#how to avoid a dead lock

[br1ghtestlight]

i hate when ppl are like "i could never be dependant on taking medication" or "medication doesn't fix the actual root of the problem" like IDGAFFFF if it works i will take it for the rest of my life <3 i dont care "why" i have insomnia or trouble staying asleep for more than an hour or two at a time or why i have constant nightmares. and i sure as hell dont need to do an investigative study into why i have mood swings and depression anxiety etc knowing what i already know. not to mention chronic pain. the amount of privilege you have to have to be "anti-medication" or say you'd never rely on a pill is laughable. and if your brain cant cope with trauma and illness it WILL Find another way, through drugs sex alcoholism etc

[joetastic2739]

Someone accessed my Gmail 2 days ago, compromising my linked accounts like Twitter and YouTube. Here's how it happened, why I fell for it, and what you can learn to avoid making the same mistake:

The scam I fell victim to was a cookie hijack. The hacker used malicious software to steal my browser cookies (stuff like autofill, auto sign in, etc), allowing them to sign in to my Gmail and other accounts, completely bypassing my 2FA and other security protocols.

A few days ago, I received a DM from @Rachael_Borrows, who claimed to be a manager at @Duolingo. The account seemed legitimate. It was verified, created in 2019, and had over 1k followers, consistent with other managers I’d seen at the time n I even did a Google search of this person and didnt find anything suspicious.

She claimed that @Duolingo wanted me to create a promo video, which got me excited and managed to get my guard down. After discussing I was asked to sign a contract and at app(.)fastsigndocu(.)com. If you see this link, ITS A SCAM! Do NOT download ANY files from this site.

Unfortunately, I downloaded a file from the website, and it downloaded without triggering any firewall or antivirus warnings. Thinking it was just a PDF, I opened it. The moment I did, my console and Google Chrome flashed. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I immediately did an antivirus scan and these were some of the programs it found that were added to my PC without me knowing:

The thing about cookie hijacking is that it completely bypasses 2FA which should have been my strongest line of defense. I was immediately signed out of all my accounts and within a minute, they changed everything: passwords, 2FA, phone, recovery emails, backup codes, etc.

I tried all methods but hit dead ends trying to recover them. Thankfully, my Discord wasn’t connected, so I alerted everyone I knew there. I also had an alternate account, @JLCmapping, managed by a friend, which I used to immediately inform @/TeamYouTube about the situation

Meanwhile, the hackers turned my YouTube channel into a crypto channel and used my Twitter account to spam hundreds of messages, trying to use my image and reputation to scam more victims

Thankfully, YouTube responded quickly and terminated the channel. Within 48 hours, they locked the hacker out of my Gmail and restored my access. They also helped me recover my channel, which has been renamed to JoetasticOfficial since Joetastic_ was no longer available.

Since then, I’ve taken several steps to secure my accounts and prevent this from happening again. This has been a wake-up call to me, and now I am more cautious around people online. I hope sharing it helps others avoid falling victim to similar attacks. (End)

(side note) Around this time, people also started to impersonate me on TikTok and YouTube. With my accounts terminated, anyone searching for "Joetastic" would only find the imposter's profiles. I’m unsure whether they are connected or if it’s just an unfortunate coincidence, but it made the situation even more stressful.

[eraserbread]

satoru lovesss his foreign!gf so much it's almost... overstimulating

it’s been two weeks since you’ve seen satoru.

two weeks of good morning and sleep well text threads, two weeks without hearing his thick accent spell out renditions of your name. he calls you whatever he wants now, and you’ve grown to love him.

he shrugged off on some work mission and left you with a kiss on the forehead. you were pissed and confused because you swore he said a few days, not a few weeks. the fucker does this on purpose -- he knows that you yearn for his stupidly comforting presence, now.

who's gonna be there to hold your hand through street festivals, pointing out everything in a way you can understand? who's gonna spell out syllables in your favorite mangas so you can experience it the way he does?

you've let satoru take you on as a dependant. so, that's your excuse for never leaving your house in these weeks, except to work.

when he finally comes home, its with a thick, heavy bang on your door.

you're dead asleep in the back bedroom, hugging your thick pillow to your chest. alternatively, your phone is screaming with lock notifications, warning you that there's someone there. it takes you a solid ten minutes to come to from the sensory overload. and when you finally sit up in bed, you're so high off of sleep that you don't even recognize what you're hearing.

bang, bang, BANG.

then, you snatch up your phone and peek open an eye.

from: satoru! home tonight! (ᵔᗜᵔ) around 10! will let you know when my train stops train is stopping! running home to you i know you are probably asleep (ᵕ•_•) just didn't want to wait until tomorrow to see you *3 missed calls* from: satoru! if you didn't want to see me... ᴖ̈ you could've just said

it takes you a solid five minutes to absorb the onslaught. then, it dawns on you -- he's here.

satoru is fucking at your door.

you don't think you ever moved so quickly, tossing on a robe and running a hand through your hair. you stop for a second, cupping one over your nose and mouth to assess your sleep breath.

it's actually not too bad, and you doubt satoru would care much. so you spray a mist of perfume on your neck and head to open the door.

you're smling even before his big, lanky body comes into view. he's wearing that same, mysterious uniform, blindfold pushing his hair back on his scalp. it's been ten minutes since he arrived, and even the strongest get weary. two more minutes, and he would've been out of there.

"satoru," you smile, breathless by the look in his eye. he's leaning against the doorframe, his head tucked to compensate for his height. smiling when he sees you again, he turns around to wrap his arms around your waist.

"you were avoiding me?" he teases in your native tongue, lips crossing over yours as he speaks slowly. you shake your head, hands crawling from his shoulders, to the back of his neck.

"you were annoying me," you counter, a similarly mischievous look in your eye. he gasps, then leans to kiss you. it's stupid, but the smile on your face is huge, and you're so happy to see him again. "six texts and three missed calls? so needy."

"ah, you missed me." he's smug, gentle but fearless as he pushes you to the side, reveling in the familiar taste of the air around you. he can smell the promise of food you prepared earlier. he hopes it's something he's never had before, he loves being your taste-tester.

"well, i missed you and your fridge soo much." he's hardly regarding you as you push and lock the door. he's headfirst inside the cool expanse when you turn around, giving him a sideways glance.

of course, your food is his first order of business after being gone for weeks. never mind you, the girl who made the food, to get a fleeting shred of his godly attention. your japanese has been so rusty without him, but you know how much he loves hearing your broken syllables scold him in a way he knew like the back of his hand.

"you haven't eaten in three weeks?"

"two." he emerges with a flushed face and a slice of cheese between his teeth. "what's this?"

"macaroni and cheese."

"woooow, it looks like brick." satoru stands up with the pan in his hands, tossing the top across your counter before reaching in with his bare hands. "this is a weapon, baby."

"can you-" you step to his side, slapping his big hand away. "stop fondling my food. it's only solidified because it's been cold for three days."

gojo places the macaroni back in the pan, then drags his finger across the rippled top. in english he drops his voice sensually and stares right into your eyes, "cheesy."

"i will kill you myself," you reach for an oven mitt, hitting his poking hand with it. "get out of my kitchen. seriously."

he protests, but he's no match for your sage green oven mitt as it comes down on his arms and back. you're trying to push him out, but he's not an easy statue to move. "aww, ba

"no. you're an idiot." you shut him down, more at ease with his presence not floating around your fragile kitchen. you'd make him anything he asks, but you have to do it. for being the strongest, he's so fucking clumsy.

"okay, okay," he gives up, flopping back on your bed. in a passing touch, he opens the top spiraled-gold button on his shirt. "can you bring me some? i promise I'll stop fondling your food, just please?"

standing in front of him, arms crossed with your mitt hanging from your fingers, you try everything not to fall into his mercy. "you could beg a little harder."

satoru gives you a smug little downcast look, sitting back on his hands in a wide spread. you want to dive headfirst into him, but this game of chase was something exciting, something satoru loved and knew he needed.

sometime later, he's got you pinned down in your bed, two fingers deep inside of you as he does everything he can to milk that first orgasm out of you. robe loose and hanging from your skin, you're burying your face in the fabric, tugging at the bed sheets as he leans over the side of your trembling figure.

his hands are so big, they're able to toy with your sensitive clit, kiss the insides of your thigh and crook damn-near five inches of just his fingers right into your crying g-spot. it's a heady feeling, so wicked and familiar that the one thing that could take it over the top, satoru is doing directly in your ear.

"baby~~ m'baby girlll," he's whispering in english, knowing how weak you get when your face goes all hot and flush. his accent does ungodly things to you -- things you'd never admit unless you're being fucked stupid. "cum for me, my sweet..."

"mhmfm, satoru-

"yeah? say my name." he gasps for you, craning his fingers at a sinful crook inside of you. you're drooling mercilessly all over his fingers and wrist, making the slick sounds between your legs heighten tenfold. "sooo wettt."

that fucking does it. his sinful voice, his exact, tiny movements and massages. it makes you crazy. "oh! i'm cummingimummingimcummingimcumming -- satoru!!"

he carries you through it, smirking and full of life as his thick fingertips push and prod at that most sensitive, needy spot inside of you. he's not even close to being done - he wants you to be on the verge of passing out and sobbing for mercy before he finally slips inside of you and carries you to a sensual end.

he counts every time he makes you cum on his fingers with the time passing on the clock, marking the fifth or sixth time with a soft kiss on your cheek.

under him, you're fucking wrecked, hair sticking to sweaty skin, thighs trembling and eyes unable to stop spilling lavacious tears. you're sure that last go around had you squirting all over his skilled fingers, but you were too fucked out and satoru wouldn't say anything until he knows you're alive enough to swallow the embarrassment.

in his own uniform pants, he's been sneaking a hand down there to press and rub off every few minutes, letting your stangled cries do most of the heavy lifting. he's cum untouched by your presence alone a few times, and you hold it over his head like a vice, but he doesn't care. it just shows you how much he needs you -- how much his body ticks for you.

you're limp and panting, thinking the escapade is over and done with when he stands up at the side of the bed, using his clean hand to push his pants down and cock free. he's so wound-tight and sensitive as he gives his little soldier a few tugs to relieve some angst. he's tossing his neck back, rolling it over his shoulders as sexual energy leaks from his glands without mercy.

he knows this is the final round, so he doesn't waste any more time. he's crawling between your spread legs, leaning down to kiss a knee before hovering over you in his favorite, highly intimate position - missionary.

"just this last time, wanted you to be whiny n nice." he's speaking more to himself than to you, but you find a shred of sanity in your head to push out a nod. "there you are. just say my name, baby. it's all I want to hear." he's talking you through it in english, knowing your fucky brain wouldn't be able to translate his comfortable, native japanese. he gets too heady and starts using vowels and honorifics you haven't even heard about.

so when he slides inside of you, completely raw and slick with the pressure of his own need, he's not expecting you to perfectly cry to him in japenese.

"i love you, satoru. so much, satoru. p-please, satoru..."

[incognit0slut]

Nervous

Softcore in which you’re overwhelmed by how far he would go to protect your safety.

Category: Angst Word count: 2.3k Content: minor injury, overprotective spencer, avoidant attachment reader if you squint a/n: i've always wanted to do the "man goes crazy after you're hurt" trope and this seems like the right opportunity. and just so you know i’m actually hyperventilating while typing this bc apparently the neighborhood is coming back!! with new music!! after 4 years!! can you tell i'm excited!!!!

-

“Where is she?”

Spencer demands. Something he’s been doing a lot lately — speaking with a tone that expects answers to materialize out of thin air. The authority that drips from his voice would normally send a pleasant shiver down your spine, you can even admit there’s a time and place where it would be more than welcome when far less clothing is involved. But right now? In the back of an ambulance with your head splitting in two and his words scraping against what’s left of your nerves?

Not so much.

Your skull is throbbing. The cold metal bench is digging into you uncomfortably, and the sterile scent of disinfectant claws at your throat with a vicious persistence of acid. Your stomach twists at the bitter, chemical burn. His voice only makes it worse.

“Stop shouting,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut against the stabbing pain.

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “What were you thinking?”

You peel your eyes open just enough to glare at him, wincing as your head throbs in protest. “What does it look like I was thinking? I was doing my job.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine?” He practically chokes on the word. “You call this fine?”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“You almost were. Do you even realize how reckless that was?”

“Of course I realized the risk. I assessed it.”

“No, you didn’t. You slipped an entire perimeter detail and dove head-first into a hostage situation.”

“Again, I was doing my job.”

“Without notifying any of us.”

You fight the reflex to roll your eyes.

“If it matters to you that much, next time it happens I’ll check with you before I try not to die. Happy?”

Sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight, shoulders locked in a rare display of tension. Something you haven’t seen in months when he’s kept his emotions buried under layers of forced composure. But you are your own worst enemy when it comes to self-preservation, and that applies just as much to arguments as it does to danger.

His scowl deepens, and for a second you think he’s going to let you have it. You're already bracing yourself for an onslaught of logic and statistics — the odds of survival, the risks of your actions, the percentage of people who don’t make it out alive when they do exactly what you did.

That’s when he stops. Dead in his tracks.

A sudden breeze ghosts across your lower stomach, and it takes you a second to realize that your shirt must have inched up with all the shifting you can’t seem to stop doing. You barely have time to process it before you see the change in him. His face drains of color. Paler than usual. Paler than he already is.

“What did he do?”

You follow his gaze, and there it is. A galaxy of green and purple in the shape of five fingers and a large palm across your ribs like some twisted badge of honor. You hadn’t even felt it until now, but the second your eyes land on it, a dull, aching throb pulses beneath your skin.

You quickly tug your shirt over the angry bruise. “Nothing."

But he’s already moving. His knees drag against the rough asphalt as he pushes your shirt back up, fingers brushing over your skin with a touch that feels too soft for the situation.

Your bloodshot eyes waver frantically.

“Spencer,” you hiss, glancing around. “Spencer, stop, you’re making a scene.”

A quick scan of the cramped space tells you the only audience is the medics, and while they’re pretending to mind their own business, the raised eyebrows aren’t exactly subtle. One of them coughs — whether it’s to cover a laugh or clear his throat, you can’t tell. Though your face still heats at the scrutiny.

"Spencer."

"This could’ve been worse."

You shove his hand away and yank your shirt down. “But it's not. I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that,” he presses. “You’re clearly not fine.”

Irritation pulses behind your temples. "Then stop acting like I’m weak, I did what I had to do.”

“What you did was reckless,” he reminds you again. “You should have waited. You had backup for a reason.”

“Someone could've died if I waited.”

"You almost died."

You exhale sharply. “Well he didn’t get the chance, did he? JJ found me and shot the guy in the leg before it could get that far.”

Which, honestly, was pretty damn impressive, considering you were fighting for your life. One second you were pinned beneath a man twice your size, adrenaline roaring in your ears so loud you could barely think, and the next — bang. Clean shot to the leg.

“If it were me,” he grumbles, “I would’ve shot him in the head.”

You scoff. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he insists.

Your gaze shifts from the ground to his eyes, and that’s when you see it. The dark flecks in his brown irises seem to glow with an edge you’ve never quite caught before. Or maybe you have, but only in flashes. A flicker of something sharp in the set of his jaw when someone underestimates him. A muted warning when a suspect creeps too close. An imperceptible moment of tension when his fingers clench around your waist amidst the heat you both refuse to define.

It dawns on you that those hard lines around his eyes were always there, smoldering beneath his careful veneer of logic and reason. You just never knew you had the power to coax them onto the surface.

Spencer is protective — that much you knew. But not in a way that feels directed solely at you. Not when your relationship with him is already tangled in the space between labels that neither of you dares to clarify. He nitpicks your choices more than any friend should, yet he’s pinned you to the mattress far more often than you care to admit. Now hearing him say he’d actually break the very foundation of who he is sends your pulse into a clumsy rhythm.

His features are blurred by the disbelief flooding behind your eyes.

“You don’t mean that,” you say, hollow words sinking on your tongue.

He doesn’t even blink.

“If I ever found someone hurting you, I would put a bullet between their eyes and sleep just fine."

Your heart suddenly feels too big for the tight space in your chest. Too many emotions hit you all at once.

A little bit of fear.

A little bit of awe.

A lot of something else you don’t want to name.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll never have to. I can handle myself.”

The lines on his forehead deepens. “Just promise me you won’t do something like this again.”

You pull away and blink against the wind seeping through the open doors. It stings, his lack of faith in your judgment. The sharp bite of the cold air mirrors that prick as it slips under your collar, brushing over your blemished skin with a chill that's almost as piercing as the siren wailing incessantly in your ears.

But even that shrill cry can’t drown out the pounding in your head.

“You, of all people, know I can’t promise you that," you mutter, voice scraping the back of your throat.

His breath curls into the air as he replies, “At least tell me you’ll be more careful.”

“I was careful.”

“No, you were lucky. There’s a difference.”

Goosebumps rise on your arms that have nothing to do with the cold. He's right. Maybe it was luck. A fraction of a second, a shift in timing. A cosmic accident that decided you’d walk away instead of being zipped into a body bag. It wasn’t skill, nor caution. It was pure, dumb luck that you weren’t lying somewhere colder and permanent with the earth pressing down on you instead of the weight of his stare.

But you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

"You're being dramatic,” you try to deadpan, shooting him a weary look.

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits, and you resist the urge to bristle under the scrutiny. He’s studying you too hard. He’s looking at you like you’re some kind of equation he can’t solve, as if he stares long enough he’ll find the variable that explains why you don’t seem to value your own life the way he does.

You feel the need to defend yourself.

“I jabbed him in the throat,” you try again, gesturing loosely, “caught him off guard, and then went for his weapon. The whole thing took maybe five seconds—less, if you count how quickly he hit the ground after that first shot.”

“Five seconds could have cost you your life.”

“It didn't,” you counter quickly. Shift your eyes to your hands. Tongue your cheek. Try to justify your action. “And let’s not pretend you wouldn’t have done the same. You've jumped into danger more times than I can count.”

His entire body goes still.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t exactly have a great track record for your own safety.” Your voice isn’t sharp, but there’s an edge to it. A tired sort of bite. “Are we conveniently forgetting all the times you’ve ignored protocol?”

The silence that follows is almost unsettling. He doesn’t react at first, doesn’t even breathe as far as you can tell. You wonder if you’ve managed to break him, if the sheer hypocrisy of his argument has finally caught up to him, if the logic has knocked him right through the bulletproof vest he always insists offers enough protection when you both know better.

Maybe he’s running through every instance you could be referring to. Is he tallying up his own recklessness? Those dangerous leaps of faith he’s taken without hesitation?

The wheels in his head are turning so fast you can almost hear them grinding.

“That’s different," he finally says.

You snort softly. Double standard.

“How is it different?”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel over your face.

“Because it’s you.”

He says it so quietly you almost didn't hear him. But you did, too loud and clear with your heart in your throat, then falter.

You're the one robbed of words now, a knot of half-formed syllables stuck to your tongue. You’re so caught off guard that you barely even register the overhead sirens blaring somewhere above you. Or the distant chatter of medics. The hum of radio static, a faint, crackling drone that seems to come from miles away. Everything is drowned out by the way your pulse hammers against your skin.

You can only focus on the flashes of color streaking across his face. Red, then blue, then red again. It catches the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Traces the sharp line of his nose, slides over his parted lips. Lingers on the pale scar under his chin that you’ve seen a hundred times but never really noticed until now.

You also notice how small the space between you feels. How the air surrounding you crackles. How the oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. How the distance between you seems to fold inward with each heartbeat.

A thump of his knees against the coarse dirt.

A pulse in the brief pause that follows.

A tick of gravity pulls you toward the shadow of a man you rarely encounter.

You're not sure how to handle this version of him, stripped of his layers of detachment. The version that exists in the slithers of time before his features school into that practiced neutrality he wears so well. A rare side of him that flickers into view — ephemeral as a stray synapse sparking in that immense brainpower he usually shields. Delicate in its existence.

And what do you do with a Spencer who isn’t just the mind, but also the heart? The heart that he guards so fiercely it sometimes seems like he forgets he has one. Until he doesn’t. Until it’s right there, beating openly in front of you. Perhaps oblivious to his own knowledge.

So you do what you always do when it gets too much. You exhale, slow and shallow.

Then you look away.

“You worrying about me this much is new," you mutter, eyes glued to his crooked tie. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Then promise me you won’t make a habit of this.”

“This is not the debrief I was expecting.”

One thing that hasn’t changed is his stubbornness. “Promise me.”

You hesitate, knowing a promise like that isn’t yours to give. But he opens his mouth again, and a slow breath in the shape of your name falls from his lips. A pleading sort of whisper that travels every curve of your body, and by the time it lingers at the base of your spine, your nerves flutter.

The thrum in your veins surpasses even the rush of adrenaline you felt moments ago. This isn’t survival. Survival is instinct and reaction, it’s raw nerves driving you forward without conscious thought. This is recognition, awareness, because the way your name rolls off his tongue isn’t a simple request — it’s an opening. A sliver of space carved into the dense tangle of his armor, an admission slipping through the cracks before he can smooth them over.

And if you’re seeing a fracture in that carefully guarded part of him, maybe it’s only fair to meet him halfway.

Let whatever light he’s offering in.

Let it reach the places you pretend don’t need warmth.

You finally release a slow breath through your nose as he continues to look up at you. “I’ll try,” you comply.

His shoulders slump. Your answer isn’t enough.

But for now, it’s all you have.

"I got goosebumps all over me, when you're around it's hard for me to breathe." Nervous—The Neighbourhood

[kekewrites]

Tw. dark content, noncon, obsession, toxic, possessiveness, abandonment issues, sloppy blowjob, throat fucking, manipulation, size kink, overstimulation, name calling (cock-sleeve/warmer/bitch), multiple creampies, cunnilingus, slapping (baby slap though), baby-trapping, angst(?), coercion, dead dove do not eat

***

Thinking about being the manager of a yandere!Idol

You found him wandering in the streets, empty eyes and blank expression on his pretty face. If you didn't look hard you might've missed his tall figure. Being a newbie, you were finding it hard to recruit people but as you were about to go home, you caught sight of his attractive yet hopeless face.

The first time you approach him, he was wary and suspicious of you. Naturally so. But you persevere, introducing yourself as an agent recruiting handsome guys like him in the streets for a chance to become a trainee and become an idol.

"Fuck off. Scram."

That was the first words he said. Harsh. But he was all bark and no bite, like a puppy being defensive. After scuffling for a few minutes you managed to give him your card and phone number, convincing him to at least try.

Then a week later, he called and said yes. His voice was low, hesitant—like he didn’t fully believe in what he was doing, but was too tired of the streets to keep saying no.

You met up with him that same evening, in the same place you first found him. He looked cleaner, but still lost. You took him in without question, gave him food, a place to sleep, and most importantly, a reason to wake up.

For the first few days, he barely spoke. He just slept, ate, and stared at the ceiling like he was trying to remember who he was. You didn’t push. You just stayed nearby, gave him space, but made sure he knew, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Weeks turned into months. Slowly, he started coming back to life. You took care of him, through the bad days when he’d lock himself in his room, through the training sessions where he’d collapse from pushing too hard, through the nights he’d wake up in a cold sweat and pretend he was fine.

And you were always there. With water, with snacks, with a shoulder to lean on.

You watched him grow. From that broken boy on the street into someone who sang with soul, danced with fire, and spoke to crowds with a confidence he never had before.

He became an idol. And every time he stood under the lights, every time fans screamed his name, he always looked for you in the crowd.

Because you didn’t just recruit him.

You saved him.

And that’s when it went wrong.

At first, it was subtle. His smiles came more often when you were around, his tone soft and sugary. He’d cling to your side during breaks, crack jokes, brush your hair out of your face with that charming little smirk. You thought maybe he was just grateful, maybe he was trying to show affection in his own awkward way. After all, he’d been through a lot.

But then, it turned into something else.

He started showing up unannounced. Hovering around your office when he had no schedule. Getting visibly annoyed when you spoke too long with other trainees or staff. The sweet words never stopped, but they started feeling… off. Like they were laced with something heavier. Something darker.

The possessiveness crept in like a slow poison. At meetings, he’d glare at anyone who tried to sit next to you. He'd interrupt your conversations, redirect your attention, cut in with sharp remarks masked as jokes.

You tried to keep it professional, gently reminding him of boundaries, of roles, but he didn't like that.

"Why are you always talking to him?"

"Do you really need to be with them all the time?"

"I'm the reason you’re even doing well now, aren't I?"

And you saw it, in the way other staff avoided him, how they started whispering when he walked by. He was getting harder to work with. More demanding. More unpredictable.

But in front of cameras? He was perfect. The golden boy. Smiling, dazzling, every fan’s dream. But behind the scenes… the boy you once saved was slowly becoming someone else. Or maybe this was who he had been all along, buried beneath the brokenness.

And now, you weren’t sure if you had saved him…

Or created something you couldn’t control.

As his fame skyrocketed, managing him became nearly impossible.

He was everywhere, magazine covers, variety shows, drama cameos. His schedule was packed from sunrise to well past midnight, and you were running yourself ragged trying to keep up. But more than the logistics, it was him. His moods became harder to predict. Some days he was gentle, clinging to you like he used to when he was scared. Other days, he’d snap, throw things, or go cold for no reason.

You were still new to the game. Everyone could see you were trying your best, but it wasn’t enough, not for the industry, and definitely not for him.

The company made the call.

“We think it’s best to assign him a senior manager. Someone with more experience managing top-tier idols.”

They dressed it up as a strategic decision. And honestly? You agreed. Things had gotten too messy. Your once-close relationship had turned into something twisted, confusing, and emotionally draining. You told yourself it was for his own good, that maybe distance would help him reset.

“I’ll still be around,” you told him, forcing a smile. “But someone else will be taking care of your day-to-day.”

He stared at you. Didn’t say anything for a long while. Just stared.

Then, softly, too softly, he said, “You’re leaving me.”

You shook your head. “No. I’m just stepping back. This is better for you. For both of us.”

But he didn’t believe you. You could see it in his eyes. Something in him snapped that day, not outwardly, not immediately but you felt it. Like a quiet storm gathering behind the clouds.

You thought giving him space would help him unwind. Hoping he can finally indulge in the fame he had, probably get a secret girlfriend

You didn’t expect it to be the thing that finally made him unravel.

***

After that, you finally left.

Your first real break in years. You cashed your paycheck, packed your bags, and disappeared for a while, far from rehearsals, stress, and the boy you once pulled off the streets. It felt… weird at first. Empty. But you told yourself it was needed. Long overdue.

You didn’t keep in touch. Not because you didn’t want to but because it felt like the cleanest way to let go. Still, everywhere you went, there he was. His face lit up LED billboards with that same smile the one from when he had just debuted. Back when things were simpler. Sweeter.

You’d stop and stare sometimes, stuck between nostalgia and guilt. Wondering where it all went wrong. Was it the fame? The past he never healed from? Or… was it you?

But even through the ache, you hoped he was doing better. Independent. Stable. Happy. He wouldn’t have a hard time finding a girlfriend, not with that face, that charm, and a fanbase that worshipped the ground he walked on.

You were walking home from a quiet dinner one night, city lights buzzing around you, when you passed another ad of him huge and perfect lighting up the side of a building. You paused without meaning to, lost in your head.

That’s when your phone rang.

You didn’t even check the caller ID. Just answered, out of habit.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then a voice you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

“I missed you.”

You froze.

And then, a shadow stepped up behind you.

A cap pulled low, sunglasses covering most of his face but you knew. You felt it.

He leaned close, his breath warm against your ear.

“You think you’re gonna escape from me?”

Your heart dropped.

Before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, firm, but not violent. Still, it sent your pulse racing. People were around, but no one looked twice. Just a couple under the lights.

“Wait—what are you doing?!” you whispered, trying to pull away.

