Christmas.

“You could…but zat vould be no fun,” says the Toymaker. “I propose ve solve zis in a more interesting vay…”

The Toymaker waves his hand across your field of vision…and transforms the centre of the toyshop. A small wooden table complete with chairs has popped into existence just in front of the counter. You gape at the sight. How did he do that?! “Let us play ein game,” he says. “If you vin, you can take dee doll free of charge. But if I vin…”

The Toymaker’s smile cracks like the earth preceding a quake.

“You vill stay vith me und play mein games forever!”

You have to give yourself credit for reacting as well as you did. Most people, if they were faced with a crazy fake German man who seems able to read your mind, may have had a breakdown or made a run for the door. But you’ve seen a lot of anime, and you understand that if you are challenged by a handsome, powerful man with magical powers and a delightful hairstyle, you cannot refuse the call. Your brain has shifted from This should be impossible, to It’s game time.  “Alright,” you say slowly. “You’re clearly very powerful. It seems like if I play a game with you, you have far more to gain than I do. A doll isn’t a good enough prize.”

The Toymaker smiles at you. “Ein girl after mein own heart,” he says. “How about zis: if you vin, I vill show you exactly how I make mein dollen, complete vith a demonstration. Zat is generous of me, nein?”

His words are laced with sinister venom, and it’s all you can do not to be poisoned.

“And I’m guessing that if I refuse your game, something terrible would happen to me?”

The Toymaker hums low in his throat. “Hm…not accepting mein game is always ein option…ja, you could do zat. Und yet…” 

You inhale as the Toymaker brings his face terribly close to yours. The skin of his cheek brushes your own. You can feel his soft breath as he whispers into your ear, British once more:

“I know you are so curious as to how I make my dolls. If you leave now, you’ll never know. And I think if you wanted to leave, you would have done so already.”

The Toymaker pulls away from you, leaving you with your face on fire. He’s right. In less than ten minutes, the Toymaker has sussed out your fatal flaw: your damned unstoppable curiosity. There have been countless times where your life would have been improved if you’d kept your nose in your own business…but this is different. The Toymaker isn’t just dangling a carrot: he’s already dug his hooks in you, and you are being reeled in with every second you spend looking into those impossibly blue eyes.

When you next blink, the Toymaker has moved again. He is sitting in one chair, his hands folded primly in front of him.

“Name your challenge,” he says.

You weren’t expecting this: you thought he would have a game in mind. “Any game at all?”

“There isn’t a game I don’t know,” says the Toymaker coolly. “It is common courtesy to allow the guest to pick the party game.”

You can’t help a nervous giggle. “This is a weird kind of party,” you say. 

The Toymaker acknowledges this by inclining his head. “Choose.”

Your mind scrambles over dozens of options. There are so many games…board games, card games, strategy games. Do we need equipment? How long does the game have to be? What games can you play with just two people? That’s when your brain starts to run in a very different direction, and a variety of… game positions …flash through your imagination with impunity.

A flush scalds up your neck. You look at the Toymaker, who raises his eyebrows in a knowing way.

He knows exactly what you’re thinking.

You want to scream.

“Truth or Dare!” you blurt out.

That gets his attention. The Toymaker leans forward, his eyes quizzical. “Zat is non-traditional…yet apt,” he says. “Could it be zat you are ge-vantings me to force zat fantasy out of you, meine Liebchen?”

“No,” you lie. “I want you to tell me what you are, and why you’re doing this to me.”

“Then let’s get down to business,” says the Toymaker. “We take it in turns to ask each other Truth or Dare. A Truth corresponds to a question which must be answered truthfully, and a Dare is an action which must be carried out. The player earns one point for each Truth or Dare successfully completed.”

The Toymaker steeples his fingers together. You can’t pull your eyes away from them.

“If you refuse to complete a Truth or a Dare, or you contravene the rules of the game, you lose a point…and must complete a forfeit.” 

The way he says ‘forfeit’ sends a shiver down your spine. “What kind of forfeit?”

“Oh, dee usual,” says the Toymaker casually. “Somesing difficult or humiliating. I do not ge-liken to pre-plan zese things…I am preferings to be spontaneous.”

You are starting to regret your choice of game. This is a man who knows more about you than you’ve ever told your closest friend…surely a game like Truth or Dare would be pointless for him? So you ask: “Why would you want to play this if you can already tell what I’m thinking?”

The Toymaker frowns. “A good question,” he says. “The Rules of Play prevent me from having any unfair advantage over an opponent. Although my abilities will remain intact, anything which would tilt the game in my favour is out-of-bounds. I am physically incapable of cheating, and would thank you not to bring it up again. There are only two states of being which matter: winning, or losing. I intend to win.”

Fair enough , you think. “And what if I cheat?” you say. “I have a pretty good poker face. If you can’t look inside my head during the game, what if I just lie to you? How could you tell?” 

The Toymaker chuckles, bearing his mouth wide. To your horror, you see there are far, far too many teeth in his mouth.

“I can always tell when someone is lying to me.” 

“Six turns,” you counter, voice trembling. “Whoever has the most points at the end of those turns is the winner. And…you can’t choose Truth or Dare more than twice in a row.”

The Toymaker seems impressed by your game-making skills. “Agreed,” he says. “Let us begin.” 

He snaps his fingers, and all the lights in the toyshop go out. Above, a stagelight snaps into existence, pouring heat and light onto your scalp in a cascade. The Toymaker’s striking features are illuminated by this shift in lighting, casting the lines of his face with the severity of stage makeup. You swallow: he looks divine.

“Would you like to go first?” he asks politely.

“...No,” you say after a moment. “I think that honour should go to the house.”

Your gamble pays off: you realised that the Toymaker is a man with great respect for the rules of the game, and this offer makes him smile.

“How generous,” says the Toymaker. “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” you say. 

The Toymaker taps his finger to his lips, considering. Then, he says, “Destroy something precious to you.”

It takes a few seconds for you to really process the Dare. When it hits, you are baffled. What kind of Dare is that? you want to say…but you don’t bother saying it aloud. What kind of toyshop is this—and what kind of ‘toymaker’ is he? All you need to know is reflected in the sadistic gleam in the Toymaker’s eye. This wouldn’t be an ordinary game, and contesting his requests would be fruitless. All you can do is make your move.

You take a deep breath, and reach down into your backpack. You didn’t leave the house this morning planning to bring anything precious to you, but you are a sentimental person by nature, and know you have one item which fits the bill. It’s with great sadness that you pull out a small, ratty teddy bear and place him on the table. The bear is old and beige and dressed in a crimson band leader’s outfit, complete with a hat and red-laced riding boots.

“Oh, ein teddy bear!” laughs the Toymaker, delighted. “How charming. He is quite dee looker, isn’t he?”

“He’s the first bear I ever made,” you say. “I was listening to some 90s British pop music, and the idea for his design just…popped into my head. I scribbled it down and pulled him together from scraps of fabric and repurposed stuffing in just a day. His name’s Neil…I keep him with me for good luck.”

Something about what you said is terribly amusing to the Toymaker, but you don’t know why. “Ein handsome name indeed,” says the Toymaker. “But I am afraid zat vill not be enoughs to ge-save him. Poor Neil. Now…vill you complete your Dare?” 

You take a deep breath. There was no turning back now; you’ve accepted the Toymaker’s game, and the predatory sheen in his eyes tells you that you can no longer just walk away. So you pick up Neil, grab hold of his little teddy bear ears—

And tear his head off, sending stuffing careening all over the table. 

“Oh!” says the Toymaker with a false gasp. “Vot an unfortunate end for poor Neil. I did not know zat you have such ein cruel streak.” 

“Shut up,” you say, trying not to look at Neil’s decapitated corpse.

Even though he’s just a teddy bear, you feel like you’ve just killed a defenceless animal. Neil’s lifeless button-eyes gaze up at you imploringly, as if asking why you’d do such a thing. You knock Neil’s head off the table and focus back on the Toymaker.

“That’s one point to me,” you say. “Truth or Dare?”

The Toymaker grins at you like a shark. “Dare.”

There are a thousand questions ricocheting around your head, but you ask the one which you know will keep you up at night: “Tell me how you did that thing with the doll.”

The violence of the Toymaker’s laughter makes you jump. He actually covers his mouth to quieten himself, but his shoulders shake even so. “Oh nein, nein, nein, you are ge-makings ein mistake!” he says. “You cannot be askings a question ven I have chosen Dare. Oh, meine Schatz, you have your lost your point…and must receive ein forfeit.”

Your veins run cold. “What? No! That was never in the rules!” 

“It is a common rule,” says the Toymaker, suddenly serious. “What is the point of distinguishing between a Truth or Dare, if a Dare can be a Truth?”

You want to protest…but his logic is infuriatingly sound. It’s exactly the kind of argument you could see yourself making if you were playing the game against a friend. You try to think of some other get-out-of-jail-free card—anything which would allow you learn how the Toymaker made that doll look exactly like you—but you come up short. You slump in your chair, and resign yourself to waiting for the next round.

“Oh, do not ge-look so sad,” says the Toymaker. In mock sympathy, he makes a little tutting sound against his teeth. “Now, about zat forfeit…ah! I am ge-knowings just dee sing.”

The Toymaker snaps his fingers…and your clothes burst into a flock of doves.

You scream and leap up from the table, batting away at the birds scrambling over your skin. They coo and and flap in your face before struggling upwards and flying into the rafters. Shocked, you look down to find yourself still fully clothed…but with a wardrobe change. You are now clad in a beautiful, powder-blue dress. The fabric is inhumanly soft and threaded through with white ribbons.

“Oh my God!” you yell. “What did you do?!”

The Toymaker is doing his best to stifle a giggle behind his hand. “Do you like it?” he asks. “I think the colour is rather fetching on you.” 

You clutch at the skirts of your dress, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. There is no way this is possible…you hadn’t felt anything, not even a shift of your own clothes or the sliding of new fabric against your skin. One moment you were wearing your own clothes, and the next you weren’t. It’s as if your clothes were merely a covering, and when they transformed into doves and flapped off, they left only your dress behind. 

You move your legs under the layers of fabric, and blush when you discover you’re wearing a pair of frilly stockings. As you stick out your feet, you can see your feet are clad in a shiny pair of Mary Janes. It’s with a sick feeling in your stomach that you realise what the dress is.

It’s the same dress that the doll on the shelf is wearing.

"You're sick," you hiss.

The Toymaker cocks his head to one side. “Indeed?” he says. “How odd. I thought I was being rather generous, giving you a helping hand towards becoming your true self.” He snickers at you. “If I am sick, then I do wonder what that makes you. My mind is full of games, but the inside of your head is full of so much more.”

You ignore the Toymaker and hold your own arms, shrinking back down into your chair. Yet as you look down at the dress, you can’t help but feel a pang of longing. The dress is a perfect fit, one which could have been custom-designed, and the fabric is truly stunning in appearance and quality. With its puffy sleeves and shapely waistline, you know if you were alone you would have given your new skirts a twirl.

But you can’t let yourself get lost now. This is as much a mind game as it is a real one, you realise. The Toymaker is eyeing you like a piece of meat, and it’s clear that he is capable of so much more than a costume change. You must press on with the game. 

“I want to keep playing,” you say.

“Wonderful,” says the Toymaker. "We’re currently still at zero points each, with two turns down. Unfortunately, your turn was taken due to the forfeit. I must ask you: Truth or Dare?” 

You don’t allow yourself time to think about it: “Dare.” 

The Toymaker’s smile is knowing. “It is a fool’s errand, trying to delay the inevitable. I believe my initial suspicions were correct…you do want the Truth to be pried from you, don’t you? Perhaps that makes the shame a little less potent. After all, the mean, scary Toymaker made you dress this way. It wasn’t your fault…you couldn’t help it. Am I getting warmer?”

Your face is getting warmer, and it’s getting increasingly hard to meet the Toymaker’s gaze. “It isn’t my fault that my opponent is insane,” you say, with venom. 

Somehow, the Toymaker’s laugh is German. “Ah, zere is zat fire. You are quite dee entertaining playmate, meine Liebling. I am not ge-xpectings you to verstand games of dee mind…but I do find zem exhilarating. Dee expressions ge-crossing your face right now…I vish you could see zem.”

You scowl at the Toymaker. “Just give me your Dare.”

The Toymaker shrugs at you. “If you insist. I Dare you…to perform a dance befitting a fine young lady such as yourself.”

Oh, God, no. This is a nightmare of a Dare. “I—I’m not a dancer,” you say. You can feel your blush crawling up your neck. You envision yourself prancing around in your new dolly-dress, and the embarrassment makes you physically cringe.

“Oh, zat is not ein problem!” The Toymaker beckons you to look under the table. When you do, he taps his own shoes against the floor, performing a rhythmic tap-step. “Zose lovely Schuhe I gave you vill ge-helpen sie along. Provided you are villing to perform dee dare, your tanzen is all taken care of. All you are ge-needings to do is stand up, und take drei steps backwards.”

The Toymaker leans back in his chair and looks at you expectantly. The list of excuses which blossomed into your mind when he first suggested the Dare are dwindling rapidly, each one seeming more pathetic than the last. But…maybe there is a way out of this?

“What about music?” you ask. “Surely you can’t expect me to dance without music.” 

The Toymaker shakes his head at you. “Do not ge-worry about dee musik! I have it all covered. Unless…you vish to forfeit once more?” The idea of any other part of your body spontaneously transforming into an animal is enough to make you scramble to your feet. Immediately, you are self-conscious: the dress is equal parts beautiful and ridiculous, and is so poofy and frilly that it gives your lower half the shape of a bell. You haven’t felt this kind of embarrassment since you were in school: the dry throat and sweaty palms before getting up on stage for assembly. Feeling like a silly child, you can’t help but look at the Toymaker, searching those mirthful eyes for guidance. But the Toymaker simply shoos you, indicating for you to step back.  Hesitantly, you take one step away from the table. Then another. Then, one final, gentle step.  Without warning, the floor of the toyshop erupts! From beneath your feet a wooden stage springs up, unfurls around you and traps you like a box. You shriek and try to stumble away, but your new dancing shoes root you firmly to the spot. A spotlight bursts into being above your head and illuminates your frozen self in all your newfound frilly glory.  You look down from your new height to see the Toymaker sitting in what is now the front row of a vast auditorium; the toyshop’s interior has vanished. He whoops and grabs a fistful from a cartoonishly large bucket of popcorn. You open your mouth to yell at him, and maybe call him some horrible names you haven’t thought of yet. But before you can, music starts blaring from all sides of the auditorium. It’s a grating, repetitive tune: some ghastly combination of twee guitar and twinkling piano…and it’s so familiar . You know this song, but what is it? And why does it sound so…childish?  The music hits a powerful note. Your mouth opens unbidden, and from your vocal cords a voice which is decidedly not yours belts out the opening lyric to a familiar nursery rhyme:  “I’m a little teapot, Short and stout!” Your voice is loud and beautiful, and you project better than any Broadway singer. You can do nothing but watch yourself in abject horror as your knees bend in time with the music, and your shiny shoes send you toppling along the stage in time with the song.  “Here is my handle Here is my spout!” You try to scream and stop, but your body is no longer in your control. Your arms bend at frightening angles, and your hips send your neck careening to the side with a crack . A rictus grin is firmly plastered onto your face, and your mouth stays open and singing: “When I get all steamed up, Hear me SHOUT!…” Your hands flap and your toes point and you screaming on the inside, begging for this to stop, stop, STOP ! But the infernal music is inside of your head and it’s pushing in on all sides, and no matter how much you cry and beg and plead your mouth won’t work except to belt out the final words of your song. “TIP me over and POUR. ME. OUT!” At the last line, your knees give out and you collapse face-first onto the stage. A grand cheer goes up from the auditorium. You twist around, trying to see if the Toymaker has conjured up an audience to witness your humiliation—but he is the only one present. The Toymaker is on his feet and giving you a standing ovation. “Vunderbar!” the Toymaker cries as he claps enthusiastically. “Oh, you are dee most darling little teapot, ja. Zis is a fine game we are ge-havings!”

“What—did—you—do?” you gasp on the floor. You feel like your lungs have been crushed. Something the Toymaker did seized up everything inside of you and folded them up like paper. Now it’s as if you really are a doll: crumpled up and discarded in the corner when your owner is finished playing with you. Although you’re quite sure the music has stopped, the melody is blasting in your head in a maddening loop. You try to move, but your legs won’t work. 

“Oh, don’t be zo dramatik. Eversing I ge-make brings viele fun,” says the Toymaker. “Herzlichen Glückwunsch …das ist ein point to you.”

You don’t see the Toymaker get up on the stage, but the next thing you know, he’s crouching down next to you. Without warning, the Toymaker lifts you up under the arms and pulls you to your feet as if you weigh nothing at all. You try to stand but your rigid muscles struggle with the task and you stumble, falling right into the Toymaker’s chest. He chuckles, and you hear it rumbling softly in his chest. His skin is impossibly warm…and you can’t hear a heartbeat.

The two of you stand like that for a long moment, with you enveloped in the Toymaker’s arms. When pressed against his waistcoat, the maddening song infesting your brain quietens, and is replaced with an easy sort of calm. It’s strange…all the questions and anger and terror seem to just burn away. They’re forgotten in the simplicity of being held like a doll.

Eventually, your senses kick in. You manage to pull yourself away from the Toymaker, and you refuse to look at his face. “I just want to get on with the game.”

“Of course.”

The Toymaker waves his hand and the stage and auditorium vanish. You are transported back to the interior of the toyshop, with its familiar cuddly audience and the table taking centre stage. You sit back down at the table shakily. You know when you look up the Toymaker will already be sitting across from you…and you’re right, even though you didn’t see or hear him pull back his chair. His eyes are bright and curious. 

“Okay…Truth or Dare?”

The Toymaker places his hand on his chin and pretends to be deep in thought. After a while, he says, “Truth."

You very nearly ask him the same question you were denied just before: how was he able to make that doll look exactly like you? But the momentary calm offered by the Toymaker’s embrace has had a quieting effect on your mind, and a spike in your critical thinking skills. You have to think strategically; if you want to win, you need to ask him a question which will throw him off-guard. Asking him about the doll wouldn’t be a challenge because he likes to gloat, and to tease. But if you win, you can have your answer to that question and an actual demonstration…

…plus, you get to keep your freedom. Don’t forget that.

So you stare at the Toymaker and wonder…what causes a man (creature, entity, etc.) to end up this way?

“Tell me about your childhood,” you say.

The smile is wiped from the Toymaker’s face in an instant. His mouth twists in discomfort and anger. For the first time since you’ve met him, you feel a pleasant curl of satisfaction in your guts. The game is on, you think.

“What’s wrong?” you ask out loud. “Do you have a problem with the question? Because you can always forfeit—”

“I. Will. Not. Lose.”

The Toymaker’s fists are on the table now: they’re clenched and shaking. Although he’s looking at you, his mind seems far away, trapped somewhere else. After a beat, he leans forward, grabs your head and brings your foreheads together so they’re just barely touching.

“You asked for this,” says the Toymaker gravely. “I will do more than give you the answer to your question. I will show you. Close your eyes.”

The closeness is invigorating: the Toymaker’s hands are strong against the sides of your head, and you wonder for a second if he could pop your skull like a balloon. You consider saying no and demanding he just tell you the answer, but the look on the Toymaker’s face is so intense that you cannot refuse. It’s that terrible curiosity in you, willing you to stand at the edge of the universe and take a step off the cliff.

So you do as your bid, and close your eyes…

…only to awaken in a void.

To say there is nothing around you is an understatement. Your idea of nothingness is very particular: blackness; emptiness, an absence of sound and light. But this is something else entirely. You can’t even feel the lack of something in this place because there simply isn’t anything to feel. From the moment you open your eyes you feel the contradiction of yourself as a physical being, standing in this vacant not-space. There is less than nothing here. There is zilch. There is negative zero. There is null.

You try to get your bearings by looking around, but there are no bearings to get. This is a nothingness which exists beyond your comprehension. Just standing in this nothingness makes your jaw tighten and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. This is a phobic realm which is the antithesis to life.

And it is so, so cold. 

“This is where I grew up.”

You jump. The Toymaker is standing beside you, arms folded behind his back. He surveys the nothingness with humble respect, the way a weary sailor surveys the ocean.

“How?” You try looking around again, but without anything to anchor gaze on, your eyes just swing back round to the Toymaker. “There’s nothing here.” 

“Nothing except for me.”

The Toymaker sits down on the emptiness, cross-legged. Feeling discombobulated in the lack of space, you sit down too, next to him, and wonder how that’s possible. You hug your elbows, trying to fend off the omnipresent cold.

“We are outside of your universe,” says the Toymaker quietly. “Below it, as a matter of fact. We are in a pocket realm, like the hollow in a tree branch. Here there was nothing for a very long time…so long, that I do not know how to count it. The void is indifferent to such concepts.

“I was a child for an eternity, and many more eternities after that. Merely a conscious speck suspended in forever. At the time I had no form. No body, no face, and not really a mind. I was a collection of distant ideas and fraught, base emotions. There was no reason for me to have either a solid shape or a brain. I existed only in relation to the void, and the void went on forever. All I had to entertain myself were my games.”

With a flick of the wrist, the Toymaker conjures a ball into existence. Then another. Then another. He does this over and over again until he is juggling at least twenty balls. His hands move in a blur as he juggles the balls effortlessly. He tosses them higher and higher, so high that you have to crane your neck to see. Eventually you lose sight of the balls in the nothingness.

But then, the Toymaker sighs…and you notice that the balls are disappearing. This continues for about a minute, the balls growing fewer in number until he’s down to just three…and then there’s only two, so he’s not really juggling at all.

Finally, the Toymaker catches the last remaining ball and holds it up to your face. A frost has grown along its leathery side.