He smiled, too calm, too practiced.

“Let’s talk. Somewhere quieter.”

***

He didn’t say a word as he dragged you through the maze of streets, only tightening his grip whenever you slowed down. You wanted to pull away, to yell, but something in his silence kept you frozen.

Eventually, he led you into a sleek hotel, one of those high-end discreet places celebrities used when they wanted to disappear. You were too stunned to resist, your mind racing with every step.

The elevator ride was silent.

He pushed the door open, guided you inside, and shut it behind you with a soft click. The curtains were drawn. City lights barely filtered through the fabric.

He finally let go of your wrist and walked ahead, pulling off his cap and tossing it to the couch, glasses following. You watched as he ran a hand through his hair, agitated, pacing the room like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I looked for you,” he finally said, voice tight. “Every day.”

You said nothing. He turned to face you.

“Why didn’t you call? Text? Anything?”

“It wasn’t my place anymore,” you answered softly. “We needed space. You needed to grow.”

He laughed bitterly. “Grow into what? A product?”

You flinched.

He stepped closer. “So that’s all it was, huh? A business deal? Get the pretty boy off the streets, polish him up, sell him to the world then cut him off once he gets too hard to manage?”

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It was never just business. I cared about you. But things got—”

“Complicated?” he snapped. “Yeah. You left when things got complicated.” His voice cracked, the anger just barely covering the hurt underneath. “So your life with me,” he said, slower this time, like each word hurt, “was really just a job?”

You took a step forward, your chest tightening.

“No. It was real. I-I just... you changed.”

“And you didn’t?” he whispered, eyes shining with something fragile anger, betrayal, desperation. “You walked away like I meant nothing.”

"You matter to me—"

“That’s what it felt like. You gave me everything, then took it all back the second I started needing you too much.”

“I didn’t take anything back,” you said, stepping back instinctively. “I was trying to help you. You were becoming... unstable. You needed someone more experienced. I just wanted you to be okay.”

His hands balled into fists.

“Okay? I was only okay when you were there. You made me." His voice rising with desperate anger. In a flash, he grabbed your wrists and dragged you towards the bed, forcing you down onto the plush mattress. Before you could react, he climbed on top of you, straddling your waist and pinning your arms above your head.

"G-Get off me..." you gasped, struggling beneath him. But he was too strong, too determined. His eyes burned into yours, wild and unpredictable.

"No," he growled, one hand still gripping your wrists while the other tugged at his belt. "You don't get to leave me. I won't let you."

He yanked his belt off and tossed it to the side. Then his fingers were at your pants, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. You tried to close your legs, but he forced them open, settling himself between your thighs.

"No, wait-" you started to protest, but he silenced you with a brutal kiss, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming you. His cock was hard and insistent against your stomach, and you knew he wouldn't stop.

"Please," you whimpered when he let you catch your breath. But it was a lie and you both knew it. He'd never listened to your pleas before.

"Shut up. Shut up... Shut up."

He grabbed your hair and pulled your head back, forcing you to look up at him as he undid his jeans and shoved them down just enough to get his cock out. It bobbed in front of you, angry and hungry and so fucking hard.

"Open," he commanded, his grip on your hair tightening painfully.

You hesitated, your lips pressed firmly together. He cursed and slapped your cheek lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to sting.

"Open your fucking mouth," he snarled.

Tears stung your eyes at the sharp crack against your cheek, but you parted your lips just as he slammed forward, shoving his cock past your teeth and into your mouth. He didn't wait for you to adjust, just started fucking your face with hard, brutal thrusts.

Hurts... He's hurting me...

You choked on his cock, gagging and sputtering as he forced himself deeper and deeper down your throat. Saliva flooded your mouth and spilled out over your lips as he used your mouth like a fuckhole, grunting and groaning above you.

Why is he always... mad at me?

He fucked your face hard and fast, not caring about your comfort, only chasing his own pleasure. Tears streaked down your cheeks as you gagged and choked around him, your throat constricting around his pistoning cock.

He used your mouth ruthlessly, slamming into your throat and pulling out just long enough to catch his breath before plunging back in.

You knew he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied, until he'd emptied his balls down your throat. All you could do was try to breathe through your nose and pray it would be over quickly.

Mine. Mine.

He chanted it desperately under his breath, eyes glazed over with lust and obsession as he continued to viciously fuck your face. His hips slammed against your chin with each brutal thrust, your neck bulging obscenely each time he hilts inside you.

"Gonna...fucking...ruin this...cunt of a mouth..."

He was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face, lost in his own manic pursuit of release. He needed this, needed to take back control, to reclaim you. You had left him, abandoned him, but now...now you were his again. His to use, his to ruin.

Always wanted...to fuck this...painted whore mouth...of yours...

He could feel his balls tightening, his climax building from the base of his spine. He was going to come, going to fill your belly with his seed, mark you from the inside out. You were going to choke on his cum, swallow it all, and maybe then you'd understand. Maybe then you'd realize you belonged to him, and him alone.

"Fuck! Take it all, you...cock sleeve!"

His fingers tightened in your hair, yanking your head back even further as his hips slammed forward one last time. He hilts inside you, his cock pulsing and jerking as he started to come, flooding your throat and mouth with string after string of hot, thick cum.

Manager... Manager. Manager. I fucking love you.

He groaned long and low, his eyes rolling back in his head as he emptied his balls inside you. His cock jerked and spasmed as he pumped load after load of semen directly into your stomach, your throat bulging obscenely.

"Fuck!" he roared, his voice echoing in the room. "Fuck, yes! Take it all, you fucking...cock warmer!"

He held you in place, forcing you to swallow every last drop, his grip on your hair almost painfully tight. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pulled out, his softening cock slipping from your abused lips with a wet pop.

He collapsed next to you, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. You turned your head to the side, gasping for air, your throat sore and raw. Tears and saliva and his own essence coated your face.

"I...I'm sorry," you whimpered, voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to leave you. Please...forgive me..."

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, ah his eyes...they were haunted, desperate. Lost.

"Forgive you?"

He reached out and grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, smearing his own cum back into your mouth. You flinched at the taste, but he held you firm.

Forgive you?

His other hand slid down your body, over your breasts, your stomach, to cup your mound possessively. He squeezed, fingers digging into your tender flesh.

"You'd have to do more than that if you want me to forgive you. I won't let you go again. Ever."

H-Huh?

Before you could catch your breath, he yank your hips up and pulls down your pants and panty. You felt the cool air on your exposed ass and pussy.

"No, wait-" you started to protest, trying to crawl away. But he grabbed your hips in a bruising grip, pulling you back onto his still-hard cock. He rubbed the thick head up and down your slit, coating it in a mix of your spit and his own cum.

"Shut up," he snarled, voice ragged with lust and desperation. "Stop fucking fighting me. Stop resisting!"

With one brutal thrust, he slammed forward, spearing your cunt on his throbbing shaft. You screamed at the sudden intrusion, your walls clamping down around him like a vice. He was too big, too hard, splitting you open.

Hurts... He's being... cruel.

"Fuck!" he roared, starting to piston in and out of your helpless pussy. "Take it! Take my fucking cock!"

He set a punishing pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Each thrust jolted you forward, your tits swaying beneath you. Tears poured down your face as he used you, brutalized you, his hips slamming against your ass with every stroke.

But then, he slowed. His grip gentled, fingers kneading your ass almost lovingly as he rolled his hips into yours. He leaned down, lips brushing the nape of your neck, breathing raggedly against your skin.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he murmured, voice hoarse. "So tight. Like you were made for me..."

He peppered kisses along your shoulder blades, his touch almost tender. You shuddered, confused, not understanding the sudden change. He rocked into you, each thrust measured, deliberate, like he was savoring the feeling of your tight cunt gripping his cock. Fuck, so fucking perfect.

"Manager... You're mine, ok? No one... No one can touch you but me!"

But just as suddenly, he changed again. His hips started moving faster, harder, the room echoing with the slap of skin and the creak of the mattress. He hooked an arm under your waist, hauling you back onto every stroke, forcing you to take every fucking inch.

"Yes, fuck!" he bellowed, sweat dripping onto your back. "Gonna...fucking ruin this pussy. Gonna make it mine."

He was panting harshly, his rhythm faltering. You could feel him growing even harder inside you, his cock throbbing erratically against your battered walls. You knew he was close, that he was going to come again.

But then he paused, buried deep inside you, cock pulsing urgently. He gripped your hips, fingers sinking into your skin hard enough to bruise.

"Gonna...fucking...knock you up," he growled. "Breed this cunt. Pump you full of my fucking seed."

You shook your head frantically, a strangled cry escaping your lips at the thought. "No! No, please...don't..."

He ignored you, starting to move again, thrusts growing more intense, more desperate. "Yes," he hissed. "Yes, gonna make you...mine. Gonna keep you...swollen with my child..."

His voice rose with each word, until he was nearly screaming. You could feel his cock jerk and twitch, his climax approaching. He was going to do it, going to come inside you, maybe even...

"Take it!" he roared. "Fucking take it, you bitch! Gonna...fucking...breed you!"

He slammed into you with a last, brutal thrust, his cock erupting deep inside your unprotected womb. You screamed as you felt the hot flood of his seed gushing into you, painting your insides with his come. He groaned long and low, body shuddering, emptying himself inside you.

He panted against your neck, sweat-soaked and sated.

"Manager... You won't be able to run away from me now."

You lay still beneath him, tears leaking from your eyes, a sense of dread washing over you.

He rolled you over, cradling you against his chest, your tear-stained face pressed to his sweat-slicked skin. His arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.

Tilting your chin up, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart clench. Gone was the wild, crazed look from before. Now there was only a solemn, almost reverent expression on his handsome face.

"Manager, you're the only one for me," he murmured, voice low and intense. "My heart, my soul... it all belongs to you. Don't leave me again, alright? All the luxuries, all the fame and wealth... it's meaningless without you here with me."

His thumb brushed over your cheek, catching the tears that still leaked from the corners of your eyes. He leaned in closer, forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with your own.

You want to refuse. Want to push him away, but you're eyes gets blurry with tears, getting overwhelmed. Why you?

He pressed open-mouthed kisses along your neck, your shoulder, your spine, worshipping every inch of your skin like the devoted disciple he claimed to be. Tears leaked from your eyes at the tenderness of his touches, the heartfelt sincerity in his tone.

It's like the old him...

But even as you lost yourself in the gentle glide of his lips, you could feel the desperation radiating off him in waves. This calm, this tenderness...it was a fragile thing.

He's always been such a fragile boy.

His hands roamed your body with a hunger that was almost painful in its intensity. He was trying to memorize you, to burn every dip and curve into his mind.

He hitched your leg up over his hip, opening you to him. You could feel his cock, already hard and ready again, nudging against your thigh, making you freeze.

He... He's still ready?

He was insatiable, this man. He would never be satisfied, would never have enough of you.

His eyes were wild again, pupils blown wide with renewed lust. He notched himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pushing demandingly at your folds.

"Feel this, Manager?" he whispered hotly, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. "Feel what you do to me? How much I just want to... Fuck you, need you..."

"I-I'm still sore... Please, I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that and just let me in your cunt, ok?"

He surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cried out, back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He was so deep, so hard, stretching you in ways that made you see stars. He's deeper this time?

"Wah... Your cunt still so tight, you're squeezing me dry~"

He started to move, hips rolling into yours with a force that shook the headboard. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs, left you gasping and mewling beneath him. He was lost in the heat of you, in the way your cunt gripped him.

"Tell me you need it, Manager," he urged, his cock slamming home and stilling, pulsing urgently inside you. "Tell me you want this... want me... as much as I need and want you!"

He pumped harder, faster, chasing his pleasure, his release. The room filled with the crude slap of skin against skin, with your choked cries and his grunts. He was going to come again, you could feel it in the erratic jerk of his hips, in the way his cock pulsed and throbbed inside you.

"Fuck!" he roared, slamming into you one last time. "Fuck, Manager, fuck!"

"N-no! Don't do it inside again!"

You bit your lips, muffling your ecstasy as you felt the hot rush of his come flooding your womb, your own orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your vision swam, your body shaking with the force of it.

He's gonna come inside... I'll get pregnant at this rate...

And then, with a long, guttural groan, he was coming again. His cock erupted like a fountain, pumping spurt after spurt of his hot cum deep into your hungry womb. The sensation was too much... too intense... and you felt yourself plummeting into oblivion, the darkness claiming you as his release seemed to go on and on.

The last thing you heard as you drifted off was his ragged voice, panting your name like a prayer.

"Manager... Manager... Manager! I love you! I love you! I fucking love you!"

***

You stared up at the ceiling, the memories of the past playing out like a movie reel in your mind. You could see him there, a young and nervous pop sensation, gripping your hands tightly as you offered him words of encouragement and support.

"You've got this," you had said, squeezing his fingers reassuringly. "Go out there and give them the performance of a lifetime. They're waiting for you."

"Okay," he nodded, squaring his shoulders with newfound determination. "Okay, Manager. I can do this. With you by my side, I can do anything."

He stepped out onto the stage. The crowd had gone wild, their screams and cheers a tangible force that seemed to lift him up and carry him forward. He had shone under the hot lights, his voice ringing out clear and strong, his movements confident and sure.

And you had watched from the wings, your heart swelling with pride and love as you beheld the man you had helped to create. He was more than just your client, more than just your star - he was your greatest achievement, your crowning glory. You had taken a scared and scrawny boy and molded him into a god among men, a king among the elite.

But now, as you lay there in the dim light of the bedroom, you could feel the weight of that responsibility crushing down on you. It was your fault, after all, that he had become this twisted and broken creature, this monster who would dare to touch you without your consent, to hold you against your will.

His arms tightened around you, crushing you against his chest, his breath hot and heavy against the back of your neck. He was saying all the right things, murmuring all the right words, but you could feel the dark intent behind them. The gentleness was a lie, a mask he wore to hide the cruelty that lurked beneath.

"Shh, it's alright," he cooed, his lips brushing your ear. "Don't cry, I'm here now. I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

But you didn't want him here. You didn't want his comfort or his affection or his twisted version of love. You wanted him to let you go, to release you from the nightmare that had become your life. You wanted to be free of him, to run until you couldn't run anymore, to disappear and never be found again.

But you knew it was impossible. He would never let you go, would never allow you to leave him. He needed you too much, depended on you for his every breath and his every heartbeat. And as long as you remained by his side, as long as you stayed in his life… he would never stop hunting you, never stop pursuing you until he had claimed you completely.

It was a bitter realization, a cruel twist of fate that left you feeling hollow and empty inside. You had once believed that you could save him, that your love and your guidance could be enough to keep the darkness at bay. But now… now you knew the truth. You knew that you had been the one to nurture the seeds of his madness, to feed the flames of his obsession until it had grown into an all-consuming inferno.

And so you lay there, trapped in his embrace, tears leaking down your face as you prayed silently for a miracle, for some way out of this nightmare. But deep down, you knew that there would be no miracle, no divine intervention to come rescue you from the man you had once called your star.

You had been his manager, his guide, his friend… and his downfall. And now, you would bear the consequences of your choice for the rest of your days.

With a sob catching in your throat, you closed your eyes and surrendered to the darkness, praying that when you opened them again… you would be somewhere, anywhere else. But far away from here, and far away from him.

Though, you only have yourself to blame.

You were the one who scouted him after all~

Stupid manager.

[yeyinde]

appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley

it's been decades since Alpha!Ghost had a rut. something that's probably for the best, really. his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug. it's best kept tucked away, secured under lock and key.

but then he finds you. and you're all alone. unclaimed, on the verge of heat. poor thing. it triggers a voracious rut. decades worth of want spilling out over you. you're it, he knows. feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. he'll have you—now, forever. non-negotiable. where you go, he will follow.

but you run from him. stupid girl. didn't anyone teach you not to run from a starving wolf?

dubcon. size kink. size difference. a/b/o dynamics: knotting, rut. breeding kink. spit kink. implied virgin!reader. obsessive behaviour. possessive!Ghost. semi-public sex. reluctant reader bullied into submission lmao. forced bonds. implied kidnapping. basically, you're hunted down and fucked by Alpha!Simon who growls in your ear about how he's waited his whole life for you. and lucky him. he finally found you

AO3

It's been years, decades, since he had a rut. 

(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)

Trauma, they tell him, will do that. Sever the drive in the back of his head, the one that rears—vicious and angry—each mating season, bringing with it the urge to breed. To claim. Own. 

A form of self-preservation. It pitches a plexiglass of protection between him and his instincts, not letting them merge. Join. Done so because to be in rut, to want, to need, is vulnerability. It costs hypervigilance. Turns man into beast. Animal. 

This bodily reaction makes an alpha extend themselves, like an overarching limb, to shield the omega they pick as a mate. Bearing their own neck to save another. 

Naturally, they say, if he couldn't help himself, how could he ever hope to protect a fragile little omega? 

They tell him it could be as permanent or temporary as he allows. Healing, they say. Time. Laughable, really. And utter nonsense because Ghost is fine. 

Trauma tampered. Revenge sought, found. There's no one out there who could ever harm him, and still—

His last rut was before the mission that buried him alive. That turned him into the living dead. A mockery of man. Frankensteinian beast. 

It's not something he cares much for, anyway. From what he remembers of his youth—vague snippets of memories, disjointed, blurred sensation; a profound need, an urge, to sink his cock into something, to plug them up, to bite—ruts have always been a nuisance. In the way. An annoyance that took time away from what he'd rather be doing. 

And as Johnny enters his—skin pallid, waxy; cheeks flushed, eyes darkening like a brewing storm on the horizon; snapping at anything that breathes, whining like a dog, miserable and hot, all the time (ahm’a bleedin’ furnace, s’what ah’m)—he finds he doesn't care very much to go reclaim what he lost. 

No skin off his nose. Nothing to concern himself with. 

Besides. Omegas know better. 

Even before he lost himself, dying, rotting in a tumulus, pretty little omegas with their soft hands and bashful smiles always went out of their way to avoid him. Miserable alpha. His scent alone wards them off—burnt leather, charred bones; sarcophagus dust, dirt—and he found himself alone during his burgeoning ruts more often than not. 

No pretty little thing to tender the sweat on his brow, or bend over and present for him—offering up a sweet little cunt he got to bury himself inside, tie up nice and tight on his knot. 

It was usually his hand. A bottle of bourbon. A printed porn stash he swiped from Tommy, who nicked it off their old man—

And when he did find a partner, it was always transactional. Hand to hand, an exchange of money. All clinical and detached. Empty. Fucking into a concept instead of a person; a vacuum eating away at his soul because he knew, then, that they wanted to be there almost as much as he did. 

But what choice did either have when their home was the rotted gullet of a dying beast?

(Simon told them to stay away from shitty men like him, who broke bones in the throes of his heat, snapped his jowls at anything that got too close, and had to be chained to the bed like an animal during it—)

Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn. 

And it's not like he doesn't get the urge. Wanting to sink his cock into something warm, wet, is as recurring as a sweet tooth. A prickle in the back of his head after he devours his dinner that says, dessert might be nice. 

He can fuck, but his knot never pops. A worry the doctors had—unsure what the consequences would be in the long run for such a virile, young Alpha already experiencing nature's version of erectile dysfunction so early in life. 

(“pity the poor omega who has to deal with that rut,” they whispered. “might not be much of anything left of them when he's through.”)

Inconsequential now because he's pushing forty and his last rut was a false trigger. One dragged out of him by drugs and torture. The last true rut, natural and instinctual, was when he was eighteen. 

It's doubtful he'd suddenly be cured at his age. 

This is what he tells Johnny when he asks, pries. Broken fuck, ain't he? Unmated. Can't knot. Piss poor excuse of an Alpha. Doesn't he think it's—

“a shame,” Johnny grouses, words muffled slightly by the way he's hunched over the cheap plastic table in the canteen. His fingers dig harshly into his temple. “Alpha like you—” it's enunciated in clipped Queen's English, the barb makes Ghost scoff. “—ack! a waste. ma mam would be livid. no grandbabies t’show off? sacrilegious.”

—funny. If he's being honest. Laughable:

because for as long as Ghost can remember, he's always had a predilection to ruin his favourite toys. slaking his unquenchable lust on their tender skin, biting down to the bone, sipping on their marrow—

not really the sort of thing omegas today go for, is it? 

his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug—

Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.” 

“yer no’ missin’ it?” 

“missin’ what, Johnny?”

“knottin’, ye surly prick.” He jeers, then, jabs his elbow into Simon's arm. “a bonnie omega to stick yer prick in. ain't missin’ th’, no?”

“no,” Simon gripes. The last thing Price needs is another order of protection against his Lieutenant. But to humour the alpha in an early stage of rut, he jabs out, hollow and full of wretched derision. “i can barely remember what it felt like. must be heaven, though. is that your plans for tonight, Johnny? gonna go and knot some sorry omega?”

It's meant to prod, poke. Sharp barbs aimed at Johnny's threadbare control, the same one held in place by a fraying, unspooling knot. Alphas in the early stage of rut are considered safe enough to be around. Not yet mindless drones, hosts to an ugly little parasite; a being forced to obey a single, instinctual drive to mate, to gorge themselves into a post-rut stupor. 

Safe. Or so they say. 

But Ghost knows what Johnny's feeling in the same sense as a phantom limb. A broken, fragmented memory. So, he twists his mockery in deep. All in jest, of course. 

And Johnny pales suddenly. Wavers in his seat. The affirmative comes after a bout of contemplative silence. A jagged, choked yeah slips from his Sergeant’s mouth as he drops his head to the table, and groans. Miserable. 

“go fuck yerself, Lt.”

Simon intends on taking Johnny up on that offer, lazying out on the futon with his hand stroking lazily along his flaccid cock, thumbing through the latest series of snapshots Johnny—ever the photographer—snapped up during his previous rut. Images of pretty omegas dressed up in fine silk, blood-red lingerie, and coy little grins on their faces, a vixen pastiche of demureness. Jejune appeal in all its coquettishness.

Innocent sluts—Johnny's preferred type. Ones who'll bat their eyes at him, nervous and full of faux modesty, while they rock back and forth on his face, tugging on his mohawk to make him lick their cunts just the way they like. Sweet, like candy. Dressed in sin. 

He likes to take before and after photos of them—often with the pretty models unaware (adds to it, aye, Lt?). Ones with them batting their eyes at him, soft and shy in all their twee delight, and then fucked out, ruined and chewed up like a broken toy when he finishes with them. Bitten off more than they can swallow. Cheeky brats sobbing for mercy on his bed. 

Likes, even more, to send them to Ghost. A little tease. One he has no compunction about partaking in. Enjoying to his heart's content. 

Or—

Intended to, of course. Because what ends up happening is this:

Price calls just as he's getting into the new series sent to his phone—the tear streaks streaming down this omega’s face are particularly appealing, bound in intricate Celtic knots (Johnny, the artist), and gagged with their own panties—and tells him he has a job for him. 

Something simple. Discreet. And local, too. Bears have been sighted in town—a mama and her cubs. Dangerously close. 

The prelude to the phone call is a clipped take care’a it before the line goes dead. 

Ghost doesn't need to pack much—he can't remember the last time he unpacked his duffle bag, anyway—and stays in the recliner until the mission file comes in, idly stroking his thumb across the pixelated, tear-streaked face of the omega in Johnny's clutch. Moussed. Messy. They make the prettiest picture, don't they? Drool dripping down their chin, a spillover from what the lacy, white panties couldn't catch. 

Flesh peppered with jagged circles, bite marks. Johnny knows better than to claim them, and their neck is bereft of his teeth. Smooth. Unblemished. 

To claim is to bond. To bond—

Well. 

His earliest recollection of a relationship is his parents’. His mum, tied and trapped to a man she wanted no part of, but stuck. Unbondings, divorce, were rare during that time. Unheard of. Even now. 

And under his old man's influence, he's always seen claiming as ownership. As possession. A lingering remnant he’s told is wrong, but can't shake. Can't change. It glues in the fibrils of his mind. A rotten, pulsing scab that no amount of sanctioned reconditioning can ever seem to get rid of, to scrape out of his skull. 

(one he knows would be there no matter what because his sole purpose is exsanguination; bloodletting— 

in his warped desire to protect the things he cares about, he ends up smothering them in the end. a child holding a firefly too tight in its chubby fist.)

But Johnny knows better. Good Catholic boy. Knows to keep a muzzle on himself when he sucks desperate kisses into the small omegas' sweet neck, breaking apart the blood vessels of their scent glands, soaking himself in their musk—potent pheromones of a needy omega in heat. Aching for a bite. To be held down and conquered. 

It's wrong, they say. This ugly mass sits inside his chest like a foreign body. Scandalised eyes drilling into the side of his head like he's a monster for thinking this way. 

And he is. 

(always has been)

But he knows better. Knows to keep those uglier, rotten parts of himself hidden away from prying eyes. Got good at it, too. Enough that they let him into the brothels time and time again. 

Still—

He can remember the closest he'd come during a rut to biting a shrill omega who screamed in his ear until his head rang, ached. Nearly did it, too. Teeth razoring over their jugular, pinching delicate skin. 

Clarity came like a gunshot when he tasted blood. Chiselled a hole through his delirium, broke up the haze, and snapped his jaws up tight, locking them as he finished with a muffled growl, tongue swirling over his teeth for another taste. Another drop. 

His ruts have always been messy. Bloody. Got him banned from several centres, brothels, where they offered up betas drenched in the artificial musk of an omega in estrus. Ones resilient enough to withstand the harsh coupling of an unhinged Alpha in need. 

He had a problem, they said, with treating their workers like chew toys. Biting to break skin, drilling in deep enough to scratch his teeth on their bones. 

Deranged, they hissed. Fuckin’ mental, mate. Stay the hell away!

Some are just prone to violence. Need to be half-sedated before they can mate without ripping their partner to pieces. Ghost has always been that sort. Aggressive. Hard to control. Rabid. 

His appetite is bigger than the expanse of their skin. He sometimes thinks he could eat the whole world and still starve. 

He hums, thumb sliding to cover the omega's neck. Trapped in his hand, his clutch. They're cute when they're ruined like this. Begging. Whimpering. 

His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. His work phone chimes, signaling the end of his leisure. 

shame, he thinks, squeezing his hand until the metal dents, the screen cracks, splinters. Pops. Hairline fractures split across their distorted, tear-stained face. He closes his fist over it until it breaks. Goes black. 

really. such a goddamn shame. 

Some things are just not meant to be—

—but they have a habit of falling into his maw, anyway.

It's a simple set up. 

Man—

beast, monster, thing

—with his empty, growling stomach and teeth made to bite, tear, goes out hunting for a meal. In that search, he finds you. 

You, Persephone personified: damned (eternal), standing beneath a spruce tree. Limned, halo gold, in the waning sunset's bashful kisses, you lean on the rough bark, idling your timelessness away. 

Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring. 

(creature of sin

and oh, do you reek:

The air is saturated in the tantalising scent of honeybush, roasted hazelnuts, and clove. Saccharine—almost nauseatingly so—but with a hint of spice, black cardamom, cinnamon. He drags in lungful after lungful until it tangles deep within his chest, nearly suffocating. Smothered in this earthy sweetness. Drowning. Drowning—

the perfect dessert)

It unleashes something in him. Chips at the lock buried deep in his mind, cudgelling through the hinges until they pop. Rusted, slick with oxidising oil. It peels back from the gate, unveiling this gaping, ravenous chasm, polluted and gangrenous, rotten down to the marrow. Noisome. Noxious. This frothing pit sloshes, geyser-like, and greedily foams at the maw, the mouth, aching for a taste. Something to quench this gnawing hunger. 

This bottomless abyss hadn't seen light since he was eighteen, and—

The hollow space where his rib once sat throbs, aches. phantom bone. He holds his chest with his hand, feeling for the gap, the chasm, stolen from him. Ripped away, taken.

By you. you—

—so,

it's only fair that he steals something back. 

(quid pro quo, or something, right?)

You greet him with a small nod when he wanders close, eyeing him warily under the black rim of your ballcap. Tense. Small hands curl into fists, partially hidden under the rain-soaked windbreaker nearly two sizes too big. It smells like you—honeyed milk, molasses; lilac, lavender and warm bread—and he fights the urge to pull his mask down, to shove his misshapen nose into your neck, and breathe it in right from the source. Drinking, feasting, on it. 

This want is visceral. It coils in his guts, bubbling in his veins. His musk—heavier than yours, pungent—beads along his scent glands, mushrooming into the air like a fine mist. 

Your nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, eyes skewering into you, taking in everything you have to offer. The rucksack left at the bottom of the tree, stained with dirt and leaves. A sprig of Saskatoon berries peeks out from the lopsided flap. And—

Ah. 

Foraging is off-limits in this area unless granted a permit. One you don't seem to have based on the skittish way you keep avoiding his eye.

His scent thickens, tainted sour with faux suspicion, and you wince, ducking your chin, tucking it close to your chest, hiding from his spearing gaze. 

All it does is give him a voyeuristic view of your fragile nape, your vulnerable neck. 

His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight. 

It looks so bare. So naked. 

(Be a shame to keep it that way forever, wouldn't it?)

“Hi,” you stammer, seemingly oblivious to the musk you leak into the air, into his lungs. Forcing some sense of staid indifference into your tone. Like being here, out in the middle of the forest is normal. “Did you need something?” 

On the verge of a heat like this, wobbling where you stand—

He wants to chew you up. Spit out the pieces on the pavement. Drink from the gash he'll rip into your jugular,

quench this unbearable thirst. 

He doesn't know how you made it out here as long as you have, smelling like you do, and the thought burrows through the haze spuming, clotting, on the fringes of his muted periphery. Anger is an icy deluge of white water raging through his veins. 

Under the mask, the remnants of his scarred lip curls. His hands close into tight fists. Balled up. He feels the tension crackling along his muscles, his body. Coiled spring. Ready to leap—

But:

There's clarity. Focus. Where he was meant to become a mindless monster, driven by instinct, he instead feels the pieces of himself snap back into place. Missing puzzle pieces. It shifts. Settles. Locks. 

He wants you. Will have you. It's non-negotiable. Ironclad. You just—

Belong to him, don't you? Pretty little thief. And wandering around like this, reeking like you do, you must want him, too. Need him. 

(protect, protect, protect—)

Honed in, drilling into your face to catch every expression that flickers past, he sees the moment you take a sniff, when realisation blooms in the inkpools of your gaze that you are less than an arm's length away from a starving predator. Supple, soft. All plush flesh seated seamlessly against brittle bone. Fragile. 

“hi,” he echoes, and it sounds hollow. Garbled. Like he's speaking underwater. Thinks, for a moment, that he's buried again. Drowning under the crushing weight of dirt. His own tumulus. Suffocating. Choking on dirt—

But you twitch. Feral little thing. It breaks him out of this nightmarish obtundation; shaking the cobwebs loose. He tracks it like a viper. Attention narrowing, shrinking, into nothing but the way you move. Smell. You anchor him in his place, keeping him stable amid this horrific onslaught of emotions that rip talons down his chest. 

“I–” you breathe in again, lashes fluttering. Strains of silk batting over your etiolated cheeks. You breathe him in. Deep. He sees your chest grow, expanding with his air. His musk. Has to bite down on a growl before it forms, the lash of a whip in his throat. Aching. 

There's something spellbinding about you—caked in a layer of grime, briny sweat clogging your natural scent; wild and untamed. Uncharted wilderness, untouched by man and their dirty hands. A corrie after a rain shower. Snow melt. He wants to bathe in it. Carry it with him wherever he goes. 

As if scenting this thickening desire, your eyes widen. You take a step back, swallowing audibly when he follows. Marionette on strings. Your shadow. 

“I should go—”

And he knows he can't let you do that. 

Won't. 

He hums, a fickle, brittle thing in the far reaches of his chest. 

“Go?” he flicks his hand toward your bag, head cocking to the side in a mockery of contemplation. “Don' think you got a permit for that, do you?”

“A permit…”

He has you. Your eyes lower, falling to the badge on his chest. Game Warden. You stare at it, eyes widening. Swallowing thick. 

With you distracted, he leans in. Curves his body over you mockingly, like he's bending down to whisper a secret in your ear. Cupping a pretty little firefly in the palm of his hand. 

When his shadow falls over you—dark and damning—you flinch back, fists trembling under the hem of your jacket. Brows furrowed, knotted tight. Your lower lip wobbles. You try to hide that, too, by sinking your teeth into your flesh until it floods white under the strain. 

He wants to pry it apart with his own teeth. Take the bruised flesh into his mouth until you start to drool, whining from the abuse he inflicts on you in a mockery of a kiss. 

(wants to tear through it, taste your blood on his tongue—)

“An’ I don't reckon tha's a good idea, pet.” 

You shiver when he places his hand on the truck above your head. Boxing you in completely, nothing to spare—not even an inch. 

He hums at that, cock giving a vicious jerk inside his trousers at the almost impossible dearth between your sizes, at the way he swallows you up in an instant. Has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to keep the inkblack tendrils swirling, gathering, at the edges of his periphery from bleeding in. This starving murder of crows. 

When he speaks again, it's low. Deep. Kittenish licks from the tongue of a tiger; abrasive, rough. Mocking baritone of a shifting canyon, a mountainside, before it buries anyone alive under rubble. 

“Not reekin’ the way you do. Might ‘ave every alpha in a one square mile radius frothin’ at jaws for a taste. Ain't safe out there.”

And it's definitely not safe with him. 

He watches, transfixed, the moment this clicks. When your eyes waver between the hard bulk of his body—spread out, laxed; plumage unfurled—and the noisy clatter of the town just within reach. It's this thicket that cups your scent, that protectively curls over you, and keeps the Alpha's prowling about the market square from sniffing you out. A beaten trail. Hidden desire path no one was supposed to wander down. 

Except the bear problem in the woods, infringing on town, and him, the gun bolstered on his thigh still hot from his warning shots into the bush.

(lost little Lamb—

wandered too far from the herd.)

You take another step, cautious. Small. It brings you flush against the tree. Your polyester jacket whines at the friction. He can see indecision play out on your face. Oscillating between the badge on his uniform shirt, the gun on his massive thigh, and the clamour of muted noise from the town just within reach. Alphas prowling. Their acrid scent is unmistakable even through the dense foliage spreading around you.

It's an impasse. Neither option affords you much choice in the long run—it's either stay here with him, with the heady scent of want, of an Alpha on the incipient cusp of a voracious rut; or risk yourself in town. There are police officers patrolling. Ones who can sedate an alpha who gets too out of hand, but still. 

The mimesis of desire pooling around you might send you into heat sickness. That, or you'll get in even more trouble for fleeing a pursuing officer. Resisting arrest. Jail time, certainly. 

The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble. 

Then—

Your eyes leave his chest, the gun, trailing over his shoulder. Widening in surprise at whatever is there in the distance. 

He ought to commend you, really. The rouse is quite believable—

But: 

“Not bad,” he murmurs, leaning down further. If you won't jump, he'll push you—

He sees his mistake as soon as it happens. 

As he bends, you drop. Waiting until his attention seemingly drifts elsewhere, to when he's distracted and off balance. Lured in by your faux attempt at distraction. 

And it might have worked on a lesser being, but all Ghost has ever been is raw, unadulterated instinct.

He lashes out as soon as you move again, palm curling over your wrist in an instant. Snapping jowls of a defensive snake. Shackled. Locked. He tugs—

But the movement costs momentum. You use this against him, going limp. Forcing him to take the brunt of your weight on the spread of his fingers. Tricky little minx. His mouth breaks out in a feral smirk, tugging harshly on scars, on burns. Stretching skin. Distorting it under the mask, ugly and vicious. 

Your scent plumes up around him, sickly sweet. His jaw aches, gums itch. He wants to bite, snap his jowls around the scruff of your neck, chew on your skin until you sob out his name—

In seconds, you twist. Swinging your body back in a beautiful pivot, clumsy as it is. You're all animal now. Reckless in your pursuit to escape. Throwing out pheromones at him—purposeful, he realises a moment too late. 

And it works. Distracts him long enough for his grip to slacken. Your arm slips out of his grasp, and you're on your feet in an instant, darting through the thicket in a maddened dash to escape the heavy, starving alpha and his burgeoning hunger. 

Escape, or—

Weighed down by the afterbirth of his sudden rut, a prickle of his old self buoys, brims, from beneath the mess. He shouldn't chase you. Should leave you alone, call someone—Price, perhaps. Bark out between a clenched jaw that he needs a tranquiliser and chains. Will have to break Simon's teeth to stop him from biting into you like a man starved, famished. Tie him to the back of his pickup truck, drag him to the edges of the forest. Knock him out. Knock his teeth in. 

Anything.

Because they said this might happen. The doctors’ who poked and prodded. Therapists—all mandatory, non-negotiable, when he signed his name on the dotted line—murmured about unravelling. His self-control snapping like a twig. Sense of self retreating. All hiding away, protecting itself from the torrent of chemicals flooding his hindbrain. A heavy, unrelenting accumulation of a decades-long bout of rut celibacy all washing over him, all at once. 

Said to lock himself up if it happens. Chains. Shackles. Nuts and bolts. Heavy tranquiliser. Immediate sedation. 

And in Price’s office, in that messy filing cabinet he keeps, is a folder. A playthrough of everything that's supposed to happen if this happens. 

(“but that won't happen, will it, Simon?” 

and he'd rolled one massive shoulder in an easy, effortless shrug. 

“no.”)

The failsafe is that he's meant to call in if it does. Precious seconds of clarity, cognisance, enough time for him to dial the number, to bark out the order. To be hunted down, rounded up, and thrown in a pit. 

where he belongs. 

He should. Should. It's the book. Rules. Coloured in red ink. No option to negotiate. 

But as you slip through the dense foliage, angelic gold against the phthalo green bosky, the knot in his shoulders abates. Uncoils. In this sense of ease that permeates within him, he finds that he's shockingly cognisant. In full control. The plexiglass shatters, and in the ruins he finds purpose. 

You smell good. Too good. Any alpha will scent you in an instant, will claim you. Take you. It makes something in his broken, moulted head shift. Crack. He can't let that happen. Has to protect you the only way he knows how—

To wrap his paws around your throat before any other Alpha has the chance to sink their teeth into you. To claim you. 

All his. Little Persephone tucked tight against his ribs where you belong. 

And if the way the air clots with your cloying smell—heady, potent; the unmistakable ripeness of an omega in heat—then you must want him to chase you. Want him to follow. 

(escape, or—

a game.)

He tracks your movements, honed in on the rustle of the underbrush. When you're out of sight, Ghost flexes his hand, curling his gloved fingers over the leather on his palm. There's an itch in the back of his head. Festering. Rotting. He wants to reach in, rake his claws down the mass, shred it to pieces, but it affixes one simple truth inside of him: 

you need him. want him. why else would you run in the opposite direction of help if you didn't want him to give chase?

And so, he does.

You're a crafty little thing. To throw him off of your trail, you leave scent markers on the tree trunks you pass, doubling back to run in the opposite direction. 

It might have worked on someone else, but Ghost has spent half of his life buried in this thicket, and knows better than to follow smells in the forest. A vacuum, a great chasm; it plays tricks with sounds. Distorts scents wafting through the canopy, mingling with the natural loam, the disturbed humus underfoot. 

Instead, he hums at your cleverness—his smart little omega—and shifts his gaze to the forest floor, roaming over the footprints sinking into the soft soil, the peat and moss. A breadcrumb trail leading right to you. Broken twigs, crushed bushes. 

Ghost follows it. Places each foot down carefully, nose angled upward to catch the fresh wave of your heat leaking through the tangled furze. It beckons him forward. Calls out to him. 

(come, come, come—)

This lost little lamb needs a shepherd. 

He intends to give you just that. 

(—find me)

The path you cut through the forest is a twisting sawtooth meant to throw him off your trail. Traps laid out in tall tussocks, weaved through sweetgrass all drenched in your scent. Pieces of your clothing torn at the hem, the shorn fabric pressed on pine needles and tangles furze. 

These breadcrumb trails—a neat nest of wile, it seems—are cunning, he'll give you that. 

Even with his eyes to the forest floor, he finds himself throwing a wayward glance in the opposite direction, snagged in your webbed subterfuge. Somewhere between the visitors centre and the first trail meandering into the thick taiga, you seemed to have realised that your boots leave indents in the mor. He follows the deep impressions in the podsol until he finds them shoved under a Saskatoon berry bush. Another dead end. 

Clever little thing, aren't you?

But even when strays from the path, he's right on your tail. Confident in his scenting abilities. His prowess has always been tracking down wily little rabbits when they try to flee, picking them off in stasis from high above. The layout might have changed—his perch closer to the ground instead of a deer stand—but his eyes are just as keen. Your winding trail is ingrained in his mind. A long loop through the eastern trailhead, and he knows, instantly, that you'll try to throw him off at the placard where the west trail branches off through the dense conifers, and the east meanders downslope to the hidden stream where hunters like to trawl. 

He feels a pinch of pride simmering low in his guts. Anyone else would have lost you three pitfalls back. He's enraptured by this pursuit. Smitten by you. Your clumsy little escape. Your sweet little ploys. He wants to chew into you, let his teeth leave jagged scars, false starts, on your bones. Permanent. Starlight—dusting meteor showers in milk white. 

Ghost’s belly gives a tremendous growl. He huffs at the ache clawing against tissue, ravenous and unbearably empty. 

He'll have you soon. All to himself. 

The thought makes fresh blooms of pleasure spume from the rot in his chest, prickling through the layers of muskeg and peat, etiolated little sprout. Germinating in wet gangrene. Feasting on necrotised flesh. 

He swipes his hand over a honeybush, catches the lingering scent clinging to the leaves. You must have fallen here. Tangled yourself in the furze, overcome by your heat. 

Poor thing. Tired already. 

He holds his hand up to the fading gossamer of twilight trickling through the dense canopy, clenching the lingering remnants of your scent in his fist. It's fresh. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, carry it around with him. 

He finds you in a small clearing, bent down with your palm resting on the trunk of a tree. Nails digging into the rotting bark, desperately struggling to catch your breath. Your heat is a wildfire. It scorches the earth. Burns his nose. 

You're no longer on the cusp of it anymore, but in the throes. 

His rut, he finds, isn't too far behind. 

Perfect synergy. Meant to be. You call to him, and the gaping, gnarled chasm inside of him answers with a growl—

Before you can blink, he moves.

He falls over you, felled timber. The earth shakes under his indomitable weight. Palms slam into the rough bark of the gnarled spruce you've taken respite against, boxing you in. 

You fall against it with a gasp, hands pushing against his broad chest as he backs you into the tree. Little fists pounding on his sternum, mouth pinched, twisted in a snarl. There are pieces of bush caught on your clothes, tangled in your hair. Leaves. Sticks. A spot of dirt on your nose. 

It's mesmerising. 

The ballcap falls first. Morning sunlight over a boscage in bloom. Pitfalls, ravines. The canyons of your eyes quiver; this new topography shifting, sliding. Tectonic beauty in muted midnight. 

He wants to reach in, feel these granite walls of yours with his bare hands. Clamber up the colluvium, the scree, until he reaches these rugged peaks gleaming at him, angry and feral, in fading twilight. 

Time is endless. There's no limit to how long he has to know you—drink from your rivers, feast on your valleys; find all the hidden nooks, the crannies, shaded under the towering monoliths of your body. Chart your couloir. Defile your flume. Bathe in your estuary. Tangle himself inside your dells. Tame your chaparral. 

Fastidiously. Expertly. Until no part of you is unknown to him. 

Your chest heaves, mouth open as he crowds you further. Pressing into you. Over you. 

He wedges his broad thigh between your legs, presses it tight against your pussy. Your thrashing stills when he touches you, when he angles his knee up, up—

There. Through the layers of clothing that separates his bare skin from your cunt, he feels the heat bleeding out against him. The wetness from your sodden panties. Undeniable proof of how much you want him. Need him. 

 “All wet f’me?”

“Fuck you—!” You spit, angry and feral, but you arch into his touch, pushing your pussy onto his thigh. Aching for friction. 

It makes him hum. A low growl caught in the back of his throat. 

“Reckon I'll be the one fuckin’ you, pet.” 

And he will be. This is fact. 

You shudder, brows notching together in a vicious glare. “I don't want you.” 

It's hissed between the sliver of your clenched teeth. Full of heavy conviction. Forging truth out of lies—

And that's all it is. A lie. A fallacy. 

(and even if it wasn't, unlikely considering the way you arch into him, needy despite the disdain dripping down your brow—he really just can't find it in himself to give a fuck; he'll make you want him—)

Ghost leans down, muzzle pressed against your neck. He inhales deep, audible. Chest expanding, lungs swelling. Full of the aroma bleeding out of your pores. Proof of just how much you do, in fact, want him. Betrayed by your own body. 

He huffs out, paints the air with his derision. “Is that so?” 

Ghost drags his hand down the solid line of the tree, dropping it to rest against the jut of your hip. He ducks his head, watching. Staring at the way his palm nearly swallows you up when he rests it over your waist. Spanning nearly the entirety of it—hip to hip. 

It bludgeons into him. Knocks the air clean from his lungs. 

He's always had a hunger for things he can cup in his palm. The barrel of his rifle. The hilt of a knife. Your wrist in his hand. The curve of your hip. 

His gloved fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. Pads ghosting over your skin. Warmth bleeds through the leather, an unmistakable tell of your heat reaching its first equinox. It'll be all fire, all smoke, from this point onward. Desperate. Feral. 

Groaning deep, wanting, he pushes into you further. Chest rumbling. Eager. 

It takes a great deal of effort to pull his hand away. To bring it up to his mouth, fingers hooking over the edge. 

The fight in you abates—marginally—and you watch him with a keen look of suspicion dancing in the moulted dirt spread over your nullah. Wary. Anticipatory. 

He fights the urge to laugh—deep and delirious—and instead works on prying his mask down over his crooked nose, his mangled mouth. Letting the hem snap under his chin, kept there. Bearing himself to you for the first time. Naked. Exposed. 

Your eyes widen, trailing down the jagged lines, mauled ridges of scar tissue. Drinking in everything he offers in the fading embers of a summer twilight. 

He grins—a rivened, ugly thing—when you let out a heavy, quick breath, and your hips drop, rutting your sopping cunt over the wide heft of his thigh. Gyrating subconsciously. Quietly pleased by the way he looks—as maimed, as beastly as he is. He lets you. Lifts his knee, pressing his cap tight into the bark, and bumping the top of his flexing quadriceps at the apex of your groin, right where he knows your clit sits. 

The breath you take is pulled in through clenched teeth, biting on the rind of a moan. Its shapeless silhouette ducks, hides from sight. 

He lets you have it. Lets you run. 

But it's not without recompense. 

With his upper lip curled, he sinks his teeth into the leather tip of the glove above his middle finger. Letting you see them for yourself—these thrawn teeth he'll bury into your neck. Claiming you entirely as his. 

Your pupils start to eclipse your irises. Lagoons of liquid black blotting over rugged peaks. 

Ghost slowly tips his head back, dragging the glove with him. Eyes setting along his lashline, he drinks in the sight of you swallowing thickly, your gaze darting between his teeth, his mouth, and now—his bared neck. Voracious, greedy, in the way you feast on him. Drilling into the stretch of skin slowly unveiling itself to you. 

The muscles in his neck flex against rimy skin. Adam's apple bobbing with his slow swallow. 

You follow it all, but your gaze seems to fix itself on the brawny arch of his neck, falling—and then glueing— to the thick vein protruding from his flesh, pulsing with the steady rhythm of his heart, and the small, swollen bump of his scent gland beneath it. 

Hunger, he finds, paints such a pretty picture on your face. The greedy, anfractuous glances a bludgeon into him; so heavily affixed with desire that the shake of your head when he pulls the glove free, letting it dangle from between his teeth, and drops his hand back to your skin, is minute. Meaningless. 

You want him as much as he wants you. 

The clause in this, the axiom, is ironclad. Irrefutable. Bound in brass when you shiver at the touch—feverish skin on feverish skin—and arch into his palm for more. Panting through clenched teeth, each hiss striking against that fraying coil leashing his threadbare control. To distract himself from the unspooling knot, the ache in his gums, he charts the first inch of skin he passes with his thumb, committing the sloping plains of your body to memory. The jut of your hip, the stutter in your breath when he runs the rough pad of his forefinger over the slope of your underbelly. 

It's easy to marvel at the sheer enormity of his size compared to yours. Simon hitches his thigh firmly into your clothed cunt, nearly lifting you up off the ground. You teeter on the tips of your toes, falling forward into his chest to stabilise yourself. Little fists curling into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight against his the last rungs of his ribcage. Your head lifts, a glare chiselling into the soft fields of your face. 

You hiss something at him—feral and scathing. He drops the glove, leans down to meet you in the middle, and eats your feeble protests from your lips in a bruising kiss. Scorching. His teeth knock into yours. Tongue lashes out to catch the vitriol dripping from your fangs. You make a noise in the back of your throat, and he swallows that, too. Devours it all. 

It's a vicious kiss. All teeth, tongue. Bullying. He lets you sink your teeth into his tongue, huffing into the seam of your lips when you coo, victoriously, at the first drop of blood spilled. 

In retaliation, he sets his hands over your ribs, and lifts you up off the ground. Making you gasp. Mewl. Your legs kick out as the back of your head catches on loose bark, raining it down over your shoulders in flakes. He doesn't stop kissing you throughout. Eyes half-mast, still open, as he drinks in the sight of yours rolling back in your head when his thigh, one the width of both of yours—fuckin’ hell—catches the perfect angle on your clit. 

Loose-limbed, caught, you have no choice but to wrap your ankles around his waist, curl your arms around his broad shoulders. Clinging to him desperately to remain grounded, held aloft. 

His hand falls down, cups the back of your thigh, fingers spanning the entire curve of your cheek. Held tight in his palm. He bucks into you—quick, hard. Letting you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, leaking spend already in the tight confines of his trousers. This groin, inner thighs, already sticky with the mess dribbling out. 

You fall apart at this. Head tipping back, crown thudding against the truck of the tree. He has your lower lip between his teeth, and it pulls, skin stretching until he huffs out another breath, mocking, and unhinges his jaw, letting you go. 

Mewling, whining low in the back of your throat, you clumsily rut your cunt into the hard press of his cock. Eyes hazy, liquid, with your blooming heat. 

Its approach is quicker than he thought it would be, and he hums, tongue rolling over his teeth to catch the lingering taste of you. Under his hand, your skin burns. Singing with the urgency of your desperation. He answers it with a grunt, falling forward to smother you under his weight. 

There's a flash of clarity in your eyes when they crack open. Brief. Fleeting. He feels your sluggish attempt to push him away, to free your hands from between your chests, and he has to dip his head to stifle another groan. It feels good to have you under him like this. Covered entirely in his bulk, his shadow. 

His hand pulls away from your flesh, snaking between your bodies to catch your wrists in the palm of his hand. Only one swallows them up, and the easy way he subdued you—effortlessly—has him nearly coming undone in his trousers. Untouched. 

“Fuck, want it bad, don't you?” he snarls, hips bucking into you. Chasing pleasure. He pulls your hands out, lifting to arm to trap yours in the shackle his fingers make high above your head, and—

It's devious, this. 

Somewhere in the loosening agency of his self, his autonomy, he knows this is becoming dangerous. Something that ought to be stopped before he rips into you with a rabidness that promises nothing at all will remain intact when he's finished. When he's had his fill. He needs to clear his mind. To get away from the way you fit against him so perfectly. Tiny in his wicked embrace. 

Like you were made to fit between his ribs. His teeth. 

He gnashes them together, trying to stem the ache in his gums. 

He wants to fuck you. Needs to—

But as ripe as you smell to him now—tender melon, warmed honeycomb—he knows that you're not yet ready to take him. 

Ghost steps back, letting your feet drop to the soil below. With the sparse inch of space between your bodies, he breathes in the lingering scent of your breath—sharp, burning; imbued with a heady thrum of adrenaline electrifying your nerves—and finds the musk a near-perfect pantomime of ozone. The arid tang in the air just before the air. A lightning strike. It rolls over his tongue, tastes of wet pennies in the back of his throat. Heavy with anticipation. 

Something he feels very keenly as well. An eagerness he hasn't met in decades. Absolutely famished for it, for this familiarity of want. Potent desire. 

He mourns the loss of the way your ass fits in the cradle of his hand when he pulls it free, fingers trailing over the feverish skin of your hips, your belly, as he goes. He doesn't stop until he comes to rest on the button of your trousers, eyes flickering down to catch your gaze. Purposeful, now. Intent clear. 

Nothing is stopping him from taking. Your protests are paper-thin, dissolving the moment it touches the dense blanket of humidity in the air, but he wants your submission. Wants to see your resolve break, crushed by your own hand. 

The gossamer wings of a butterfly, crumpled up in your palm, and offered to him for the taking. How sweet—

You seem to realise his intentions when his thumb dips below the hem of your pants. Just a tease. Brushing against the soft skin he finds there with the curve of his nail. 

Your glare is instant. The sharp tug of a drawstring pinching tight between your brow. Mesmerising as it closes over your lax expression. A fierce snap. He wants to pry it apart. Wedge himself between the seam. Create a gap wide enough for him to fit. 

“I won't beg,” you grind out, acidulous. Firm. 

He huffs, quietly amused by the fight still sparking in you despite the evidence of your arousal, your want of him, evident in the stain at the seam of your pants. His other hand rests on the trunk of the tree above your head, boxing you in when he leans closer. Taunting. “That so?” 

You don't respond, but your glare sharpens, mouth tugging downward in a harsh frown. Displeasure sparks in the air. Cutting into him like fine glass shards. He lets it graze his naked flesh, the warning ghosting over him in needlepoint pinpricks. Entirely too captivated by you to notice the sting. 

Your ire is a heady, tangible thing dripping down your brow, slashing over your cheeks. Anger, however misguided it might be, paints a pretty picture over your face. Darkens the inlets nestled in the corner of your eyes. Drenches the ravines, gorges in a startling chiaroscuro. Limns the alpines, the valleys, in a halo of golden starlight. 

He wants to drink it down. Hold your fury in the palm of his hand—

Crush it between his fingers. 

Because despite the dissent, your desire cuts through, and hews the air in a thick tapestry of want. 

mutinous, teeth bared, but your eyes burn, rage against the prison walls, and scream, please—

His fingers dig into the bark above your head, catching flecks of sap between his nails. Knuckles turning white under the flaxen hair dusting over them, strained. The grip is unintentional. Unconscious. He keeps thinking about you beneath him. The heat of your thighs around his waist was a mere tease. A morsel when he wants a meal—

The pressure in his knuckles grounds him. Cuts through the phosphenes blanketing the edges of his vision, smothering the clarity, the cognisance, that lingers in the centre. Threadbare as it is. 

There’s an ache in his jaw. 

(the need to bite—)

He pulls it off, and shoves his hand tight between your thighs, cupping your cunt in his palm. Feeling the heat bleed through the gusset of your pants. The touch is harsh. Firm. He bullies his fingers into your flesh, letting out a mocking chuff when he feels the fabric dampen.  

“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.” 

Your hand lashes out, grabbing the thick of his wrist. Holding firm. It should be a warning, but the obvious gap between your middle finger and thumb makes him groan instead. 

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?” 