“Playing games can keep you warm,” says the Toymaker, “but only for a little while. Eventually, the cold gets in. And the cold devours everything."

“How did you survive here?” you ask quietly. You can’t raise your voice above a whisper: it feels disrespectful.

“Death isn’t something I am capable of experiencing,” says the Toymaker. “I can never die from the cold. But I can still feel it.” 

The Toymaker looks at the ball in his hand, and it catches fire. You gasp and pull away, but the fire only burns for a few seconds: the flames are quickly extinguished by a new crop of frost, growing over the ball’s surface like a disease.

In moments, the Toymaker is holding nothing but a ball of ice.

“I’m…sorry,” you say.

It’s a feeble reply, and you know it. The cold here is wrapped into the environment itself. This no-space could well be made of nothing but a creeping, insidious chill. It’s worse than the kind of cold which slams into you, like the jump from the shower to a towel on a winter night, or the way your cheeks are slapped when stepping outside on a snowy day.

This cold is sinister. 

It waits.

It seeks out warmth wherever it can, wraps itself around that spark of heat, and crushes it frozen.

The Toymaker runs hot, you remember with a shiver.

No wonder. The Toymaker fends off your weak sympathies with a shake of his head. He stares off into the nothingness, and continues to speak.

“I thought it would just be me and the void forever. But then one day, I heard laughter! It was a sound utterly foreign to me. I was so frightened, I spent millennia curled tight up into a ball, cringing away from the sound. But I could hear them now…beings, with shape and light and thoughts. As the epochs stretched before me and the void remained still, I found myself drawn to their laughter.”

The Toymaker’s eyes glitter with recollection. “I learnt how to poke small peepholes into the fabric of the void, and peer through at the shapes. And oh, the things I saw! These beings, they played games , just like me! Games which used pieces and strategies and all manner of wonderful toys. I wanted to have them all. Needed to have them. So I did. I fashioned myself fingers, and with those fingers I fashioned toys and toys and toys, enough to fill up every child’s toy room in every universe!"

You watch as the Toymaker trembles with excitement. His voice has swollen to fit the void: a rallying cry against the darkness. He looks so proud of himself…but only for a moment. 

“After a while, my toys grew old,” he says sadly. “They say a boy becomes a man when he must throw his toys onto the fire in order to keep himself warm...and the cold never stops. I realised that wood and string were all well and good, but they had no personality of their own…and I had no opponent.”

The Toymaker turns to you then. There’s a manic look in his eye. “So I began to lure in the flesh-and-blood creatures,” he says. “It was easy enough once I learned to assume their shape…especially the early ones, who weren’t so bright. And what shapes I would become! I enjoy this shape so much that I’ve decided to keep it permanently, with the odd touch-up every half-century or so. Being handsome helps bring in the players.”

There goes that easy wink again, smooth and charming and drawing you in like the lure on an anglerfish.

“And…that’s why you’re here today?” you ask. “You just want to play games with us?” 

The Toymaker’s laugh is mean. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. “All that exists is to win, or to lose. I don’t want to play games with you. I simply want to win.”

The two of you stand in silence for a while, contemplating the nothingness. The longer you stay, the more you can feel the chill sliding its icy fingers over your flesh. It crawls up your socks and settles into the gaps behind your knees. It causes wet, cold dew to form at the edges of your eyelashes. It even seeps into the spaces between your skin and fingernails.

You wish you hadn’t asked for this Truth.

“One point to you, Toymaker,” you say through chattering teeth.

The Toymaker starts: clearly he’d forgotten all about you. The void has a sobering effect on him, it seems. How did a little boy manage to have any imagination in this place at all? “Yes,” says the Toymaker with a worn smile. “One point each.”

The next time you blink, the void is gone. You are returned to the familiar warmth of the toyshop, and are still sitting at the table across from the Toymaker. But now, even as the cold sloughs off your skin and your cheeks begin to heat up again, you can see the toyshop for what it is. The bright lights and colourful attractions are nothing more than decorative wallpaper for a frozen, ephemeral darkness, ever-creeping in on the corners of your vision.

When the Toymaker speaks again, his German is back in full force, and you wonder if he’s trying to stave off how frightened he really is.

“Zat is vier turns down,” he says. “Mit only zwei to go. I ge-believe it is my turn, ja?”

Oh, hell: he’s right. You’d gotten so caught up in the impossibility of the Toymaker’s mind that you’d forgotten you’re playing a very dangerous game. But the Toymaker’s smile looks fake now, and the way his eyes glimmer seems less like mischief, and more like withheld tears. For the first time you want to stop this game…not just for you, but for the Toymaker too.

But that’s not how this would be played. The rules are fixed, and you’ve seen what the consequences could be. Worse, you only have one response left to give. By the way the Toymaker is grinning at you, you know he’s remembered this rule too.

“Truth or Dare?” he asks.

You swallow, before giving the only answer you can: “Truth.”

The Toymaker laughs a little too loud. “Now, you had better nots ge-try to get out of zis one,” he says. “I vant you to tell me dee truth: vot exactly is your fantasy? I vill be requiring details.” 

There it is: the question this whole game has been building up to. This situation is impossible and ridiculous. Here you sit, surrounded by beautiful toys in your gorgeous dress, playing a game with an unbelievable, broken man who can rewrite your entire reality with nothing more than a thought. Yet you still can’t just open your mouth and give him the answer. Somehow, even in the face of impossible adversity, you are still beholden to your human embarrassment.

“If I tell you…” you say slowly. “...Do you promise not to laugh?” 

The Toymaker’s eyebrows knit together. He looks distressed by the question. “All players should be treated with respect,” he replies.

That’s not the answer I want, but it’s the only answer he can give , you think. But maybe that’s the key here. You would never willingly part with this information…but the Toymaker just did the same thing for you. He didn’t have to show you where he came from. He could have talked around it, given you the crib notes, and you would have been none the wiser. The Toymaker showed you vulnerability just by allowing you into his history.

You owe him that same level of respect.

“I didn’t get much attention when I was growing up,” you say. “It wasn’t a bad upbringing, but I was just kind of…left, a lot of the time. I wasn’t looked after. There was always some sort of problem that needed fixing, and my parents never had time for me. No one bothered to check on me, so I just had to figure things out for myself. I spent most of my time alone in my room…just me and my toys.”

“That sounds familiar,” says the Toymaker, and the sympathy in his voice is real. “How did you pass your time?”

“I took my toys apart,” you say. “I think my parents felt guilty for leaving me alone a lot, so there was never a shortage of toys. But I wanted to figure out how they worked. That seemed much more interesting than actually playing with them, you know?” 

The Toymaker smiles with approval. “Dee keen eye of a toymaker is a gift,” he says. “But I sense you are delaying your real story…” 

You curse inwardly: again, he’s right. You cannot hide any longer.

“I took apart all of my toys…except for my dolls.”

That gets the Toymaker’s attention: those bright blue eyes light up with interest. “Go on.”

“I had a set of five dolls,” you say quietly. “Generic dolls. Sparkly, brushable hair, and little swappable outfits. Nothing special. But even when I was really small I couldn’t hurt them. I was terrified of damaging them in any way. There weren’t any other kids around to talk to, and my parents weren’t home, so I just…talked to the dolls instead. I knew it was weird, but in my head the dolls were more sentient than my other toys. I thought they could really understand me.”

The Toymaker starts back up in his German voice: “Ah, zere is nothing more ge-saddening zan a lonely Kind. Zat is why decapitating poor Neil vas being no problem for you, zen?” 

“Yeah. It still hurt, but not for the reasons it would hurt most people.” You swallow; this is the really difficult part. “The older I got, the more toys I had, but I never added to my doll collection. My parents would joke all the time about how I was becoming a ‘little lady’. When I became a teenager there was so much pressure to be pretty, and girly…and it made me feel sick. So I tried to fight back against it. I cut my hair, I swore off pink, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress.”

The words stick in your throat. You look up at the Toymaker, hoping for some kind of mercy, but you don’t find it. But he isn’t mocking you, either: he just sits and waits for you to continue.

“I locked my dolls away,” you say. “I pretended I had thrown them out…but secretly, I’d sneak them out, and play with them. I’d brush their hair, and mend their dresses. I still do.”

The Toymaker leans in. “Why?”

“I…I wanted to be like them,” you whisper. “They are so pretty. The long, flowing dresses and the perfect makeup…they’re dazzling in a way I could never be. I can never, ever be that beautiful.”

You twist the fabric of your dress between your fingers fitfully, and force yourself to say it: 

“I always wanted to be someone’s favourite doll."

There’s silence in the toyshop. You stare down at your lap, your heart pounding and your face flushed. Stupid, stupid…! Your eyes well up with hot tears. You can’t bring yourself to look at the Toymaker.

“Und zen you arrive here,” he says. “Meine beautiful dollen drew you in.”

“Yes,” you say quietly. “If I can’t be loved like a doll, then at least I can give them love instead. If I were a doll, maybe things would be easier, you know? Maybe…”

You can’t help the little choke-sob which escapes your lips.

“...maybe someone would take care of me."

The tears fall freely into your lap now and stain the beautiful fabric of your dress dark. You feel disgusting: worthy of ridicule. I deserve whatever happens to me now, you think, your brain awash with old, dark feelings you’ve kept locked up just like the dolls in your closet.

But it’s the Toymaker who snaps you out of his reverie. You didn’t hear him move, but you flinch when his fingers slide under your chin and tilt up your face towards him. Your tears cast him in a watery halo.

“Mein Liebling, stop ge-crying,” he says. “I have made sehr many dollen over dee years, und many of zem have been beautiful. But you are somesing else entirely entirely. Ein living, breathing, villing doll, so cute und poseable. Oh, you und I vill have zo many adventures together! You could be mein prized possession, und I vill hold you and play vith you from dawn zu dusk.”

The Toymaker’s words send a shudder through your body. Blood thrums at the surface of your skin and pools in your cheeks and neck. The Toymaker leans in until your noses are almost touching. He’s so very close to you now…close enough that he could kiss you. 

But just before he reaches your lips, the Toymaker moves to the side and whispers into your ear:

“Dee game is not yet over, meine schöne dollen. You have one final question to ge-ask of me. Do it, und zis vill all be over…one vay or another.”

You can feel him smiling gently against your hair, and it makes you want to sob. Oh, please let this torture end…! But you’re in the Toymaker’s grasp now, in the final throes of his game, and you know you have to finish this or your suffering will never be over. There is only one turn left. You have to try, one last time, or you would spend the rest of your life at the beck and call of this madman.

“Truth or Dare?” you manage to croak out.

The Toymaker lets your face go. “Dare."

You take a deep breath. This is your last chance.

“Let me go.”

The Toymaker takes a long, long moment to process your answer…and then he starts to laugh. Really, really hard. The tinkling arpeggio of his laughter builds and builds until it seems to shake the very walls of the toyshop. For a moment, you are terrified that it’s all going to come crumbling down like a house of cards.

“Oh, perhaps becoming ein dollen hast eroded deine brain, ja?” says the Toymaker, the arrogance flashing in his teeth. “I am not ein genie you kann outsmarts. I am afraid zat since letting you go ist your prize, you cannot request it of me. So, you have lost ein point, putting us at a tie…und you must complete ein forfeit once more.”

No. No. NO! “That’s not fair!” you yell. The tears are streaming down your face in earnest now; all of the distress of this game and the Toymaker’s psychological torment can no longer be contained. 

“Oh, und here comes dee tantrum,” says the Toymaker with a sigh. “I hates it ven zey get like zis. You must have ein forfeit…und I think I have dee perfekt idea to stop your ge-crying.”

The Toymaker snaps his fingers again. You open your mouth to scream at him…but nothing comes out.

You try again, but your mouth just flops open like a fish, with no sound attached to it whatsoever.

The Toymaker has stolen your voice. 

“I have assisted you in another core aspect of your doll transformation,” says the Toymaker, the British swooping in over his tongue with ease. “I do not think most dolls can talk, do you?”

You awful…! But the words can’t even die on your tongue, because they never reach your tongue in the first place. There is a total disconnect between your mouth and your brain. Although you can fashion your lips into the correct shapes and try to push the air into forming syllables, none of them can escape your mouth.

The Toymaker has silenced you, taking away perhaps your only remaining asset in this game.

You mentally tally up the points, and realise he’s right. You are now tied, and six turns have passed. 

“But I cannot tolerate a tie. Dee rules dictate zat ve must perform a tie-breaker challenge…” His accent ripples between the German and British easily, as if he can’t decide between childish delight and cool professionalism. “Do you have any suggestions for a tie-breaker?"

The devastation of losing your voice almost made you look over this detail. Yes, he’s right: for all of your suffering, the Toymaker hasn’t actually managed to get a point over you. That means all is not lost.

That means you still have a chance to win.

But you cannot strategise in a vacuum: much less when you can’t speak. The Toymaker looks at you in amusement, as if expecting you to try and talk anyway. You could have written a message down on a piece of paper, or typed it on your phone, but you decide not to give him the satisfaction. The Toymaker has already gotten you on the rules twice: you are going to play within his boundaries and win fair and square. 

You don’t see where he produces the hat from. A flourish of the arm, and it’s suddenly in his hands: a beautiful top hat which would have gone perfectly with a tuxedo. The Toymaker flips the hat over and proffers it to you.

“Ladies first,” he says with a sly smile. 

You reach into the hat and are surprised to find a variety of small, paper tickets. After some rustling around, you pull one out and read it. When you do, your eyes go wide.

WHOEVER HOLDS THEIR BREATH THE LONGEST IS THE WINNER.  “Vot fun!” exclaims the Toymaker, clapping his hands together in excitement. “I must ge-varn you, I am a very gut schwimmer, and kann hold mein breath for ein long time.” 

But do you even have a lung capacity?! is what you would have asked if you could. How was this fair? The Toymaker is clearly an extradimensional being, and his physical body doesn’t seem to conform to the laws of physics, space or time…anything that would put a real challenge to this game. But you can’t say so: you have no way of telling him.

Besides…is it cheating if that’s just how he is? Is it cheating if he’s just better at the game?

A loud tick-tocking draws your eye to the right side of the toyshop. Against the wall (where it definitely didn’t exist before) is a grandfather clock. Both of the clock’s hands are almost at the 12. This was news to you; you’d arrived at the toyshop sometime around 8pm.

“Ve vill begin when ze clock strikes twelve,” says the Toymaker. “Zere are no fancy rules…ve just start ge-holdings our breath, until eins of us cannot anymore.”

The grandfather clock ticks closer to your demise. You look at the Toymaker in desperation, clasping your hands together in a silent plea…but he just looks at you coolly. Now, you are nothing but an opponent to defeat. You are an obstacle ready to be demolished. 

Well, I am not helpless. If anyone is going to decide the winner of this game, it’s going to be me. With only thirty seconds remaining, you fish around in the pocket of your backpack and pull out your phone. You set up your video camera, prop the phone up against a toy monkey holding a pair of cymbals, and hit the record button.

“Ah,” says the Toymaker. “In case of ein photo-finish. Gut idea.”

There’s a cold fire in his eyes now: something which ignited when he took you into his personal void. You have no moves left, and no gameplay strategies to implement. It is clear that he is the master of games, and you may as well already be his doll. 

But hell, you are going to try your best.

The grandfather clock strikes twelve with a loud, booming chime, and you suck in the largest breath of your life. You don’t balloon out your cheeks: instead you opt for a subtle approach learnt from musical training, where you draw in the oxygen deep into your lungs and will it to sit there for as long as you can handle.

By comparison, the Toymaker doesn’t look like he’s holding his breath at all. You merely hear him stop breathing. He looks totally at ease.

The first ten seconds are child’s play.

The first twenty seconds are fine.

The first thirty seconds are acceptable.

But by the forty-second mark a playful fire start to burn in your chest, and the urge to take a breath begins to beg. Inside you curse yourself, wishing that you’d practised— but why on earth would I have practised such a useless game?! You look at the Toymaker. Big mistake. He waggles his eyebrows at you silently, rippling them in an over-the-top-sultry manner. You feel your lips quirking up into a smile…You can’t believe it! He’s trying to make you laugh!

So much for respecting the rules, you think to yourself. Your chest is really starting to hurt now. But then you wonder, is that really cheating? If the Toymaker can try to make you laugh, what if you can make him laugh too? But you shut down that idea immediately: if you prancing around in a frilly dress singing I’m A Little Teapot didn’t make him laugh (just clap!), you didn’t have a chance in hell.

Oh no. What is he doing now? While trying to focus on holding your breath, the Toymaker had conjured two familiar puppets on the ends of his hands: Punch and Judy. With a final, victorious wink, the Toymaker begins a silent, over-the-top slapstick routine with the puppets. Even without dialogue you recognise the beats of the show; Mr Punch is a mess of a man, overwhelmed by the demands of his wife and baby (the latter brought into being with a tiny, adorable puppet the Toymaker wears on one of his thumbs). His hands move with such finesse that the puppets almost look real.

Such a gaudy routine wouldn’t have been enough to make you laugh by itself, but the Toymaker brings a whole new dimension with his wonderfully expressive face. Each time the long-suffering Judy begins a voiceless tirade of her husband (i.e., throwing little puppet-objects at his face), the Toymaker supplements Punch’s depression with a frown worthy of a theatre mask. When Punch manages to land a hit on his wife or baby (My God, were these shows always so violent?), the Toymaker grins with such deranged glee that you can’t help but find it hilarious.

Oh no. You look at the clock: it’s been a minute, and your chest is really starting to hurt. The Toymaker and his puppets make your cheeks puff out with the effort of not laughing.

He smirks at you as Punch picks up his wife and baby and tosses them into the air, punting them like footballs. It’s so absurd and ridiculous that you can feel the giggle rising up in your chest. You desperately want to open your mouth and suck in oxygen but you can’t, you simply can’t, because if you do you’ll lose the game and he’ll keep you here forever…!

As your remaining seconds tick closer to your inevitable failure, you close your eyes. You want to have one last moment to remember yourself as you are, because you are sure whatever the Toymaker is going to do to you will not be pleasant.

Your chest aches. Your cheeks bulge. Your will starts to unravel.

And then, you have the idea.

It’s a stupid idea, and with barely any seconds left to execute it, you have no guarantee that it will work. But as you open your eyes and look at the Toymaker’s smug ‘I’ve already won!’ expression, you know you have no choice but to follow through with your mad plan.

So, holding on to every last bit of breath you have, you lunge at the Toymaker—

—and envelop him in a bone-crushing hug.

Several things happen at once:

The first is the Toymaker exclaiming in surprise, his breath clearly lost, and dropping his puppets, which dissolve into ash as soon as they hit the floor. 

The second is your desire to breathe finally overpowering you as you collapse against the Toymaker, and the two of you tumble to the floor. 

The third is the grandfather clock exploding. Just as you hit the ground the clock bursts apart, firing out wooden shrapnel with a horrifying bang! On reflex you huddle yourself against the nearest form of safety, which in this case happens to be the Toymaker’s chest.

You weren’t expecting him to hold you back.

The two of you stay like that for some time: you and the Toymaker, on the floor together, breathing heavily and wrapped up in each other’s arms. Despite your own adrenaline, you can’t understand the Toymaker’s terror: surely he caused the clock to blow up? He certainly wasn’t in any danger.

But then you hear a sound you couldn’t hear before. It’s the thrumming of the Toymaker’s heart, loud and insistent and desperate to survive. You hear it through the fabric of his waistcoat, and feel it in the pulse of his neck. For just a moment, the Toymaker seems to be just as human as you.

You wonder if the Toymaker’s mortality is contextual.

Eventually, you manage to disentangle yourself from the Toymaker’s limbs. You peek at the smoking remains of the grandfather clock, and are relieved to see that nothing has caught fire: there’s just a scorched, black mark where the clock once existed. The shards of wood which exploded out from the clock have disappeared.

Thankfully, your phone is untouched! You pick it up, pause the recording and watch it back. A smile stretches across your face.

“Oh, Toymaker!” you say, and you are so very pleased that your voice has returned. “You’re going to want to take a look at this.” 

When the Toymaker climbs to his feet, you are immensely amused to see that his perfect curls have been knocked a bit by the explosion. For the first time since you met, the Toymaker is dishevelled and confused. It’s a cute look on you, you think.

“You broke my game,” says the Toymaker incredulously. “How did you do that?”

“No idea,” you grin. “Maybe it was an unexpected outcome. Still within the rules, still a valid way to win, just…unorthodox.”

You show the Toymaker the recording. You watch as his expression turns from bafflement, to despair, to outright blazing anger.

“No!” the Toymaker cries. “You can’t have beat me!”

But the camera never lies. The footage on your phone clearly picks up the Toymaker gasping in shock as soon as you hit him with your hug…whilst you don’t gasp for air until a few seconds later, just before the grandfather clock explodes.

“Seems like I have!” you say happily.

“But I…you…” The Toymaker’s fingers flex in the air meaninglessly, as if looking for a straw to grasp. “But that’s cheating!” 

“No it isn’t,” you say with confidence. “There was nothing in the rules about us not being able to make each other lose our breath. If you making me laugh was a valid strategy, then me hugging you was too. Either we both cheated, or no one did.”

The Toymaker looks like he’s been slapped, and it is a delicious feeling. You almost want to pinch his cheeks. With a pout fixing his lips, the Toymaker snaps his fingers…and your clothes return to normal. Your dress is gone, replaced by the clothes you entered the shop with.

(Is it a little silly to be regretful of that fact…?)

“I still say that shouldn’t count,” says the Toymaker sullenly. “That was an underhanded tactic. I’ll be writing that into the rules next time.”

But you’ve turned away from the Toymaker now—he obviously needs to work through his sore-loser feelings in his own time. You trot over to the doll shelf, pick up the beautiful doll in the powder-blue dress and cradle her in your arms. She truly is a wonderful prize.