You twist away from him when he leans down, chin ducking to your shoulder. Hiding. Denying him your mouth, your taste. This meagre measure of control you grapple for is easy to give. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear instead, letting you run. Flee. For now. 

His voice is thick when he continues, husky. He pitches it low, lets it swirl into the seashell coil of your inner ear, earning him a shiver in response. Your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. Holding tight. 

“‘m a lot of things, pet—” rucked gravel, sodden with his derision, spills into your ear. Your shudder makes him want to bite, to maim. “Wrong ain't usually one of ‘em. But you'll learn that soon enough.” 

Your breath hitches. Expression morphing, shifting. Changing into something adorably beleaguered as he encircles you like a tiger, eyes drilling through the tussock, aimed directly at your head. With his body boxing you in, coiling over you like a hideous shadow, he has you trapped, caught. Little lamb writhing between the paw of a tiger.  

You seem to be keenly aware of this. Your eyes are shrewd, searching, as you probe around for any escape route, but he's a bulwark around you. Inescapable. 

Finding none, you suck in another breath, and slowly lift your chin, glancing up at him through your lashes. The look on your face is—

Enigmatic. 

Something changes in the morphology of your mien. Fracturing. Cracking. 

“Yeah?” You breathe, soft and goading. Your hips buck into his hand, rutting shallowly against the tops of his fingers. Unconscious. Like you just couldn't help it. 

And he supposes you can't. 

A fine sheen of sweat has been building since he took after you into the forest. Gathering around your temple, your hairline. The harsh reminder of your festering heat, once dammed by your raw disdain for him—hatred, he'd say, and doesn't the thought just make him want to laugh; you're all bark, no bite, and he knows he'll have fun breaking you in, breaking you apart—but flooded over by the primal drive to mate. 

And he's perfect for you, isn't he? 

Hideous bastard that he is. It's a sharp juxtaposition to your prettiness, your earthly beauty. 

Under the spinel sky, you break. The hand on his wrist tightens, your hips flexing into his palm. Seeking friction. Needing pressure. Needing him. And pissed off about it. Delicious. 

“Prove it,” you snap, irritation blanching the corners of your eyes arsenic white. Edging into a frenetic desperation hot enough to burn the threads of your resolve. But there's a gleam of reluctance pushing through the syrupy murk folding over you, heavy molasses. You want to give in, but there's something about him, his appetite, that makes you hold back. That makes you visibly sick at the sight of him—

Unfortunately for you, he has no such compunction to shelf his barbarity. To leash his desire, to muzzle the overwhelming urge to crush you under the weight of his accumulated need. It's decades of listless apathy. Divorced from anything resembling human emotion at the root. Carved out, scraped off bone. He was left to stagnate. A misfortunate creature submerged in a bog, dead but unable to rot. 

The deluge of his savage, bestial hunger rages in his veins. It's corrosive, vile, and—

unrestrained. 

Ravenously esurient. He wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go—

but first: 

he needs to eat. 

His meal is a feast, it turns out. Simon gorges himself until he's full. Promises that he'll stop as soon as he's satiated. 

(but he's lying to himself, and to you, because he never is—

never will be.)

Tears pebble along your lash line as he feasts on your sopping cunt, licking at your fluttering rim, slurping up your slick. Your clit is pressed tight against the crooked arch of his nose, sliding and catching on the jagged ridge each time he moves his jaw to dig deeper inside of you as if he's trying to taste the seal of your womb. You pant, whine. The noise muffled half-heartedly behind your palm. Teeth sunk into your skin, lodged against your bone. 

Angry rivulets rain down your cheeks, dangling like fine beads, gems, on your jaw. He wants to taste them next, as soon as he fills his gullet with the earthy tang you release. 

Your tears remind of that pretty omega Johnny sent to him—a brat, he'd said; the best, Lt—and it churns in his stomach, dredging up something awful. Terrible. He wants to make you weep harder. Wants you sobbing, begging. His own little brat to take over the knee whenever he wants—

But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends. 

You're not a brat. No. You're a headache. The kind that will have him written up, sat like a bad dog in his best suit, as they level him with charges, and orders, and the like. The sort of thing that even the old man wouldn't be able to string him out of—not that he would. Price is three days away from a much-deserved retirement to the mountains and sitting on his hands to keep from snatching up the pretty conservation officer who moons at him whenever he passes by. 

He won't be much help to get Ghost out of trouble. That leaves only Gaz and Soap. And while he's sure they can swing it, he doesn't really want to be under their ahh, guess ye/ya owe us one, Lt/Riley. 

So—

It stands to reason then that he should have you tamed before dawn. Shackled down, locked up tight. Only right considering he's the best in town to keep bears at bay. Do you really want to deal with a mama grizzly and her defenceless cubs? Or a starving male clumsily pawing his way out of hibernation? 

Probably not. 

So. So. 

He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh. 

“Gonna be good for me, pet?” He asks, lowering his tone considerably until it catches on the gravel below. 

He's not surprised when you hiss through a cloud of tears. “Go fuck yourself—”

Ghost tips his head, suckles your clit into his mouth. Tongue laving over your flesh. Blunt teeth pressing flat against the swollen bead, a tease. You tense, gasping. Hand pushing his head back, back—

“Don't, don't—” you're mewling, nails raking over his scalp. Hips bucking, pulling back. Struggling to get away. The bite marks along your thighs weep fresh blood in your struggle, filling his nose with the heavy scent of iron. 

They serve as a harsh reminder of what he can do with these jagged teeth of his. 

He chuckles, mouth still closed around your clit. The vibrations have you choking, spine curving into a beautiful arch. 

Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still. Trapping you. He's not quite done with your cunt, yet. And all this wriggling is something he can do without. With his hand pressed to your hips, he notches the other down your thigh. Tracing his index finger over your soft skin, dragging it close to your outer lips. Catching the tacky slick drying on your flesh with the tip. 

Tiny fists rain down over his shoulders. Urging him forward, eager for more. Selfish, spoiled little thing. 

What a monster he's made—

“Patience, pet,” he coos, mocking and mean. Likes the way you react to the patronisation in his tone. All taut shoulders, shaking fists. Bearing your teeth at the slight, the stinging barb. Shaking in an amalgamation of embarrassment and shame. 

You seem to like it when he's a little awful to you. A little mocking. Cruel. 

“Shut up—!” You hiss, lips curling as you glare down at him. “I'm not your pet—”

He ignores you. Bends down to sniff at your cunt instead, and finds his answer is the white hot desire he can taste in the back of his throat when he breathes you in. 

His fingers pry apart your folds, and he greedily drinks in the sight of your drenched hole, clenching down on nothing. Poor you. His heart thunders in his chest, rages. He wants to sink inside of you—impossibly deep—until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases to exist. Rolled into a single being, atoms merged. Bodies fused. He wants to take everything from you. All of it. Eat it out of the cup of his hand like pomegranate seeds, let the skin get stuck in his teeth. 

He wants to devour you whole.

(to eat—)

Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt. 

Pressing the width of it against your slit, feeling the heat of your core on the palm of his hand. Branding himself with the intensity of your desire. Another scar among many. An uncountable number of jagged asteroids cratering along his flesh, making a home out of a ghost. A shell. 

Reinforced, too, by the absurdity of how terribly contrasted his flesh is to yours. Monstrous. His scarred hand rests over your pussy, encompassing it entirely with extra digits to spare. Folding each finger on top of the other to wedge between the basin of your thighs. And as his gaze comes to rest on the way he swallows you up, he is struck by the garishness of his hand—hideous scar tissue, burns—falling over your pretty cunt. 

Sinful. Frankensteinian beast palming the sweet pussy of a pretty, human woman, and—

Fuck. 

His cock twitches, spits out a thick glob of pre-cum.

Ghost has never wanted to ruin something as badly as he wants to ruin your cunt. You. Mess you up so badly that everyone will know you belong to him, and him alone. To brand you with the tattoo of his teeth on your mons; force a claiming bite on the pillowy skin above your clit. His ownership bracketed between your thighs, at the very apex of your hip bones. Buried into tissue right under the bulge of your womb. A fecund valley for him to lay waste; for you to grow beauty from the rot, the ash. 

Cinder scraps over his nerves. Fells his resolve in a brutal sweep. 

He comes undone at the seams, unravels. 

Simon curls his fingers into a loose fist, passing the rugged peaks of his bone over your soft flesh. Gathering slick on thick, scarred knuckles. He holds it there, folds pried apart by his hand, content to luxuriate in the softness of your flesh, the scorching heat.

Possessively, he unhitches his thumb from the coil of his fist, and swipes it over your clit. More slick leaks out as you keen. 

“Sweet omega like you should ‘ave been claimed by now,” he rumbles evenly despite the sour twist in his guts at the thought. “Might not ‘ave ended up ‘ere, would you ‘ave? Beggin’ the first alpha you see to fuck this sweet little cunt.”

“Begging?” 

“Practically gaggin’ for it, weren't you?” And even though the words are his own, they sit in his gut like a stone. An angry knot tangled in his intestines, snaking its way up his gullet. Bitter. It's quelled by the sight of your bare neck. Ripe for his teeth. And his alone.

But even if you had a pretty ring made by another alpha, Simon knows that wouldn't have stopped him from taking you, anyway. Biting over the claim. Breaking it between his teeth. Precious, loving union shattered by his crooked greed. He'd have relished in it, too. Basked in the way you sobbed as he tore your alpha into pieces. An obstacle turned into a pretty effigy at his feet. Wicker pyre burning to keep him warm.

(he'd have caught dinner for you, too; hunted caribou, moose, and roasted it over the open flame. Fucked you under the blume of orange. Let the fire lick across your skin as he sunk in deep—)

He rocks back on his haunches. Mood labile, quicksilver, as his rut grows. Festers. 

You deny it, breathless, as he slips the mountainous peak of his bent middle finger into your hole, stretching your rim around the scarred cartilage. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Rapid, quick. Wanting. It draws him in. Makes him want to spit on your pretty pussy, and then break you apart on his cock—

“Such a needy cunt, eh? Starving for a good knot, ain't it?”

You hiss out your protests, but clench tight around his knuckle. He chuckles, and it's liquid. Wet rot. Lungs polluted, spitting nocuous, black smoke into the air. 

“I'm not—”

“You are.” 

He pulls back, pursing his mouth, and spreads your lips apart, opening you up wide and vulnerable to his prying eyes. Saliva puddles on his tongue. He gives you a moment to clue into what he's about to do, your fingers tightening, nails digging into his scalp as you do on a shallow gasp of disgust. Then, brutish, he leans forward, and spits. Lets the glob hit your clit, and he has to hold you still when you jerk, cringing away from him, snarling out your displeasure.

“You're disgusting—”

The protests are weak. Your knees tremble, giving away the growing slickness gathering on the insides of your thigh. 

He hums, watches as it oozes down between your folds, over your fluttering hole, before it falls to the ground between your legs. He lets his hand fall back over your cunt, middle finger gathering his spit. Rubbing it around your pebbled clit. It's done detachedly, perfunctory. A means to an end with hardly much concern for your pleasure. Not yet, anyway. 

You've given him nothing in return yet. 

He intends to change that soon. 

As you grapple with the harsh reality he presents to you—one of ownership, humiliation, and pleasure on his whim—he drags his finger down, sliding it between your soft lips until he reaches your hole once more. Petting around the drenched entrance slowly, softly, humming under his breath about how wet you are. 

Your hips drop, greedily chasing after his finger. You won't ask—not yet—but he likes the way you rut against him: all hateful, spiteful. Like you can't decide on what you want more—to bash his head in, or keep it locked tight between your thighs. Sweet thing. 

“Need me, don't you?” He sinks his finger in. Nearly whites out at the pressure, the tightness, he feels. Soft, wet. Squeezing him in a vice as you yowl, whimpering into the stretch like it matters. Like his thick, scarred finger is the most you'd ever taken before. Sweet girl. So naïve. 

He drinks in the sight of your flesh forcibly being parted around his knuckle, matting the wisps of blond on his skin as it leaks down to his wrist, until that, too, is pushed up into you. His whole finger now engulfed in the wet heat of your body as you squirm around the stretch, pulsing around him like a heartbeat. 

He groans when he tastes your discomfort on the back of his tongue. 

“Don't worry, lovie. M’gonna take good care’a you.”

You watch him with slitted eyes as he pushes you down to the forest floor, glaring over your shoulder as he adjusts you the way he wants. Maneuvers you around like a little toy. Forearms braced against the trampled grass, knees sinking into soft moss. Thighs spread. Cunt bare, drenched. Ready to be claimed. Taken. 

He drops to his knees, shuffling close from behind you. His hand drops to your lower back, pressing your torso down further into the ground below. His cock aches between his thighs. Heavy, fat. He reaches down with his other hand to where it droops, smearing pre-cum over his inner thigh. He catches it in his fist, flushed the colours of a fresh bruise—angry red, purple—and strokes along the sensitive skin of his shaft, dragging it up and over his engorged head. Pre-cum weeps from the tip, drools long strains down to the forest floor. Puddles thick between your knees. 

A prelude, perhaps, for what's to come. When he has you tied like a bow around his knot, milking all the pent-up spend from his heavy, full balls. 

It's been decades since he had this—

(“shame.”

he concurs.)

Simon pulls his cock up, taps it against your pebbled clit. Drinks in the sight of you keening, cunt gushing more slick out of your empty hole, dribbling down your thighs. Mingling with the mess he already started making. 

It shocks him how good it feels just to tap his cockhead on your pretty pussy. To drag it through your slit, teasing it against your fluttering hole that drools copious slick over him. 

He wants to make a mess of you. Fuck your pussy until you cum, until all you can feel is the split of him inside of you. Filling you. Ruining you. 

Until all you can think about is the thick drag of him against your stuffed walls. Empty without him plugging you up. Desperate for his cock, his knot—hungry little slut just for him. All for him.

He presses the head of his cock against your rim, letting it catch. Holding it there. A tease. Just a little taste. 

Likes when you whimper, head hanging between your shoulders, fingers curling into the moss below. You make such a pretty picture like this—the expanse of your back bare for his eyes to roam, locking on the dimples of your hips, the curve of your waist. The plump shape of your ass inviting him in—eager for a bite. Your flesh looks bare, lonely, without his mark. The contrast of his own inked palm—fingers webbed with faded lettering, some slogan he picked up in his youth. Hands etched in black. Lines bleeding, bulky. The unmistakable tremble of an incipient artist’s first brush of a needle on real skin. Jagged, garring. Ugly. He lets his hand rest against the small of your back, groaning at the way it looks. 

Sinful.

You're made for soft silk and a fluffy bed. Head resting on a plush cushion instead of your arms, forehead braced over the uncomfortable squeal of your polyester windbreaker that he didn't even have the courtesy to let you take off. No. Just trousers. Panties. Pushed haphazardly down your legs, left in a pile by the spruce tree so he could throw your ankle over his broad shoulder, feasting on your cunt. 

There's a spot of dirt on your asscheek. The curve of it is scraped from the bark, red and raw. 

The glare you aim at him from over your shoulder is venomous. There's a smear of moss on your cheek. 

You're made for epsom salt baths. Being tended to by a besotted alpha who treats you like fine china, only to be taken out on special occasions. Brushed, always, in a fine layer of dust from disuse. Sweet, tender lovemaking under the waning summer sky. Your alpha apologising for ruining you like this, for making you take the brunt of his rut. Poor thing. Gentle kisses, and hands clasped together. 

He can see it so vividly in his eye. So viscerally that it almost feels like a crime when he glances down at his cock, the weeping, engorged head almost comically too big for you. The thick of him could easily swallow your cunt up if he flattened his length against you. Covering you wholly by his girth. 

It's a thought that makes his hand tighten, and nearly chokes him on a moan. 

Even his thighs bracketing the backs of yours is hideous to look at. Bigger, broader—there's a considerable gap on both sides of his legs that he thinks nearly his whole fist can fit there, notched against the outside of your thigh, covering the expanse of his own. Garish. 

He can't wait to lay you down on your belly, lock his thigh tight on either side of your own and rut into you like that. Crushing you under his weight. Swallowing you whole. Until anyone misfortunate enough to wander by thinks he's fucking the cold ground. 

His thumb strokes along your fevered skin, collecting the sheen of sweat building up on the pad. Rubbing it in. He feels it too. This unrelenting swelter. A cage, pushing down from all sides. Inescapable. 

The only way to quench it is on you. In you. 

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” The words are mangled in his throat, thick with want. 

Your shoulders tremble. In worry, he thinks. Scents the air like a viper, letting your emotions curdle in the back of his throat. “Just get on with it—”

He meets you in the middle of that taunt, teeth against your throat. 

Ghost pushes inside with a groan, eyes rolling back at the way you swallow him up. Stretching around the considerable girth, fluttering around him. Pulsing like a heartbeat. 

It's heaven. 

Nirvana nests between your thighs, bracketed by rings of blood. Red. Absolution imbued in tender flesh, parting perfectly around his cock in a loving embrace. 

You haven't confirmed it for him, but the tightness of your cunt around his fingers, the heady scent of discomfort burning the back of his throat when he buried them inside of you, make him mutedly aware that you're inexperienced. A fact he pockets for later because if he thinks about being the first alpha, the first man, to ever claim you, take you, then he might lose his mind, he might fall down that yawning chasm that reeks of damnation, of brimstone and ash, and never recover—

So, he doesn't. Won't. 

Can't. 

His pace is slow as he feeds you the fat length of his cock, eyes drilling into the way you swallow him up. Rim stretching taut, flesh paling under the strain of taking him. With one hand anchored against your hip, holding you tight, and the other curled over your shoulder, fingertips resting on your collarbones, he slowly, slowly, sinks inside of you, bottoming out with a deep groan. 

The outstroke drags with it an iron scent in the air. He huffs, nostrils flaring. Greedy for more. There's discomfort leaking from your pores. His girth is more than you can conceivably take, even with the preternatural help from your heat, leaking slick down your inner thighs in thick rivulets. 

He holds himself there, breathing—heavy, tremulous—through his nose. His hands shake. The pressure, the pleasure, is indescribable. It coils in his guts, spumes liquid bliss in his veins. The way you feel pulsing sweetly around him is—

Equilibrium. 

Every misfiring synapse inside himself is slowed. Imbued with a potent sense of ataraxia. His mind comes to a standstill. Thoughts looping over themselves, tangling into the gossamer threads of control floating in stasis. Unmoored. You unravel him. 

It's further proof that you are his missing part. His ruts in the past have been calamitous. Snarls wrenched from the trenches of his chest; a gluttonous feast—a sacrifice to Hēdonē. Violent, vicious. 

But this—

It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.

There's a crack in the back of his head. The sound of everything, all of it—

Falling into place. 

His hands tighten. Tighten some more. He holds you, sure and firm, keeping you nestled in the anchor of his embrace, unable to run, to flee. You're his. Settled. The caveat is ironclad, bound in permanence. 

And Simon moans. Deep, and low. The noise jutters out of his chest, and seeps into the evening air. Fine mist, crystallising in front of him. Phosphenes of ice cemented his decision, gluing to his cheeks. The nape of his neck. 

His ears burn. 

“Fuckin' hell, sweet thing,” it's a guttural growl in the hollow of his throat. “Where ‘ave you been all my goddamn life?”

It's a nauseating confession, one scraped out from the vacancy between his ribs. It peppers the air in a soft, saccharine kiss. Makes you shiver beneath him, gasping in lungfuls of loam, dirt in your throat. 

He grunts. Stills. He doesn't want that for you. Ever. Would rip off his own limbs before he ever let you feel the crushing weight of dirt congealing inside of your lungs. 

The way he arches over you is damning. Nauseating. He curls his arm around your shoulder, your chest, traps a heaving breast in the palm of his hand, holds tight. The other falls from your hip, closes over your mons. Greedily feeling your slick, hot sex pulsing wildly around him when he passes over your clit, toying with your stretched, swollen rim. It's perfection, this. 

He pulls you up, up, leaning back on his haunches until you're balanced on your knees, nearly sat on his lap. Taking him deeper than before. He drops his head back with another moan when he feels your slick gather, dripping down to coat his balls. 

Everything about you is just—

Perfection. Absolution. 

Your hands fly up, curling over his forearm, mewling when he pinches your nipples between his middle and ring finger. 

“C’mon,” he rasps, leaning forward to press his face into your nape. You smell sweet. “Play with ‘em for me, pet.” 

Nails bite into his skin. You whimper. Squirming around on his lap. But you do as you're told. Slowly, slowly, reaching up. Touching yourself the way you like. Fingers ghosting over your flesh, brushing across your nipples. Pulling, petting, the way you like. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, watches. Devours. Commits each movement to memory. Every sound, every breath. Everything. 

He keeps a slow, languid pace like this. Content to just feel you pulsing around him, listening to the slick, wet squelch of him filling you up. Over and over again. A lazy rut. 

It's unexpected, he knows. You've been bracing yourself this whole time, fingers digging into the podsol, spine tightening up. Waiting for the savagery to befall you. 

When it doesn't come, he feels your quiet acquiescence come in a soft breath. In the way you slowly drop down to meet the deep rut of his hips. Taking your pleasure, pulling him in deeper. There's an edge to your voice, one still dipped in threads of discomfort, a waning pain that rings out, shrill, in the satin spill of moonlight over the indigo forest. 

It's good like this. Tender. Not something he'd have ever imagined for himself, and the reality of it is dizzying. 

Reedy, he groans. Nuzzles his misshapen nose into your scent gland. His gums pulse, ache—

But he ignores it. Swallows it down. 

He's not sure what compels him to do so. Spellbound, maybe, by this unnatural softness that spools silken threads between you. Sutured in tenderness—so unbefitting of the man he is. The monster—

His hips stutter. Jerk. 

“Simon—!”

You whine into it, arching back. Sweat gathers, drips down your spine, smears into his chest, belly. Matts the thatch of hair running in sparse, patchy clusters down the thickness of his midsection. A bountiful spring fattened him up. Made him soft and pillowy over his abdomen. Something you can't seem to get enough of—pressing the flat of your back against him, leaning into it. Groaning when his arm shifts, boxing you in. Crushing you to him. 

Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap. 

He draws lazy circles over your clit, grunting with each clench of your cunt. You're soft in his arms. Malleable. He slides his hand up from beneath your breasts, catches your jaw in his palm. Fingers spanning from cheekbone to temple and, oh—

Doesn't that just make him preen. 

He drags your chin to the side, catching your mouth in a sickening kiss. All tongue, teeth. He wants to taste, to devour, every part of you. Bones and all. 

It's a fight, though. You tense in his grasp, lidded eyes snapping open, wide and around. Cheeks bulging between his fingers when you twist, trying to pull away. 

“Don't—I don't want to—” he bites the protests from lips. Messy, sloppy. He flicks his tongue over yours, wrapping it around you like a satiated snake burrowing in after a heavy meal. “Don't—f–fuck—”

It earns him a nip. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. Drawing blood. 

He huffs into the seam of your mouth. Only fair, he supposes, and then pulls you down—hard, fast—onto his cock. The air is punched out of your lungs, flooded into his esophagus. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he warns, bucking into you. It's harder this time, deeper. Tempo increasing. Growing. He feels himself thicken. Knot fattening up. Each piston of his hips seems to knock something inside of his head loose. Common sense, maybe—

The fraying knot of his self-control winding tight. Pulling taut. 

He huffs again, feeling himself slip. Lost in the sensation dripping down his spine, the unified pleasure blooming in the pit of his stomach. 

The air plumes with the thickening tang of your arousal—all sweet, spice. You can take it, now, he knows, and tries not to growl when you hiccup his name wetly into the air. 

The muscles in his thighs bunch tight. Corded and powerful. He arches up, up, forcing his cock deep inside your cunt, splitting you apart. Rutting desperately, edging into something animalistic. 

It runs a knife along the thin skin of his hindbrain. Come out, come out, come play—

He moves you again, pulling his hand away from your jaw and pushing you back down the forest floor. He stays glued to your back. Tucks his arm under your chin, and smothers you under his bulk, groaning when your thighs give out, sliding on the sweat-slicked moss below.

“Simon, ah—” your voice tapers off into a breathless cry when he pulls his hand free from beneath you, wrapping it around to join the other. Holding on, clinging to you. Keeping you locked tight against him, under him. You can't move at all like this—

The swell of his knot bumps against your stretched rim. He presses the brunt of his weight into each thrust now, spurned on by the needy way you yowl into his forearm, drooling all over his skin. Begging for it. 

“Please, please, please—”

Your body is jostled forward with each harsh buck of his hips as he gives you everything he has, feeding his cock into your sopping cunt over and over again. Eager now to fill you up, to flood you with his cum. Make you swell with it. Overstuffed. 

Perfect little omega, you rut back into him with each thrust, taking his thick cock to the root. Mewling sweetly when his knot begins to catch. Too much, he thinks. It might just wreck you for good—

pomegranate seeds splitting over your teeth, blood red juice leaking from the tear. spilling into your mouth. just a drop. just a drop, and Persephone is all his

—Perfect. 

He teeters on the edge of ferality and control. Spinning, spiralling. Loosefooted on the wobbling chossy. Coming undone in a magmatic end—wicked heat, ashes, brimstone; he catches fire, and smoulders you under his heat. Letting the flames lick across your skin until you whine his name, desperate and needy, in the back of your throat. The thrill a bludgeon against his skull, spilling pleasure, bliss, in the broken hole you wrought. 

You tighten like a vice around him—tight, tight—and he pistons into you, burrowing deep. Deeper still. Until you thrash around beneath him, soundlessly screaming his name into the dark forest. Begging for mercy, mercy, please—

He won't. Can't. 

He can't get enough of the way you feel wrapped around him like this. Silken, whitehot. Tight. Tight—

It squeezes the air from his lungs. Static in his head—

And then you let go. Pulsing, throbbing around him. Pulling him in deeper, blanketing his mind in white noise. In nothing but magmatic pleasure. 

“Fuck—!” He snarls, almost angry. Vicious. Chasing after his end in the aftermath of yours. Instincts are at war within him, banging against his skull. Demanding recompense. Paid it's pound of flesh. 

It's what he's promised. What it's owed. 

(and he always keeps his promises, doesn't he?)

Most describe their ruts as mindless, driven by instinct. No control. But Ghost has never felt more present, more alive, than when he sinks his teeth deep into your nape, nearly choking, drowning, on your blood.

For the first time in decades, he feels the crater inside himself, suffused with spare, broken parts, seal when you yield with a mangled yowl of his name, raw and fractured as it splits between your teeth. Pretty pussy swallowing up his knot when he bullies it in deep, locking you together.

pretty little lamb—

a perfect fit between his teeth.

His rut is a voracious thing. 

Ghost has you on your back for the second and third round, heels resting on his shoulders as he bucks into you. Makes you stare at him—don’t look away from me, pet—as he commandeers your body with an ease that seems to break apart all demurrals as they form, rendering you sweet, malleable, beneath him to do with as he pleases. 

And you are, aren't you?

So fuckin’ sweet. 

(“gonna give me a cavity,” he rasps, thick with pleasure, into your ear. he has you on your belly now. holds you down with his weight, crushes your chest against the soft moss below, thighs squeezed tight between his own. you can barely make a sound with his forearm digging into the dirt right above your crown, swallowing you whole under his bulk. 

(owns you like, he finds. no one would be able to see you beneath him if they wandered by. encompassed wholly by every iota he has to give—

he cums like that. nose buried in your crown, moaning low, scorched, in the back of his throat as you twitch beneath him, unable to move at all—)

It's early in the morning when he finally finishes, when his rut begins to slowly recede, and a fresh bloom of clarity yawns over his periphery. Moonrise peppers soft kisses over his aching shoulders as he glances at you curled up against his side, sleeping soundly. Exhausted by the hours and hours of mating, fucking. Taking him, his knot, drinking down everything he has to offer. 