When you turn back around, the Toymaker is sitting on the floor with his hands hugging his knees. You feel a pang of sympathy for the man…it seems this really is his whole life.

“But why did you hug me?” the Toymaker asks, baffled. “That’s not a winning strategy. You just surprised me. You were so…”

The Toymaker looks up at you with shining eyes. This time, his eyes really are wet with tears.

“...Warm,” he whispers.

The triumph of your win quickly sours on your tongue. The way the Toymaker is looking at you gives you a powerful feeling…and it’s not one that you like. Even though every part of you is telling you to make a run for the door while you have this post-win window…you don’t.

Instead, you sit down cross-legged on the floor next to the Toymaker, just like you did when in the void. You even bump your shoulder against his.

“I’ve been sad a lot in my life,” you say. “But I’ve never felt as much sadness as I did in your void. And it made me wonder if…you’d ever been held before.”

The Toymaker looks at you with flashing eyes. His bottom lip trembles as if he’s trying to hold back a lifetime of grief. He doesn’t say anything, but those eyes tell you all you need to know. 

“I wouldn’t mind coming around here sometimes,” you say gently.

The Toymaker looks at you like you’ve got two heads. “You would voluntarily subject yourself to my life-or-death games?”

“Maybe not the life-or-death part,” you say hastily. “But I had fun today. Weird, horrible fun. You’re kind of a weird and horrible guy…and I’m pretty weird too.”

To your surprise, the Toymaker actually laughs at that. “You are unique, meine Liebling,” he says, German once more. “To out-ge-smart me, you must be.”

“Well…maybe it’s a good thing we met,” you say. “Maybe you don’t need to keep luring in suspecting people to your shop, Toymaker. Some of us might actually want to stick around and play. And maybe…”

You rest your head against the Toymaker’s shoulder.

“...Maybe I could help keep the cold out for a while.” 

The Toymaker and you sit in silence for some time, listening to the gentle whirs and clicks of the toys going about their business. You keep your new doll tucked between your legs, and your cheek resting against the Toymaker’s shoulder. He’s so warm that you find your eyelids fluttering: you could easily fall asleep right here.

It’s a surprise when you feel the Toymaker’s fingers sliding into your own. You look at him, and see those telling blue eyes alive with fresh excitement.

“It’s a deal,” says the Toymaker, with an enormous, brilliant smile.

You let the Toymaker pull you to your feet. To your amusement, he grants you a deep, formal bow.

“Run along now, meine Schatz…today must have been ge-xhausting for you. But I shall be seeing you again soon, ja?"

Other people would not have caught it, but you know what loneliness sounds like: you hear the edge of desperation at the edge of the Toymaker’s voice. You take a step back and return the bow with a curtsey.

“Ja, genau,” you grin.

The Toymaker’s smile could have outshone the sun.

That night, when you return home, you take all of your dolls out of your closet. You line them up with care on your shelf, making sure to pose them prettily and smooth out the creases in their frocks.

But you keep your new doll in your hand, and clamber into bed with her. Before you turn out the light, you look one last time at her perfect, dimpled face.

Oh, what games will you and the Toymaker play next?

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 5: Resolve

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, all! I know, it’s so soon! But this one is a cobbled-together piece of stuff you’ve already seen, just padded out a bit more. I figured I might as well push it on out now, so here ya go! Featuring Jason Lannister for the very first time, to finally bring all this shit together a bit more cohesively. As always, thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for reading though this and reassuring me it isn’t total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, age gap, general Daemon grottiness, allusions to non-consensual sexual situations.

According to most, Daemon Targaryen is a man in possession of little capacity for feeling beyond what is required to partake in lechery and barbarism. He knows himself; his disparagers are not entirely wrong. Except for one important, essential truth—he would die for his family. He loves his family.

Love, as he understands it, is what he has always felt when looking upon his brother, upon Rhaenyra. No matter the strife that has torn him from his kin time and time again, he can freely acknowledge that such sentiments will remain everlasting.

A kicked hound is one most loyal, he thinks with no small degree of bitterness. Or perhaps the meanest hound is more loyal. Either way, I am the hound—and my master, the king.

Love is what has wrenched harsh and twisting in his heart whenever he laid eyes on you, a toddling girl-child eternally eager for the cossetting attentions of your uncle, your kepa—and he had always been kepa, never Viserys, no, your father had never received an honour beyond being called ‘papa’ like any common pauper—now a stranger in so many ways.

The garden and the morning repast had served to ignite the wellspring of all his wildest desires, delivering to him seemingly all he had ever wanted in a prospective bride—young and beautiful, obedient and good-tempered, Valyrian of colouring and of status. But you had seemed smaller than your younger self, trapped in a prison of your own making, hidden beneath layers and layers of chaste courtesy and painstaking banality. And then, accompanying you to the Dragonpit had given him a curious glimpse into the power you kept hidden, the ancient strength of your lineage slipping through the cracks in your genteel veneer.

Regal. Arcane. These are the words that had come to mind watching you interact with your mount, none other than the famed Cannibal himself. Something of the majesty of the Conqueror lay within you, waiting for the necessary spark to kindle the flame. Your exchange with Athfiezar—your silent fearlessness, your devotion to your savage beast, your unassuming poise—reminds him that, for all your equally meek and mild-mannered nature, you are still Targaryen. You are still his sweetling.

It is this that elicits a consuming curiosity to know more.

You are an interesting puzzle, a strange contradiction, one whose buttermilk skin and pert teats and spit-shine lips should herald as a welcome to sample the delights hidden by the fabric of your darling little gowns. Yet, you act not as a silly young thing learning of her sway over men—teasing with fluttering lashes and bit lip and lilting tone as Rhaenyra had—but as a docile girl disinclined to press the limits of propriety as all maidens do. You ride the most savage dragon in the known world, and yet there is no such quality in you that echoes your mount’s disposition; instead, a loveliness that is near to cloying, pure and unadulterated and surely too good to be true. You are a fucking princess, and yet you are perfectly content to fade into the periphery, drawing little notice to yourself and seeking none from those around you, not even your own blood. A scholar, quick-witted and erudite, but somehow still so sweetly unknowing of the depravities that rule the minds of men who lay eyes on you.

You fascinate him. And his newfound realisation does not lessen his temptation to fuck you—to ply you with praise and charm and no small hint of avuncular affection (the reminder of your shared blood thrills him to the bone as always) so that, over time, you might be swayed to give your maidenhead to him—but, rather, that it results in a metamorphosis, a muddling, his longing mingling the base needs of the flesh with a rekindling of his fondness for you.

Which is why he cannot stand the presence of Jason Lannister.

“Why are you entertaining this farce?” Daemon asks, fists clenched at his sides. “A pompous fuck like him has no business anywhere near her.”

“Whatever is the problem, brother?” Viserys says distractedly, hunching over his miniature of Old Valyria and studying the replica of the Targaryen manse on the outskirts with intent. “Jason Lannister is Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. By any standard, I would think he is the best contender for her hand.”

That fucking model of his. Daemon resists the urge to smash the king’s stone city into rubble, though doing so might grant him the attentiveness he is sorely lacking from the man. “Are you not hearing me? He’s an arrogant cunt. He’d bore her in a sennight, let alone whatever hellish span of time an entire marriage would last.”

Viserys hums noncommittally. “She will make do”—he waves Daemon off—“as all noblewomen must when their fathers command them to marry. That is her lot in life. Besides, Lord Jason is one of the wealthiest men in the realm, and I am told he is rather pleasing to a lady’s eye. She could do worse than he.”

His brother’s remark is a fair one—of the trio, Jason is the preferable choice. And what a fucking miserable choice it would be.

He rolls his eyes. This is going nowhere. “And Tyrell? Your idiot son? Are they the ‘worse’ you speak of?”

Between that foppish peacock, his spiteful little twit of a nephew and the prancing lion, the latter just barely scrapes by as the best of the bunch.

“Enough, Daemon.” The king sighs, finally deigning to look up from his pile of rock. “These are the suitors she herself has chosen. I care not for the particulars, only that the girl should be wed before her eighteenth name day. Each of them possesses some quality I am sure she finds worthwhile…” At that, he pauses, brow furrowing. He squints up at Daemon. “What is your interest in the matter, anyway? It has naught to do with you.”

Shit. Daemon makes an evasive comment—something about sullying the purity of their noble lineage—and departs as quickly as he can, eager to escape the risk of Viserys’s suspicion falling on him. It would not do for the man to suspect his intentions toward yet another of his daughters.

He does not intend to seek you and the lord out, truly, but it nonetheless does not surprise him to realise that, upon freeing himself from the wrathful spiral of his own musings, his feet have taken him to the very same garden where he had first laid eyes upon you again after so many years, where you are now enduring the attentions of the insufferable Lannister patriarch. On this occasion, Cole is nowhere to be seen, and the entry is instead guarded by one of the Cargyll twins.

Daemon spies you on the path just inside, a careful distance placed between you and Jason. Though he cannot make out your expression from his vantage point, he observes well enough the flourishing bow the lord proffers in your direction, the polite curtsey you extend in return, his smug prancing step as he leaves your company. He sees the manner in which your shoulders droop, your head bowing as you turn to wander past the great tree and out of sight. My poor girl.

And then his view is blocked by a garish wash of red and gold.

“Prince Daemon,” Jason says with a haughty simper. With a curt nod, Daemon wordlessly returns the salutation. His lack of warmth is noticed. The Lannister lord hesitates for a moment before returning to his condescending civilities, forcing a relaxed stance. “I was most glad to hear of your return.”

He doubts that. There is little love lost between him and the lord. Jerking his chin toward the garden, he asks, “Leaving so soon, are we? I had thought the entire afternoon was devoted to this little outing.”

Jason chuckles awkwardly. “Well.” He scratches his beard. “The princess has another engagement to attend to. Something about a tutor.”

Thank the gods for that Lysan fellow. They had never met, but Daemon is certain he’d like the man well enough.

“Doesn’t concern you?” he asks, scarcely bothering to conceal the scepticism from his tone. At the confusion on Lannister’s face, he clarifies. “That she’d rather spend time with her tutor than with you?”

“Why would it, my prince?” is the answer, self-assured as ever. “He is old, and frail. Best for her to spend as much time with him as she can before she leaves for Lannisport.”

That genuinely irritates him, and not simply the notion of you being shipped off to the lurid monstrosity that is Casterly Rock. Even he knows that your meetings with your tutor are less obligations and more gatherings of friendship—your spirit would surely crumble if you were denied your dearest companion after being coerced to marry.

Daemon suppresses a sneer. “Your confidence is… admirable.” If misplaced, he wants to add.

“There is little competition to be found,” Jason says with a toss of the head. His tawny hair rustles in the gentle breeze, giving him the appearance of the sigil his house has claimed. Fucking ridiculous. Then, the man has the audacity to clap a palm against his arm. “Never fear—I shall take utmost care of her. She’ll want for nothing as my lady wife.”

He shrugs off the over-familiarity, stepping out of reach. “For a time, perhaps. And in a decade? Two? A princess of the realm has no business playing nursemaid to her husband in his dotage.”

He is older than I, he thinks. And if she is truly considering him above the others, then…

“I might be the eldest of her suitors, yes,” the man says, a tense smile disguising his offense poorly. “But I have a rather substantial inheritance, unlike the Prince Aegon, and my constitution is more… pleasing than the Lord Tyrell, I’m sure.” His mouth curves into a knowing smirk at that, leaving Daemon with no uncertainty as to what he really means. That little— “I would not dismiss Jason Lannister from the competition just yet. She will choose me. I suggest you accustom yourself to reality, Prince Daemon.”

He grunts dismissively, incensed. There is no reply he can give in this moment that won’t incite the Lannisters to break faith with House Targaryen; and so, he chooses to remove himself from the odious man’s presence entirely, stalking past with nary a word of farewell.

You sit where your younger half-sister had a scarce moon’s turn ago, eyes fixed toward your lap, turning an ornament about with your small fingers. As he nears, the lion salient glimmers in the sun, gold against gold in dazzling vulgarity. Of course, he’d gifted her something with his own fucking sigil on it. What a worthless bequest.

When he calls your name, you hardly react. Your gaze flickers up to him for a mere moment before falling once more, resuming your surveyance of the item in your grasp. There is a pensive expression lingering in your frown, the crease in your brow. It tells him all he needs to know of your true feelings for the Lannister lord, regardless of the man’s own delusions.

“Why—you look positively miserable, sweetling,” he says, settling himself beside you. You glance up at him again, sullen pout puffing out your lower lip. Though your disposition is so downtrodden, it is tempting to press his thumb to that lip, to push inside and feel the wet warmth of your tongue pulse against his flesh in a coquettish tease. “Not enjoying being courted? The gifts, the attention, the romance…”

You take the bait beautifully. Starting at his reference to the pendant in your hold, your nostrils flare exasperatedly. “No. No. I—I just—” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

“Go on,” he cajoles gently, lowly. “Tell Uncle Daemon.”

It is all the encouragement you need. “There is little romance to be found in this—this charade.” You sigh, eyes fixed on some minute detail past his head. He’s struck by the melancholy in your voice. “These men—Lord Jason, Lord Denys, Aegon—they do not want me. They want an idea of me. A Targaryen bride with pale hair and Valyrian blood. One who will give them children they shall make little effort to raise, a silent doll to clasp onto and show off at feasts and balls… as though possessing me is somehow meaningful. They do not—they do not see me.”

It’s here your voice cuts off strangely. He wishes it hadn’t, for he finds himself enthralled by the mournful monologue that paints a picture of the loneliest girl in King’s Landing. There is something yearning and haunted in that saccharine stare of hers, he thinks. A babe with her arms held out, wailing at the world as it leaves her abandoned in the crib. It’s an eerie echo of a conversation that took place a decade prior, though the lead role lacks the infantile petulance of the previous star.

He finds himself retracing those steps almost without realising.

“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa. Dīnakson toliot, gaoso gaomagon kostas.” He is testing, prodding, waiting for what might result from his efforts. Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like.

The words make your cheeks flush fetchingly and your brow wrinkle once more, glancing back at him apprehensively. Pretty pink girl with a pretty pink blush; how far down does it spread? You swallow—pause—look away, wrestling with a thought. You peep back up at him.

“Se skorverdon jessivo aōt kesrȳsi jiōrtas?” you ask with surprising cynicism. You exhale loudly, staring at some fixed point in the distance. “Ābrazȳri buttā, riñar daor, mērpāves… Tolī jaelan.”

And how much joy did this bring you? you say. A wife you hated, no children, loneliness… I want more. The quiet longing in your voice is palpable.

He grimaces at the mention of his bronze bitch—he’d rather not know how widespread the knowledge of the circumstances around her… accident… had been in the wake of his departure.

“What is it you want, then?” he asks, switching back to the Common Tongue, the corner of his mouth already contorting in anticipation of the naïve response. True love, a happily ever after… We don’t get to have happy endings, he thinks to himself.

“I want someone who loves me,” you say, pressing on crossly at the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I never said I would love him!”

The pessimistic elucidation takes him aback. Again, it is not exactly what he had been expecting. Full of surprises today. He tips his head consideringly at you, inviting you to continue.

You hesitate for a moment.

“I… They say my father loved my mother. I believe it, but—” You swallow, the corners of your mouth turning down as you mull over your words. “They say he had a choice when baby Baelon was born. That he could cut her open to get the babe out, but that it would mean her certain death.”

Gods above. Where in the seven hells had you learned that piece of information? Viserys had kept the circumstances of Aemma’s death under tight wraps, never even deigning to mention it to his own brother. It was pure happenstance that one of the maids he enjoyed fucking at the time had been present on the unfortunate day.

Your eyes glisten as you speak, limpid pools of lilac glowing like fire in the light. “I do not think I could ever choose my own life over my child’s—but they say he did not even ask her, that he just… held her down while they—How could I ever trust a man to raise the babe I bore him if he would be willing to butcher his own wife in her childbed?”

He watches as you clench your eyes tight, set your jaw and exhale a few shuddery breaths. When they blink open, they are no longer so tear-bright. Daemon suddenly admires you for it, for the way you so ruthlessly suppress weakness. He wonders how often you’ve been made to force back your pain for the good of your family.

“What happened to your mother was a terrible tragedy, sweetling.” He reaches forward to finally grip your small, pale hand in his. It is cold and dwarfed entirely by his own. “But you cannot live in fear forever.”

You make to pull your hand away. He closes his grip tighter upon it, coercing you to look up at him properly.

“When hope is gone, what choice left is there but fear?” It is a whisper, carried on the breeze, and the thinly veiled misery pains him in the chest, right in his heart.

I thought that beating thing was black and dead by now, he thinks to himself.

You shake your head, smile. The picture of the melancholy maiden fades from view as you affect an appearance of energy once more, gentle and muted as it is. “I know my father loved my mother, and so love is no guarantee of loyalty. But it would be helpful, I think.”

“You see love and loyalty as intertwined, then?” he cannot help but ask. He is intrigued by this rare showing of spirit, of vitality, a resurrection of his baby niece from long ago. It is you, finally—his little girl, only now you possess the curves of a gold-gilded whore and the thousand-year gaze of an ancient, arcane being.

“Do you not?” Your head is tilted like an inquisitive bird’s, artlessly assessing. “You cannot have one without the other. Loyalty without love makes for an easy traitor, and love without loyalty makes for an unhappy marriage.”

He laughs again at the latter part of your pronouncement. A sweet, trusting little filly waiting to be broken in.

“There are many ways to love someone, princess.” He ogles you shamelessly, savouring the affectation of outraged bewilderment painting your countenance. “I imagine you’ll find few of them in the marriage bed.”

He waits for you to question him—to ask him what he means, to ask him to explain, to teach you, show you—but instead, you pull back, taking all the warmth from his palm with you.

“I dislike your implication, Uncle,” you say stiffly, returning your hand to your lap and nestling it between your thighs to retain the heat.

Fuck.

He backtracks raising his hands in a jesting show of defeat. “I meant nothing by it, gevivys.”

Beauty. It is an apt title. An underwhelming one, even. Surely there is little else more beautiful than the sight you make here, now, a rich blush spreading along the unblemished expanse of your chest—regrettably enclosed by pale damask just above the protrusion of your tits—the planes of your throat, not quite travelling up to decorate your cheeks.

You sigh. “You never do.”

Daemon lets the conversation lull, deciding to instead look upon the little revelation before him. You are an interesting puzzle, one whose decorum in the face of his gentle compulsion—that same persuasion he had so often utilised to get fetching girls to strip bare for him and show off their equally-as-fetching cunts—had instead left him lacking. The body of a slut and the mind of a scholar, all wrapped up in wide eyes and honey-sweet words and wild hair the shade of Old Valyria. Of home.

A wild thought seizes him. If he leans forward, he could do it. He could grip you by the back of the neck and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and coax you past your panic and fear and into a hot, sweeping rhythm, a push and pull of tongue and teeth that would set you both alight. And from there, how simple would it be to murmur pretty praise as he lowers you down, raises your skirts up, cleaves you open until your blood wets his cock with the proof of his claim, incontestable, not even by the king himself? The deed would be messy, perhaps distressing and no doubt painful, but it would solve several issues at once. He would be free to do as he likes with his lascivious desires after you are made to wed him, and you would be free from your pitiful suitors and given a husband worthy of you. In time, the hurt and shock and fright would fade, he knows it.

He could. He could. He—

The spell is broken. Your attention is diverted by the yells of a dark-haired boy as he bowls his way to you, throwing himself across your lap with a cry of your name. Daemon tries not to glare at young Lucerys as he tries to roughhouse with you. Having somewhat learned the schedules of his family, it baffles him somewhat that the child is not at his daily lessons. Should Laenor not have him now?

The thought must conjure the man himself, the Velaryon scion appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Laenor’s expression is forbidding as he strides over to you and his son, silver locs swinging with the velocity of each step. With his glare affixed to his face, he reaches a hand down to you in silent command, staring daggers at Daemon all the while.

What the hells is his problem?

You take hold of your goodbrother, bewildered, and allow him to tug you gently from the bench beside Daemon. Lucerys slides from beside you with a rustle, easily revolving around to dart toward the grass. You are already grabbing at the boy’s wrist to stop him running off.

Daemon watches Laenor attempt to rearrange his countenance into something less violent. “Would you take Luke off to the training yards, sister?”

A look of vague incomprehension crosses your face at the question. At least she senses the oddity, too, he acknowledges.

Laenor’s head turns down to where he sits, and it is then that it dawns on him that his nephew-by-marriage has very possibly been watching him stare at his baby niece’s tits for longer than he can claim plausible deniability of.

Ah, shit. The darting, mistrustful gaze suddenly makes sense.

“Of course, Laenor,” you say sweetly, biddably.

Daemon cannot help but wonder what else you might comply with if gently persuaded. He glances up at you from where he sits, smirking as you turn to him.

“It seems we must part for now, sweetling,” he tells you. He ignores Laenor’s grimace from behind you.

“It does.” You shift lightly. It is clear to see that there is something about your shared conversation that has unnerved you. The notion sends a trail of perverse excitement through him. He wonders what other reactions he might prompt out of you with gentle teasing. “I—thank you, Uncle. For listening.”

The words are honest, free of artifice. It is surprisingly warming to hear. When you make to depart, he calls you back.

“What—no goodbye kiss for your beloved uncle this time?” he asks, hoping he’ll bait you into action. He determinedly disregards Laenor’s huff, eyes trained on you as you swallow with trepidation before quickly making the short few steps back to him.

Your knee settles on the seat beside him, clearly meant to be no more than a brief resting place so that you may carry out his implicit request and leave—if not for the way in which your skirts gather around your leg in a manner assured to result in your toppling over should you attempt to rise without fixing them. Daemon turns his head to yours as you free yourself from the tangle. Up close, closer than he would ever dare get usually, he can see each lash that frames your eyes, the hairs that sprout from your brows, the slick cherry bloom of your mouth—a whisper-sweet gather of plump, plush fruit he wants, needs, to take a bite from.