The sight that greets him is gnarled fingers wrapping around his rotting heart, affection peeking out between the brackets of his ribs. His appetite for you is dizzying. Unquenchable. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at you without wanting to crawl inside your body. To reshape your tender flesh around his bulk until it is indiscernible from himself. 

This want is agony. It's dread, desire. Greed. 

His shoulders bite back in protest when he reaches up to drag his dirt-crusted nails through the prickly hair on his scalp. As dawn slowly unfurls across the midnight blue aether, he knows he'll have to leave soon. Can already feel the creeping heat gnawing in the pit of his belly. His rut starting anew. The scant hours he has of mental clarity, moments meant to eat, to feed, and regain strength for the next marathon of fucking, are needed to feel out his next move. 

He glances at you again, and feels the same covetous tug in his chest as he did before, when he was thickly entrenched in the urge to mate. But as the burnt orange of the sun smears hazy fingerprints across the moulted sky, he sees you in a new, cleaner light. You're young. Much younger than he is. 

It's something he ought to worry about. To feel some shred of shame, of despondency over shackling you to himself—a defective alpha with more scars than morality—when you're in the burgeoning bloom of your freshly untethered youth. All jejune beauty outclasses nature itself. Snow melts on the alpines, trickling down to feed the valley below. Life itself—

But you are his. 

The ugly rings around your throat—mangled tissue swelling in the morning dawn, caked in a thick river of blood—all signify that you belong to him. And while it's a little extreme as far as claiming bites go—one would suffice, but he buried his teeth in you over and over again, biting down on both sides of your neck, your jugular, your nape; inner thighs, mons, wrists—it’s proof enough that you are meant for him. Made for him. 

His pretty omega. 

The rest doesn't matter. He ought to feel shame, but instead he luxuriates in it. Stares down at you with a needy sort of possession spuming in the putrid remains of his chest, mapping out the marks he put on you. And the ones he'll add to later, not stopping until covered in the perfect impression of his crooked teeth. Tattoos of his ownership all over your body. 

Mutual, of course. There's a scant patch of skin, restive and empty, above his heart, save for a fine, jagged line from a serrated dagger. He'll have you bite down on the flesh until your teeth meet inside his muscle. Scarring down to the bone. He'll go, then, to the man who inks him up whenever he has the whim to desecrate scar tissue, and have him etch midnight black against fine silver. Permanent, forever. Always. 

And anyone who kicks up a fuss—stupid as they might be—he’ll sort them out. Prove to them that you are meant to be his. 

(unshakeable:

his spend leaks out of you, drying, tacky and thick, on your thighs. under the sleepy citrine of the dawning sun, it's tinged pink, and looks just like pomegranate juice.)

Ghost rolls his shoulder, and reaches for his discarded trousers. He's covered in a thick layer of dirt, and reeks like soil. But the thought of being buried alive is miniscule compared to the want of being buried inside you again. The urge. Insatiable. He groans with it, cock throbbing already. 

He leaves you naked. No point in dressing when he plans on going home and sinking back inside of you before midday, anyway. An unneeded obstacle, really—

The clearing is close to his truck, and he sets a leisurely pace, yawning into the dawn, as he gathers you into his arms. Carrying you to it as you drool on his chest, brows pinched at the soft jostle of him trudging through the thicket until he reaches it. 

He's not in a rut when he stretches you out in the back seat, spreading your sticky thighs around his hips, sinking inside, bottoming out just as you come to, waking up with a gasp. 

The intense fucking from before lingers in the air. You're soft, molasses; arching into his chest, whimpering out the name he hissed into your nape only hours ago, folding into him with a somnolent submission. It won't last, of course—

You're a vicious little thing, and his back and chest twinge with the rivers you carved into his flesh when he didn't move the way you liked. Wolfish, aren't you? Spitfire hiding under the soft pelt of a slain lamb. He wants to devour you, bones and all. 

He takes his fill of your malleable concession, rutting into you with a sluggish ease. Mapping out the starlight sparking in the depths of your glossy eyes. Magnetic. It pulls him deeper. Unravels him at the seams. 

His hand spans the expanse of your jaw from ear to ear. He holds you like this, thumb buried in the tender embrace of your soft tongue, and begins to understand the reason behind Johnny's niche appetite when you toy with his flesh, coquettish and sweet, suckling him in—pretty seductress—and then mewl when he pushes in too deeply, bringing crystalline gems to corners of your eyes. 

Angelic innocence. The type that demands he prostrates himself at your altar, let his bones be picked clean when you so wish it. And he'll give it to you—body, blood, tissue; all of it. The entirety of him, however broken, shattered the fragments might be. 

He promises it all to you without a word, drilling holes in the gaps of your eyes, chasms wide enough for him to fit. When he cums, it's to a songbirds sonata. Your moans are a whisper, your pleasure swallowed down as it ghosts over his lips, clenching around him like a vice. Pretty bow. He doesn't hold back—groans, baritone; woodsmoke, into the gathering symphony, filling you to the brim. Thick, copious. He wants it to stick. To root. 

When the blood sputters back to his head, he gathers you in his arms once more. Keeps you seated on his lap—shush, pet; s’alright, jus’ close your eyes an’ I'll ‘ave us home in a bit—as he starts the old pickup, and puts it into drive. One hand on the wheel, knuckles blanching white in the glimmering sunrise; sparse forests of muted blond catching, limned in the coruscating light. The other is placed on the small of your back, holding your belly to his. 

Quietly, your body eases. Melts. You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, and nuzzle into the heady scent of his sweat, his musk, still clinging to his shirt. Signing, soft and twee, in the cup of his embrace as you slip back to sleep. 

He drives home like this. Mind a quiet place for once. Silent in its contentment, it's comfort. There's an itinerary still left to do, but he pushes it back for now, gaze roaming the dense green of the forest bracketing the road. 

You'll like it, he knows. There's a fen on the outskirts of his territory, a little pond where wild rabbits have been known to make burrows. Deers, elk. Bears. They all come and go. You'll amuse yourself in the untamed wilderness of his abode, drawing delineations of your own as you carve out places in his home just for you. 

And as he makes the turn to his hidden driveway, this buried sanctuary, he can't help but glance down at your crown, and think—

Persephone, finally home.

He finds your identification in your rucksack, nestled underneath the contraband you smuggled from the park—mushrooms, berries, bark, feathers—and sears your name to memory. Every part of you will be unravelled in the coming days, pulled from the depths of your being until it's all ingrained in his head. A gaping chasm chiselled into bone just for you. All for you. 

Your address is a rental. He'll have to call them later today to cut your lease. Your job, too. They'll need to be notified on both your off time for his rut (and your burgeoning heat), and to update your contact information. 

But that's later. Now, he just wants to get home. Sink down into his bed with you beneath him, and fuck you until sundown all over again. Stain the house with the scent of you. With the potent tang of your coupling. 

It's yours too, after all. Should smell just like you. 

And when you wake up later to him fucking his tongue into your drenched hole, fingers toying with your pebbled clit, Johnny will be busy packing the rest of your things into the pack of his pickup truck. The majority of it is already stacked on the porch, waiting for you to rearrange it all in your new house. Lease cut. His name added to your contacts as spouse, husband. Address updated. Marriage certificate laying on the table, only one line unsigned. Waiting for you. 

Maybe it's too fast. You'll certainly protest like it is, bearing your teeth and hissing at him from across the room about too much, too fast, slow down, you don't even know his last name—

(“Riley,” he grouses, arms folded over his broad chest. Eyes burning in the cresting twilight. “S’your last name now as well, pet.”) 

Fast—sure. He might think so too for a brief moment when he as you purring against his chest, submissive and docile after he fucked the fight right out of you, bullied you into agreeing to everything—it's for the best, after all. No one could ever protect you like he can. 

Made for each other. Reinforced when he presses your fingers to the soft spot where his last rib once hung—

(“stole it,” he murmurs into the seam of your lips. “right from under my nose. only fair that i get to steal somethin’ right back, ain't it?”

the look on your face is rapturous when you press your hand to your side, eyes widening when you feel the extra rung—)

He's had decades of waiting. Waiting. And now that he's found you—

He's never letting go. 

You're it, he knows. Feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. He'll have you—now, forever. Non-negotiable. Where you go, he will follow. 

(after all, there's something about three-headed dogs and their bones—)

[warlockslovetomeow]

pairing: caleb x female reader description: caleb’s obsession with your underwear doesn’t seem to stop at just sniffing…. warnings: explicit sexual content, slight pwp, mdni, mention of male masturbation, needy!caleb, clothed sex, unprotected sex, cumming on underwear, caleb’s a freak, this is messyyyyy wc: 2.4k (was supposed to be a short drabble.. don’t EVER put me in a room alone with this man dude im salivating everywhere) a/n: lazily proofread [shame]. continuation of my ask here. (read vic's blog she is goated!!!)

caleb swears it's not an obsession. he really means it, it's not.

it just so happens that every time he goes over to your place your underwear ends up in his possession. but it's not his fault! you have a bad habit of leaving your drawers open when you're getting ready in the morning. so caleb, being the amazing guy that he is, shuts them for you when he comes over to your place.

at least, that's how it started.

it eventually progressed into him snooping and taking a pair. then him snooping and taking a used pair. then him pocketing the ones off of your body after you've both had a time. okay, pocketing them off you every time. but he’s got it under control! he promises himself that it won't be happening again.

it’s just that he hasn’t been able to see you in a while due to both of your schedules being packed with work, so of course he’s going to sift through his growing collection to get as close to you as possible in every nonphysical way he can. the thought of u infects his mind, a dirty little parasite crawling around and making a mess throughout each private sector of his brain. the want for you to be close to him, to touch your body, to hear you, it intensifies as the minutes without you ticked by. 

so, when he hears his phone go off in the middle of rubbing one out to the thought of you while using the panties he stole most recently, he stops dead in his tracks and gives his deepest appreciations to all divine things that must be looking out for him in this world. 

it's not often that you get the opportunity to stay with caleb at his apartment in skyhaven for an extended period of time. said extended time being only three days makes no difference to him, to be frank the mere thought of you being in his presence at all already has his mind working and blood rushing in ways he can’t avoid. wouldn’t dream of avoiding. after reading the text you sent him stating that you got the upcoming weekend off and are planning to visit him, his brain truly fused out.  

caleb knows what self-control is.

he went through intense military training for heaven’s sake. plus he grew up with you and managed to not act on his intense and deep-rooted feelings that consistently threatened to devour him whole. so yeah, he’d say controlling himself is second nature. pshh. light work.

he picks you up from the train station, helps you with your things, gets you settled into his apartment for the weekend, and everything is going swimmingly. he positively can hold himself back until the time is right. totally not nearly bursting at the seams with the need to pounce on you. definitely not already picturing the mess he wants to make of you. this is easy.

then you stride into his living room after changing clothes. you’re beaming at him, so excited to be with your favorite person once more. you’re also, he notices, wearing the smallest sleep shorts possible. shorts that happen to hike up ever so slightly when you take a step. shorts that reveal a sliver of your underwear as you walk around the living room searching for the tv remote.

suddenly, caleb isn’t too sure he can even spell “self-control”.

his eyes track your movements like a radar system locking onto a target. your underwear of choice today isn’t even anything special, a neutral shade of pink that could be found anywhere, at any store, but it doesn’t matter. it shapes your ass perfectly and he groans inwardly at the sight.

or maybe outwardly. he’s already so far gone that he doesn’t know anymore.

caleb’s legs are moving before his mind fully gives them permission to do so and makes his way over to where you stand in the living room. his hands find purchase on your waist, spinning you to face him before leaning in and kissing you.  

the kiss is desperate, hungry, and by no means slow. weeks of longing and desire so evident in the way his lips capture yours, all traces of self-control gone. his tongue pleads for access into your mouth while his hands simultaneously pull your hips against his own, and he’s impossibly hard already. the quickness of it all surprises you, so you pull away to address him, slightly out of breath and confused. which is all to his complete and utter dismay.

“caleb?”

the look on his face is so unimaginably needy, so desperate in a way you've never seen before. he looks as though you've wounded him for even having the thought of pulling away, how dare you create space between us, and it makes you want to indulge him in everything he could possibly ask for right then and there.

“want you”

his voice is breathy and low, completely meddled with lust, and those words are all he manages to get out before immediately leaning in to kiss you again. you kiss him back, the forwardness and obvious want turning you on. the kiss intensifies, caleb doing as he pleases with you, tongue overlapping yours, hands squeezing your body, hips grinding into you so desperately you'd think him a dog. that thought alone has hot, molten desire shooting through your body.

you spread your legs ever so slightly to have his thrusts hit home and moan into his mouth the second they do. the clothed friction arousing you more than you'd like to admit. he picks up on your movements, naturally, he's memorized everything about you, and spins you around so that your back is against his chest.

“been waitin to feel you for so long”

he nearly whines directly into your ear, the truth of his words pressing directly into your backside and causing your mind to go hazy with lust. he trails kisses down your neck and you bite your lip in anticipation, the tone of his voice and hard length touching you getting you beyond worked up.

caleb tugs at your shorts, a silent command to take them off, and you do so with no hesitation. the second your standing straight up again he pulls you against his chest once more and slides his knee in between one of your legs, effectively spreading them apart for easier access.

he then grabs your chin to open your mouth and slips two of fingers inside. not needing to be told what to do, you start sucking on them, twirling your tongue around them in a way that makes him grunt and stiffen behind you. you smile inwardly to yourself, your affect on him palpable.

pulling his fingers out of your mouth, he snakes an arm around your waist and mixes your spit with the wetness already pooling in your underwear. he smirks to himself and chuckles, your need for him clear as day, and does you no favors by trailing his fingers to spread it to your clit.

“so wet and I haven’t even properly touched you yet..”

you whine in response, a needy sound that only spurs him on further. he draws circles around your clothed clit, adding to the arousal already collecting in your underwear to near uncomfortable levels. its sloppy and messy and quickly spreading to your thighs, just how he likes it.

you grind your ass into him, wanting- no, needing- him to touch you skin to skin, and he lets out a sharp hiss at the movement.

“don’t tease, caleb”

your voice is pleading, borderline begging him to give you what you want. unfortunately for you, hearing you beg and get more and more desperate for him is his only true goal in this life. he speeds up his movements and sucks onto your neck in response, surely leaving a mark by the intensity.

“c'mon, you can handle a little bit more. i know you can”

he's thankful you aren't able to see his face currently, because to be honest, he’s barely keeping himself in check. every move you make, every sound that comes from you, god even the way you smell, has each individual nerve in his body screaming at him to rip off your clothes and show you exactly how desperately he’s been missing you in every sense of the word.

yet it’s the almost there, not quite there action of pleasure that’s driving him absolutely wild.

caleb decides to take it a step further, really make things messy the way he gets so hard for, by slipping his dick out and rubbing it against your newly dampened underwear. his pre cum mixes with your wetness and absolutely drenches the seat of your panties.

he lets out a gravelly moan at the feeling, right into your ear, and you have to hold yourself back from finishing right then and there at the sound. you spread your legs wider for him, accepting the pleasure despite the fullness you're craving.

“talk to me pips, wanna hear that pretty voice”

his pace is mind numbing, not too slow, not too fast. the pressure against your core almost enough, but caleb knows better than to give it all to you. on top of that, his dick being so close but not directly touching you is making your brain go haywire.

“please cal, no more. need you inside.”

“uh huh. what else?”

you whine at his demand for more, and you're burning with the delicious friction due the mess between the both of you right now. you rack your brain, fighting the urge to give in to him and just full on beg for more. he wants to see it so badly, wants to hear the pitch change in your voice and feel your thighs squirm once you do. he can clearly feel the want u have for him, its currently staining his pants, but he needs to hear it as well.

“can't take it. need you so bad, need more. you feel so good, always feel so good. im yours, only yours. please”

you're a rambling mess at this point, only caring about the desire that's building inside you and caleb’s prenatural ability to get you there faster. curses flow from his mouth freely at your words, and he walks you towards the arm of the living room couch, tapping twice on your back to bend over for him.

the second you're bent in front of him, he moves your panties to the side and sinks in between your drenched folds. you moan his name lewdly as his tip hits directly on your clit and tears almost spring to your eyes at the long desired sensation.

caleb’s knees nearly buckle, the teasing doing a number on you both, and he digs his hand into your waist to steady himself. he grinds between your folds once, twice, and right before you're about to get onto him again for his incessant build up, he thrusts inside you like a dog gone rabid. a cry rips from your throat and your vision almost blurs, the pace brutal and the feeling somehow impossibly too much and too little.

“couldn’t stop thinkin about you-fuck- thinkin about how tight you always are for me”

it's his turn to ramble now, his words accompanied by each pointed thrust inside you. he drinks in the sight of his dick slipping in and out of you, with no resistance whatsoever, sliding right past the ruined underwear that still clings to your body, and has to mentally stop himself from cumming just at the sight.

“hate when you're not here, hate that i have to fuck my fist to the thought of you”

you moan at his confession, his dirty words combined with the slight friction of your panties against your clit building the pressure inside you and causing your leaking arousal to spread from the mess that is your core to his thighs.

“shit! love making a mess on this pussy. you like it too, huh pip? wanna hear you say it”

you’re so close, him talking to you so conversationally while fucking you in doggy and hitting that deep spot inside you has your mind spinning.

“yes yes i love making a mess for you!! gonna cum-”

your quick confession has his dick straining, fighting to not empty his load without warning. he needs you to finish first, he’s got one more thing in the back of his mind that needs completing.

caleb shifts your hips closer to him so he can pull your sopping underwear further to the side and rub your clit. perfect circles have you clawing at the couch and clenching around him so tightly that he's not too sure he’ll last.

“such a dirty girl, you're drippin everywhere. need you to be good and cum on me yeah?”

his flithy mix of degradation and need send you hurtling off the edge as white, hot pleasure courses through you. you cum with a newfound intensity that only caleb would be capable of pulling from you.

said man bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to stop himself from finishing with you, everything about you cumming on his cock making him go mad. a couple more thrusts and he realizes he can’t take it any longer, the feeling of you spasming around him becoming too much.

caleb pulls out of you, readjusts your underwear the best he can with what little time he has while still pumping himself, and cums all over the fabric with a series of broken groans. at first he tries to aim and make the most effective mess he can, but he soon loses himself to how fucking good it feels. he's left reeling from the intensity, but he can't look away from you. he genuinely wishes he could burn this image into his mind forever. however, he finds himself saying this every time you have sex.

as you both catch your breath, he leans forward to kiss your back, shoulders, neck, jaw, all places of exposed skin. while doing so he makes sure to mix all the fluids together on the soaking wet article of clothing, his ministrations leaving you twitching in overstimulation.

once he's satisfied with his handiwork, he slips them off of you and picks up your spent body, carrying you to his bedroom and laying you down on his bed with the gentleness of a soft afternoon breeze.

"grabbin a towel, honey. don't go walking all around the apartment now"

you roll your eyes at his words, as you've already sunken into the mattress and couldn't be paid to leave this bed. he chuckles knowingly in response, but before he leaves the room he sneaks a final glance to make sure your eyes are closed.

its then that he opens the top drawer of his dresser and places your underwear inside, the newest member of his prized collection<3

a/n (2): first fic and naturally it’s my munch caleb. hope it doesn’t sound too clunky as this is also my first time writing out smut🫣 i will prevail and become a smut writing champion!!!

@tojicide this one is for you friend, hope u enjoy ^_^

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Accidentally Falling For a Fae Prince - Malleus Draconia x reader

When you get dragged into a novel which ends with the heroine in a polycule with the most annoying men in literature, you decide that you're gonna skip town. ...Only to trip over the fae prince, Malleus Draconia.

Series Masterlist

Work’s been a disaster from the moment you stepped in. Your boss, who makes dollar bills while you’re lucky to scrape together a few dimes, is in one of those moods. So, instead of pretending to be productive, you do what any rational person would do: you pull up a random webnovel website and let the ridiculousness wash over you.

And oh boy, is it ridiculous.

You start reading "The Villainess's Revenge: My Heart is Colder Than Lukewarm Tea!" and, within the first chapter, you realize it’s like watching cement dry—but with less plot development. The villainess is cartoonishly evil, stomping around in ballgowns with a sneer so exaggerated it’s a wonder her face hasn’t permanently locked in place. Her tragic backstory? She once got served lukewarm tea. And, oh no, she stepped in mud at a ball. The horror. Riveting stuff, truly.

Meanwhile, the heroine? She’s clearly phoning it in. Every scene she’s in, her eyes are dead inside like she’s as exhausted as you are by the sheer nonsense of the plot. If this girl could quit her own story, she would’ve done it yesterday. You can't help but mentally send her your condolences.

Then, there’s the male leads. If you can even call them that.

First, the Crown Prince, whose idea of a crisis is a fashion faux pas. This guy once canceled a whole wedding because his socks didn’t match. His spirals into existential crises every time a thread is out of place would be entertaining if it weren’t so tragic. The way he’s written, you swear he could kill a man with a critical stare over improper cufflinks.

Next up, the Duke. Brooding, romantic, and absolutely incapable of writing good poetry. Every time he spots the heroine, he launches into the worst rhymes you’ve ever heard. It’s so bad that you’re embarrassed for both of them. He follows her everywhere, reading his masterpieces at the most inappropriate times—like during a funeral. Who does that?

And finally, the Hero Knight. Ah, the knight. The epitome of overzealous stupidity. He turned grocery shopping into a three-day quest for the “Golden Lettuce of Destiny,” and vowed to defend the heroine’s honor from…nobody. You’d swear he’s larping 24/7. It’s exhausting just reading about him.

As if that weren’t bad enough, the heroine ends up in a polycule with all of them because the author was so sick of comments asking, “Who will she date?” that they just threw their hands up and went, “Fine, she dates everyone!” The heroine looks exhausted, and you feel for her. You feel for yourself, too, because reading this is actively lowering your IQ.

You sit there, flabbergasted, staring at the screen. This is what you’ve chosen to waste your time on? What’s worse, your boss will probably come around the corner any minute to scold you—oh wait, nope, the corner of the ceiling just gave out and bonk—there goes a chunk of plaster, right on your head.

You cannot believe this is how you get taken out.

You wake up and, somehow, it’s worse. You’re in a four-poster bed, covered in satin sheets, and your first thought is goddammit—you’ve been isekai’d. And not just into any world. That world. The webnovel.

You drag yourself out of bed, feeling a sudden wave of dread. You were the heroine in this mess. The heroine. Goddammit, why does everything bad only happen to you? For a moment, you're relieved you’re not the villainess. But then you remember: you’re stuck in a polycule with three absolute clowns.

Nope. Not happening. You will not end up with any of these pushy idiots. Goal one? Avoid the polycule at all costs.

Suddenly, the door flies open with a bang, and in burst all three male leads, dramatically weeping and crying out how you’ve been in a coma for so long. Their over-the-top emotions would be heartwarming if they weren’t so ridiculous.

“You’ve returned to us, my dearest flower of the kingdom!” the Crown Prince sobs, still perfectly dressed despite the tears streaming down his face. He sniffs and dabs his eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with his own face. Of course.

The Duke starts reciting the worst love poem you've ever heard, right there, in the middle of your room, as if you didn’t just wake up from a coma.

“I wandered, lost, like a daisy in a field of… uh… misery, because you, my sun, were hidden in the sky of my heart…” The rest is a blur because your brain has officially short-circuited.

And the Hero Knight? He’s already on his knees, swearing to protect you from whatever invisible threat he’s made up this time. “Fear not, fair lady! I shall defend thee against all who oppose your grace!”

You manage to kick all of them out of your room with a lot of effort and a lot of heavy glares. The moment you’re alone, you find a suicide note on the dresser, written by the actual heroine. Apparently, she drank poison just to get away from these weirdos.

What an icon.

But not you. You’re not dying again for these guys. No way.

You’re moving through the bustling market in full disguise, keeping an eye out for any knights or familiar faces. Your plan is simple: escape the polycule before any of those nutjobs track you down. With every step, you remind yourself that freedom is just one boat ride away—preferably to a distant land that has no idea who the Hero Knight, the Duke, or the crown prince are.

But as you round a corner, your thoughts scatter when you bump—quite literally—into something solid. You stagger back, blinking up at a tall figure dressed in all black. At first, panic flashes through you—please don’t be one of them—but when your eyes meet his, it’s not the Crown Prince, the Duke, or the Hero Knight.

It’s someone new. And he seems… perfectly pleasant. His strikingly elegant features, crowned by horns, should make him imposing, but his eyes soften as he looks at you. There’s an almost serene curiosity in them.

"Ah, forgive me," he says smoothly, his deep voice lilting with a formality that surprises you. "I didn’t see you there."

"No, no, it’s my fault," you reply, awkwardly waving your hands, trying to figure out why he’s so different from everyone else in this place. He’s polite. Polite. Already, you feel better about this encounter than you have about every conversation with the three other disasters that have been stalking you.

He steps aside, but instead of walking away, he looks around the marketplace with a faint, thoughtful frown. “I seem to have… lost my way,” he admits, glancing back at you. “This place is unfamiliar to me.”

Something in his tone, in the way his eyes briefly widen as he takes in the simplest market stalls—like he’s genuinely fascinated—makes you soften toward him. Ugh, bleeding heart strikes again. Before you know it, you find yourself asking, “Do you need help? I can… show you around.”

He turns his gaze back to you, and his lips quirk into the smallest, softest smile. “That would be most appreciated.”

As you walk together, he marvels at the simplest things—the fresh bread from a stall, the colorful fabrics, the scent of flowers sold at a cart. He’s curious about everything, eyes lingering on each sight like it’s the first time he’s ever seen such mundane wonders. His fascination is oddly endearing. It’s clear he’s not used to mingling in places like this, and his awe at the most normal things is… well, cute.

"Have you ever seen so many people in one place?" you ask, trying to fill the silence, though you’re surprised to find that you’re not uncomfortable around him.

He chuckles lightly. “Not in such a casual setting, no. It’s quite… charming. Everything feels so alive.”

You almost snort at the idea that this guy finds a basic market so thrilling, but you keep it in check. At least he’s not another drama king like the Crown Prince or a bad poet like the Duke.

It’s been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon until your luck inevitably runs out. You spot the familiar, impeccably dressed figure of the Crown Prince moving through the crowd with his knights. He’s scanning the area, and panic rises in your throat.

“Crap,” you mutter under your breath. Instinctively, you grab the man’s sleeve, tugging him down the nearest alley. “We need to go. Now.”

He blinks, looking puzzled but not resisting. “Is something wrong?”

Yes! you think, your mind flashing to the emotional wreck that is the prince. "No time to explain. Just trust me."

But you’re too late. The Crown Prince, in all his resplendent, overly perfect glory, catches sight of you just as you’re about to disappear into the shadows.

“Well, well,” the prince calls out with an overly bright smile. “If it isn’t my darling—oh!” His eyes widen as he finally notices the tall figure standing next to you. “Prince Malleus Draconia of Briar Valley!”

You blue screen.

Your grip loosens on Malleus’s sleeve as your brain sputters. Prince. Fae Prince. You’d just been casually chatting with the Prince of Briar Valley like he was some random lost guy? Did you seriously just… You internally spiral as the realization sinks in. Of course, he's a prince! The horns! The aura!

Malleus, for his part, remains calm and collected, inclining his head toward the Crown Prince. “Ah, it seems I’ve been found,” he says smoothly, completely unaware of the crisis currently happening inside your head.

The Crown Prince gives Malleus a florid bow, then immediately turns his attention back to you. “My dear, you shouldn’t be wandering the streets alone. Allow me to escort you to the palace.” His hand reaches out toward you, his smile practiced and princely, but your gut clenches with discomfort. No, nope, no thanks.