Would you let me, little girl? he wonders.

You gasp, a short little breath of surprise, and lurch away lightly at the closeness. A brave little thing, you return to him, pressing those precious petal-soft lips to the skin of his cheek. Your covered breasts press involuntarily against his arm.

Fucking hells.

“Sȳz bantis, kepus.” Good evening, Uncle, you say in that light little accent of yours, an unintended provocation of his basest yearnings.

With that, you bundle the boy up in your capable little hands and make for your destination, the Cargyll knight falling into formation behind you.

“Care to explain—well, all of that?” Laenor asks.

Oh—yes. Daemon pushes himself from his seat, deliberately stalling while he thinks of a response that isn’t what the fuck how the fuck when the fuck and why.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says idly, slyly, glancing over at him.

“No!” His goodnephew leans forward into his space. He is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, uncharacteristic of the bumbling, affable man. “You don’t get to do this to her. Not this one. Not this time.”

“Whatever do you think I plan to do to her?” Daemon laughs, wondering at the answer himself.

Whatever would she let me do to her?

Laenor sighs, steps back.

“Look.” He nudges him to walk alongside as they make for the garden’s entry. “She’s not one of your whores, Daemon. She’s just a girl. She’s not the type to play your twisted little games, so leave her be—please.”

He is warmed by the defence of your goodbrother, an admission of familiarity and care that is sure to have flourished since the man’s entrance into the family some years ago.

“What makes you think I have any intention of—how did you put it—playing games with her?” If he were a little less honest with himself, he would be affronted by the manner in which Laenor has jumped straight to an accusation. But Lord Flea Bottom’s reputation is inescapable, even after so many years. “Perhaps my objective is pure and wholesome.”

“Right.” Laenor snorts, shaking his head as he folds his hands behind his back. “You’re far more likely to fall in with her horde of suitors than to believably claim familial interest.”

True. And yet… why not? He’s conceived all manner of plots to satiate his wants, from drunken fumbles in the dark to his half-baked impulse from but a moment ago. Unlike his previous conquests, though, he doubts the need will dissipate after a single fuck. You are too important to him—his precious girl turned darkest desire, the only woman he could ever deign to carry on his line with.

Viserys has been pressuring him to seek out a bride. He mightn’t be happy with the prospect of his brother asking for his daughter’s hand, exactly, but there is surely no debate that he is the best contender. Not Jason. Not Denys. Not fucking Aegon. Daemon. And, well, if the asking should go poorly—how simple would it be to whisk you away to Dragonstone, to speak the vows and seal the deed before it can be undone? There is no risk this time, no Iron Throne to lose, no treaty or agreement that cannot be broken…

He can see it now. Your sweet little face peering up at him, marked with his blood, lip dripping red with the pledge of entangling your souls together in savage Valyrian custom. Your pretty little eyes wide with maidenly shock as he breaches your untried cunt, tight and pulsing and hotwetwarm, binding you to him irrevocably. The slow waddling of your gait as you round with child, his child, his sweetest babe bringing forth life of her own, belly ripe with seed and leaking his spend—

“Laenor,” he says slowly, eyes glinting as his lips upturn in a wide grin, “I do believe you have the best ideas.”

Read the story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/120880855

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[depravitycentral]

This is a continuation of my last post, where anon asked about whether Kikyo and Silva would ever share a darling

Tw: kidnapping, dehumanization, pet-play ish, Kikyo is freaky, objectification, their marriage is as strange as the family they've raised, weird jealousy dynamics, weird sexual competing (?), Milluki is a creep

I think Silva and Kikyo could potentially keep a darling together, but the relationship is - odd, to say the least. Silva is significantly more emotionally attached than his wife - he's the one to even bring up the idea, actually, because his marriage to Kikyo has always been about convenience and offspring. And so, when he happens to run into you while he's out on a mission and you catch his eye for whatever reason, it's not exactly hard to bring you back to the mountain, dressing you up in pretty, expensive clothing and luxury lingerie sets underneath.

And frankly, Kikyo is not pleased - she's not exactly in love with Silva either, but she feels that her place as his wife is threatened by your presence, that her position within the Zoldyck family is hanging on by a string because Silva is obviously more charmed and affectionate with you than he is with her. At first she hates you – she’s doing everything in her power to drive you out, to make your life enough of a living hell that you’ll beg Silva to let you leave. (Or perhaps you’ll fall victim to the multitudes of ways she attempts to end your life.)

But though Silva doesn’t like upsetting Kikyo, his feelings for you – romantic, a foreign concept – are strong enough that he’s putting his foot down and stopping Kikyo from doing anything too terribly reckless. He’s always able to tell when she’s poisoned your food, or when she’s rubbed poison ivy all over your nice dresses so that you’ll become swollen and inflamed and hopefully he’ll toss you to the side because he’s disgusted by your appearance. Her attempts don’t work, and if anything it only draws your relationship with Silva closer – because suddenly he’s got you on his lap, your face pressed against his chest while you both ignore the very, very insistent bulge pressing against your crotch, his voice as soft as he can get it while he tells you that Kikyo will not hurt you, I won’t allow it.

And as time passes and he stays true to this promise, Kikyo finds herself slowly giving up. You really aren’t going, huh? He seems to really like you for some unknown reason, and so she instead turns her attention to making sure that even if her status as Silva’s wife is threatened, her status as the mother of the Zoldyck children stays in-tact.

And frankly, once she makes this shift, things change – because Silva spends a majority of his time with you, there’s no insinuations or attempts at stealing Kikyo’s motherly role. You’ve literally never even met most of the kids except for a few brief words over silent, uncomfortable family dinners, and Kikyo is smug about this. At least in this way she’s better than you – she’s a good mother, and you’re what? A good hole for her husband to settle into at night?

It makes her scoff.

Until one day, she notices that you are, begrudgingly, a bit attractive.

Not the beauty Silva seems to believe you are, but there’s something about you that she can’t deny is charming, even if she wants to. And so, as time passes, she slowly warms up to you; except, Kikyo’s version of ‘warming up’ – developing romantic feelings, yet again foreign to her – is transitioning from belittling and yelling at you out of anger to belittling and yelling at you because she wants your attention. She’s clingy, especially since Silva hogs so much of your time, and she relies on criticizing you and ‘reteaching’ you basic manners, skills, even how to dress as she sees fit. Her obsession manifests in making you unwavering obey her every command, the power making her feel giddy and oddly aroused.

And really, that’s a facet of your life as their shared darling that can’t be ignored – while some of the affection and attention you get is as innocent as it can be, given their profession and the fact that you were kidnapped, most of the touches and words and looks you get are anything but. And from both of them, too – each is equally guilty of constantly sexualizing you.

Silva is more traditional in his approach – he requests your presence most nights, staying in his own private chambers with the wooden doors locked tightly, the massive bed with its eerie blue lighting and satin sheets all bunched up and stained with his cum and your slick because he just can’t keep his hands off of you. He’s got you dressed up in nice clothing – revleaing dresses and garter belts hiding just above high slits in the fabric, the sight making him lick his lips and actually want you in a sexual manner, something he’s not used to experiencing. Every moment you spend with him involves his hand on your body somehow, whether it be steady and firm at your hip to remind you of his presence, or pressed against your stomach as he holds you in his lap, his cock stuffed as deep inside as possible while you cockwarm him, your sweet voice filling his ears as he commands you to speak to me, about whatever you like. Just don’t stop talking.

It's strange and it’ll make you think he only wants you as a glorified sex doll, but then he’ll do something small and unexpected that’s almost sweet, that almost seems like a genuine attempt to make you happy – a copy of your favorite book, or a beautiful necklace, or even an offer to spoil you with a private, intimate vacation to a destination of your choice. It’s strange, and while the lingerie sets are not ideal to wear around the mansion (particularly when Milluki is home – the staring is not subtle), Silva is tolerable. At least he normally preps you well before he fucks you.

Kikyo, on the other hand, expresses her attraction to you with much, much more humiliating methods. She’s naturally a bit sadistic, and while she isn’t actively trying to make you uncomfortable, she isn’t afraid to act on some of her more outlandish kinks. In contrast to Silva’s lingerie sets, you’ll be given pretty collars and ball gags and plugs to wear, all in varying shades of purple. (She favors purple because it’s both the family color and her favorite color, making her feel slightly better about her infatuation with you. Plus, she can’t deny how good you look in the eggplant, stain set she got you a few weeks ago, with a crotchless panty and material so thin stretched over your breasts that your nipple is fully visible.

She’ll treat you like a glorified dog at times, physically forcing your head between her legs and telling you to be good, make me feel good, or forcing you to your knees while she steps onto your thighs, a smile curling at her lips when you squirm in discomfort below her. Her overt sexual favors with you are less obvious than Silva’s, but there’s something about her’s that makes you feel weak and horrible and pathetic. And yet, similar to her husband, every once in a blue moon Kikyo is actually nice to you – after you’ve made her come a few times with your mouth, fingers and the toy she’d forced you to use (first in yourself, then in her – without washing it, a concept that’d made her blush heavily under her bandages), she’s breathlessly telling you how good you did, her nails digging into your skin a bit as she clutches onto you, her post-orgasmic high leaving her brain scrambled and praise for you slipping past her lips.

(One time she even tells you that she loves you – she hadn’t spoken to you for a few days afterwards, diligently avoiding you, though you were sure you caught her peeking into Silva’s room one of those night’s her lips parted, cheeks blushed so strongly pink that it extended down to her neck, a hand slipped up her skirt and visibly moving under the fabric. He hadn’t noticed, of course, because he was too busy bouncing you on his cock, eyes too busy staring as your ass jiggled and smacked against his navel as he fucked you in reverse cowgirl, but swear on your life that as soon as you made eye contact with Kikyo through the gap in the doorway, she made this high, whining noise and her knees buckled.

She’d come, from watching her husband fuck you.)

The situation is messy, quite honestly, but with time you’ll settle into it – you don’t have much of a choice, after all, and your presence fills a need that neither of them have been able to find in each other. And isn’t it just so nice to be loved by two people so thoroughly?

Even if you feel like a glorified pet more often than not?

[vickiee-mcmuffin]

Swapped places

Word count: 2.9k

Pairing: Sinister Strange x Female Reader

Trope: Explicit smut (18+ Warning, Minors DNI)

A/N: Here's another one of my old fics. I have edited it and added some extra bits to it, as I thought it could be improved. I hope you like it. Thank you @strangelockd for the ideas to add :)

Summary: Stephen returns home after a 2-week-long mission, and he seems desperate to touch you. But the Stephen you give yourself to, isn't the Stephen you knew and cared for.

It had been two weeks. Two long weeks. You had been left alone, all by yourself in the New York Sanctum. It was weird staying there without Stephen. But he had work to do. Before he left he had informed you that he needed to go on a mission. A rather important one as well – because the girl he was trying to help also had the ability to travel throughout the multiverse. And you wanted to go. Really, truly did. Stephen, however, had insisted that you remain behind. It made you feel good to know he didn't want you to get hurt, and you appreciated his kindness, but you still loved being by his side.

You could never say no to him in the first place. It was impossible. And you weren’t about to argue with him and go against his opinion and word. You liked him far too much for that. Genuinely liked him. It started off as a simple and innocent crush, and that crush developed into rather strong feelings, and it led to you falling head over heels for him. But he didn’t seem to understand.

Despite your best efforts, you were never able to get him to react the way you wanted. Dropping hints, being affectionate, and responding to him in a flirtatious manner was one of your favourite things to do. There were times when you would look at him with a bright, shy smile, and he sometimes smiled at you in response. The act alone was enough for your heart to skip a beat. But that was all he gave you. A smile. A bright, wonderful smile that often made you feel faint… but that was all. You had decided that either he wasn't paying attention to you as much as you were paying attention to him, or that he wasn't as interested in you as you were in him.

*******

You were alone in your room, inside the big sanctum without another soul to keep you company. You were in the upstairs room, trying to study, but your mind was stuck on Stephen – like it usually is. But you were worried. He had been away on his mission for quite some time. The same thing had happened before: he had left for days upon days when busy with a mission, but the longest he had been away was only about a week. Stephen had been helping that girl for quite a while.

For a moment, you wondered if you should go looking for him. Maybe he was in need of assistance. Perhaps he was trapped somewhere, desperate for help. But leaving the sanctum unguarded wasn’t an option. He would never allow that.  

You tapped a finger against your chin, wondering where Stephen could be. What was he doing? Was he okay? Who was he with? Was he thinking of you as well?

There was a sudden noise downstairs that forced you to focus on your surroundings and let go of your thoughts. It was the sound of the sanctum doors opening. You bolted out of your seat, moving quicker than you ever had before. You were surprised you didn’t fall right down the stairs as you practically flew down them. Soft pants were escaping your lips when you made it down them, and then you saw him.

Stephen.

You sighed happily, your heart skipping a beat upon sight of him. He looked as handsome as ever. His eyes were darting around, and you moved over to him quickly, so eager to hear his voice, to see him up close.

“Hi,” you beamed up at him. “I missed you so, so much.”

Stephen said nothing. There was silence between the two of you, and you stared at him curiously. You focused on his eyes and noted that his own were stuck on you. His gaze was intense. Dark. He was staring at you with slightly narrowed eyes and a tilted head. The look he gave you was unlike anything he had ever given you before. It made your cheeks flush red, because you were certain he was staring at you with a look of want in his eyes. With a look of desire.

Your eyes scanned his features, trying to capture every detail. Something was different about him. The goatee on his face was longer than you remembered. There was no sign of his cloak of levitation that always seemed to drape across his shoulders. When did he change so much? And why?

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly, not sure what his response would be.

“I’m fine,” he answered quickly, his voice a little nervous sounding. “Why are you asking?”

You shrugged at him. “You just look so different. Your goatee is longer.”

“I’ve been gone for so long. And I haven’t had time while I was away to trim my goatee.”

Oh, that made sense. You gave him a nod. “I see, so that’s why you look so different. But where’s your cloak?”

You noted that he seemed uneasy. His body appeared stiff, his eyes darting here and there. It was like he couldn’t get the answer out. Just as you were about to repeat the question, he blurted out a quick reply.

“It’s in another room,” he told you quickly.

You raised an eyebrow at his words and thought about his response for a moment. That didn’t really make sense. As far as you were aware, the cloak never left his shoulders unless it was for a valid reason. Like trying to save someone from falling.

“But I know your cloak never leaves your shoulders,” you told him quietly. “Unless you have a reason to take it off.”

Stephen’s cheeks seemed to go red at that, his eyes widening slightly. You could have sworn you saw him sweating a little. Why did it look like he was about to faint? You'd never seen him look that way before.

Just as you were about to ask him if he was alright, you suddenly felt his lips on yours. His tongue pushed in between your lips, a moan escaping his mouth. You gasped, your eyes widening as you tried to comprehend what was happening. Stephen was kissing you. Your Stephen. The Stephen you had such strong feelings for. The Stephen you had wanted for such a long, long time.

It was a wild kiss. Intense and deep. It was hard not to whimper as you got lost in the taste of Stephen's soft, warm lips. Having craved his touch for what seemed like a decade, you found yourself kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck. As he pulled you closer, the kiss became even more heated, your bodies pressing against each other without an inch of air between you.

You then felt his hands reach down more and more until they landed on your ass. He cupped you, squeezing you tight, and you let out a soft whine. It felt so good to have him touch you, to feel him, to have him. Finally.

But why? Why was he suddenly all over you?

Placing your hands on his chest, you pulled away from Stephen, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. “Why… Why did you kiss me like that out of nowhere?”

“I’ve been waiting such a long time to kiss you, Y/N,” he told you, his voice gravelly.

Your eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Haven’t… Haven’t you been feeling the same way?”

“I have. I have for such a long time. But… But I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

Stephen said nothing after that. He just leaned back in and started kissing you again, his tongue once again pushing between your lips. Another whine left your mouth, getting lost in the sensation of his lips on yours once more. The kiss got wilder and wilder, and you soon found yourself getting wet from the act alone. It was the same feeling you got when you looked at Stephen. When he smiled at you. When he made you want to pounce and pull him close and have him touch you.

And it seemed as if Stephen could suspect exactly how you were feeling, because he pushed one of his big hands into your underwear, a long finger pressed up against your clit. He rubbed at it softly at first, using your wetness to coat the bud, playing with your clit with gentle circles.

“Oh, Stephen,” you let out with a whine. You gripped his shoulders tightly, letting the new pleasure take over.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he whispered into your ear. “I wanna fuck you so bad.”

You whimpered at his words. “Please do it. Please fuck me. Want it so bad.”

With that, he picked you up. You wrapped your legs around him, staring down at him and noting the lust in his eyes as he moved. Taking you to his bedroom, he climbed on top of you immediately after placing you down on the bed. The two of you kissed, your limbs tangled on his bed as he pushed his tongue into your mouth.

Pulling away from you after yet another wild kiss, he cast a quick, straight-to-the-point spell. Your clothes were suddenly off, leaving you both lying there in the nude. It was noticeable that his magic for that particular spell was a vibrant purple. It was different. However, you pushed the thought aside... Stephen was always learning new spells.

He then got back on the bed and quickly spread your legs apart. Your teeth bit into your lip as you watched him settle between your legs. There was a darkness in his eyes that you had never seen before. Watching him squeeze his cock, he pumped it a few times before pressing the swollen tip against your entrance. Then he moved into you slowly, pushing into you inch by inch.

Feeling pleasure take over, you let out a gasp. “Oh, Stephen!”

A grunt left his own lips, and you wrapped your arms around his form, your nails scratching up and down his back. Moving in and out of you, he took you with slow thrusts, pushing into you with gentle pumps of his cock. You knew why he was moving in and out of you with such gentle strokes: he was giving you time to get used to his cock, to adjust to his length. It made your heart soar, thanking him in your head for his kindness.

But, you wanted more. You wanted to feel him really take you. There was only one thing on your mind: you wanted it hard, deep, and fast.

“Please… Please move faster,” you begged him with a whisper. “Oh, please, want it faster.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes at you. There was such intensity in his gaze. He had a hunger you had never seen in him before. It was as if complete and utter desire had taken over. He did exactly as you had asked. He fucked you hard and fast, his thrusts suddenly rough. He filled you up to the hilt, stretching you out as he took you. You gasped, feeling a whole new kind of pleasure. You could feel yourself dripping on his cock, coating his length with your juices as he fucked you. He made every thrust count. Every one.

The headboard banged against the wall, the noises blending in with your own whines and moans. Your nails sank into the skin of his back as you whimpered. You were sure you would leave him bleeding, but he was making you feel so good. With each pump of his cock, you moan loudly, and with half-opened eyes, you stare up at Stephen. There was a smile on his face. A satisfied smile. You could tell he was happy, seemed to be in awe that he was making you feel so good.

It was all so wild. So intense. You had no idea Stephen could be so rough and raw during lovemaking. It wasn’t a complaint. You absolutely loved every second. Every move, every touch felt like heaven. You didn’t want it to end.

“Mm, please don’t stop,” you pleaded.

“Oh, I won’t, darling, don’t worry,” Stephen muttered back at you.

The word alone made you squeal. Darling. It sounded so good coming from his lips. So filthy but good.

Suddenly, you felt large fingers wrapping around your throat. Stephen placed his hand on your neck, grasping you firmly. The feeling wasn't enough to hurt or choke you. But it was enough for the room to suddenly spin, your vision blurry as you struggled to let out any sound. With those same dark eyes, Stephen stared down at you as he fucked you, keeping his hand firmly on your throat.

“Fuck, you take my cock so fucking well,” he grunted. “So fucking good.”

He then released his grip on your neck, and you gasped, letting out a happy cry.

“Oh, that feels so good,” you whined. “So, so good.”

“I know, my love, I know.” He moved in close, kissing you again, your lips moving together as he continued pumping his length in and out of you.

He didn’t let up. Not for a second. Every thrust of his cock was so deep. You could feel his swollen tip hitting that sweet spot deep inside your pussy, bringing you closer and closer to your orgasm. The feeling bloomed quickly, and you couldn't control it. Your eyes shut. Your toes curled. You were so close to meeting your peak. So close

“Mm, I’m gonna cum,” you whined.

Stephen moved, getting up on his knees quickly. He grabbed your hips with his hands, holding you tightly as he fucked you. He pumped into you hard and fast, and you felt your eyes roll into the back of your head. The room was spinning and your heart was racing and your skin felt so hot. Your centre felt like it was dripping with each thrust Stephen gave you, your pussy getting wetter and wetter. The sound of skin slapping skin hit your ears, mixing in with the sounds of your moans. A shrill cry then escaped your lips as you arched your back.

“Cum on my cock, darling. I wanna feel you come undone around me,” Stephen said, and his words had you whining. 

“Oh, Stephen!” you managed to let out. All it took was a few more pumps of his cock to send you over the edge. That feeling inside of you suddenly erupted, your pussy gushing around his cock as you lost it. “I’m cumming!”

Stephen grunted. Your pussy squeezed around him tight, pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, I’m gonna cum, I'm gonna cum for you, darling,” he muttered out a second later.

“Mm, please cum inside me,” you licked at your lips. “Please.”

Grunting again, Stephen pushed his length into you three more times before his eyes shut and he let out a deep “fuck!” He exploded inside of you, filling up your little slit with drop after drop of thick ropes of cum. He emptied himself inside of you, your pussy completely draining him as he moved in and out of you, his thrusts still deep and hard and wild. Like he had never felt anything as good as you.

You whined at the feeling of him cumming inside of you, your slit filled with his dripping, hot cum. He gave you one more deep thrust before he pulled his length from you, settling down next to you on the bed. You looked over at Stephen, taking in his still dark eyes, red face, and messy hair, feeling more satisfied than you'd ever been before. You couldn’t believe how rough and intense he had been. But you loved every heated second.