You step back instinctively, your unease written all over your face. Before you can even figure out how to politely decline without causing a scene, Malleus moves.

Malleus, who up until now was watching the exchange with mild curiosity, steps forward. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks the Crown Prince up and down. The prince stumbles over his words and backs away under the weight of Malleus’ stare.

The Crown Prince’s smile falters. He hesitates, glancing between you and Malleus, clearly unsure how to proceed. “I—um—of course, Prince Malleus, I didn’t mean to overstep,” he stammers, eyes darting nervously between the two of you.

You stand there, stunned, watching as Malleus’ mere presence makes the most annoyingly confident man in the kingdom back off. Is this real life?

The prince clears his throat awkwardly, then shoots you one last uneasy smile before making a swift retreat with his knights, leaving you standing there with Malleus.

You let out a long, relieved breath and glance up at him, feeling a little less like you’re about to lose your mind. “Thanks… for that.”

Malleus’ lips quirk into a tiny, knowing smile. “It was my pleasure.” He tilts his head, eyes still twinkling with that same curiosity from earlier. “Although, I must admit, I’m rather curious why you were so eager to avoid him.”

You laugh nervously, running a hand through your hair. “Let’s just say… he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

You don't know how you’ve ended up in this mess. One minute, you’re lost in the market, trying to figure out how to escape this ridiculous polycule situation, and the next, you’ve been dragged into a carriage on your way to the palace—with the Crown Prince, your overly dramatic Knight, and the Fae Prince himself.

Malleus, the Fae Prince, had politely asked if you would accompany him to the palace, and in a panic, you said yes. Because, really, how could you admit to both him and the Crown Prince that you’d actually been planning to skip town? So now, here you are, sitting through the most awkward carriage ride of your life.

Your knight, perched beside you, clears his throat dramatically. “Fear not, my lady,” he says in a voice filled with too much gravitas for the situation. “I shall protect you from all perils! Should the wind itself dare to brush against your delicate frame, I shall strike it down with my blade! No harm shall come to you so long as I draw breath!”

You facepalm internally. Please. Stop talking.

The Crown Prince, sitting across from you, adjusts his cufflinks for the tenth time. “I must say,” he purrs, fishing for compliments, “this outfit is particularly resplendent today, don’t you think? The shade of royal blue brings out the depth in my eyes. It was hand-tailored, of course. What do you think, my dear?”

You blink at him, trying to process whether he’s serious. He is. He’s absolutely serious.

Malleus watches the exchange in silent confusion, his eyes flicking between the three of you as if trying to figure out if this is normal human behavior. After all, you’ve got one guy swearing to kill the breeze, another obsessed with his reflection, and you, trying to melt into the upholstery.

“Is this… how humans typically behave?” Malleus asks, his voice soft and genuinely curious.

You shake your head vigorously. “No. This is how clowns behave.” Malleus raises an eyebrow but seems satisfied with your answer, settling back into his seat.

When the carriage finally—finally—arrives at the palace, you’re barely holding onto your sanity. But things are about to get worse.

As you’re ushered into the meeting hall, a trio approaches you. It’s Lilia, Silver, and… Sebek.

Sebek, who looks one step away from a full-blown aneurysm.

"Lord Malleus!" Sebek practically screeches, running toward Malleus like the world was ending. “How could you wander off on your own?! Do you know how much chaos you caused?! I almost fainted from sheer terror!”

Malleus doesn’t even flinch. “I had a guide.” He gestures toward you.

Sebek’s eyes land on you, and you quickly glance around for an escape route. “YOU?! YOU DARED TOUCH—”

Before Sebek can finish, you spot the Duke—one of your many suitors and part of the delegation—striding toward you with his usual brooding expression. You instinctively grab onto Malleus’ sleeve for some comfort (or maybe protection from what’s about to come next).

The Duke’s eyes light up as he sees you, and then… he begins to recite. “Oh, my dearest, like the moon that doth gleam upon a cheese plate—no, wait—upon a field of… toes? Your hair, like the petals of wilted roses in the rain... um… and your eyes… they are like two potatoes, cooked to perfection…”

Even Sebek is speechless. You think you see a vein pop on his forehead, but for once, he’s too stunned to yell.

Lilia, standing beside Sebek, chuckles, amused. “Well, I have to say, that’s… quite something.”

Malleus tilts his head, blinking at the Duke’s strange poetry. “Are potatoes considered a form of flattery in human culture?”

“No,” you mutter. “No, they’re not.”

Just when you think things can’t possibly get more absurd, the meeting begins. Because you’re technically the daughter of a Duke, you’re forced to sit through the whole ordeal. They start discussing the logistics of showing the fae delegation around the city.

“We need someone trustworthy to act as a guide,” one of the officials says, glancing toward the Crown Prince.

Malleus, who had been quietly observing the room, suddenly speaks up. “I believe I’ve already found the perfect guide.”

You freeze. No. No, no, no.

“The young lady who helped me in the market,” Malleus continues, looking directly at you.

The room falls silent. You, of all people, are the last person who wants to be anywhere near the fae delegation or, worse, your insane suitors. But before you can even open your mouth to refuse, the Crown Prince starts.

“My dear,” he says, leaning forward with a princely grin, “while I understand you’ve already formed an acquaintance with Prince Malleus, perhaps it would be better for someone more… experienced to take on this role.” He flashes his most charming smile, which, after everything today, only makes you cringe.

But Malleus just stares at him, completely unbothered. “No. I want her as my guide.”

Silver shifts slightly, glancing at you with an expression you can’t quite place, while Lilia’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “How interesting,” Lilia murmurs, clearly entertained by the situation.

Sebek, however, explodes. “IF LORD MALLEUS WANTS HER AS HIS GUIDE, THEN SO BE IT!” He turns toward the Crown Prince, practically vibrating with anger. “YOU WILL NOT QUESTION HIS DECISION!”

The Crown Prince, for once, looks genuinely taken aback. “I—I meant no offense! Of course, whatever Lord Malleus desires…”

You sink into your chair, feeling like your last chance at a peaceful life just flew out the window. Malleus turns to you with an expectant, polite smile. “I look forward to our time together.”

You groan inwardly. How is this my life?

You had to admit, Malleus was really nice. When you compared him to the absolute circus of clowns you had to deal with, he was practically a gift sent from above. So, you made a decision—if you were going to be his guide, you were going to be the best guide ever. And once they wrapped up this whole diplomatic visit, you'd beg him to take you with him to Briar Valley, where hopefully, your ridiculous suitors would be very far away.

Apparently, being a guide also meant dragging him along to everything you did, including navigating high society. This was where things got tricky. The original heroine had endured these events like a pro, but you? You were just a lowly office worker who'd read bad webnovels to avoid work. Now you were living in one.

First stop: a tea party.

As you sit down with Malleus beside you—who’s awkwardly perched in a chair much too small for him—you scan the room. Of course, all three of your ridiculous suitors are here. The Crown Prince, obsessing over the intricate lace of his cravat. The Hero Knight, sharpening his sword for no reason in the middle of a garden party. And the Duke, scribbling poetry on a napkin with all the grace of a sleep-deprived teenager finishing their homework five minutes before class.

But this wasn’t just about them. This was also your first time meeting the so-called villainess.

The villainess arrived like a whirlwind of petticoats and extravagant headpieces, smiling in that "I'm about to ruin your whole existence" kind of way. You smiled back, trying not to look dead inside when she launched into a diatribe about ruffles.

"And you see," she said, flickering her wrist with an air of superiority, "it was positively scandalous! The seamstress gave me a gown with only forty ruffles. Can you imagine? What am I, a commoner?"

You tried to smile politely. Truly. But Malleus, seated beside you, was staring at her with this fascinated look, as if watching a rare bird display its feathers. You could tell he was having a hard time grasping what the point of her story was. So were you.

But then, of course, the conversation turned personal.

“And the Duke,” the villainess said with a sly smirk, “such a poetic soul. He deserves better than to pine over someone who clearly has no appreciation for his art. Don’t you think?”

You blinked. Was this woman for real? You glanced at the Duke, who had suddenly gone from scribbling to gazing at you with that awful puppy-dog look. The one that meant another horrible poem was probably brewing.

You couldn’t help it. The words came out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. “Please take him.”

The villainess's eyes widened. “What?”

Malleus looked at you in amusement, while the Duke gasped dramatically, as if you’d just run him through with a sword.

You clasped your hands together and leaned forward earnestly. “Please, please take him. I don’t want him. At all. He’s all yours. You can have him—along with his potato-themed poems.”

The Duke visibly wilted. “But—! My lady! You—you wound me!”

“No, Duke, you wound me—with your terrible metaphors,” you deadpan. “And I’m begging you. Take him. Please. For the love of everything holy, I’m begging you.”

The villainess, probably for the first time in her life, looked completely flustered. “Are you… serious?”

“Absolutely,” you said, nodding. “I will sign papers. I’ll throw a party. I’ll—whatever it takes. Just… he’s yours.”

Malleus and Lilia were practically shaking with barely-contained laughter at this point, while the Duke had dropped to one knee, a napkin-clutched in his hand like some sad bouquet. “My poems… they were written with you in mind. Each line! Each stanza! Crafted from the depths of my heart!”

“Exactly,” you said, unblinking. “That’s why I need you to take him. Before he writes more.”

The villainess stared at you, completely dumbfounded. Then, after a pause, she broke into a smile. “Well, I’ve never had a man gifted to me before. I suppose I can make an exception.”

You felt like you could cry with relief. “Thank you.”

And just like that, your beef with the villainess was squashed. You traded your tragic suitor for peace of mind, and the villainess, now on the receiving end of the Duke’s “affections,” seemed pleased with her new prize.

Malleus leaned in, his voice low but filled with amusement. “I must say, you handled that quite well.”

You sighed, finally able to relax. “I handled that with desperation.”

And just like that, you’d rid yourself of two your problems. Now… to figure out how to survive the other two without losing your sanity.

You barely had time to process your victory over one villainess before a second one spawned out of nowhere like this was some kind of twisted video game. The Isekai Overlords clearly weren’t done with you yet. And this one? Oh, she was worse. The Crown Prince’s younger sister—spoiled princess extraordinaire—who genuinely believed her father was the reason the sun rose in the morning.

But, to your surprise, she didn’t even care about you. Like, at all. She acted like you didn’t even exist. Honestly? You were grateful. At least you could blend into the background this time and—oh no. Oh no.

She was making a beeline straight for Malleus.

You watched, horrified, as the princess latched onto him, throwing herself at him like he was a rare limited-edition collectible and not, you know, the Prince of Briar Valley and one of the most powerful beings in the world. Malleus shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure how to handle the situation, while Sebek was being barely restrained by Lilia and Silver. Lilia, of course, had that mischievous glint in his eye, like he was enjoying the whole ordeal.

You, on the other hand, were not enjoying it. You could practically see your retirement plans shriveling up in front of you—this had diplomatic nightmare written all over it. If Malleus so much as sneezed, you were pretty sure this princess would declare war on Briar Valley.

So, you did the only thing you could think of: you stepped in.

“Um, excuse me, Your Highness,” you said, stepping between the princess and Malleus. “Could you maybe… not cling to him like he’s a handbag?”

She turned to you with a look of utter disdain, like you were a fly she was too annoyed to swat away. “And who are you, exactly?”

Before you could answer, she pointed an accusatory finger at you. “I challenge you to a duel! For his hand!”

You blinked. “Bro, what?”

The princess huffed. “For the hand of Prince Malleus, of course! You think I didn’t see you fawning over him?”

“Fawning? I’m literally just his guide!” You gestured to Malleus, who, for some reason, looked almost giddy. “I’m not dating him, we’re not engaged, and if you push it, we’re maybe friends.”

Malleus practically beamed at the word “friends.” Was he… happy about this? About being defended like some damsel in distress? You were defending the most powerful fae in existence, and here he was, looking like you just made his entire year.

Sebek and Silver immediately stepped forward, but before they could say anything, Malleus raised a hand. “No. I would like to see how my guide—and friend—defends my honor.”

Your brain short-circuited. What?!

The princess smirked, clearly thinking she had you cornered. “Prepare yourself for the duel then! My personal knight will face you.”

You glanced at the knight, a towering figure who looked like he’d been training for war since birth, and then back at the sword that had been thrust into your hands. This was not how you imagined your day going. You hadn’t even touched a sword before. Meanwhile, your opponent was stretching like this was a warm-up exercise.

Still, you had no choice. With a deep breath and the knowledge that you were about to make a complete fool of yourself, you stepped forward, sword held awkwardly in front of you.

The duel began.

The knight lunged at you with a practiced, fluid motion. You, on the other hand, tripped over a rock, accidentally ducking his strike, and in your flailing attempt to stay upright, the hilt of your sword smacked him right in the face.

There was a collective gasp from the audience.

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath.

The knight staggered, his face scrunched in confusion. He tried again, this time swinging from the side. You managed to parry—purely out of luck—and in the process, tripped forward, sending your sword clattering out of your hands and somehow knocking the knight’s legs out from under him. He fell to the ground with a thud.

Dead silence followed.

You stood there, frozen, your sword lying a few feet away. The knight was on his back, staring up at the sky, clearly bewildered by what had just happened. You hadn't even swung properly!

Lilia burst out laughing. “My, my! That was quite the duel! You’ll have to take responsibility now.”

“Responsibility?” you echoed, flustered beyond belief. “For what? I just—he tripped! I tripped! That wasn’t even—”

“Exactly,” Lilia teased. “You won the duel. Now you must take responsibility for defending Prince Malleus’ honor so valiantly.”

Malleus, looking thoroughly impressed, gave you a small, pleased smile. “Indeed. You have my gratitude.”

The princess, meanwhile, was gaping at you like she couldn’t believe what just happened. “This… this is an outrage!”

You sighed, feeling utterly exhausted. “Look, I didn’t even want to duel in the first place. Can’t we just—call it a day? I’ve had enough of knights and duels and—” You gestured vaguely to Malleus. “I’m not even dating him.”

Malleus’ smile widened. “But we are friends.”

Lilia chuckled. “Ah, young love is so complicated.”

You shot him a glare. This was not what you signed up for. But hey, at least you won the duel—somehow.

You were lounging in your mansion’s parlor, the day blissfully uneventful for once. The warm sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a cozy glow over the room. Malleus was mid-conversation—no, scratch that—mid-rant about gargoyles. To your surprise, you were actually kind of into it.

“And that’s the primary difference between gargoyles and grotesques,” Malleus continued passionately. “You see, gargoyles are not merely decorative but also functional, designed to channel water away from the structure, whereas grotesques, while similar in appearance, serve no such purpose. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

You nodded, intrigued, and cut in with a genuine question. “Wait, so is the functionality the only difference? Like, are they made from the same material?”

Malleus blinked, slightly taken aback that you were not only listening but actively participating. “Yes, precisely. They are often carved from the same stone, but it’s their purpose that sets them apart. For example, in the southern—” He paused, seeming to catch himself, suddenly looking sheepish. “Ah, forgive me. I fear I’ve been talking too much.”

Sebek nearly jumped out of his seat, eyes wide with horror. “Lord Malleus! Everything you say is perfect! Don’t apologize for sharing your magnificent knowledge!”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “No, really, I enjoy it,” you said, waving off Malleus’ concerns. “I mean, how often do you get to talk about something so niche with someone who knows this much about it? I actually have a question—do any of the gargoyles in the Briar Valley have, like, historical significance? Like ones that are still functioning after all this time?”

Malleus lit up, and he launched right back into it, going on about ancient gargoyles in the Briar Valley that had withstood the test of time. He even started comparing the craftsmanship of various eras, and to your own surprise, you threw in a few comments about architecture and water systems, things you barely remembered from some random articles you’d read ages ago.

Halfway through a comparison of Gothic versus Renaissance gargoyle styles, a soft knock interrupted. Your maid entered, bowing slightly. “My lady, pardon the interruption, but we need your guidance with something in the kitchens.”

You sighed but smiled, pushing yourself off the couch. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let them bully you into leaving the gargoyle talk,” you teased as you walked out, completely unaware of the effect your comment had left behind.

As soon as the door closed, Malleus stood there, momentarily speechless. His pale cheeks took on the faintest hint of color, and his eyes were wide, as if someone had just smacked him with a metaphorical brick of emotions. The prince of Briar Valley, the most powerful creature in existence, was blushing like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

Lilia, ever the mischievous one, was already grinning from ear to ear, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, well, well… isn’t this interesting?” he purred, barely suppressing a chuckle.

Silver raised an amused brow, casting a side glance at Malleus. “It’s not every day we see him blush.”

Sebek, on the other hand, was utterly baffled but still overjoyed at seeing his lord smiling so widely. “Of course Lord Malleus is happy!” Sebek exclaimed proudly, though there was a trace of confusion in his voice. “He’s been honored with your presence and your rapt attention, as is only right! I just—” Sebek glanced around, as if trying to understand the subtle undercurrent in the room, “—I don’t understand why he’s so… red?”

Lilia patted Sebek on the back, barely holding in his laughter. “Oh, Sebek, my boy. This is what happens when someone gets the attention they’ve long desired.”

Malleus cleared his throat, trying—and failing—to compose himself. “I’m merely… pleased,” he said, though his blush betrayed him. “It’s rare to find someone who listens so attentively.”

Lilia chuckled softly. “Yes, and who knows the difference between gargoyles and grotesques, I imagine. Quite the match for you, wouldn’t you say?”

Malleus, flustered beyond belief, gave Lilia a sidelong look but said nothing, clearly more preoccupied with the strange warmth blooming in his chest.

By the time you returned, unaware of the scene you’d left behind, Malleus was still trying to gather himself. Lilia shot you a knowing smile, and Silver just gave you a look like you have no idea what’s happening, do you? Sebek, as always, continued to beam with unshakable loyalty to his blushing lord.

But hey, at least Malleus was happy—really happy.

It all started innocently enough—you were having dinner with Malleus, Sebek, Lilia, and Silver. Sebek was, as usual, going on one of his rants about how absolutely divine Malleus was, Lilia was being cryptic and vaguely mischievous, and Silver was dozing off between courses.

You, being the delightful disaster that you were, cracked a joke between bites. “Honestly, if Sebek praises Malleus any more, we might as well commission a statue of him—complete with an audio loop of Sebek’s praises.”

Malleus laughed. Actually laughed. It was such a rare sound, deep and rich, and when you heard it, your heart stuttered in your chest like someone had just jabbed you with a lightning bolt.

Oh no.

You knew, from that very moment, you were in deep, deep shit.

From that point on, everything Malleus did made it impossible for you to act normal around him. His laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he found something amusing, the warmth in his voice when he spoke to you—how had you not noticed before? And now, every time Lilia even looked at you, it was with this knowing, mischievous grin, like the universe had finally granted him the entertainment he’d been waiting for all these centuries.

“This,” Lilia said one day, leaning in conspiratorially with a grin that could light up a room, “this is what I’ve lived so long for.”

And to make matters worse, it wasn’t just your mind tormenting you. Oh no. It was like the entire world was in on the joke. You could practically see sparkles in the air every time Malleus so much as glanced your way. Sparkles, for crying out loud. Your heart was in critical danger.

Your solution? Avoid him.

But it wasn’t that simple. You tried hiding behind furniture, ducking into bushes, and even feigning an incredibly inconvenient bout of food poisoning just to avoid being near him. One time, you spotted Malleus coming down the hall and, in a blind panic, dove behind a potted plant. The plant was tiny. You were not. Somehow, you thought it would work.

It didn’t. Malleus casually walked over, spotted you crouching awkwardly behind the plant, and said, “Is there something wrong with that shrubbery? Should I summon someone to tend to it?”

Another time, you attempted to “sneak” out of the palace by pretending you were a passing merchant. You wore a very large hat and wrapped yourself in an oversized cloak. Malleus found you immediately.

“Aren’t you feeling a bit warm in that?” he asked, blinking at your ridiculous ensemble.

He had fae hearing. He could always find you.

Even guiding him around town became a disaster. How were you supposed to be a competent host when all you could think about was how unfairly hot he was? Every word he said carried this charming, ancient elegance, and here you were, a flustered mess with zero composure.

Lilia? Still having the time of his life. He was practically choking on his laughter at this point. Silver, somehow, slept through most of your crises, and Sebek was just thrilled Malleus was spending so much time with him (though he was clearly confused about why you were acting so weird).

Finally, you had enough. One night, under the cover of the moon, you snuck into the garden with the determination of someone completely done with their own suffering. You found a flower—granted, you didn’t know what it was, but it looked nice—and you marched up to Malleus, who was out enjoying the evening air, blissfully unaware of the emotional train wreck headed his way.

“I need to say something!” you blurted, shoving the flower toward him.

Malleus took the flower carefully, glancing down at it. His expression shifted from curious to… mildly concerned? “This flower,” he said slowly, “is traditionally used in Briar Valley to signify deep betrayal…”

You blinked. Oh god.

“No, wait! I didn’t mean—!” you stammered, but before you could backtrack, your brain decided it had had enough. You blurted out the truth, no holds barred: “I like you, okay?! I’ve been a mess for weeks because of how ridiculously perfect you are, and I’m tired of avoiding you and hiding behind plants! So there!”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Malleus stared at you, his eyes wide with shock, and then, much to your surprise (and relief), he broke into the widest smile you’d ever seen on him. It was like the moon had just gotten brighter.

“You’re confessing… to me?” he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine joy.

“Yes,” you groaned, face burning with embarrassment. “Now please reject me so I can go lie in a ditch somewhere.”

But instead of rejection, you got happy dragon noises. Malleus gently pulled you into his arms and, with a voice full of affection, declared, “You are mine, then. From this day forward, you are my beloved.”

Cue your soul leaving your body.

When you broke the news to your father the next day, the poor Duke nearly fainted at the sight of the Prince of Briar Valley standing there, flanked by Silver, Sebek, and Lilia, the former general grinning like the Cheshire cat.

The Duke was intimidated—terrified, really—and quickly agreed to let the courtship proceed. But there was a catch.

“You’ll have to tell the Crown Prince and the Hero Knight yourself,” your father said, his face pale. “I’m not getting involved in that.”

Your retirement plans had officially died.

Despite all the chaos that had entered your life since becoming Malleus's beloved, you had to admit—there were perks. One of those was what you’d come to call "fae luck." It became especially apparent during a particularly tense diplomatic meeting involving the fae, the beastmen, and your kingdom.

The room was filled with strained conversations, the kind of diplomacy that could either result in peace or war, depending on how fragile the egos in the room were. You were sitting between Malleus and the second prince, doing your best to avoid looking at the first prince, who had already been giving you way too much attention for comfort.

Then it happened.

The first prince, ever the picture of grace, rose to speak. As he took his first step forward… THUD. He tripped spectacularly, arms flailing, and landed directly in the lap of the Beastmen Queen. There was a collective gasp, and for a heartbeat, you thought maybe this could be saved—until he opened his mouth.

“Well, I guess I’ve… fallen for you!”

Silence.

The Beastmen Queen's expression froze. The fae delegation collectively facepalmed, and you could practically feel the tension suffocating the room.

And then the Beastmen were on their feet, growling and demanding the immediate removal of the first prince from the line of succession. One of their diplomats, fur bristling with indignation, roared, “This is an insult to our Queen! Remove this fool from the throne!”

Instead of apologizing, as a normal, sane person might have, the first prince, face red with embarrassment, dug himself even deeper. “It was a joke! Can’t you beastmen take a joke? Honestly, I don’t see why everyone’s so sensitive.”

The Beastmen's amger intensified, and you saw the Emperor and Empress—who had been trying desperately to maintain order—sink deeper into their seats, their expressions a mix of horror and resignation. The entire room was teetering on the brink of an international incident.

And then… you spotted it.

A little green wisp, barely visible, flitting through the air right around where the prince had been standing before his magnificent face-plant.

You glanced toward Malleus, who was sitting beside you, looking perfectly composed, save for the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Beside him, Lilia gave you a knowing wink, his mischievous grin unmistakable.

They caused this.

Within moments, the decision was made: the first prince was officially removed as heir to the throne. His younger brother, the second prince—who had always been calm, composed, and infinitely more capable—was declared the new Crown Prince.

It was glorious.

But before you could celebrate, the first prince turned toward you, his expression sour and filled with desperation. "You—" he began, as if about to drag you into his misery.

Not today, prince.

Finally given the chance to reject him properly, you rose from your seat, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh as you faced him.

“I’ve been waiting so long to say this,” you began, crossing your arms and locking eyes with him. “I reject you. Completely. Wholly. Utterly. There is not a single fiber in my being that has ever been remotely interested in you. In fact, the only thing that’s ever kept me in proximity to you was the sheer necessity of survival.”

The first prince’s mouth opened, but you weren’t done.

“Remember all those times you made those comments about my ‘station’ and how ‘lucky’ I was to be considered by you?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything back then because I was too polite, but now? No thanks. Absolutely not. I would rather spend a century in the swamps than a minute more listening to you.”

Sebek, of all people, burst into laughter. “She’s got a point!” he managed between snickers. Lilia was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes twinkling in amusement, and Silver, barely awake, gave a lazy thumbs-up in support.

Malleus, meanwhile, looked positively enchanted. His eyes sparkled as he watched you lay into the former prince, pride and affection written all over his face. When you were done, he leaned toward you, murmuring with a soft smile, “I do love seeing you stand up for yourself.”

The first prince, his face red with humiliation, stammered, “You can’t speak to me like that!”

“Oh, but I just did,” you replied with a sweet smile. “And you know what? It felt amazing.”

With that, the first prince slunk away, his tail metaphorically between his legs, while the room buzzed with whispered laughter. Even the Beastmen, who had been ready to rip the prince to shreds, seemed satisfied.

You had never felt more victorious. Malleus looked at you with such adoration, and Lilia… well, Lilia looked like he was already planning his next round of mischief.

It was a good day.

The festival was going about as smoothly as a cat in a bathtub. You were trying to act like you weren’t hopelessly entangled with the most dangerously attractive fae prince in existence, while also managing to survive the company of your absurd entourage.

Sebek was marching around, loudly reminding anyone within earshot of his unwavering devotion to Lord Malleus. His eyes would dart to you occasionally, like he was calculating whether you were worthy of being in the same airspace as his revered master. Silver, half-asleep, was keeping one lazy yet disturbingly sharp eye on you, while Lilia was in his element—practically vibrating with amusement, like he was waiting for you to trip and fall into a cauldron of chaos.

And then there was the Hero Knight. This guy had shown up uninvited, all shiny armor and noble delusions, insisting he protect you from… something? Yourself? Malleus? Winning too many festival games?

“Are you sure you’re safe?” the Hero Knight asked, sidling up far too close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve heard stories about these fae festivals. One wrong step, and you’ll be cursed to dance for a hundred years, or worse—turned into a tree.”

You squinted at him. “Right. I’ll make sure to avoid the face-painting booth. Wouldn’t want to end up as a shrub for eternity.”

Malleus, ever patient, simply raised an eyebrow, as if contemplating whether this so-called Hero Knight was worth the oxygen he was breathing. Lilia, meanwhile, was biting his lip to stop from laughing.

But then, amid your rising frustration, you spotted it: the holy grail of festival prizes. The gargoyle plushie.

It wasn’t just any gargoyle plushie. It was perfect. Chunky, with tiny wings and a slightly disgruntled expression, it radiated the exact energy you associated with Malleus—regal, intimidating, yet somehow huggable.

You pointed at it like you’d just discovered a hidden treasure. “I need that.”

Malleus, ever-attentive, followed your gaze and smiled softly. “Do you desire the gargoyle?”

“Obviously! It’s basically you in plushie form,” you said, already walking toward the game stall. “But, you know, it’s rigged. All festival games are.”