Your eyes remained fixed on him as you moved closer to cuddle with him. There was a look of satisfaction on his face as well. You nuzzled into his chest, hearing the sound of his heartbeat. You took a few shallow breaths. You had never felt anything so extraordinary. Your body still felt hot, covered in a light layer of sweat.

“That felt so good,” you whispered.

“Agreed,” he smiled. “That was amazing.” He moved, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in close.

It only took a minute for you to fall asleep. You were so tired after what you had just done, and so happy and relieved that Stephen was back. And finally, he was looking at you in the way you had craved for so long.

You let out a soft, happy sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. You were exhausted, and you fell asleep there on Stephen’s chest, happier than you had ever felt in your life.

******

Stephen didn’t hide his smirk as he watched you. You were sleeping peacefully on his chest, letting out soft, little noises. He was proud of himself. Mighty proud. He had finally got what he had waited so long to get. He had been using the Darkhold in his own universe to watch you, spying on you every day, so desperately wanting to feel your touch…

You had no idea who you had just given yourself to. The Stephen you had grown to love and care for wasn't the Stephen that was laying in bed with you. No. Deep down, he was different from your Stephen, even though he looked almost identical to him.

The Stephen in your bed was an evil variant of the real thing. And to make matters worse: your Stephen was trapped. Trapped in an incursion universe, which was home to the evil Stephen you had just slept with, the evil Stephen you were lying next to, the evil Stephen who was staring down at you with a look of complete and utter darkness.

He had finally achieved what he had been seeking. He got you. Despite having to pretend to be someone he wasn't... It was worth it in the end. For he would do it a thousand times over just for your touch.

Tag list: @butchers-girl @azu21 @polytheatrix @lucimorningst4r @evelyn-kingsley @withalittlehoney @mirikusashes @bobateadaydreams @strangelockd @thealleydog @cemak @stewardofningishzida @lady-harvey @smokeywhalee @floatingfireflies @iamsherlocked1479 @icytrickster17 @asherloki @ssinimbrn-catsr0pia @aphroditesdilemma @strangesthirdeye @rmoonstoner @stephenswh0re

[slaymitchabernathy]

Cold & Calculated

Coriolanus POV

There’s a strange silence that sits between them during the ride home. Coriolanus almost feels uncomfortable sitting next to his wife. She doesn’t say anything, not a single word but that’s nothing new, Soarynn’s always been quiet.

But something is different.

He glances down at his wife who’s looking out the car window at the passing Capitol streets, she looks nice tonight, she looks pretty. His heart had skipped a beat when she showed up at the office earlier this evening. Due to some scheduling issues, Coriolanus had Soarynn come to meet him at the office so they wouldn’t be late for the company dinner.

Festus whisked her away for a brief tour but it was rather adorable how quickly she returned to him. Coriolanus assumes she finds some semblance of safety in him, or at least his presence. Coriolanus is a man of authority and respect, no one would dare mess with him or his wife for that matter.

“Quite a fruitful night,” he finally says, breaking the tension.

Soarynn simply hums without sparing him a glance, “Quite.”

His eyes travel across her collarbones and slender shoulders. They didn’t have sex last night, not after Sejanus mentally drained him for the entire day but tonight is the perfect night. The perfect way to end a long day at work.

“Perhaps it’ll have a fruitful ending,” he suggests, always trying to give Soarynn a bit of a heads-up before partaking in such sexual encounters. Soarynn brushes her hair behind her ears, “If that is what you wish.”

Now he’s upset. He’s upset because it almost sounds as if he’s forcing her, which is something he’d never do. If Soarynn decided that tomorrow she never wanted to have sex with him again then that would be the end of it but he sincerely hopes it’ll never come to that. Not when it’s the only time he can truly hold her, touch her, feel her.

But she’s acting like this all is one-sided. And he refuses to be on the losing side. The desperate side.

He clears his throat, “It is.”

He’s the man of the house, he doesn’t need to be doubting himself or his authority.

Neither of them says another word as the car pulls up to their apartment building. Soarynn takes his hand as she exits the car but immediately drops it once they're in the elevator. Coriolanus refrains from crying out like a wounded animal at the loss of contact because it's not the end of the world. But it feels like it.

Maybe she's mad at him, although Coriolanus doesn't think that he's ever seen Soarynn be mad a day in her life. She's gotten upset of course, but over little things like her favorite bakery being closed or a boutique not having a dress in her size. But Soarynn is not someone who's quick to anger. He, on the other hand, can get quite angry when pushed too far.

When the elevator doors open and Soarynn goes to step out, his hand grabs her wrist, pulling her back inside. Soarynn looks up at him with wide eyes, with a hint of fear behind them. Coriolanus doesn't like that. He wants her to respect him, yes, to be attentive and well mannered but he never wants her to fear him.

Is this what it's come to? Is this what his cold and calculated attitude towards her has gotten him?

"Are you alright?" He asks, feeling somewhat stupid for asking such a vague and general question, "I mean, have I done something to upset you? Or has someone hurt you?" Coriolanus can feel his entire body tensing at the idea of someone laying a hand on Soarynn, forcing themselves onto her, scaring her.

He'd become the Capitol's first murderer, that's for certain.

Soarynn bites her lip for a moment before answering him, "No, no one's hurt me, and you haven't done anything to upset me. I'm just tired." Coriolanus sees right through that lie because as much as she tries to deny it, Soarynn is a terrible liar. At least to him, she is. Her father probably agrees with him that it's quite easy to see through any of Soarynn's small, insignificant lies. She rarely ever lies but she's done it enough for him to notice the slight tells that give her away.

How she always bites her lip, fiddles with the rings on her fingers, sways side to side, and avoids eye contact if possible. She's lied about small things in the past, whether or not she picked up his clothes from the tailor, if she remembered to attend some event, things like that.

She's lying right now.

His grip on her wrist slightly tightens as he leans down until he's at eye level with his wife, "Do you remember what I asked of you the day we got married?" Their wedding had been a wonderful blur but he remembers clear as day what he'd asked her to do once they made it down the aisle and were out of earshot from all of their guests.

"Don't ever lie to me, things will be much easier between us as long as we're honest with one another."

Soarynn swallows and nods her head, "You asked me to never lie to you." He tilts his head and looks her up and down, his pretty little wife who's done such a good job at pleasing him so far. "Trust is...important," he tells her slowly.

"Trust is everything to me," Soarynn whispers, "but I don't think you trust me Coriolanus."

Soarynn POV

Not a sound can be heard in the penthouse.

Coriolanus is at work and Soarynn is at home, overthinking.

There are a million other things she could be doing right now. Cleaning her makeup brushes, clearing out her wardrobe, running errands, and painting. But her conversation with Coriolanus from a few days ago keeps repeating in her mind. It had been a rather tense conversation between them, a conversation that ended in Coriolanus suggesting that they both just go to bed since the drinks from dinner had clearly gotten to them.

Funny how he was able to lie to himself about that when moments before he was reminding her to be truthful with him. And she was! She is! Soarynn doesn't really see any point in lying to her husband, not when he's been nothing but good to her. Should he be controlling or abusive then she could see a reason to lie but he's not. Coriolanus is a good husband. But he's not a very good companion.

Soarynn has seen her friends with their own husbands, seen how they share little inside jokes and knowing glances. She and Coriolanus don't share any of those. They only share polite table talk with a side of expected sex.

So when the phone rings, Soarynn nearly jumps off the sofa. Maybe it's the people calling from the gallery, she thinks to herself as she pushes herself from the sofa, making her way down the hall to where the phone is sitting on a small table.

"Snow residence, to whom am I speaking with?"

"Soarynn?" It's Coriolanus.

"Coriolanus, is everything alright?"

For a moment she worries something might have happened to his parents but he's quick to soothe her thoughts, "Perfectly fine. Well, not entirely fine. I need you to go into my study and open the top drawer in my desk, it has several files inside of it. I need you to bring me the red file, labeled, 'Quarterly Sales Meeting.' I forgot to grab it this morning and just remembered it."

Soarynn finds herself nodding along to her husband's instructions, especially since she knows how important the quarterly meetings are to him and his colleagues. He's been working nonstop the past month and the dinner they recently attended was a way of thanking everyone for their hard work.

"I'll bring it to you right away," she assures him and she hears him let out a small sigh of relief. "Thank you, darling, I'll see you soon." After a swift goodbye, Soarynn hangs up the phone and ventures into her husband's study. She's never been in here alone, and she's never seen the entire study since she usually lingers in its doorway.

She easily finds the file he was describing in the top drawer of his desk and quickly glances over his desktop for a moment when her eyes land on a framed photograph. She blinks once, twice before coming to the realization that it's her in the photograph.

She looks much younger than she is now, about eighteen when she first started seeing Coriolanus. It's a candid shot of her smiling down at Petunia in her arms, standing in the backyard of her childhood home. She remembers that day, how Coriolanus had come over and she proudly showed him her new kitten. Coriolanus had brought his camera with him but she never saw him taking that photo of her.

But he did, and here it is. Does he look at it often? How long has he had this photo framed? Does he have other photos of her?

Coriolanus is a masculine man through and through and before she moved in, his penthouse lacked a feminine touch. Or a sentimental touch in general.

But Soarynn can't linger long, not with Coriolanus waiting on her so she shuts the drawer and leaves the study. Thankfully their car is waiting outside for her and she's greeted by their driver, "Where to Mrs. Snow?" Soarynn gives him a polite smile, "My husband's office please."

The drive is short and yet Soarynn still finds time to worry about her current relationship with Coriolanus. It feels strained and if they can't trust one another, then what's the point? The point was to marry for convenience, to act as if this marriage was a business agreement, and yet Soarynn finds herself wishing it was more than that so maybe that's her issue.

Either way, whether Coriolanus loves her or not, it won't hinder her from being a good wife.

Coriolanus POV

Coriolanus drums his fingers against his wooden desk as he waits for Soarynn to arrive. He'd left an important file at home and instead of having his secretary fetch it, he had asked Soarynn to bring it to him.

He was feeling rather impatient although he didn't know if he was impatiently awaiting the arrival of the file or his wife.

He likes to think he’s waiting for the file but he knows that’s a lie. He’s eager to see Soarynn, to be in her gentle, feminine presence for a few moments before she goes back home to make sure dinner is being properly prepared for them.

Then he’ll go home, and hang up his coat in the hall closet before she greets him with a kiss on the lips and her dainty fingers wrap around the handle of his briefcase. He’ll let her take it and set it down so that he can freshen up in their bathroom before joining her at the dining table.

Without children or guests, their dinners can be very quiet, neither of them speaking of much except surface-level topics. She’ll ask him how his day at work went and he’ll ask her how her friends are doing and if she did any shopping.

They might have sex. But it all depends on how he’s feeling.

They had sex the other night, after the company dinner. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great. Despite her lack of experience, Soarynn can be quite the pleasant and sensual creature in bed. The sounds she makes, the way her body moves, and the way her eyes roll back are what Coriolanus craves on a somewhat daily basis.

And the conversations they have afterward always seem to let him catch a better glimpse of who Soarynn truly is. When she’s too tired and overstimulated, she lets her walls down and he does the same.

Rare moments like that should be appreciated more than they are, but he's never been too good at opening up. During the months of the two of them dating, Coriolanus rarely went beneath the surface of his persona. He knew what Soarynn needed, a good husband who took care of her and her needs. How could he be a good husband if he was constantly vulnerable in front of her?

So after their fifth date, he vowed to himself that he'd never let her see that hidden side of him if he could help it. The side that longed to hold her for longer periods of time, and bathe with her while playing with her hair. It's better this way, at least that's what he tells himself. Letting her catch glimpses of the real him after sex is much better than being seen as weak.

It's best to be cold and calculated.

Soarynn POV

꧁ 6 Months Ago ꧂

It's a strange feeling to move into a room that is not your own. Soarynn feels like she's invading her husband's privacy as she unpacks her bags. Her husband, a new term that she is still not familiar with. She got married today, she's no longer a Nightingale.

Soarynn Snow.

Her hands are shaking while she puts her clothes into the dresser drawers and she does her best to still them, to calm her nerves. But she can't, not when she knows what will take place in a few minutes. She and Coriolanus have shared a few heated kisses, but they've never gone farther than that to honor tradition.

But Soarynn is terribly nervous, even dressed in expensive white lingerie. Her friends said it would make her feel more confident and more secure in herself, and yet she feels the exact opposite. What if he's not impressed with her? Coriolanus certainly isn't a virgin and Soarynn worries that he might be put off by her inexperience.

It's too late to turn back now.

She sighs and brushes her hair behind her ears, she'd rather just go to bed considering what a long day it's been for the both of them. Their wedding was lovely but tiring as she was expected to talk to all their guests. Soarynn doesn't mind the social chatter for the most part, so long as she can relax in her bedroom afterward. But this is her bedroom now, a room that she will share with a man.

Soarynn's curiosity gets the best of her and she pulls open the top drawer of the dresser and finds several pairs of socks that belong to her now husband, all the same color and style. Coriolanus from what she's seen, is a man who values routine and order, rarely ever straying from what he knows and trusts.

She just hopes that he'll come to know and trust her as time passes.

Soarynn hears the sound of heavy footsteps making their way towards their bedroom and she closes her trunk of belongings. She can put those away later. She glances at the large bed and her fingers graze over the white sheets. They might be stained sooner rather than later. Soarynn doesn't know why she's so nervous about the bleeding part of losing her virginity. She knows that it's supposedly a sign of one's virginity being taken but what if it doesn't happen to her? Then what would Coriolanus think?

Soarynn sits on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling off the edge and she grabs a handful of the lacy dress she's wearing over her lingerie. The dress itself is also lingerie, with intricate lace patterns sewn along the silk fabric. Hopefully, she meets his expectations.

The doors open revealing Coriolanus and her heart skips a beat. He looks so handsome, so regal and important even in the late, late hours of the night. It's past midnight but that's never stopped a man from taking what's his.

He offers her a small smile before closing the doors behind him and Soarynn manages to return his smile with one of her own. "You look pretty," he tells her as he walks towards her. Soarynn lets go of her dress and swallows, "Thank you."

She expects him to pounce on her but instead, he turns to the dresser where a small variety of alcohol sits on top of it along with several small glasses. She watches Coriolanus grab a bottle of something before twisting the cap off and pouring himself two glasses. It's a practiced ease she witnesses from him as if he's done this a thousand times, pouring himself a drink before bed to wind down.

"Quite the day," he muses to which Soarynn nods, "Yes, today was quite eventful." Coriolanus takes a sip of his drink and lets out a content sigh, "The alcohol selection was perfect, much better than the one at Festus and Persephone's wedding." Soarynn chuckles and shakes her head at her husband's words, "That's because you think you know what's best when it comes to alcohol."

Coriolanus shoots her a mischievous smile and nods, "I do know what's best when it comes to alcohol. If I weren't a businessman, I'd be a bartender." It's a funny thing to picture, Coriolanus working such a lower-class job but Soarynn strangely enough thinks that he'd be quite happy with it, money aside.

"You'd certainly be a crowd favorite," Soarynn agrees. Coriolanus grabs the other glass and offers it to her and Soarynn is unable to hide her surprised expression. She prefers wine over whatever he's drinking but he insists on her taking the glass, "To take the edge off," he explains, "you look like you'll need it."

Well, she can't argue with that.

Soarynn gives him a grateful smile before taking the glass and sipping whatever the glass contains. Whatever it is is disgusting and Soarynn pulls a disturbed look which causes Coriolanus to laugh, "Not a fan of whiskey hmm?" Soarynn shakes her head and offers it back to him, "I'm not really a fan of alcohol period, let alone whiskey."

Coriolanus hums and takes the glass back from her, throwing it back in one sip. It amazes Soarynn how much he can eat and drink, but she's learned that men are never truly satisfied. Speaking of satisfied....they still have to have sex, which means kissing, touching, and getting naked. Oh, why does she have to be so innocent?

Soarynn watches her husband drink from the other glass he poured, noticing the way his throat bobs when he swallows and how chiseled his jawline really is. Coriolanus Snow is devilishly handsome in Soarynn's opinion, it truly amazes her that she's his wife now, that she bears his last name for the world to see.

When he's finally finished he sets the glass down and finally takes a good look at her. To say she's been preparing for this moment would be an understatement. Over the past week, Soarynn has been waxed, primped, and primed for her wedding night. This morning she took a long bath and made sure her body was smooth and flawless.

Coriolanus tears his gaze away and begins unbuttoning his shirt. He took off his shoes and suit jacket the moment they got home, seemingly sick of wearing the clothes after a good twelve hours. Soarynn nervously fidgets as he bears his chest to her, showing off his toned physique. Soarynn's only seen him shirtless a handful of times before their marriage, but she has a feeling that she'll be seeing a lot of this in the near future.

He notices her staring and smirks, "Like what you see?" Soarynn blushes but she nods, remembering what he said to her earlier today, telling her to always be honest with him.

"Yes," she whispers, pressing her legs together. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't scared, mostly of the pain but the act of sex itself is terrifying to Soarynn who's still so young, especially compared to Coriolanus who's six years older than she is.

Coriolanus finally takes a step towards her and his hand comes out to cup her face, he does it so gently, as if he truly cares for her and Soarynn hopes he does, that her cares about her and how she feels. She's heard many tales about women marrying men who only care for their own pleasure. And Coriolanus has been so attentive so far, but that all could change right now, he could reveal his true colors.

But Coriolanus Snow seems like a good man.

Soarynn looks up at him, into his piercing blue eyes and she's overwhelmed with emotions to the point where she feels a single tear escaping her grasp and rolling down her cheek. The expression on his face changes from one of confidence to one of concern. Soarynn wipes the tear away and sniffles, "I'm sorry. I...I don't mean to be emotional, not on a night like this."

His thumb gently brushes over her cheek and Soarynn finds herself leaning into his touch, "I won't fault you for being nervous," Coriolanus gently tells her, "especially since it's your first time. Is it me that you're scared of?" Soarynn's eyes widen at his question because she really can't see herself ever being scared of Coriolanus. Not when she's seen glimmers of how kind he can be, how he laughs when playing with Petunia, or carries his mother's shopping bags for her.

No, Soarynn could never be scared of Coriolanus.

"No," she quickly assures him, "I'm just scared of the pain," she whispers the last part. His face contorts to a rather unsure expression and Soarynn highly doubts that Coriolanus has ever been tasked with such a needy partner like her before, one that requires constant reassurance. He sighs as he looks down at her with a fond look in his eyes, "I can't promise that it won't hurt, I'd be surprised if it didn't hurt. But it won't last long, and we'll go slow," he tells her and Soarynn slightly relaxes after hearing those words.

The smirk returns to his face as he adds, "Besides, I think you'll find sex to be rather enjoyable after getting over the first time." Soarynn doesn't even want to think about the second time, not when they've yet to get the first time over with but she nods all the same, "Alright, I trust you."

That seems to be the green light for Coriolanus who's quick to lean down and finally capture her lips in a passionate, heated kiss to which Soarynn eagerly responds. Coriolanus is an excellent kisser and Soarynn's kissed him enough to feel confident in herself. Their first kiss had been rather adorable but she was a flustered mess afterward and Coriolanus teased her endlessly about it until she finally gathered up the courage to be the one to initiate the kisses they shared.

Still, Coriolanus is a man who thrives with control and is a dominant man so he's been the one to initiate their kisses for the most part. Soarynn doesn't mind it in the slightest, not when she's always been so pliant and submissive all things considered.

Her hands come to rest on his biceps and she finally feels how toned and strong Coriolanus is. He's mentioned his fitness regimen before but Soarynn's never been able to bear witness to his strength before. He feels as if he could rip her in half if he wanted to.

His hands travel down to her waist, squeezing it while he deepens the kiss and his tongue explores her mouth. Soarynn whimpers when he tugs on her bottom lip with his teeth and then lets out a squeal when he picks her up by her waist and tosses her further back onto the bed. Coriolanus is quick to follow her, sitting on his knees while he kisses her again, and this time Soarynn pops up on her knees as well.

He's still taller than her, but the height difference is less significant than if they were to both be standing. Coriolanus grabs the back of her head with one hand, his fingers tussling with her blonde hair, the hair that was so carefully styled for their wedding. It'll be a rat's nest by the end of the night.

Soarynn gathers up a bit of courage and rests her hands on his bare chest, feeling how warm his skin feels against her palms. Coriolanus groans into the kiss, clearly enjoying the physical contact. Over the past year, Soarynn has learned how much Coriolanus values physical touch. Just because it's frowned upon for high society couples to sleep with one another before their wedding doesn't mean Coriolanus has kept his hands to himself.

He's constantly attached to her one way or another, holding her hand, resting his hand on her lower back, and having her hold his arm, he's even held pinkies once which was rather adorable.

Coriolanus wedges his knee in between Soarynn's legs and she lets out a breathy moan when his knee brushes against her barely covered cunt. Coriolanus smirks into the kiss and takes a firm hold of her hair before pushing her down onto the bed. Soarynn is breathless as she stares up at the ceiling, utterly and entirely vexed at how quickly things are moving.

But Coriolanus is on top of her again, this time on his hands and knees as he presses kisses to her neck and chest. Soarynn lets out soft, breathy moans at each little kiss he presses to her soft skin. One of his hands pushes down the straps of her white, silky dress, exposing the bralette she's chosen to wear tonight. It's made entirely of intricate lace and has a white rose in the middle of her breasts.

Coriolanus fixes his stare on the rose for a moment before swallowing, and Soarynn feels quite proud of herself for choosing something her husband seems to be so fond of. He presses a kiss to her breast and Soarynn grows restless under him which he quickly fixes by pressing his knee up against her cunt once again, drawing out a desperate moan from Soarynn's lips.