Malleus watched you with his trademark elegant amusement. “Perhaps I can—”

“No, no,” you interrupted, raising a hand. “I’m winning this fair and square. No fae magic, no dragon lord intervention. Just pure skill.”

You grabbed the darts, took a deep breath, and began your assault on the rigged game. It wasn’t easy. The darts bounced, the targets mocked you, and you could feel the Hero Knight hovering over your shoulder like a bad itch.

“Are you sure this is wise?” the Hero Knight asked again, his voice dripping with concern. “This feels like a trap. What if they’ve enchanted the darts? What if—”

You whirled on him, fed up. “Listen, Sir Gallant-with-too-much-hair-gel, it’s a dart game. Not an assassination plot. If I can survive dealing with you, I think I can handle a few rigged targets.”

Lilia absolutely lost it. He doubled over, wheezing in laughter, while Silver let out an amused snort. Even Sebek looked like he was struggling not to smirk, though he quickly composed himself.

Malleus, ever regal, simply smiled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I have faith in your abilities, my dear.”

Fueled by that comment—and the knowledge that the Hero Knight was slowly losing what remained of his dignity—you managed to hit the final target. The plushie was yours.

Triumphantly, you grabbed the gargoyle and turned to Malleus. “For you.”

Malleus, to your utter delight, looked genuinely touched. His eyes softened, and that rare, warm smile appeared. “You won this for me?”

“Obviously,” you said, trying not to melt under his gaze. “A prince should have his own gargoyle.”

Silver, who had been observing the entire scene with increasing clarity despite his usual drowsiness, raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

Sebek, who was still processing the fact that you’d just casually given his lord a gargoyle plushie, grunted. “You… you truly care for Lord Malleus.”

Before you could say anything, the Hero Knight, still floundering, piped up. “Well, I could’ve won that gargoyle too, you know. If you wanted to—”

“Oh, please,” you cut him off, turning to the Knight. “You probably would’ve asked the stall vendor to throw in a manual on ‘How to Not Be a Total Wet Blanket at Festivals.’”

Lilia nearly collapsed. “Oh, please stop—I can’t—” he gasped, clearly having the time of his life.

You waved him off and turned back to Malleus, who was still holding the plushie with the same reverence one might reserve for an ancient relic. “Shall we continue?”

Next up was a couple’s game. You had no intention of participating—until you noticed the Hero Knight gearing up to suggest that he join in to protect you. Oh no. Not today. You grabbed Malleus’ arm and dragged him into the game, completely ignoring the Knight’s sputtering objections.

“It’s… it’s traditionally for couples…” Silver noted, giving you a look that clearly said, I see what’s happening here.

You ignored him too.

The game was simple enough: throw rings onto bottles, but for some reason, the tension was palpable. Probably because you were standing next to one of the most powerful beings in existence, and you’d dragged him into a ridiculous couples’ game in front of his overly protective retinue.

But you won. And to rub salt in the Hero Knight’s ego, you fed Malleus one of the sweets you’d won.

“Y-You!” Sebek spluttered, looking as though you’d just committed the highest treason against decorum. “Feeding Lord Malleus… this… this is too much!”

The Hero Knight, on the other hand, looked utterly baffled. “Are you… are you sure that’s safe? What if the sweets are—”

“I swear, if you don’t stop, I’m going to feed you to the fairies,” you hissed, snapping the sweet in half and popping it into Malleus’ mouth. He smiled as he ate it, clearly enjoying himself.

By the time the fireworks started, you had somehow survived the night without murdering the Hero Knight. The sky exploded in a kaleidoscope of colors, and for a brief moment, it was peaceful.

And then, without thinking, you kissed Malleus.

There was a split second of stunned silence. And then all hell broke loose.

Sebek let out a screech that could rival a banshee. “My Lord! My Lord!” His voice cracked in disbelief, but then—surprisingly—he softened. “If… If Lord Malleus must fall for a human, I am glad it is someone… as devoted as you. My lady.”

You looked at him, touched. “Thank you, Sebek.”

Silver gave a rare smile, looking both amused and resigned. “Congratulations. You’ve managed to pull this off somehow.”

Lilia, predictably, was still dying of laughter, barely able to breathe between fits of wheezing.

And the Hero Knight? He looked like someone had just told him vampires were real and lived next door. “This… I… What…?”

You turned to him with a smile that could cut steel. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’ve been trying to tell you for months that I wasn’t interested. I’d rather kiss a gargoyle than you—actually, no. The gargoyle’s got more charm. Better conversation skills too.”

Lilia was full-on cackling now, leaning against a festival stall for support as the Hero Knight’s dignity shriveled up into nothingness.

Malleus, looking absolutely radiant, wrapped an arm around your waist. “Shall we depart? I believe we have a kingdom to return to.”

The next day, you stood with Malleus and his merry band of chaos, bidding farewell to your parents and butler. The Duke was still recovering from the heart attack Malleus had given him when he asked for your hand in courtship.

As you waved to your family, Malleus gently took your hand, leading you toward the carriage that would take you to Briar Valley.

“Well,” you muttered as you glanced back one last time, “this story of mine took a weird turn.”

Lilia, still grinning like a fiend, chimed in. “Oh, just wait until the sequel.”

The last thing you heard as the carriage rolled away was the Hero Knight muttering in the distance, “I could’ve won that gargoyle…”

You smiled. Maybe the webnovel wasn’t such a disaster after all.

Ahh I hope y'all like this one, malleus is one of my favs and I had so much fun writing him.

The Kalim one is being edited because it's a little too somber for me and I wanna make it a little more fun and Azul one is almost fully edited too!

So, here's a poll for the one after these. (They'll all get a turn)

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[bitters-n-sweets]

scoliosis — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader You have scoliosis and it's been killing your back all day. Robby notices and decides to help you out with it.

warnings: suggestive content, minors GO AWAY | reader has scoliosis - not bad, but def painful after hours of standing, running etc. masterlist a/n: anyone else got scoliosis? mine is killing me today || side note, I've been basically writing one fic a day for a week, my brain is on FIRE and I might take a break soon lol

Crack-ety-crack

You groan as you stretch your back. You only have 3 hours left on your shift, and though it will feel like eternity, you can't wait to get back to your bed and reset.

You’re perched slightly sideways in your chair, trying to avoid pressure on your elevated right hip. It’s second nature by now—awkward but necessary. The real exhaustion comes from always being aware of how you're sitting, how you're standing, how you're moving—if you don't want it to gradually get worse.

You sigh again, and Robby notices.

"You okay?"

"Yep," You enunciate the P. "Just charting, boss."

Robby finds your behavior—and posture—odd but keeps walking. You’ve stretched five times today by his count, and that’s unusual. He knows he needs to ask you about it, and he will.

A while later, he sees you dead-hanging on the break room's door frame. Someone—he doesn't know who—had installed it for their "gains" and now you're using it. With your scrubs riding up as your spine relaxes, showing your bare waist.

It’s not indecent. Not really. But the sight punches the air out of his lungs harder than he expects. Heat rises to his ears as he steps behind you, instinctively blocking the view from anyone else.

He clears his throat.

"Sorry!" You say, "Was just relaxing my back."

Robby’s frown is back. "What’s going on with your back?"

You shrug, casual. "Scoliosis. It flares up sometimes, so I stretch."

"I’ve never seen you stretch this much during a shift."

"Yeah, it’s worse today. No idea why." You wave him off like it’s nothing. "It’ll go away once I sleep."

"You taking anything for it?"

"Pssh, no." You grin. "I’ll be fine. Rest usually does the trick."

Robby doesn’t look convinced. "You wanna leave early?"

"No," You shake your head. "Seriously Robby, I'm okay."

With a tap on his arm, you're on your merry way to see your patients. Robby sighs, because he knows how stubborn you can be, and he's gonna have to force you to rest.

"Alright, Mr. Evans, you're all patched up and ready to be discharged." You smile at the older man and stand up, a groan following suit as you put a hand on your back.

"Hon, you might wanna check that back." Mr. Evans comments, "You sound older than me!"

You're about to argue back when someone cuts your line, "Tell me about it. Come with me." Robby motions and leaves, meaning you need to follow him fast.

"Robby—"

"Nuh-uh, get in here." He opens the door to the on-call room and you go in with a grumble.

"I'm fine, Robby."

"No, you're not." He says, locking the door behind him. "You're in pain, so let me help you."

"What are you—" Robby moves you so your back is turned towards him, and he gently places his hands on your shoulder.

He's giving you a massage.

"Rob—"

"It's gonna help with your pain." Robby says. "Now lean forward a little."

You do as he says, leaning your body weight on your arms while he makes his way down your back, his hands now on your lower back, under your scrubs. It's too intimate. You feel your cheeks getting hot. And it doesn't help that he's now so close to you, you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

Robby pauses for a second. "Is this okay?" he asks, voice lower now, closer to your ear.

You nod, quickly. "Yeah. Just… didn’t expect you to be this good at it."

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Let’s just say I’ve had practice. Not on coworkers, though."

You glance at him over your shoulder with a smirk. "Am I special, Dr. Robinavitch?"

He grins, his hands stilling briefly on your waist. "Yeah. You are."

You let out a shaky breath as he works you, and you can practically feel the smirk on Robby's face.

Robby chuckles. "That feel good?"

You hum, trying not to enjoy it too much.

You try to focus on anything but Robby’s hands—his clinical, practiced, totally professional hands—that you just realized are huge, and are currently pressed on your hip. But your body betrays you.

A soft, breathy sound slips out of your throat. It’s not loud, but it’s definitely a moan.

"That good, huh?"

"Robby, I swear—"

Robby chuckles, deep and smug. "I mean, I was hoping to make you feel better, so… I’ll take it as a win."

You try to twist around to glare at him, but his hands hold you steady. "Don’t move. You’ll undo all my good work."

"Cocky."

"Confident," he corrects. "And apparently very effective."

You let out a groan—not from the massage this time. "You are insufferable."

"And yet," he murmurs, dipping his thumbs just below the curve of your waist, "you’re letting me keep going."

You bite your lip. He notices. Oh, he definitely notices.

"Tell me if it hurts," he says, quieter now, closer to your neck. "Or if you want me to stop."

You don’t say a word.

And he doesn’t stop.

"Good girl."

[beloveds-embrace]

duke au angst, but könig isn’t a knight. He’s either not in it and reader just sinks into a pit of depression and withdrawals so much that rumours start speculation around the ton that reader is either dead or murder and it starts to take a toll on john reputation (they start going after why him, simon, johnny and kyle are so close) or a könig is an Austrian duke/way closer to royalty and when he’s over for business with John and/or simon, he and the reader hit it off (much to the boys dismay) and reader plans on leaving without a word, leaving nothing more than a vague letter that details why and a set of divorce papers (helped achieved by könig) and by the time they realise their mistake readers already living the high life in austria

….okay but the first one’s got me downright obsessed, anon 😩 second one too and i feel like i will absolutely end up caving and writing it later but for now, have this!

Angst dukedom post

Non-angst dukedome post(no konig in this one)

No but seriously, there is only so much you can take. Between everyone’s dismissal of you, the lack of any meaningful company, the loneliness- it was only a matter of time before you just… can’t do it anymore.

The change, though it starts slow, is impossible to hide. You stop having dinner with John, finding no solace in the taste of lukewarm, half-heartedly prepared food. You tell yourself it’s not worth it- the stilted conversations, the empty looks, the way his eyes always drift to anything but you. He’s too busy sharing hidden glances with Kyle, exchanging quiet touches with Johnny when he hand delivers the food, speaking to Simon with an intensity that has never been for you.

You stop attending the endless galas and balls you are meant expected to attend as the Duchess. You withdraw from the tea parties, from every suffocating event where you were paraded as nothing more than an ornament on Duke Price’s arm. You withdraw from the public eye itself.

Instead, you drift through the duchy, through the rooms that are suddenly empty when you arrive. You drift to and fro, in a haze of lonelinthat and slow-setting exhaustion.

The maids whispered of you before, but it used to be out of your earshot; now, you can hear them clearly, none of them afraid of being punished when not even your own husband can stand your sight. They mutter about how sickly you look, how your eyes are dull and lifeless.

She’s wasting away.

Maybe it’s for the best.

No one can love someone who fades into the walls.

But of course, the whispers aren’t just within the duchy. Rumors ripple out beyond the duchy’s walls-

The Duchess has gone mad, they say. Locked away by her husband, for her own good.

She ran away in the dead of night, they say. Couldn’t bear her husband’s coldness. Maybe he drove her to it.

He’s always with Duke Riley, isn’t he? Or the butler. Or the chef.

Poor thing. No wonder she vanished.

All of it gnaws and bites at John’s reputation, at yours, but he never comes to you and it doesn’t surprise you at all. He would rather find a way to bury it all then simply check on you. The facade has always been more important, and he keeps it with half-hearted excuses half-believed by some and dismissed by others.

But they are relentless, and soon they taint every interaction he has. No one meets him without a hint of suspicion in their eyes. How much of it is true, they seem to ask. What did you do to her? Is she really gone? She was a good woman, how could you do that to her? There is more scrutiny now on the time he spends with Simon, with Kyle, with Johnny. He starts to avoid public events himself, unwilling to face the relentless gossip that hangs over him now like a dark cloud.

Eventually, you stop dressing for the day, leaving your hair unkempt, your gowns crumpled and out of style. No one comes to check on you, the maids happy at having less work, and you tell yourself that you prefer it that way. No eyes to judge. No lips to lie. The solitude is nothing new, even if it’s never been this severe before.

Time blurs, too. You stop looking at the newspapers when they stop being delivered. The days mean nothing when every morning brings only a new kind of numbness, and some days you spend entirely in bed, too tired to even think about taking a step outside.

Yet, even with your noticeable absence, nothing changes. No one knocks on your door, not even once. No one checks to see if you’re eating, breathing, surviving. You feel so achingly lonely.

John doesn’t approach you once. You have become a specter, more distant than ever. And though he and the others feel a creeping sense of guilt- Kyle finds himself lingering outside your door, only to turn away with clenched fists; Johnny’s jokes die in his throat when he hears your name; Simon stares at the spot you used to take during the dinners and lunches he’d join; John stares at the very few portraits of you that line the walls and wonders how he’d even go about approaching you- none of them move to truly mend the gaping distance between you. They regret their neglect, but they do not know how to fix it. Or maybe they are simply too late.

dukedom au masterlist Part Two: Fix-it

[all-with-angel]

𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐄! •°. *࿐

Summary: How the Yandere JJK Characters kidnap you after you blocked and ran away from them!~ FINALE to this series

Including: Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Sukuna Ryomen, Shoko Ieiri, Uraume

Content. Yandere, Dark themes, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Drugging, this is actually terrifying so beware, gn!reader !DARK THEMES!

w.c. 300-700 per character || Masterlist ||

MINOR AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI. Masterlist

❥ SATORU GOJO

The quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound left in the house. The lights were off, curtains drawn, the TV screen still faintly glowing from earlier, casting eerie shadows along the walls. You sat crouched in the back of your closet, breath caught in your throat, your phone tightly clutched in your trembling hands.

It was dead quiet, save for the heavy drum of your heart in your ears.

You heard the front door open- No, you heard it break three minutes ago. Two minutes ago, you started to hear whistling. An upbeat tune, filling in every corner of your home. Slowly getting louder. Then came his voice, unmistakably bright and sing-song, echoing down the hall like sugar-coated dread.

"Heyyy~ You’re being kinda rude, y'know.” Gojo Satoru called out, footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor. You didn’t breathe. Not as his voice drifted closer. Not as the floor creaked near your bedroom.

“Also, not to be pushy, but…” Gojo’s voice lowered, took on that deceptively lazy tilt that meant he was far too aware. “Why’d you block me, huh? That was really mean. You’re supposed to be nicer to your friends. Or future boyfriend.” He giggled, as if blushing at the thought.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your heartbeat was thunder in your ears. The doorknob to your bedroom rattled, but silence followed.

You were confused, hope crawling deceptively up your spine. Maybe he had left? 

Maybe?

That hope was crushed just as quickly. The closet door opened and you didn’t even hear a single footstep. He was smiling, his usual grin but there was something manic behind it. He had his blindfold off, bright blue eyes staring right into your soul. Those cerulean eyes- normally so bright and charming, the same ones you had trusted up until a few hours ago- were dilated and glowing in the dark. “You had your fun playing your games sweetheart,”

His smile grew wider.

“My turn to play.”

❥ SUGURU GETO

The alley stank of copper.

You stood at the edge of it all, frozen beneath a flickering street lamp that buzzed like it, too, was on the verge of collapse. The sky above had long turned black, the stars drowned by storm clouds that hadn’t yet cried. The silence was thick and wrong. The kind of silence that followed a massacre.

There were bodies. Not neatly placed, not respectfully laid out- no, they were torn. Crushed.

Your legs trembled. You couldn’t breathe without tasting iron. You wanted to throw up. You should have thrown up. But you were too paralyzed, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your fingers twitched at your sides, useless after doing such a small action such as texting Geto. 

Curses still lingered, slithering in the shadows like rats with too many teeth, but they peeled away with sudden, eerie reverence. Something stronger had arrived. Something worse. He’s here, he said over text.

Geto Suguru, all calm smiles and slow, unhurried steps, like he hadn’t just orchestrated a massacre in your name. His robes fluttered in the soft breeze. There wasn’t a speck of blood on him.

“Ah,” he said gently, as if greeting a wayward child, “my dear.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t move. Your knees locked, rooted to the blood-soaked pavement as Geto gently cupped your face with a finger. He frowned, mocking, as if disappointed. “Do you see now?” he asked softly. “This... all of this could’ve been avoided.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he did so.

“You made me do this.”

Tears welled up on your eyelids- Just for a moment, before they all came spilling out. “You poor thing,” Geto cooed at you, bringing his sleeve to help wipe your ever flowing tears. “It’s okay, everyone makes mistakes. I forgive you.” He held your face, hands deceptively warm as he placed a soft kiss on your forehead.

“You must’ve been so scared. Don’t worry. It’s over now. I’ll take care of everything.” 

You shivered before giving in and curling into him, letting yourself be enveloped in dark robes. “‘m sorry.” You whispered. It wasn’t for him, but for the people dragged into this mess and killed. If he knew that, he didn’t care.

“I know.” He hummed, threading his fingers through your hair. “I’m glad you’ve learned your lesson, my dear.”

❥ NANAMI KENTO

Your head was pounding.

A slow, dull throb pulsed behind your eyes like someone had taken a sledgehammer to your skull and wrapped the aftermath in cotton. You groaned softly, face turned into soft, cool sheets that didn’t feel like your own. You shifted instinctively- but something clinked.

Metal. A sharp sound, cold and wrong, echoed in the otherwise suffocating silence. You froze. Again, you moved- Just slightly, and the noise returned. A dragging sound. Chains.

You blink your eyes open, the world spinning and blurring into one mess before you were able to focus on your surroundings. The room was dim but luxurious, cast in warm amber light. High ceilings, velvet drapes. Hardwood floors covered in imported rugs. Everything looked pristine, untouched. Like something out of a dream.

Your wrist was shackled to the bedpost with a sleek but heavy steel cuff. Another bound your ankle.

Your heart lurched. You tried to get off of the bed, but the restraint at your ankle tugged you back with a soft clink. Panic bloomed in your chest.

As if on cue, a door you barely noticed in the corner of the room opened.

Nanami stepped into the room, dressed in a loose, elegant button-down and black slacks, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. His tie was gone. In his hands, he carried a silver tray with your favorite food—exactly how you liked it. Steam still wafted from the dishes.

He looked at you with such fondness, as if this was just another quiet evening between lovers.

“You’re awake,” he said, smiling softly. “I was beginning to worry.”

He walked closer, placing the tray on the nightstand. You shifted back, sheets rustling under you. His voice remained even, calm. Dangerously so. “I know your head must hurt. I tried to be gentle, I’m very sorry.”

You recoiled instinctively as he reached out to brush your hair from your face, but he didn’t seem offended. In fact, he looked saddened.

“I knew you'd panic,” he murmured. “But you have to understand... this was the only way.”

“The only... way?” you rasped, eyes wide.

He nodded, sitting at the edge of the bed like this was perfectly normal. “You weren’t safe out there. You kept insisting on putting yourself in danger—talking to people you shouldn't, wandering off, trusting all the wrong hands.” His hand slid over yours, gently stroking your fingers- You flinched back. “So I made a choice. One that you’ll thank me for. Eventually.” He stayed calm, as if anticipating the reaction and resting his hands on his lap.

You screamed, curses and cries slipping past your lips. The chains rattled at every movement.

“It's alright. We have time. Days, weeks, years.” He smiled again. “You’ll come to see that this is right.”

Your heart hammered. The scent of vanilla was suffocating now. You were trapped. Alone. And he had planned this.

“You’re finally home.”

❥ TOJI FUSHIGURO

The warehouse was a maze of rusted scaffolding and forgotten crates, all shrouded in darkness. Moonlight filtered in through cracks in the boarded windows, carving slivers of silver across the floor. Your breaths came shallow, ragged, and you were sure they were nearly loud enough to echo off the metal walls. You pressed yourself into the narrow gap between two crates, clutching your legs to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller.

You could still hear his voice in your ears. He appeared right in front of you, a monster emerging from the shadows as he chased- cornered you into some dingy warehouse. You didn’t know how you ended up here, all that you know is that he planned this. Every turn you took, every time he sped up to just barely graze you, all planned. A predator hunting its prey.

You pressed a hand over your mouth to stifle the panicked sob threatening to escape. Every creak, every scuttle of rat claws across concrete made your skin crawl. Your ears strained for footsteps—his footsteps. But it was so damn quiet.

A faint tap. The subtle scrape of boots against the ground. Measured. Deliberate. Like he knew you could hear him.

You held your breath.

"Not a bad hiding spot," Toji called, his voice bouncing through the warehouse. You couldn’t tell how far or how close he was. "Took you a while to start learning, huh?" You could hear the grin in his voice.

Then you heard the echo of metal on metal. Loud clangs filling your ears as you could imagine Toji dragging his blade across steel beams.

"You remember when I told you I liked the chase?" he said, somewhere to your left now. "Still true. But you running off like that… breaking the lock on our door? Kinda hurt my feelings, y’know."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your lungs burned. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath until black spots danced at the edges of your vision. Quietly, carefully, you inhaled through your nose.

CLANG.

A crate slammed to the floor just a few rows down and you flinched violently. The sound rang through the warehouse like a death knell. Wood splintered. Dust filled the air.

He was closer. You still couldn’t see him. The warehouse was quiet for far too long after that. Not a whisper nor the wind reached your ears.

“Gotcha.” His voice. Right behind you.

You screamed, scrambling to your feet—but he was already there, arm wrapping around your middle like a vice, yanking you back. Cold steel kissed your throat—not cutting, not yet, just resting there, a silent promise.

He was laughing. Leaning down right beside your ear to whisper, “Don’t move. We don’t want my knife in your throat now do we?” You froze, going limp in his hold save for how you were shaking.

You could hear the grin in his voice and you could only shiver as you felt his arm hold you tighter, cold blade tracing against your neck. “Now, let’s go home. You’re tired, right? I’ll tuck you in. Lock the doors better this time.”

You weren’t going anywhere.

❥ SUKUNA RYOMEN

Sukuna didn’t give out warnings lightly. He already gave his in the form of every glare and threat he threw your way, you knew  he wasn’t a safe man. It was stupid of you to think he wasn’t the stalker behind your problems, now, everything was worse.

You were so close.

The terminal lights glowed like a distant promise ahead, the sliding glass doors of the airport practically calling your name. Crowds bustled around you — strangers moving fast, eyes on their luggage, not on the one person trying to escape something far more dangerous than a missed flight.

You left Sukuna’s lair when he was preoccupied, gone to retrieve his fingers. You gave no warning nor sign either. Keeping up the facade of an obedient pet up to the second he left for that mission. You’d planned this. You’d waited until they were out. You’d done everything right.

It didn’t matter. Not to someone like Sukuna.

The floor trembled beneath your feet like the earth itself was exhaling. Something wrong stirred at the edge of your senses, something ancient and furious and intimately familiar. The taxi you were in was flipped, just like every other vehicle in proximity. Your head swam, glass and metal getting thrown around.

You were distantly aware of the sounds of screams, destruction, explosions, as you tried to regain your consciousness. The car was roughly shoved to the side, something digging into your side painfully as you felt warm blood splash onto your face. Beside you, your driver was dead. Cleaved into pieces.

Then, you were ripped from your seat. Your eyes met Crimson. Four crimson eyes glowed like open wounds in the dark, fixed solely on you. You were held up by your collar. “Leaving without saying goodbye?” he asked, voice velvet over steel. “That’s not very polite.” He dropped you to the floor, his eyes never leaving you.

You scrambled backward, palms scraping the concrete, breath heaving.

“You said you’d be good,” like a pet, he growled, taking slow steps towards you, head tilting to the side like you were a curious insect he hadn’t yet decided whether to spare or dissect. “I see now that was a lie.”

His tone was calm — too calm — and that scared you more than screaming ever could. You knew he was angry, judging by the state of your surroundings.

“I gave you everything,” he whispered, taking a slow step forward. “Warmth. Food. Safety. You had the honor of being mine.”

Your breath hitched when he came closer, heart slamming against your ribs. “I’m not yours, I’m not a pet.” you breathed.

 “Let’s not pretend you were ever in control of this, pet.” He sneered, and before you knew it, he was crouched in front of you- His claws digging into the sides of your face as he held it in one hand. His eyes were that of a monster, a wolf ready to eat you whole.

You felt blood and tears roll down your face, all as he watched with a dark but unmoving expression. “I would laugh, if I wasn’t still enraged by your audacity to try and escape me.” 

He pulled your face closer to his, his other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to draw blood. The pain was nothing compared to the dread in your chest. The fact that solidified itself in your mind now that you could fully see how deranged the curse in front of you was.

The silence that followed would be remembered by the world—because you, after tonight, wouldn’t be remembered at all.

❥ SHOKO IERI

You burst out of the café like it had caught fire behind you, lungs tight, phone gripped in your sweaty palm. Your bag slapped against your side as you stumbled into the dark, nearly empty parking lot. The only sound was your breath- uneven, ragged- and the distant hum of a streetlight buzzing overhead like it was trying to warn you.

You didn’t see anyone in the café. No sign of her. But her text… the timestamp matched the moment you sat down. And that meant she had been watching. She could still be watching.

You hit the key fob three times in a panic. The car lights blinked. You yanked the door open, practically diving into the driver's seat. You jammed the key into the ignition—hands shaking so bad you almost missed it.

The car wouldn’t start. What was the goddamn problem?? Not the engine. That clicked fine. No resistance in the brake. No rumble. Just a soft click. So why—

Then you saw her reflection. In the rearview mirror. A pair of calm, brown eyes. “Hey,” Shoko said softly, her voice a lullaby wrapped in a smile. “Miss me?”

You whipped around, nearly kicking the door open in your scramble to escape. But a hand—gloved, steady—reached forward and caught your shoulder. You felt a sting to your neck, you screamed- but it wasn’t heard. By anyone that wasn’t you or shoko, atleast.

Shoko winced from behind you. “Sorry.” You pulled whatever was stuck in your neck, yanking it out and throwing it on the passenger seat. An empty syringe. 

The world quite literally tilted on you seconds after you realized. Shoko’s next words came muffled to your ears. “I hate using chemicals,” she murmured, sighing as she opened the car door.

You could barely register as you felt yourself growing laxer and laxer, practically limp when Shoko hauled you out of the drivers seat and into the backseat. Shoko brushed your hair back from your face. Her touch was tender. Reverent.

You tried to move your mouth, to beg, to scream. Nothing came out but a whimper. She leaned closer, her breath warm against your cheek. Her lips barely moved. You could barely keep your eyes open.

“Don’t worry. You aren’t going anywhere.”