Coriolanus sucks hard against her soft skin and Soarynn gasps at the foreign feeling. She's seen her friends littered with lovebites after their own wedding nights but she never knew if Coriolanus was the type of man to claim what's his. It appears that he is.

Her chest is littered in love bites in a matter of minutes and Coriolanus sits up on his knees to admire his work. Soarynn stares up at him, growing more and more desperate for his touch. Coriolanus reaches down and grabs her dress before tearing it right down the middle. Soarynn gasps as the cold air hits her bare skin, revealing the matching set of lingerie she wore under the dress.

Coriolanus throws whatever remains of her dress in some dark corner of the room before finally seeing Soarynn's body for the first time. She feels nervous about what he might think, that he might wish she were fuller in other places and more spare somewhere else but he seems quite taken with her. "You're a vision," he tells her, and Soarynn blushes, "Thank you."

He nods and withdraws his knee, grinning when Soarynn lets out a displeased sound from the loss of contact, "Eager are we?" He teases to which Soarynn rolls her eyes, "You're very sure of yourself." Coriolanus shrugs all while wearing that boyish grin on his face before he grabs a hold of both of her knees, "I'm very sure of myself because I'm an excellent lover in the bedroom," he corrects her as he pushes her legs apart, revealing her to him. Well, almost all of her.

Soarynn's breath hitches in her throat when he brings a finger to the panties she's elected to wear tonight and swipes over her covered cunt, the feeling sending shocks throughout her body. Coriolanus leans down and kisses her knee, then her thigh, slowly working his way down, all while maintaining eye contact with Soarynn who's beginning to wonder what she's gotten herself into.

But Coriolanus doesn't give her much time to think about it before he finally reaches the waistline of her lace panties. "These simply have to go, darling," he says almost in a disappointed way. Soarynn immediately hikes up her hips and he lets out a deep, throaty chuckle that goes straight to her core.

Coriolanus peels her panties off, unhooking them from her legs before throwing them somewhere in the room. Soarynn feels her legs shaking because there's nothing keeping her from his view anymore. Coriolanus blows air onto her cunt and Soarynn twitches from sensitivity, "You just might have the most perfect cunt I've ever seen," he groans, his fingers ghosting her folds.

Soarynn moans at his words and ruts her hips up, "Please," she says, not really knowing what she's asking him for. "You're soaked," Coriolanus says, his breath so close to her cunt, "can't wait for my cock to be inside of you hmm?" It's amazing to hear such vulgar words come from her husband's mouth, a man who's normally known for speaking so eloquently.

Soarynn ruts her hips again but this time Coriolanus wraps his arm around her waist, pressing her against the mattress, "Be patient darling," he chides, "a good girl waits to be given what she deserves." Those words strike a nerve within Soarynn because she so desperately wants to be good for him, to be a good wife and partner.

When the tongue of Coriolanus Snow finally licks a strip over her cunt, Soarynn nearly screams. The feeling is so overwhelming and he's a talented man with an even more talented mouth. Soarynn is inconsolable as he laps at her cunt, his tongue slightly delving into her entrance before pinpointing her clit.

Soarynn moans at the feeling, attempting to grind against his mouth but still being pinned down by his arm. Her hands grasp at the bedsheets and she feels herself growing closer and closer to what must be her peak. "Oh, oh, oh please," she moans, her right hand reaching down to grab her husband's blonde curls. Coriolanus groans when she tugs on them but it sounds like he enjoys her hands on him and she's in no position to stop unless he does.

Just as she's about to hit her peak, he pulls away. Soarynn lets out a frustrated groan and her legs immediately shut when Coriolanus sits back up. She feels sensitive all over and wonders how women do this on a daily basis. When she looks up at Coriolanus she can see him wearing a cocky expression, clearly proud of himself. She can also see the evident bulge growing through his pants and her throat dries at the sight.

"I'll show you how to return the favor another time," he says, his hands undoing his belt buckle. All Soarynn can do is nod because she doesn't quite trust herself to speak right now. It's an ungodly sight to see Coriolanus only in his underwear, a clear imprint of his cock now visible and he looks like he's on the bigger side.

The nerves kick back in as Soarynn is reminded of what is about to take place in a few minutes. Coriolanus pulls his boxers down and Soarynn visibly pales at the girth and length of his cock, the tip red and a bit of precum already visible.

He's going to tear her apart.

Any reassurances he gave her have flown out the window now because how on earth is that going to fit without being the most painful thing she's ever experienced?

Coriolanus takes notice of her distressed state and takes her hand in his, giving it a squeeze, "Don't be scared, I promise I'll go slowly, you'll get used to it after a few minutes."

It's made quite clear to her at that moment that he has every intention of still going through with the deed, even if it's at her own expense. The marriage must be consummated, no arguments there. And children are expected to come from the two of them sooner than later and Soarynn has a feeling that Coriolanus wants them as soon as possible.

But despite her underlying fears, Soarynn nods, "Okay."

Coriolanus positions himself over her, his arms caging her in as he lines himself up at her entrance. At least she's somewhat prepared, Soarynn can't imagine having sex while being dry as a bone down there. She didn't even try to get wet, it just happened. Coriolanus seems to have that effect on her.

There had been a handful of times when Soarynn attempted to make herself feel good by using her own fingers but she found it to be unsatisfying and after a while, boring. But Coriolanus is so different and now he's about to take her virginity, something she's guarded for so long, unbeknownst to her, for him.

"Try to hold still," he mumbles while slowly pushing into her. Soarynn grits her teeth at the uncomfortably stretch she feels. Coriolanus is big in girth but he keeps to his word and goes slowly, watching her reactions. There's a slight burn that Soarynn is sure she'll experience every single time they have sex. At one point she closes her eyes, unable to look into her husband's piercing gaze. She hopes she's not being too demanding or needy, she wants to be good for him.

Soarynn gasps when she feels him finally bottom out, the tip of his cock presses against a very sensitive spot inside of her, and her legs spasm. Coriolanus leans his forehead against her own and lets out a deep, strained breath, "Fuck you feel so good Soarynn." Soarynn nods but doesn't say anything, she wouldn't even know what to say.

Coriolanus stays there for a moment, letting her get used to the feeling before he slowly withdraws his hips from hers before thrusting back in. Soarynn moans at the new feeling, of her walls wrapping around him and how good it feels when he thrusts back into her.

She finally opens her eyes when he picks up the pace and is faced with a very attractive-looking Coriolanus Snow who seems to be focused on keeping his thrusts steady yet powerful. She can feel the pain ebbing away slowly but surely, the pleasure finally taking over.

Soarynn has been subjected to several detailed recollections of her friends losing their virginities since being married so you’d think that she would have an idea of what to expect and yet it’s entirely new and overwhelming to her.

Once the pleasure finally kicks in Soarynn finally understands why people obsess over sex the way they do. It feels amazing. He feels amazing.

“Oh,” she means, arching her back. Coriolanus looks down at her and flashes her a smile, “Feeling better now are we?” He continues to thrust deep inside of her and Soarynn curls her toes in response, “Yes,” she pants. She brings her hands up to his bare, broad shoulders so that she has something to hold onto and Coriolanus seems to take that as a challenge to take her harder than before.

One thing she’s learned about Coriolanus is that he can be very competitive when he wants to be. And apparently, that bleeds into their sex life as well.

Soarynn can feel herself reaching her peak once again but this time it’s stronger and better as if his mouth is truly no competition for his cock. “Fuck,” he grunts, placing one hand on her lower abdomen. It scrambles Soarynn’s brain when he does that and she lets out a whine, “Please, please,” she begs, her eyes becoming glassy.

Coriolanus goes harder and faster once she starts begging and it’s all too much for Soarynn who finally reaches her first orgasm. Her eyes roll back and she sees stars as her entire body nearly convulses from pleasure. Her perfectly manicured nails dig into his porcelain skin and her mouth is left wide open in a silent scream.

Coriolanus follows right behind her with his own orgasm, swearing under his breath as he finishes inside of her for the first time. Soarynn whimpers at the feeling, at his cum coating her walls, truly claiming her as his now.

Coriolanus takes a moment to calm down, resting on his forearms as he catches his breath. There’s sweat on his brow but he still looks handsome. “Are you alright?” He finally asks, brushing a stray hair from Soarynn’s face. She gives him a tired smile and nods, “Quite. That was…that was much better than what I could have ever imagined.”

Coriolanus laughs and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, a sweet gesture that Soarynn is rarely given but she cherishes all the same. “I’m sure with time, you’ll discover things you like and things you don’t like,” he tells her, his hand traveling down her abdomen, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

Soarynn simply hums and lets him slowly pull out. It almost feels strange to be empty once again but Coriolanus looks mighty proud of himself as he looks down at the mess he’s made between her legs. Soarynn gasps when he swipes a finger up her cunt and it comes away sticky with a red-looking substance. She sits up on her elbows to see a small red stain on the once-white sheets as well.

Her blood. Well, looks like she’s not a virgin anymore.

Coriolanus gives her a rather sultry look, “Looks like you’re truly mine now darling.”

꧁ ꧂

꧁ Present Time ꧂

“Here we are, Mrs. Snow. Would you like me to wait?”

The driver’s words pull Soarynn away from her reminiscent moment and she nods, giving the driver a kind smile, “Yes, please. I won’t be long.”

If Coriolanus is as busy as she thinks he is, she’ll be in and out. Even though she wishes she could stay longer, be around him longer. It’s rather hard to get to know your husband if you only see him when he gets home from work.

But Soarynn pushes those negative thoughts away and opens the car door, stepping out onto the Capitol street in front of the large office building her husband works inside. A slight wave of dizziness hits her and she steadies herself against the car.

She’s been feeling a bit lightheaded for the past few days but she’s shrugged it off for the most part. She probably just needs to get some more sleep. But as she walks into the prominent office building and spots a front desk worker sporting a rather large pregnant stomach, it dawns on her that she might be pregnant.

Certainly, it couldn’t be. But maybe it could be. They certainly haven’t been having unprotected sex for the lack of trying to get pregnant and Soarynn knows that Coriolanus longs for children someday.

Pregnancy aside, Soarynn is here for one thing and one thing only. Her husband. She prepares herself for his closed-off demeanor while riding up in the elevator. She knows it’s nothing personal, that he’s not doing it to hurt her. That's simply how Coriolanus is.

Cold and calculated.

| Part 3. |

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

[leggerefiore]

really funny scenerio of reader whos dating cyrus getting isekai'ed and trying to not catch any feelings for cyllene because she reminds them so much of him. Reader trying to explain this to him later after getting back "I'm sorry but she was so much like you but she also had a sword"

uhh, this ended really long and heavy whoops

cw: jealousy, fluff, complicated relationships, time travelling,

pairing: Cyrus/Reader, Cyllene/Reader

Hisui had been a harrowing experience. You had not thought yourself particularly spoiled within the confines of the modern day… Though, perhaps, you should have realised that having a company president for a boyfriend whose main interest for you was keeping you pleased and at his side while not looking too much into his plans was not exactly a common thing. Sure, he would buy whatever you requested with little question, but… Well, you had not always been like that. The comfort of it was recognised and appreciated. Though, Hisui did not even compare to your life before settling into that comfort.

Life was a fleeting thing in Hisui. Modern medicine was on the precipice of its birth, but infections still were a terrifying killer for any serious injury. Pokemon were more violent and untamed. Cities were a dream of the future and barely a thing within the sparkling northern island. The bustling Jubilife of your era was now reduced to its delicate infancy. Traditional style buildings liked the streets, walls surrounded the city to keep out dangerous wild pokemon, people were flooding in from various other regions to the allure of a new life. A new life that may have called for them – Yours did not call for you.

But, you found a strange comfort in the daily struggle to survive. A strange comfort that you felt your stomach twist at the thought of sometimes. Your captain – Oh, how you had burst into tears nearly at the sight of her. Her beauty may have certainly been subjective, but so had Cyrus's own. You had managed to stop yourself then, processing this situation oddly. Her harsh words struck reality back, too. Many might have been hurt – angry, perhaps — at her manner of speaking. But… It was a familiarity. You knew how to read between the lines of that manner of speaking.

Most of your interactions with her were purely professional within the ranking of yourself as her underling, but her praise always seemed to go right to your heart. You were lonely. Dreadfully so. In Sinnoh, you had friends. Even with your difficult situation with Cyrus, you were never alone. Cynthia certainly seemed to make it her responsibility to monitor over you, so she never truly allowed room for you to linger alone. Now, however, you felt completely isolated. Othered, even. The villagers treated you like an oddity, and other members of the Galaxy Team made their distrust apparent. Harsh walls were built all around you. The cushy life you had known felt more apparent as you wept in the quiet of your quarters.

Perhaps… That was what led to you to tear up in front of Cyllene, too. A thinly veiled threat. Everything was dangled in front of you. Cyrus never did that to you. The stark contrast snapped your emotional control for a moment and brought you on the verge of a breakdown. Your lowered head prevented you from seeing the slight shift of expression that Cyllene had held. The next time you encountered her to review the pokedex, she seemed oddly softer. Her praise came through clearly, and for a moment, her hand even lingered near yours when you went to grab the research back.

Everything had seemed relatively peaceful as you completed your assigned tasks and the extra ones related to the nobles. Life almost had a rhythm to it. One that you treaded carefully – one that broke just when you believed it was all over. Kamado's orders were harsh and callous. The only kindness shown was leaving you to the whims of nature rather than the punishment of law. Cyllene even seemed to tense up at his words. Her eyes… The way her pupils shrunk while her face did not shift. Distress. You knew it all too well. Your first instinct was to reach a hand to ground her in reality, but you stopped yourself. She was not Cyrus. This was not Sinnoh.

She led you out from the village with the professor and your fellow Survey Corps member in tow. For a moment, however, she dismissed both them and the Security Corps member that had followed. A firm hand came to your shoulder instead. Her genuine words made your heart race. Then, her grip tightened. “… When… This is over, I would like to speak to you privately,” her voice was trained, careful. Your heart raced. Privately… The pang of feeling those words drew out…

When the madness came to an end, a festival followed. Somehow, you ended up alone with Cyllene in a mostly deserted part of the village. The quietness of the air was consuming. Her hand suddenly grabbed your own. The piercing blue eyes met your own. “… You stare at me with such desperation,” her words completely caught you off-guard, “I must remind you of someone, do I not? You seem utterly infatuated… It is unfair.”

Your attempts to explain would be seen as madness. Yes, Captain Cyllene, whenever I look at you, I think of your descendant from far into the future and how much I love him and how similar you are to him and how desperate I am for any form of known comfort here. You swallowed and shook your head. Her eyes closed. “Even so… I am not a fool,” she stepped closer to you, bringing a scarred hand to hold your cheek, “Please, even for just a moment, let us have each other.” You felt shocked by her proclamation. Protests were silenced when her arms came around you. For just a moment… She said for just a moment. Cyrus was so far away… You might not ever return back to Sinnoh. This may be your permanent place in the world.

For just a moment, you dropped your barriers as she did.

~

This world seemed keen to mock you, however. Volo came spouting information about a certain pokemon. Orders to collect information followed. While you had thought the blond trustworthy enough, you felt your guard on high alert even still. Cynthia had a certain ruthlessness to her… You could see a plain resemblance between the two. Whatever Volo was seeking, you could only hope his goals were something genuine.

They had not been, but you received a great power from his aid. Arceus. The being who had brought you here… And the being that would return you back from whence you came. The pokedex was completed – as were your tasks from both it and your captain. You knew that the sands of time that previously seemed impossible to work through were now pushing you away from where it previously trapped you. Staying in Hisui... You could… You had a place here now. Hailed as a hero among the very people who had accused you of trying to bring about their end. Sinnoh, however… Sinnoh called to you. The comfort of the modern era, your cushy, comfortable life called to you.

Your farewells were to a small group personally. The clan leaders, the professor, your fellow Survey Corps member… Even Kamado. The most personal, however, had been Cyllene. The captain met you at the Temple of Sinnoh. She stood firm – posture stained and perfect. You knew your time with her would never be permanent… It seemed she was aware, too. You loved her descendant, and… Well, you knew that you were not to be anywhere in Cyrus's family history. She had pressure on her shoulders to conform to greater society, as well. You wished that you could take her with you, to free her of her bindings. She would never agree, though. It was not her nature.

“… May I ask you one favour,” Cyllene spoke clearly. You listened to her carefully. “That person – The one you saw in me – Who are they?” You froze. A truthful answer left your lips. Lying was pointless at this time. Her eyes closed. A genuine laugh left her. Suddenly, the weight was gone from her. A smile was on her face. “I see… My descendant…” her voice sounded so different from the usual one that gave you orders. The face of Cyllene reserved for those closest to her. You had earned that place. “Take care of them,” she demanded, “… And, this may sound strange, but can I request that you take them to Hoenn? Specifically…” She gave a location that you quickly scribbled on your hand. Arceus let out a cry. Hurry it up, you supposed.

She stepped forward once more and embraced you. A kiss was softly pressed to your lips. Worries for judgment were useless in such an isolated location. Her hand lingered over yours for a moment. She backed away. “… Goodbye,” her head lowered, “I will remember you always.”

You bid your own parting.

Then left the lands of Hisui for good.

~

Sinnoh was as it always was. Except you were reported missing, and those around and dear to you were subsequently panicking when you simply walked in your apartment door with no explanation. None more so than Cyrus himself, who had been sitting in said apartment. He was a complete mess. You were shocked to see him without a proper shave and the apartment genuinely a mess. He was shocked that you were alive and seemingly unharmed.

A mess followed. Police questioning, Cyrus demanding to know what actually happened to you, Cynthia's presence making you feel like you were about to have Giratina sent to attack you once again. You were happy to explain that, simply, you had no recollection. There was no way anyone would believe your story. Even if you tried to use the photos of you preserved within a museum in Jubilife city, it simply was too illogical. The isolation you felt crept back in.

Yet, before you could fall too much, a hand reached out to grab you from darkening thoughts. A firm hand. A known hand. Familiar piercing eyes. Cyrus demanded to know. He brought out some old preserved family pictures, even. You gasped. An image that you and Cyllene had taken together. You almost felt tears burn your eyes. That had not been so long for you, yet… The truth was that this was an antique heirloom. You blurted out your story to him, losing any and every filter you had. Some moments made his face fall into something terrifying, while others almost brought a particular smugness to him. Particularly, those involving Volo... Though, you had him baffled when you spoke of his ancestor. So brightly and positively… Your entire self lit up.

Cyrus almost recognised that expression. He had seen it many times himself. Something inside him felt bitter jealousy sting. That fondness… That affection… He believed it was solely for him. Even glancing at the photo that you still held, he felt petty. You two were clearly far too close. Cyllene stood over you as you sat on a chair. The casual clothing reflected familiarity. His gaze met yours. Everything described was clearly the truth. You noticed his mood change. Suddenly, it hit you. At the time, you had felt uncertain if you would ever return back to here. Being with Cyllene had been easy. You were not in Hisui any more, had a very real and lengthy relationship with the man before you. The thought of him suddenly gushing about someone else to you in such a manner would sting.

“… She… She was like you,” you finally finished off everything, “Her beliefs, her attitude, her kindness… All of it was like you. I was alone, and she was the only familiar person around. In my worst moments, she still supported me… And… And well… She was kind of… er, hot when she showed off her sword.”

Cyrus's expression was fully masked. He only blinked.

“… Is that so?” the reply clearly reflected his inability to respond. You covered up your face. What had you done? He shifted his position closer to you. His hands grasped your own and revealed your gaze to him. “I did kendo during my youth,” he said, with almost a hint of pride. You fought back your laugh.

“You hated it.”

“I am competent with a sword.”

“You'll be out of practise. It's been over a decade.”

His eyes closed. You rested your forehead to his. Comfort… You had really been back into a comfortable life. There was no more harsh, dangerous work to survive… No more harsh glares and accusations levied at you. Cyllene… She had let you go with the knowledge that happiness waited for you here. Her final act of kindness had been setting you free and bidding you a farewell. You grasped his hands tightly. Cyrus… You had missed him dearly. They were similar, yet not the same.

“Hey, how do you feel about a trip to Hoenn?” you asked him.

“So soon? You should readjust to being here first… I have scheduled you a doctor's appointment as well,” Cyrus argued. His voice left little room for argument. You were not giving in, however.

“If I'm cleared, then we go,” you demanded, “I made a promise to her. She wanted you to go to Hoenn.”

“… If you get cleared, then sure,” he relented, seeing the passion burning in your eyes.

~

You were cleared.

Cyrus found Hoenn to have entirely too much water, alas, but enjoyed the hot springs in Lavaridge enough.

The location Cyllene asked specifically for was the sight of a long-destroyed village. You could only wonder what she wanted to show you by going here.

[kinkandkreep]

♡︎ 𝐂𝐖: 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐫

♡︎ "__" 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞

♡︎ 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

♡︎ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @missgab @sucidalbutpretty @kawaiimusiccollection @nekogeisha-blog @k-cris @dreamsygirl @fishisahappydog @mikeyaki @mytaiyakeylover @tampon-earrings @wakashudou @aaria-malfoy @halparkebitch @cashout-princess @loveameripanshipperlove

Following your episode at dinner, you and Izana made yourselves comfortable on his plush leather couch, snuggling close to one another, with Toto finding his home curled up in your lap. You’d slipped out of your dinner outfit, now clad in one of Izana’s big shirts and some leggings.

Something was queued up on the television, but neither of you paid what was on much mind. Instead, you were both caught up in your own thoughts. 

Izana, though he knew it probably wasn’t the most appropriate thing, kept replaying your earlier words in his head. 

‘__ slept with Hanma? Does that mean there’s potentially something more between them?’ 

The white haired man worries his bottom lip as he thinks, eyes glazed with concern. 

It’s somewhat shameful, he knows, but upon hearing that Manjiro had made such a huge, terrible decision and pushed you away, Izana thought that perhaps now might be his chance to do what he should have done years ago before the little blond bastard snatched you away from him. 

He wasn’t too apt to admit it, though he wasn’t necessarily ashamed of it, but Izana was fairly certain he’d been in love with you for about as long as he’d known you. Of course, as cognizant as he was of this, and as good as he was at masking his emotions most of the time, he figured that neither you nor anyone else would be privy to that information. 

Except for one person. 

Izana’s frown deepens at the thought that Manjiro had known about his love for you, and that his decision to marry you was partly motivated by spite. It’s certainly a horrible thought, but it’s a thought Izana can’t help but have nevertheless. 

Now though, with the revelation that you’ve actually slept with Hanma, Izana can feel the most minute amount of fear creep along his spine that you’ll be swept away from him again. 

His hand absentmindedly rubs your arms in a manner meant to be comforting, but it also serves to ground him as his thoughts spiral.

You, on the other hand, are consumed with thoughts about where this night is headed. 

You’re not sure why you divulged the fact that you’d slept with Hanma to Izana, but now that you had, you felt a strange sort of tension between the two of you. 

You hoped Izana wouldn’t judge or think differently of you now, even though you knew the likelihood of that happening was nearly nonexistent. 

But why then were things now so awkward?

‘Was it because I cried? Now that I think about it, that was kind of embarrassing. Aw man, I knew I should’ve just kept quiet.’

You sigh, which of course catches Izana’s attention. 

“You ok __? If you’re tired, you’re welcome to the guest room, or even my bed if you’d prefer that.” 

You looked over at the clock mounted on the wall. It was pretty late, running up on midnight, and your earlier crying session had admittedly left you a little worn out. 

“Thanks NaNa, I actually am kind of tired. I’ll take the guest room, no problem. I wouldn’t want to kick you out of your own space.” Standing, your cradle little Toto, who up to this point had been asleep, to your chest, placing a little smooch on his fluffy head.

“Where should I deposit the little one?”

Something about the visual of you cradling a little bundle dressed in an article of his clothing has Izana’s heart fluttering a little bit. 

“Uh, his bed is in my room. Here, I’ll show you the way.” 

You follow Izana, cooing at the sleeping Toto the short walk to his bedroom. 

Once there, you gently place the sleeping pup down, watching fondly as he shifts slightly before settling. 

"I'm happy he's so comfortable around you. I don't think I mentioned it before, but Toto was a stray. I found him wandering the streets near my apartment one day, if you can believe it. He was really hesitant initially for anyone to come near him, but overtime he's grown more open to other people. Though you seem to have left an especially good impression."

Izana chuckles, clasping a hand on your shoulder and gently squeezing. 

You smile. "Just call me the pup whisperer." 

A little bit later, you've settled into the guest room for the night. It's around 1 o'clock now, and while you mentioned being tired earlier, you find that you’re having trouble falling asleep. 

Visions of your earlier encounter with Mikey and flashes of the pictures exposing his infidelity plague your mind this particular night, causing you to toss and turn. 

You stop for a moment, listening for Izana. 

‘Ugh, this is so stupid. Why can’t I just forget and fall asleep?’

You huff, frustrated with and frankly over the whole situation. 

It takes a few more minutes, but eventually you decide that you’ve had it. Standing, you quietly make your way over to Izana’s bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, and you peek inside. 

The man seems to be sound asleep, laying lateral with his right hand tucked under his head. His breaths are quiet and even- long, white lashes fanned out over stubbornly plump cheeks. 

You can’t help but giggle quietly at the thought. NaNa always complained about how stubborn the fat on his cheeks was, and how they’d never slimmed down like Mikey’s. 

Steeling yourself, you push the door open more, easing inside and carefully shutting it behind you. 

You stand to the side of the bed for about a minute, contemplating your next move. 

‘Should I just…get in bed with him? That would be kind of invasive, and I’d hate to wake him up over something so silly.’

Having successfully convinced yourself that this whole endeavor was stupid, you prepare to turn and exit the room, being stopped when you hear a low voice mumble “__?”

You turn, only to see vibrant lavender irises blearily focused on you.  

“Hey NaNa. Sorry, did I wake you? I was just…ugh, what was I doing?”

You sigh, feeling even worse now that you’ve accidentally woken your host. 

“It’s ok. What’s the matter? Come here.”

Izana sits upright, opening his arms and gesturing for you to come closer with his hands. 

Before you really recognize it, you’re launching yourself into his embrace, feeling more than hearing the rumble of a chuckle he releases in his chest. 

“It’s ok, __. Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you, or do you just need someone there to help you sleep?”

Your response is muffled, but Izana can make out the word “both” before you begin to pull away from his chest. He’s still somewhat groggy from sleep, but he can see the beginnings of tears well up in your eyes. 

“Sorry to wake you with this,” you say, rubbing the heels of your palms forcefully into your eyeballs. 

Izana chuckles, shaking his head dismissively. 

“It’s no bother at all. I’m glad you find some comfort, however small, in me.”

You can’t help the tiny smile that forms at Izana’s words. You’re grateful in the moment that you’ve got such an amazing support system surrounding you. 

“Thanks NaNa, I truly appreciate you.”

The two of you snuggle close to one another as you lie down, your face buried into Izana’s neck and chest. You breathe in deep lungfuls of his naturally spicy, slightly sweet scent, happy to find that the rhythm you’ve adopted in combination with the comforting smell is slowly lulling you to sleep. 

Izana tenderly and lightly scratches his fingers over your scalp, hoping to soothe you even further. Trying to be as subtle as possible, or at least, more subtle than you anyway, he breathes in your scent as well, eyelids fluttering over lilac irises as it invades his senses. 

“I love you, __.”

Mostly asleep by this point, and not thinking too much of it, you respond:

“Love you too, NaNa.”

When the morning arrives, you find that you’ve slept quite fitfully. Being snuggled up to Izana left you pleasantly warm and comfortable, and your mood has improved drastically from the night prior. 

Yawning and stretching until you hear a satisfying pop sound, you look over to your host, finding that he’s still fast asleep. 

He looks adorable, curled up and breathing quietly through his slightly parted lips. 

Smiling, you lean down without thinking and place a kiss on his exposed forehead. NaNa’s hair has grown out over the years, not being as long as it was when you were younger, but it still reaches about shoulder length, and is much fluffier than before as well. 

The gentle touch of your lips to his skin causes Izana to stir, and he eventually blinks open tired eyes to focus on you. 

“Good morning, __.” Izana’s voice is much raspier after sleep. 

“Good morning NaNa. So, what shall we do for breakfast? If you’re awake enough for that.” 

The man chuckles, slowly sitting up and stretching in much the same manner as you had earlier. 

“How about we try this European recipe I discovered a little bit ago? I should have all the ingredients, and it’s very simple to make.”

You nod, ecstatic about the prospect of food. “Sounds good to me.” 

About 30 minutes later, after both you and Izana have washed up for the day, you find yourselves in the kitchen, an assortment of bread, cheese, fruit and preserves laid out before you on the counter. 

“Wow NaNa, we haven’t even made whatever you’re talking about yet and it already looks delicious.” You can feel saliva pooling in your mouth in anticipation as Izana laughs. 

“And that’s not all. No breakfast anywhere would be complete without eggs.” 

Grabbing the eggs from the fridge, Izana spends the next 15 or so minutes showing you how to make lightly buttered brioche toast coated with fresh strawberry preserves and paired with fluffy, goat cheese eggs and even more fresh fruit. 

“Here, put some of the egg on your toast and try everything in one bite.” Izana holds up an egg covered portion of the buttered and jammed toast for you to taste. 

Leaning forward and taking what was probably a larger bite than would be considered polite, you hum approvingly, thoroughly enjoying the melding of the flavors, from the sweetness of the fruit to the tanginess of the cheese and savoriness of the eggs and butter. 

“This is delicious NaNa. It’s a good thing you found this recipe. And it’s so simple! I could make this for myself when I go back-...home…”

The thought of having to return to where Manjiro is halts you in your tracks, and your expression subconsciously falls.

Seeing this, Izana frowns, before placing a comforting hand on your shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. 

“Hey, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need. No rush, no need to stress.”

You offer him a sad smile, one which he readily returns, though his has a more cheerful edge to it. 

“Now, enough of that sadness. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us, and I don’t plan to let it go to waste.”

Spending the day with Izana seemed to be exactly what you needed. 

The two of you hit the town with a vengeance, stopping by all your favorite stores and small shops, not spending a whole ton of money but splurging here and there. You wouldn’t normally have indulged in retail therapy to soothe your frazzled nerves, but you found that it was actually proving to be quite effective. 

Around lunch time, you and Izana decided to hit up a new spot, one that specialized in Western cuisine. 

“So, feelin’ better?” Izana asks over a mouthful of Chicago deep dish pizza. 

“Much, all thanks to you.” You give him a much brighter smile than before, proceeding to stuff your face with your own slice. 

The two of you relax, chat and eat for the better part of an hour in the little restaurant, your previous vexations all but forgotten. 

Izana seems to have swiftly become a balm for all your worries, one which you are increasingly grateful for. As he eats, you observe him quietly, not realizing you’re staring so intently until you hear him distantly calling your name. 

“__.”

You startle a bit, blinking a couple times before humming in response. 

“Uh, yeah? Sorry, I didn’t mean to zone out there.”

Izana smiles, shaking his head. 

“No worries. But I asked if you had decided what you were going to do regarding the situation with Manjiro.” 

You sigh, picking up and absently wiping at your hands with a napkin before setting it on your now cleared plate. 

“I haven’t. Not really anyway. I’d initially decided that I was going to “make him suffer,” and while I do feel that I’ve, at least to some extent, been successful in doing that, I haven’t really made myself feel any better either. This situation is just so terrible and messed up, and I hate the fact that I’ve been pushed into it.”

You can feel the tears creeping up, and you lift your eyes, tilting your head back and taking a deep, steadying breath in and out to stave off the impending waterfall. 

Izana frowns, wishing more than anything that he could go back in time and change the past, so that maybe he could have done what he should have from the start, and spared you the heartbreak. 

Reaching over, Izana covers one of your hands with his own, squeezing gently for comfort. 

“I’m so sorry __. I wish I could do more to comfort you.” 

You shake your head, giving him a little smile. “No NaNa, you’ve done more than enough. Thank you.”

With that, the two of you finish up your meals, with Izana insisting on paying the tab. As you exit the establishment, a violent shiver shoots through you and you quickly jerk your head around in all directions, trying to locate whatever it is that made you so on alert. 

“__? You ok?” Izana watches you with a lifted brow. 

You don’t respond for a few seconds, still searching for the source of your sudden discomfort. Finding nothing, you breathe out a sigh, shaking your head to steady yourself. 

“Yeah just…felt something odd a moment ago.”

Izana’s lips purse in thought. “Hmm, I wonder what it could have been?”

Deciding to simply brush the strange feeling off, you hook your arm around Izana’s, loudly declaring that now you want to head to a dessert shop, something which makes the white haired man laugh.

Unbeknownst to the both of you, a certain blonde ex-gang leader sits observing your interaction from across the way. 

He sips quietly from his coffee cup, the hand not holding the glass clenched tightly into a fist on his lap. 

His mind swirls with violent machinations, though his expression remains uncharacteristically, and somewhat frighteningly, flat. 

Sitting down his drink, the man pulls out his phone, quickly sending a text before pocketing the device once more. 

‘Oh __, what a silly girl you are. But don’t worry, I promise I’m going to make everything alright again.’

ᵃ/ⁿ: ……..🙂 ʰᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉʸʸʸʸ ʸ'ᵃˡˡ…….

ᵒᵏ ᵖˡᵉᵉᵉᵉᵉᵃˢᵉ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʲᵘᵐᵖ ᵐᵉ, ⁱ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ⁱᵗ'ˢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᶠᵃᵉᵛᵃ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃ ᵈᵃʸ ˢⁱⁿᶜᵉ ⁱ ᵘᵖᵈᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵗʰⁱˢ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ. 😭

ᵇᵘᵗ ⁱ ᵃⁱⁿ'ᵗ ᶠᵃʰᵍᵒᵗ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ᵍⁱʳˡⁱᵉˢ! ⁱˢ ʲᵘˢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᵃ ˡᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁱⁿ' ᵒⁿ ʷⁱᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉⁿ ⁱ ᵃˡˢᵒ ʰⁱᵗ ᵃ ʳᵒᵃᵈᵇˡᵒᶜᵏ ᵃˢ ᶠᵃʳ ᵃˢ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ⁱ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵒʷ ⁱ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵗᵒ ᵖʳᵒᵍʳᵉˢˢ. 

ⁱ ˢᵗⁱˡˡ ᵃⁱⁿ'ᵗ ᵍᵒᵗ ⁱᵗ ᶜᵒᵐᵖˡᵉᵗᵉˡʸ ᶠⁱᵍᵘʳᵉᵈ ᵒᵘᵗ ʸᵉᵗ ᵇᵘᵗ ʷᵉ ᵍᵉᵗᵗⁱⁿ' ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ. 😂

ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵉᵃⁿᵗⁱᵐᵉ, ⁱ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸ'ᵃˡˡ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸᵉᵈ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵘᵖᵈᵃᵗᵉ! ˡᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰᵗˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵘᵍᵍᵉˢᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ! 👋🏾

[wittlesissyb4by]

Chapter 3

~~Click HERE for Chapter 2~~

Max hasn’t said anything today. I was up when he was getting ready for work, which is weird because I’m usually never up this early. But I guess I…wanted something to happen. I’m not exactly sure what I wanted. Last night seemed like it was a dream. 

Did I dream that? 

No. It was definitely real. I remember the taste of his cock, the taste of his cum. No dream is that vivid. No dream can make me that turned on. So I don’t know what I expected when I got up this morning, but I guess I was just hopeful for …something. Words of affirmation, a hug, a chance to suck his cock again…

Honestly just an acknowledgment of my presence would have been nice. But he didn’t even do that, just sipped his coffee while scrolling through his phone at the table. 

“Can I get you anything?” I want to say, but bite my tongue, not wanting to sound like some sort of desperate housewife. I want to address the elephant in the room, to talk about yesterday, whether or not we’re square. Did the blowjob I gave him really justify a whole month’s rent? Does he want more? Do I want more? How weird will our relationship be if we were to start some sort of strange sexual dynamic? What if it stops? What if it continues?

“Well, I’m off to work.” he says, pushing back his chair, gathering up his things and heading out the door without so much as a glance my way. 

“Okay by–” but it doesn’t even get all the way out of my mouth before the door slams shut.

Maybe he’s mad. Maybe he regrets what happened. I mean, it was his doing. He initiated it all and I just…let it happen.

Helped it happen.

I wasn’t exactly a helpless victim. It was me that was bobbing up and down on his big juicy cock by my own accord. God it tasted good. It felt good. Something I've denied myself for so long. 

I’m not gay. At least, I don’t think I am. I’ve always had an affinity for women. They are majestic, beautiful creatures. I love seeing their eyes and smiles brighten up a room. The way they laugh and can have fun and dance like no one is watching. The curve of their hips, their breasts. Their supple movements, the way they casually tuck their hair behind their ear, and bat their eyelashes. There is no doubt that they are by far the more attractive sex.

But I've always been plagued with a feeling of inferiority. Not being the biggest in the penis department has left me with anxiety that I won’t be able to perform or please them the way ‘real’ men can. I have lingering visions of women standing around, laughing at me because I have a shy bladder and can’t pee in a toilet in a timely manner. Or I take off a beautiful woman’s clothes and she laughs at the size of my dick, or is disappointed when it's not able to get hard due to my underlying fear and shame.

The combination of these phobias has most likely caused my brain to warp them into a series of fetishes. It sexualized my short-comings. I get turned on by a woman insulting the size of my penis. I get hard to the idea of them laughing at me, degrading me, humiliating me. 

My timidity when it comes to peeing in a toilet must have spawned the retention of such. ‘Since you can’t even use the toilet properly, maybe your teeny wieny is better suited for diapers instead!’ I imagine those laughing girls saying. 

All of this culminates into this whirlpool of self-doubt, and leaves me feeling like less of a man than others. Thus, I guess, is where the sissy stuff came from. Perhaps it was society’s fault. In our culture, anyone not befitting of a masculine, alpha, macho-man persona is unabashedly called a ‘sissy’. I figured out pretty early that I belonged in that category, and must have accepted it from an early age. 

Years of watching and reading porn only exacerbated my ‘problems’. I quickly learned what kind of things I enjoyed, and even found things I didn’t know I would enjoy. I was always attracted to diapers, but I didn’t know they could be combo’d with skirts and dresses. That was new. Two of my favorite things merged together in a perfect amalgamation. Combo that with a superior woman speaking to me in a humiliating, patronizing manner? Gold. Solid gold.

Then one day I found a video of a woman calling me a ‘wittle sissy baby’ and telling me she had a bottle for me. But this wasn’t just any bottle. It was a special bottle. And that’s when she brought in the giant dick that was waiting off screen.

I’ve never been attracted to men. Honestly. I’ve never looked at a man and found myself sexually attracted to them. Well, other than Ryan Reynolds, but that doesn’t count. I’m comfortable enough to tell when a man is good-looking, and can acknowledge it, but that’s usually as far as it goes. The idea of kissing, dating, or being romantic with a man does nothing for me. But the cock? Well…that’s a different story. 

I guess the inferiority complex I have with women carried over to men as well. I’m not naive enough to think I’m anything above the bottom of the totem pole. I consider myself the bottom of the societal barrel. A subservient. A willing participant to what others desire. A submissive. To anyone, regardless of sex or gender. And so, I guess my brain can’t differentiate between who it is that I’m serving. But porn quickly told me that, if you’re a sissy, you’re going to spend a lot of time serving men.

I’m not sure if it’s a deep desire I’ve held all along, or if I unknowingly Pavlov’d myself into it, but eventually the idea of being dressed up like a little diaperslut and sucking some dick became a very big fantasy of mine.

And so we circle back to Max. We’ve lived together for almost 2 years, and in that time I’ve never imagined myself with him. He’s a big, burly, ‘alpha’ male, but not even once did I fantasize about being on my knees in front of him, sucking and worshiping his cock. 

So now I’m conflicted. Did I enjoy what happened? I don’t think there’s any denying that. But I’m still hesitant. Caught in this weird limbo of right and wrong. I just got a little carried away, that’s all. I only did it because he told me to. Because I needed a place to live. If I didn’t do it, I was going to have to live on the streets. I was doing it for survival. Right?

He doesn’t say anything when he gets back from work. Just sighs in that exasperated way one does when they come home after a long day. He grabs a beer from the fridge, plops down on the couch, and turns on SportsCenter. 

I sit in the chair several feet away and act like I'm interested. “So the Bruins had the best record in the regular season?” I ask, parroting what the news anchors are saying, “and the most points in franchise history? And they still lost in the first round of the playoffs?”

He just nods absentmindedly, lounging on the couch and putting his hat over his head.

Assuming he’s about to take a nap, I stand up to leave. Heading out of the living room.

“Where are you going?” he asks abruptly beneath his cap.

“I was going to go play some games.” I reply, a bit disconcerted. 

“No you’re not.” He says simply.

“I’m not?”

“No.”

I don’t say anything for a bit, just have my mouth hanging open in confusion, so he continues.

“You’re going to put on an outfit for me.” He says, “The schoolgirl outfit will do.” He doesn’t need to clarify, but he does anyway: “The slutty one.”

My stomach drops. From fear or excitement I'm not exactly sure. “I…wh-what do–”

“Get made up for me.” He says, still talking beneath his hat, “I want you to look your best.”

******

My hands shake as I apply the last bit of mascara to my lashes. I’m not sure if I'm giddy with excitement or fear. Is this really happening? 

I usually revel in the idea of dressing up like a little slut, but no one has actually seen the finished product. What is he going to do when he sees me like this? Will he humiliate me? Laugh at me? Tease me? Fuck me?

My mind swims with the possibilities. I stand up and check myself in the mirror. I definitely look passable, maybe even fuckable. After readjusting the ‘breasts’ of my stuffed shirt, I take a little turn, watching my mini-skirt lift as I twirl.  I feel…pretty. Desirable. I just hope he agrees. There’s butterflies in my stomach and I don’t even know what’s about to happen. Maybe it’s the thrill of the unknown, but I feel ready for any possibility. 

The only thing left is to figure out what to put beneath my skirt. Should I wear a diaper? It certainly would be my first choice, but would it be his? A pair of pampers doesn’t exactly scream ‘slutty’, and I don’t want to turn him off or scare him away from whatever might take place. So I decided on a pair of skimpy boy-shorts. It only just hits me how ironic that term is. I didn’t feel like much of a boy when I wrapped them around my parts. If anything, it was like putting the final nail in the coffin that made me feel like a girl. 

One last glimpse in the mirror before I saunter off into the unknown. I open my door with trepidation, it seems to creak louder than usual. I creep through the hall, the house is eerily quiet. At first I think he’s left, some kind of cruel joke. Or maybe he’s just napping. Should I wake him if he is? How awkward would that be? Hey Max, wake up, time to see your roommate dressed like a cheap whore. 

But when I turn the corner, he’s sitting on the couch, bolt upright, a big smile on his face. 

I scrunch up as I walk in front of him, suddenly very self-conscious. Does my hair look okay? What do I say? What do I do? Luckily, he helps me. 

“Turn around.” 

I do, legs quivering. 

“All the way.”

A complete twirl. My arms stiff at my sides. 

“Relax. Give me a little curtsy.”

I feel myself loosen a bit as I grab the hem of my tiny skirt, jut my leg out, and dip shakily. 

I can feel his eyes panning me over. I feel like an object, a painting on the wall for him to admire, and I don’t exactly hate the feeling. 

“Face away from me.” He growls. His voice is a little shaky, is he nervous too? Or is it…something else?

I tiptoe around, facing the TV. It’s off, so I can see my face reflecting in the black screen. I can see him too, he’s smiling, and his hand is rubbing over the front of his pants. 

“Bend over.”

I do, hinging at the waist. I can feel the breeze hit the bottom of my cheeks as my skirt lifts, exposing my panties. 

“You have such a nice ass.”

It’s such a strange comment. Not creepy, just…something he’s never said to me before. It makes me warm inside, to be complimented in such a way. 

“Th-thank you…” I squeak awkwardly. 

“Come here.” He says. 

I turn, moseying up to him, perhaps a little too eagerly. 

“Knees.”

I drop again, the same position I was in last night. 

He’s still rubbing his pants. I can see his bulge, I can see his cock in my mind, my mouth subconsciously starts to water. 

“I’m going to be honest.” He says. “I spent all weekend masturbating to the thought of you in this outfit.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but it was oddly enticing. Someone imagining me? Using me as the object of their desires, and actually jerking off to it? I never knew that would be such a confidence boost. 

“But seeing you now, it’s even better.”

I can’t help but smile. 

“Do you like wearing it?” He asks, “Things like this?”

I look down at myself, covered from head to toe in feminine attire. The way it accentuates my curves and gives me this overwhelming feeling of joy is indescribable. But I only give a sheepish nod. “Mhmm”

“Good.” He smiles, “Because you will be dressed like this very often. If you want me to pay your rent, you are going to be my personal…what word would you like me to use? ‘Slave’? ‘Slut’? ‘Pet’? ‘Bitch’? ‘Whore’?”

“Yes.” I say, indicating I wanted to be all of them. Any word he used to describe me would suffice. 

He nods in understanding. “Every day you will do what I say, when I say. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes sir.” He corrects. 

“Yes sir.” I repeat. 

He reaches a gruff hand out, cupping my chin, rubbing a rough thumb over my cheek. It makes me feel small, subservient, obedient. Like a puppy getting patted. He slips his thumb between my glossy lips. Without even thinking, I start to suck on it. 

“How do you want to do this?” He asks, “do you want me to be gentle? Or do you prefer me to be rough and mean?”

It doesn’t take me long to think of the answer. “Rough.” I say around his thumb, then resume sucking. 

“You’re sure?” He says, eyebrows raised. “I can be quite harsh.”

I nod, bobbing my head over his thumb like it’s a cock, wishing it were a cock. “Yes sir.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, plopping his thumb from my mouth. “Our safe word will be ‘Roomie’. Use it whenever you feel I’ve gone too far.”

I nod, doubting I would ever need to do so .

He smiles, sitting back, then taps his leg. “Up.”

I’m a bit taken aback, not sure about the order, so he repeats.

“Up. Over my leg. Let’s go.”

Now I understand. I whimper as I crawl over his lap, I’m not sure if I’m just playing a part or am genuinely scared. Perhaps a bit of both. I can feel his cock pulsing in his pants as I put my own almost directly on top of it.

“Someone’s a little excited already.” He chuckles, reaching beneath my skirt to tickle my throbbing boner. He doesn’t pay it much mind though. I can feel him lifting my skirt so that my cheeks are exposed. “Look at your pretty panties.” He muses. I don’t even have time to thank him before I feel a sharp swat on my ass.

“Nnghh!” I yelp.

“You like that?” He asks sternly.

I bite my lip, ass still stinging, but nod. “Yes sir.” My voice is higher pitched, as if falling into submission has caused it to raise an octave. 

Five sharp swats, one on each cheek. I whimper with each one. I’ve never gotten a spanking before, I didn’t imagine it would hurt quite so bad. Max doesn’t seem to be holding back, but I trust him. I know this isn’t his first time. I’ve heard the same smacks and yelps coming from his room when he’s brought home a girl–or even a guy sometimes. He seems to be no stranger to a D/s relationship.

Twenty more smacks in quick succession. My ass is on fire now. Where I was embellishing a bit before, my cries of pain have become much more genuine. I grip the cushions of the couch as he shows no signs of stopping.

By 40…or is it 50? I’ve lost count. But I’m having to bite my bottom lip to keep from screaming. Finally, he stops. I can feel the heat radiating from my butt. But my reprieve is short lived, he just needed time to yank my panties down. I give some pitiful plea of “no no no, please!” as he raises his hand to begin the onslaught again.

At around 60 or 70, I’m in literal tears. 

“Do you remember your word?”

I nod, sniffling. 

“Do you want to use it?”

I clench my eyes closed at what I’m about to say, shaking my head “no sir…”

I can feel him smiling down at me. “Okay then…”

My arms are flailing and legs are kicking with every smack now. He grips the former with his non-spanking hand, and throws his leg over my floundering thighs. 

I regret every second of not using the safeword. I still consider using it, but I want to be strong. I want to impress him, as silly as it sounds. I bite my knuckle to keep myself from screaming loud enough to wake the neighbors.The leather of the couch is slick from my tears and snot. His blows aren’t as fast anymore, but they're stronger and more pronounced. Each one makes me squeal and sob pathetically. Whatever respect he had for me before has probably evaporated long ago.

After what seems like forever, the swats finally stop. I’m bawling into the cushions of the couch, and my ass feels like it’s black and blue. It’s a good thing I don’t have a job at the moment, because I doubt I would be able to sit at a desk tomorrow.

“You okay?” he asks softly. His voice has dropped that rough, hardness from before. I nod, not sure whether or not I’m lying. 

I feel him fumble for something in his pants. I hear the click of a cap, then a squirt. A cooling sensation coats my buttcheeks as he runs his hand over them with some type of lotion. Did he have that in his pocket this whole time?

Whatever it is, it feels good against my burning bum. He rubs it sensually, taking his time, being gentle despite the damage he inflicted before. 

“This is what will happen if you disobey me,” He says. I believe him, and it’s enough to make me not want to ever think about acting up. 

He squirts another dollop of lotion, but this time it’s between my cheeks. I can feel his fingers coaxing my crack open. Tracing, searching for my little button. 

“I like that you shave your pussy,” He says, “I want it to stay this way.”

I whimper, twitching as he pokes and prods at my hole. I can feel his dick stiffening in my lap as he presses his finger into me. The most pathetic moan escapes my lips before I can stop it. He plunges his finger deeper and deeper into me. I welcome every single knuckle, even press my hips backwards, hungry for more.

He chuckles again, “Such a little slut you are.”

I’m panting, like a bitch in heat. The combination of his finger and his words are driving me crazy. I’m humping backwards against his finger desperately as he presses down on my prostate. Mixed with the now dull throb of my blistered cheeks, it’s almost too much to handle. I’ve always enjoyed my pleasure spiked with pain.

He raises my hips up so that he can have access to my dangling dick underneath. “Such a teeny weeny clitty” he teases, wrapping two fingers around it. He works his hand up and down on my cock while driving his finger in me from behind. Before I know it, I feel that familiar tingle.

“Ask permission to cum.” he growls.

“Can I cum, sir?” I moan, not even bothering to try to make myself sound the least bit masculine. It’s pitchy and pathetic and desperate.

“Not yet.” He continues to work me with his masterful hands. I groan into the couch, grabbing at the cushions, his burly legs, a pillow, anything. 

“Please!” I shout, “Sir! Can I cum?! PLEASE!”

I can’t hold out any longer. It’s by some small miracle that he says “You may,” just before I explode all over his lap. A second later and it would have happened without his say-so. What would he have done if I were to cum without his permission? I loathe to find out. He shoves me down on the floor in a heap, gasping for breath. It takes me a couple minutes to collect myself. When I do, he’s still smiling down at me in a victorious sort of way.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks.

“Y-yes…sir…” I say between breaths.

“Good.” he says, “Because you have a mess to attend to.”

He points down at the gooey, white puddle I made on the crotch of his pants.

“Every load you make ends up in your mouth.” He growls, “Do you understand?”

“Yes sir…”

“Clean me up then.”

I don’t have the same eagerness as I did before. I’m a bit repulsed as I crawl between his legs and start lapping up my loser goo. But as my tongue runs over his pants I can feel the outlines of his hardening cock. I suck and slurp the mess off the hem of his pants, running my tongue through the flap of the zipper, making sure I get every last drop. He’s damp by the time I’m done, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He stands up. Again, it’s almost like nothing just happened. He goes to the cabinet, pulls out a glass, fills it up with water and takes a long swig. “Ahhh…” he exhales, looking off into the distance, then eventually back at me. “Go to my room.” He says, “I want you on my bed. Face down. Ass up.”

******

“This is my asshole now!” Max grunts, slapping my tender cheeks while he pumps his cock in and out of my rectum. “Tell me whose ass this is!”

The pillow is moist from me biting and drooling on it to keep from screaming. His dick feels amazing, but I’m not used to being pounded like this. There was only so much training I could do with my dildo…

“It’s your ass, sir!” I squeak louder than the springs of the mattress. 

“Daddy.” He growls. “Call me Daddy.”

“It’s your asshole, Daddy! It’s your asshole!”

“I own you,” he groans, “Do you understand??”

“Yes Daddy!” I really gotta get my voice under control. It gets so whiny and wimpy when I’m getting fucked.

I can feel his dick swelling, getting even stiffer than I thought possible. “I’m going to cum!” He tells me, “Where do you want me to cum?”

“In my asshole, Daddy!”

“Whose asshole?!”

“Your asshole!!” I correct. 

I can hear him laughing between the grunts, I wonder if we’ll joke about this later. It’s amazing what people say in the heat of the moment. 

“I’m gonna breed you like a little bitch!”

“Cum inside me Daddy!”

“You’re fucking miiiine!!” an exasperated groan, a warmth filling my insides, I can feel him convulse behind me as he deposits his load in my rectum. He removes his member and collapses on the bed shortly after.

I don’t know what to do at this point. What do you say to someone that just came inside of you? ‘Thanks’? I wait for him to come to, still in the doggy-style position.

He peeks an eye open. “Go to your room.” He says. “You’re not sleeping here.”

I wonder if, now that he’s lost his lust, he’s no longer interested in me. Is this how girls feel all the time? Constantly wondering whether or not they’re good enough? Worrying if they’ve done something wrong?

I climb off the bed and take the (luckily short) walk of shame back to my room, his cum leaking down my leg.

When I enter through my door, there’s a buzzing coming from my desk. Did I leave one of my vibrating toys on?

No…it’s just my phone, but it shows you where my head has been all day. The light stings my eyes as I look at it. My stomach drops a bit when I see who’s calling.

I tap the little green button.“Hello?”

“You know, Jake…” Zoey’s sweet voice says, “Part of having a girlfriend means you have to actually talk to her on the phone every once in a while!”

To Be Continued

If you're liking where this is going, and would like to read more, head on over to SubStar! My subscribers are currently reading Chapter 7!

[baegetas]

》 heaven.

zamasu x afab reader

summary: zamasu isn't fond with another mortal flirting with his favorite human, and he's done sitting back and watching.

(original was posted on my main account, this is rewritten in second person!)

warnings: minors do not interact, explicit content: fingering, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, possessive themes, rough sex, overstimulation

word count: 2.4k

↳ "i've never seen you so nervous."

to have a supreme kai staring you down - it's a harrowing experience. silver, narrowed eyes were looking through your irises and right into your soul. standing mere inches from you was zamasu. and he did not look pleased.

"zamasu." your voice came out weak. "what's gotten into you?"

his jaw clenched ever so slightly. "the concept of one of those barbaric mortals even so much as thinking that they have the right to someone as divine as you is absolutely revolting."

you blinked a few times. that's what it was about. "he... just asked for my phone number. i told him no."

"as you should have." his voice cold. using his finger, he tilted your chin upwards. "and as you should do for every single one of those filthy beings who dare to ask for even a sliver of your attention."

"i... don't understand. you know how i feel about people." his hand was cradling your jaw, thumb brushing against your lip. "what... is this about, really?"

"what is it about?" he was eyeing you lovingly. "it's about the fact that there is but one being fit to claim you."

swallowing roughly, your lips parted just a bit to murmur, "... who?"

he chuckled and purred, "me."

your breath caught in your throat. his expression was stoic - never changing. there was no glimmer in his eye that hinted at a lie. "you... want me? but i'm..."

"... a mortal? perhaps, but you're a special case, dear." his confident aura was penetrating through your skin, paralyzing you. "i'm just surprised that you never noticed. mortals do tend to be quite oblivious, so i won't take offense."

"you... want me." your voice came out barely audible, like you were trying to convince yourself that this was true. it made him smirk. to him, you were so small and weak. and the lost, clueless look on your face was making it better. "in... what ways?"

zamasu moved centimeters closer to you, speaking in a low, sultry voice. "in all ways, darling. if that's alright with you."

"wouldn't that... break rules?"

"supreme kai law? i suppose." he brushed a piece of hair from your face, leaning ever closer. "but you and i both know that i care little for those old-fashioned doctrines."

"i see." a brief silence followed, and your eyes were darting around his face. it was a second that lasted for hours. "... it's alright with me."

"are you sure?" he tilted his head in a sarcastic manner. "once you start, you won't be able to stop. you never will. i'm sure you're aware."

your jaw was trembling ever so slightly. "i'm sure."

he smirked in such a feral way that it exposed his fangs, and he chuckled to himself. "good. that's exactly what i wanted to hear, my dear."

that's when his lips crash into yours, startling you. you didn't think he would ever actually do such a thing. to break his moral code and kiss a mortal? a human, of all things? it was ridiculous, but you weren't going to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

he pushed you against the wall, doing his best to mind his own strength. hands slid down your sides as you began to reciprocate the kiss. his tongue pressed into your mouth, strangely-cold spit mingling with your own. in fact, everything about him was cold, even his skin. yet, his passioned burned like an out of control fire.

when he pulled back, he mumbled to himself, "exquisite. even better than i imagined."

trying to catch your breath, you push out, "you... been thinking about me?"

"of course i have." he presses his body against yours, hand resting against the side of your neck. "you invaded my thoughts. thoughts of purity, righteousness, and justice being tainted by ones of desire. i tried so hard to resist, but you've simply made it to difficult. i want nothing more than to devour you and invade your mind in the same manner."

he begins to kiss you again. his hand was pulling at your shirt, and then he separated from you for just enough time to remove it. with a growl, his lips met yours again, and his hands moved to your chest. you were being suffocated by him, and that's exactly how he wanted it to be.

"come here." he growled that against your lips, with a flushed look on his face.

he pulled you toward the bed, and turned you around. your back was facing him as he pulled you into his lap, and his cool breath was hitting your neck. his hands slid up your thighs, to your hips, and your chest. he unclasped your bra and threw it to the side. you felt him tense up as he rasped, "you are simply divine, darling."

his lips met yours as his hands played with your chest. teasing your nipples, you whimpered right into his mouth. your hips rolled against his still-clothed legs, leaving you with only half the friction you desired. when he diverted his attention to your neck, your head fell back against his shoulder. kissing and nipping at your skin, he was so pleased by the reactions he was getting from you. it was even better when you groaned out his name in such a desperate manner.

his breath shook as he said, "oh, that was marvelous. oh, how i've craved to hear my name like that."

he bit the side of your neck hard, lightly sinking fangs into your skin. every time he did this on a sensitive spot, you groaned. his hand moved to your hip, guiding the movements so you couldn't stop stimulating yourself. he was just playing with you, and you knew it. you cursed yourself for not expecting him to be a sadist.

"a sadist?" you heard him chuckle. "my, my. i suppose so. look who isn't as innocent as i believed?"

you forgot that kais could read minds. his hand slid under your skirt, moving dangerously close to your heat. fingers dragging along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, your hips bucked toward his fingers. it made him laugh. "so reactive. is there something you need?"

his voice made your body hot. "i... need you to touch me."

his fingers inched closer to your clit. "you'll need to elaborate, sweetheart."

"your fingers." you panted that out. "in me."

"that's a good girl. that wasn't so difficult, hm?" he pressed a kiss to your neck before placing you down on the bed. on your back, he took no time to slip off both your skirt and panties in one simple movement. his eyes didn't leave you as he removed his overcoat, hanging it over a nearby chair. as he climbed over you, he mused, "i like to think of myself as a benevolent god. i'm happy to give you what you need, you just need to ask properly."

his hand touched your clit after that. exploring everything with his fingertips, he gave you a light kiss on the lips. feeling your slick, he teased, "to think you could get this worked up so quickly... that's sinful, darling. i've barely done anything. or, perhaps, i'm just that good?"

you tried to respond, but you were stopped when he pressed tow fingers into you. he pushed them in as far as they would go and curled them, making your entire body jolt. "zamasu!"

"needy, are you?" you looked down at him through one eye. he pulled his fingers out and pushed them back in, repeating the motion at an agonizingly slow pace. you were squirming, body craving more. "i wonder how loud you can be. let's find out, hm?"

he was finger-fucking you at a steady place, always forceful on re-entry. it'd make your body jerk every time, and he was watching your face contort with pleasure. then, he curled his fingers, prompting you to groan his name. a crazed look in his eye formed as he growled, "again. do it again."

his fingers quickened in pace, causing your back to arch up. that's when he laughed, and a third finger pressed into you. the stretch sent heat shooting through your body, and your toes curled. watching you like a predator, he was quickly learning how to make you squirm. you mewled out, "zamasu... i... gonna...!"

and just like that, his fingers stopped. the high you were right on the edge of faded out of view, leaving you speechless. zamasu was smirking darkly, and he laughed to himself. his fingers withdrew from you as he said, "beautiful. you'll take me so well. i can tell."

your lip quivered. "but, i..."

"hush, darling. you will." again, he read your mind. he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before whispering, "relax. give me a moment. get comfortable, hm?"

you felt him move off the bed. your head was spinning, but you had enough sanity to pull yourself upwards, resting your head on a pillow. your eyes were shut as you caught your breath, listening to the sound of fabric rustling. then, zamasu crawled back over you, brushing some hair from your sweat-covered forehead. "feeling alright, darling?"

you leaned into his touch. "yes."

he leaned against you, and it was the first time that you felt his skin in such an intimate way. he kissed you passionately, hands roaming your body. his length was rubbing along your folds, sending a shiver down your spine. with a sharp inhale, he said, "i'm going to ravage you, now."

you nodded quickly. "i know."

you folded your arms around his neck, and he allowed you to touch him without protest. his forehead pressed against your own as he began to slide his length into you, leaving your mouth agape. he let out a beautiful groan himself, a look of pleasure breaking out on his face. your nails raked at his skin as you whimpered, and he chuckled softly. "i know, sweetheart. it's a bit of a stretch for you, isn't it? you can handle it. i have no doubt."

"oh, god..." you groaned that with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. upon being fully sheathed within you, his body shook. you were adjusting quickly, and he was using every fibre of his being to hold himself back. his breath was shaking, and he was starting to sweat. finally, you whispered, "move."

zamasu wasted no time. he pulled himsef almost all the way out, and then thrusted back in all the way to the hilt. he did this a few more times with a grin on his face. a look of ecstasy. he leaned back just enough to push one of your legs up, and he gazed down at you as he mused, "this... is a sight i could very much get used to."

you didn't get much time to look at his skinny, yet toned physique before he started driving himself into you at a rapid pace. your hands were searching for anything and everything to grab ahold of. mewls were pouring out of your mouth, and his head was thrown back. hands gripped your skin as he moved, and it wasn't long before you were pushed over the edge. walls closing around him, he groaned in such a way that made your orgasm even more intense. "gods, that was amazing. i wonder how many times i could make your poor little body do that for me, hm?"

an idea flashed through his head, and he was quick to flip you onto your stomach and pull your hips up. he drove himself back into you, holding onto your hips with a death-grip. he leaned over your back, pressing you down as he brutally fucked you. "there's no conceivable way that you're a mortal. you feel far too good."

"you..." you could barely speak. the sheer amount of girth hit every spot possible. sparks of pleasure were shooting all over your body, and it wasn't long before you just allowed noises to spill from your mouth completely unfiltered. "so... good."

"you poor thing. you can barely speak, can you?" he said that arrogantly and bit your neck, pressing your head down against the pillow. "do you enjoy being mercilessly dominated by a god?"

between breaths, you responded, "i... do."

he grabbed your wrists and pinned them behind your back, continuing his with brutal pace. "and what god is giving you the privilege to feel such a thing?"

"you!" you came undone again as you said this, which made him grunt.

you felt his nails digging into your hip. "louder! tell me who you belong to, mortal!"

you cried out, "you, zamasu!"

"heh... good girl. that's what i thought." with that, he returned you to your original position. he plunged back into you while delivering a violent kiss to your lips. one hand remained on your hip, and the other tangled in your hair. the pace of his hips managed to get faster, and he was overwhelming you. your body was in a constant state of pleasure, and you had no idea if you'd come again or not.

when his thrusts began to get wild and disorganized, he couldn't continue kissing you. his head fell into the crook of your neck as he panted. "oh, gods."

with a particularly hard thrust that slammed against your cervix, he came right into you. his pace slowed, and his body eventually rested against yours. with both of you panting, he recovered much quicker than you ever could. he purred, "you took that very well."

you opened your eyes just a sliver to look at him. "thank... you."

he relaxed himself, and took the opportunity to cradle your head against his chest. his fingers tried to straighten up your hair. being in such close proximity to him - it made you feel untouchable. you heard him murmur, "i think i'm going to stay here for a while. if you don't mind."

"no... i don't." you could feel yourself falling asleep. you were the one exception. the one treasure. "don't mind..."

"hush. you're rambling, dear."

"... sorry."

"it's alright." he pressed a kiss to your forehead. to sleep in the arms of a god - it was a luxury that you thought you'd never be given. then, zamasu's voice purrs, " sleep, darling. no harm will come to you so long as i'm here. that, i promise."