❥ URAUME

The kitchen was warm, filled with the scent of garlic and something sweet. You stirred the pot lazily, the soft bubbling of the sauce helping you pretend that everything was fine. Pretend that the feeling of eyes on you ever since you had ran from Uraume didn’t exist, didn’t bother you.

The shadows in your house had gotten longer. Or maybe they were moving. You reached for the knife on the counter with trembling fingers. Don’t look. Just keep cooking. It’s in your head. It has to be. You had checked the place multiple times, everything was locked. It was safe.

It was cold. You shivered, leaving the kitchen to turn the thermostat up. You frowned as it was glitching, breaking right in front of your eyes. Then you heard a click of the stove from the kitchen.

You turned. And there they were. Uraume stood just inside your kitchen, pale as fresh snow, expression as calm as ever as they traced the edge of the pot. They left frost in their wake. You gasped, taking a few steps back as you could feel the temperature drop to freezing.

“Making dinner without me?” Uraume’s voice was level, almost amused. “How cold.”

Their eyes finally glanced up, finally locking with yours. You could barely make out that the soup you were making was frozen solid now. Uraume took a step towards you for every one you took backwards, until you hit the wall. You were frozen in place, their eyes keeping you in place.

You glance towards the knife rack, just a quick dash away.

“I wouldn’t,” they said, tilting their head. “You’re shaking. You’d just embarrass yourself.” The entire knife rack was frozen before you could even blink. A blur of white, cold fingers wrapped around your neck.

Warm breath escaped you in a silent scream, silenced by Uraume’s glare. You could feel the danger, the threat in front of you.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Uraume started, their voice level, just enough to hide the raging storm. “About how you’re always so careful. So distant. Like you’re afraid of me.”

“Stop,” you croaked, but your words felt weak in your throat. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Uraume said, voice almost thoughtful as if answering a basic question from a toddler “I just want to keep you. To have you all to myself.”

“Why?” You pleaded.

They didn’t answer that. A chill ran up your spine at the long silence. Uraume gripped your throat tighter, ice and bruises starting to bloom on your neck.

“It doesn’t matter.” They finally answered, just above a murmur. You were confused at the tinge of pink on their cheeks as they looked away for once. The hell?

That confusion ended just as quickly as it came, as dark spots started to appear in your vision. Uraume, as if sensing the sudden change, looked right back at you. There was a ghost of a smile on their lips, empty.

“You’re better off with me. It’s okay,” They almost cooed, “I'll keep you forever.”

A.N. I do not condone any of this behavior!! This terrified ME while I was writing I'll be fr- if this is cringe then i apologize

Taglist: @catladythoughts @tojifushiguroszaddyzar

[aceecee]

Miseria - Zayne

Synopsis: Six different timelines. In each one you find yourself taking over the life of an extra in the game you had been so smitten with. In each life you’re different, whether it’s a different job, or where you live and even your personality. But only one thing remains constant, you’re determined to avoid them. You’re not in the body of the MC so it’s not like they’ll even notice. Right?

You really shouldn’t have underestimated them.

Alternatively: Local handsome doctor man will keep you locked up!

MC | Caleb | Sylus | Xavier | Rafayel

TW/Tags: MDNI, yandere Zayne, obsession, possessive behaviour, adultery/infidelity (not by reader or Zayne), divorce (reader’s backstory), misogyny, reader used to be a housewife (which I don’t shit on just how they’re taken advantage of), heartbreak, rejection, unrequited love (x2 for Zayne), manipulation, stockholm syndrome (?), dub-con, power dynamics (he’s your superior), workplace relationships, friendship breakups, implied non-consensual pregnancy, birthcontrol tampering, implied forced marriage, stalking (not just by Zayne), break ins, attempted rape (but nothing happens and not by Zayne), trauma bond (idk if it’s the right word), sexual content ( m!masturbation, p in v, semi-public sex, office sex, creampie), probably incorrect medical info and incorrect understanding on how hospitals work since author just searched shit up, fake dating, police bashing, violence, dead dove do not eat

WC: 12.2K

Masterlist

Disclaimer: This is a yandere work. The character's personalities have become dramatised as a result. This is not what I think of them at all even as yanderes, it's just for pure indulgence. MC in the boys chapters is not the same one in her's, she's just generic but she will always be a friend. This is not a safe space for MC haters. If you don't like any of this then don't read.

Zayne is very out of character in this. I cannot emphasise this enough.

Three weeks.

It has been three weeks since you went to bed and woke up the next day inside a fucking game. 

Not just any game, the one that had been your comfort when things would get too much. Maybe it was childish or pathetic to rely on fictional men, but then they shouldn’t have been written so beautifully. Their muscles also helped. 

The surgeon had quickly wormed his way into your heart and your wallet. You had collected every single memory of his, all his outfits and were well on your way to reaching the highest infinity with him. But one regret stood in your way. When his second myth had been released, your finances weren’t the best so with great control, you didn’t pull. Instead you waited over a year for a re-run. You watched with joy as you got the first memory within twenty pulls. The guarantee resets. Sixty more left.

You worked hard to save up for sixty pulls. It was Sunday, the last day before the banner would end. There are two hours left. You have a fifty-fifty chance. With a gulp, you pull until ten pulls are left. This is it. Sweat runs down your face, you tap your phone. The screen goes gold. It’s too soon to cheer. You quickly tap through all the three stars until your screen blanks. With bated breath, you await for the animation. 

It’s green.

You scream as Caleb pops up. 

Now you have to wait another year.

With no other choice, you go to sleep and no you’re not crying when you do (you totally are). 

Only to wake up in someone else’s bed. You stumble around in a panic, have all those mafia romance books come back to bite you in the ass? They were just a guilty pleasure! You do not want a tall man covered in tattoos named ‘Sergio’ calling you kitten or doll, you cringe just thinking about it. 

But then you come across a photo on a desk. It’s of you and an old woman you’ve never met. Oddly enough she looks a lot like you…

That’s when they hit. Not in a gentle way like a mother’s touch caressing as you fall asleep but like you’ve been fucked in the ass by a chainsaw. 

Too many memories for you to count. All of you in another life, in this life. The you in these memories laughs the way you do, she moves just like you, it’s clear you’re one and the same. The only difference you can see are the lives you’ve led and the way they’ve shaped you. She’s more…of a pushover and as you live through her memories, she’s been taken advantage of way too many times because of it.

Your original life wasn’t hard, you just had to be independent from a young age and advocating for yourself comes with that because no one else will. You’re too out of it now but later you notice the decay in her apartment, the lack of anything nice and the brutal ache in her chest that has you clawing at the skin desperate to rip your heart out so the suffering can end. All of it is a result of her inability to wish and seek better for herself.

Maybe if she had been a bit like you in that regard, then this wouldn’t be her ending. Thrown away by the one who claimed to love her and abandoned by everyone else. 

Your first day is spent in a state of disarray. 

The constant barrage of memories leave your head feeling like it’s about to explode. It’s exhausting for your body and mind, you’re oddly dehydrated after. All you can do is lay back down on the bed and sleep.

The second day is spent in a state of anger.

You’ve had time to process her life and you’ve come to one conclusion. Every single person in her (your?) life deserves the pear of anguish. That photo of you with the woman? Smashed into pieces. Not even your own mother was on your side. The ring still on her finger? Gently placed to the side because it’ll fetch a lot of money. You might be angry but you’re not a fool. 

The rest of the weeks are spent trying to fix her mistakes.

Your other self was for a lack of better word, brilliant. You feel sick at what she’s been reduced to. 

It’s a story you’ve seen countless times: a genius woman meets a man who’s insecure about her brilliance so he manipulates her until she no longer believes in herself and settles for a lifetime as a housewife. And look where that got her. 

Discarded. Like. Fucking. Trash.

Her fucking pathetic excuse for a husband gaslit her into accepting the most diabolic pre-nup you’ve ever seen. She was left with nothing in the end, not even the clothes, jewellery or gifts he had bought for her. It’s surprising he still let her keep the ring.

It wasn’t even like her marriage had anything good about it, a cheating scumbag for a husband whose mother hated her. Mrs Choi never failed to remind your other self that you weren’t good enough, born from a poor family and no greater education (like her own son didn’t put a stop to it). 

After you throw a pity party for yourself, you spend the week applying to as many jobs as you can. One gets back, a little cashier job in a small grocery mart. The pay isn’t much but it’ll cover your bills and you get a discount. It’ll do for now. It’s hard starting all over again but you’ll work hard to save and go back to school. You’ll do it for your other self, give her the ending she deserved.

But if you do ever come face to face with her, you’ll also give her a slap.

It’ll be a wake up call and also because it’ll be therapeutic for you, you can’t even enjoy the fact that you’re in your favourite game. You’ve been thrust into the deep end when you’ve only just put on the swimwear.

There are no words to describe the realisation that you’re not in the body of the MC but a random background character, one who doesn’t even live in Linkon. It’s like whoever brought you here is telling you not to get your hopes up.

So, you don’t. You accept this is your life now. Maybe you’ll visit Linkon in the future and watch them from the sidelines or maybe you won’t. 

That’s how three weeks go by.

In the fourth week, you’re interrupted by your plans to sleep and sleep by your doorbell ringing. A familiar grouchy face filled with wrinkles stares back at you.

“Well?” she demands. “Are you going to invite me in or stand there gawking?”

When you don’t respond, Mrs Choi makes her own way in. She stops and examines your place, her vintage and designer clothing contrasting heavily with the cheap furniture. 

“Tch.”

Tch?

TCH???

This fucking b-

“It’s your son’s fault I’m living like this. Go judge him,” you snap. Her eyes widen a little before a smirk settles onto her face. “Finally grew claws?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and makes herself at home on your couch.

“And that’s exactly what I was doing. I was judging him,” she rests her hands on the handle of her cane. “Do sit down, we have a lot to discuss.”

Interested in the direction this conversation was going, you do as she says. Though, a part of you is pissed she’s commanding you in your own home, however disgusting it may be. 

“What could we possibly have to discuss?”

“For starters, I’ve never approved of you marrying my son.”

You let out a cold laugh, she doesn’t even blink. “No shit.”

“Because you deserved better.”

Your jaw hangs open.

“I saw it from the start, when he began courting you. You were brilliant and meant for more and he knew. He couldn’t stand it because he’s just like his father,” she looks to the side, shaking her head. “That boy…I tried so hard to teach him better but I failed. I begged him to end the relationship, begged him to leave you alone but he didn’t listen. Then when you got married all I could do was treat you horribly in the childish hopes you would leave on your own,” she looks straight into your eyes, a forlorn expression on her face. “But he had dug too deep into you and you were willing to deal with it. For him. You reminded me so much of myself, I suppose that’s why I was trying so hard to help. Well…in my own way.” 

Sitting there on your stained couch, Mrs Choi who had once felt so big when in front of you, was suddenly so small. “It was already too late for me when I began to recognise the cage I built for myself but I’m glad it’s not for you,” that’s when she gives you a smile. The only genuine one you’ve ever seen. How did you not see it before? The anguish in her eyes, the metaphoric stone wall she covered herself in for protection. 

This could’ve been your future. 

But thank fuck it’s not.

She must’ve seen the relief in your eyes because a small smile makes its way on her face. “But that’s also not the reason I’m here,” she reaches into her purse, pulling out a white envelope. “Here. It’s not even close to the amount you deserve for all the years you put up with my son, for all of your labour he exploited but it should be enough for a new life.”

You open the seal, delicately since you’re not sure what’s in it. Your eyes widen at the amount listed on the account. “The account is in your name and only you have access to it.”

“B-but why…?” You stare at her.

“If I can help just one woman from a fate like mine then I’ll be content.”

“...”

“But there’s one condition.”

You bring the paper in front of you down, replacing it with her face which is looking at you.

“Go back to medical school, [Name]. One far from here. There’s a prestigious one in Linkon city where I have a friend on the board. He’s willing to offer a scholarship, especially after I showed him your unfinished thesis.”

“How did you even find that?”

“I have my ways. Of course, you’ll have to finish that thesis during your time. I suggest packing up and leaving as soon as you can.”

And you do.

The first thing was calling the number she had left, a Mr Xenly answered. He had been eager to talk, asking questions about your thesis and expressed disappointment about it not being finished. You talk over video, he’s bright and cheerful which makes your nerves calm down. Your placement for next year is confirmed and for the rest of the week, the elation you feel never comes down. 

Packing up everything you owned was easy. Too easy. It hurt a little to see firsthand how little you own, how little you were left with. It infuriates you how easy it's become to brush off the hurt, the pain, the sting from betrayal. But this is a fresh start, it’s time to leave it all behind.

Mr Xenly is kind enough to find a small and cheap apartment off campus for you, the pictures you received don’t do it justice. It’s small, practically a studio but compared to what you had before, it’s paradise. You have too much money on your hands now, so you reward yourself by sprucing up the place. Comfy blanket throws, cute cushion covers, aesthetic decorations are all over the apartment by the end of the week.

It’s yours and it’s perfect. 

Medical school is hard. Which everyone knows but you were still not prepared for how difficult it can be. You have your other self’s intelligence to back you up but you still struggle. Part of you is happy to be challenged so much. 

Currently you’re sitting in the lecture hall, listening to your professor drone on. It’s taking everything to not let the boredom win, keeping your eyes open as long as you can. A nudge to your shoulder wakes you up again. You turn to the assailant, it’s Leo. He smirks at your annoyed expression and mouths “focus” at you. With a glare you do as he says.

You met this menace on your first day here, you stuck out amongst the students since you were older and that’s how you got his attention. Unfortunately, he’s never left you alone since then and you have no idea how you’ve made it three years dealing with him.

The lecture thankfully ends ten minutes later but not before the professor reminds you of the special guest lecturer coming in next week. You roll your eyes at the reminder, they’ve been talking about it for weeks, it would be hard not to come across it.

Next week arrives faster than you would’ve thought. It’s on a random Tuesday when your world once again tilts on its axis. You had no idea back then, the chain of events that would happen after.

Leo as usual is waiting for you, quick to throw his arm around your shoulders and usher you in. There’s an exciting buzz in the air, the students are looking forward to something. Or someone. 

That’s when you see him, standing tall in pants and a warm shirt. His hair rivals even the darkest obsidian and his eyes…

They are so striking that even you halt a little in the doorway and Leo, completely unaware, ends up pushing you to a seat.

The other students swoon over him and you can’t blame them. While the class settles down and he sets up to prepare, you take the time to watch him again.

You wait for the butterflies but you feel…nothing. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted in a man but your heart doesn’t race, you don’t sweat and you don’t even feel nervous when his gaze meets yours in the crowd.

Did his eyes linger or are you just being delusional? 

He starts the lecture, not looking at you again.

Yup, delusional. 

You don’t have time to be disappointed in your lack of feelings as you get swept up in his lecture. He’s a genius, the way he weaves his words and presents them have you hanging off the edge of your seat. His findings are revolutionary. This is the man you want to work under, the one you want as a mentor. He’s the only one capable of sending you to great heights.

If only you realised the opposite of that can also be true. 

It’s the most you’ve ever seen your class participate, they’re silent as they listen to every word and so many hands are up in the air, each with their own questions. Just like that, three hours pass.

After the lecture is over, you find yourself in a café on campus. Leo is gone to his job so you have plenty of time before you meet again. There's a restaurant that just opened. He wants to take you and you’re always open to trying new food. The cappuccino is a small comfort in your hands, a little defence against the harsh cold. 

“Hello.” 

The coffee goes all over the table and your clothes as you shriek from the sudden presence and familiar voice. Your hands work fast to use napkins to clean the mess up. Another pair of hands join you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you hadn’t noticed me,” his melodic voice rings out. “It’s fine, Dr Li. I should’ve been more alert.”

He joins you at the table, all of the coffee has been cleaned up and your clothes can’t be helped. “Please, call me Zayne. I’m not working right now.”

“Okay, Zayne,” you nod. 

“Mr Xenly shared your thesis with me. It’s not often he’s so impressed. I was curious to meet the person who had such astonishing results,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says. The praise out of his mouth on your first meeting leaves you flustered. You might not feel anything for the man but he’s still the man you had once been so smitten with, he still carries with him all his little quirks that you were so taken with. “Your theories on solutions to combat antibiotic resistance leave much to be desired. Like many have already told you, I look forward to when you finish it.” 

“Thank you Dr-I mean Zayne. It means a lot coming from you.”

He offers you a gentle smile and takes his leave but not before adding one last thing. “Akso Hospital would be lucky to have you, if you’re considering it for your residency.”

To be honest, you weren’t considering it. You didn’t want to experience his love story with her, you had no desire to see it play out right in front of you but things have changed now. You feel nothing for him, it doesn’t even sting to think of them together so why should you give up the option of working alongside one of the best surgeons designed for this world? 

You nod. “I’ll consider it.”

And you don’t see him again after that. Not as you graduate, not as you finish your thesis and not even on your first day at Akso. 

Leo follows you to Akso, his interest has always been in paediatrics but you still haven’t made up your mind which makes you glad that you’re expected to rotate around the departments and assist in every single area. 

Your first two years will be spent in this rotation, the first as an intern and the second as a resident. When they are over you’ll be able to choose your specialised area. Akso is known for its cardiology and general surgery department, maybe you’ll wind up in one of those.

You meet him again in the second week. His eyes don’t widen as he sees you, there’s no quirk in his eyebrows, he’s just normal as he greets you. Which you’re thankful for and a little embarrassed you had expected a reaction in the first place.  

What he does is rightfully yell at you on the first patient you assist him with. A little girl in for a heart transplant, who you were left to watch over after the surgery was done along with four other patients. Between the constant back and forth, you failed to notice a drop in her vitals which led to her being rushed to the emergency room and she survived by the skin of her teeth. You took his words in stride, you had failed and you deserved to hear each one.

Later, Leo finds you tucked into some corner of the hospital. You’re too busy crying to notice him until he throws an arm and pulls you into his side. “You’ve become famous already,” he jokes, which only makes you cry harder. Seeing his joke didn’t land the way he wanted, the boy panics, “I was just kidding, no one else knows [Name]! I only found out from the friendly nurse who thought I could comfort you.” You can’t help laughing at his panicked face, he looks just like a squirrel. He lightly hits you on the shoulder. “Were Dr Li’s words that harsh? I think this is the first time I’ve seen you cry.”

You shake your head. “He was right to yell at me. I’m crying because she’s still alive, because I didn’t kill her,” you bring your head down to your knees. “I know it’s going to happen sooner or later but I’d really like it to be later.” 

Leo says nothing else, just letting you cry into his arms.

Neither of you notice the pair of feet around the corner nor as their footsteps walk away.

“Here,” Leo hands you something. It’s banana milk.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m lactose intolerant.”

You cackle at his dumbfounded expression. 

“Wh-a how have I never known this? We’ve been friends for years, [Name]! This is the sort of thing you tell your friends! And I’ve seen you eat dairy before.”

“Yeah cause I had time to constantly go to the toilet before but I can’t do it now, can I?”

With a sulk, he finishes the milk.

The next day, Zayne pulls you aside. “I hope you’re not upset about yesterday,” he calmly asks. It’s not an apology and you don’t deserve one. “I’m alright, Doctor. Please don’t go easy on me.”

His lips quirk. “I’d never.”

Two years don’t go by as quickly as you would’ve liked. You spend each day and many nights at the hospital, doing the grunt work and getting yelled at. A lot. You’ve also lost patients in that time. The first one had been the hardest but you had Leo for comfort. The two of you had become each other’s rock, exchanging stories and information about how to get on the good side of your seniors. You’re just glad he was by your side. 

At the end of the two years, you decide to go into cardiology and he sticks by paediatrics. Which meant he wouldn’t be staying at Akso, finding a better program elsewhere. 

You’ve always hated airports and they’re no better inside the game. The long wait lines, the amount of people, the sounds of crying children, it’s all so overstimulating. But you pull through and deal with it, for Leo.

“Aww, don’t cry [Name],” the brown-haired man teases you. He wraps his arm around you, securing you both in a tight hug. “I knew you’d miss me.”

“I’m not crying,” you say as you cry. The boy before you gives a small smile, he looks all over your face and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so nervous. His hand comes up gently to brush away some tears. 

“I’ve liked you this entire time, you know?” he whispers. You nod. You did know.

“I don’t expect an answer but I’ll wait for you, [Name],” he leaves but not before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. 

The first few months without him were hard, you knew how much you relied on him but you didn’t think it would be this bad. The two of you still talk but it’s at completely odd hours and only lasts for a couple of minutes each time. It’s not enough but you have no choice but to make it enough. You don’t have the right to ask him to come back, to be by your side when you’re not sure you can reciprocate his feelings. Even if by some miracle you do, there will always be that tiny voice in the back of your head telling you to check his phone or that he’s out with another woman and you’ll never be able to fully trust him, not when that voice had once been right. 

Greyson waits for you as you clock in for your shift. He too has the deep under bags you sport. He hands you a cup of coffee. “Morning. It has oat milk, don't worry.” You take a sip, savouring the warmth of the liquid. “My saviour,” you grin at him. He shyly smiles back. “Us assistants should stick together, right?” You nod.

Greyson had already been at the hospital a year before you started but you had also been chosen to work as Zayne’s assistant. The man was easy to get along with but anytime you tried to work out the mystery of his age, he would find a way to brush you off but you’re not giving up anytime soon.

As you walk by the receptionist's desk, Yvonne waves you over. The kind nurse had quickly become a friend, especially when you discovered she was the one who sent Leo after you years ago. You stop when you recognise the figure by the desk. Tall with a slender figure, long brown hair with a fringe, fair skin and warm brown eyes, donned in that familiar hunter outfit.

It’s her. 

She looks over you with a cheerful yet nervous smile and you give her a warm one back. You didn’t realise that the main story was already underway, you wonder when the two even met. “She’s just here for a check-up,” Yvonne passes you a tablet, her digital chart. You skim through it. “Dr Li is busy with an appointment, he gave permission for you to handle it.” “Okay, thanks Yvonne.” 

“Nice to meet you, I’m Dr [L. Name],” you reach a hand out and she eagerly returns your handshake. She introduces herself, her voice exactly like you had customised it. You gesture for her to follow you to a spare examination room. “Just take a seat on the bed,” you say and put on gloves. 

“How have you been feeling lately? Any dizziness or nausea?” 

She shakes her head. 

“I see on your chart and by your clothes that you’re a hunter, has your disease ever gotten in the way?” you ask.

“No.”

She’s lucky. Protocore syndrome is no joke. All you knew from the game was that there was no cure and reading any articles or medical journals on it had produced no further knowledge. It’s a mystery to the people in game as it was to everyone else but if the main character can work as a hunter, backflipping as she fights, then for now she should be okay. 

You really hope she gets her happy ending, with one of them or with all of them, hell even by herself because she’s sitting before you now and she looks so young. You think of her several lifetimes, dying or seeing the one she loves die and you feel so much for her. 

For a game meant to be a dating sim, they could at least let their main character have a break.

The rest of the check-up goes well, there are no weird results but it doesn’t quell the worry in your heart. You wonder if this is how Zayne feels every time he sees her, does he feel relieved when she’s standing before him?

You can’t help the bitterness in you, she’ll never have to worry about their loyalty, their good, their love, not like you had. They’re designed for her, each of them an anomaly among other men even in their own world. You’ll never have that security. It’s why you don’t think you’ll ever love again. Why you feel like you’re not capable of it anymore. 

After the check-up is over, a ping goes off from her phone, when she checks it you notice the familiar charm of a logo dangling from it. “Ah, is that Scattered Adolescents?” you ask innocently. You nearly jumped out of the chair at the speed in which she clasped her hands around yours. Her eyes are wide with joy as they bore right into yours. “I’ve never met anyone else that liked them.”

You laugh. “Are you kidding me? I adore them.”

The two of you blink at the other. “Did we…” she trails off. 

“...just become friends? Yeah, I think we did,” you finish with a giggle.

When Zayne finally makes his way to the receptionist’s desk from his meeting, he’s greeted by the sight of you and her giggling. You wave her off as she walks away, a bright smile on your face that he hasn’t seen for months. Not since he left.

“I wasn’t expecting them to become friends so quickly, they seem so different at first glance,” Yvonne comments. He looks at her to show he’s listening but doesn’t respond. “But I’m glad [Name] seems happy, she’s been so down lately. We used to have a bet to see how long until her and Leo would get together but I guess that’s just not happening.” “I see,” he finally says, neither of them notice how his grip on the documents tighten just a little. 

Noticing him, you walk up to the two with a smile. It’s not the same carefree one from before, this one is a polite one, like one a person has for a work colleague. A colleague who means nothing more.

“Good morning, Dr Li,” you greet him. He nods at you. Yvonne catches your attention. “Say [Name], are you ever gonna date? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you look at a person in interest.” Zayne doesn’t let it show but he’s just as curious for your answer. You let out an awkward chuckle but figure it’s best to squash questions like these now before they get worse. 

“Love just isn’t as spectacular as people make it out to be.”

It’s a couple of weeks later when you see her again. This time she’s lying on a gurney being wheeled in, knocked out during a wanderer attack. Aside from suffering from a brutal concussion, some bruised ribs and claw mark imprints, the biggest issue is the large rod impaling her abdomen.

Greyson is the one selected to watch over during the surgery, as much as Zayne tries to hide it, you notice how he’d rather be the one present for it all but there are more at risk patients that need him. 

It’s hours later that you receive the news that she’s okay, Zayne doesn’t even flinch and just nods but you see the slight tremble in his hands, just before he hides them in his pockets. “Shall we go check-up on her?” you ask him. “I-I know it might not be appropriate but I think seeing her might ease my mind.”

“We can.”

And even though you had pretended to be concerned to give him an out, the sight of her on the bed fills you with a sense of relief you didn’t think would happen. It’s her charm, managing to sneak her way into the very short list of people you cared for, when you had only met twice. 

Zayne tries his best to keep it in but his eyes flutter as he tries to keep the tears at bay, you look around noting all the nurses and other staff at work. It would raise questions for him to be so involved with a patient, especially one meant for long-term, so you gently grip his white coat and lead him out the room. “Follow me.” You don’t know why he follows without a fuss but you lead through some corners and bends until you reach a storage room. 

“No one really uses this, it’s a forgotten room. Knock on the door when you’d like to leave,” you inform him, closing the door and standing guard outside. It’s not that you particularly care but seeing him try so hard not to cry would tug on anyone’s heartstrings. A few minutes pass and you’re utterly grateful your pager doesn’t go off or that no one comes over to ask what you’re doing. You hear it then, a soft knock on the door.

He opens it himself, from the inside. Standing before you is the Zayne everyone sees at work, there’s no evidence of the dishevelled man you saw not even ten minutes ago. Neither of you say a word, you simply turn around and start walking, another pair of footsteps join you.

“Thank you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you give him a sly grin. 

A scenario like that doesn’t occur in the months that pass after, she comes and goes, now having healed and back on her feet. You make sure to chastise her but you still present her with the plushie of her favourite member of the boyband as a thanks for putting her life on the risk. You will never admit how soft you felt at the bone crushing hug she gave you after. No, you’d sooner die.

It’s just…you can’t remember the last time you had been shown affection in such a way.

Lately, you can’t go two minutes without staff murmuring about the annual gala the hospital holds, the one night a year you can dress in extravagant clothing and mingle with rich people. The night is important for gathering donations for the hospital, so only a few people receive invites. As a mere intern, you along with others were not chosen but this year is different. 

Despite your normal aversion to events like these, it feels like you’ve been spending every waking moment in this hospital, so a change of pace is welcome. Even if it’s just in another part of said hospital.

The red dress you buy comes with a price that no resident could pay but the hefty amount sitting prettily in your account helps. It’s a nice flowy dress with only the bodice being tight fitting, there’s a slit but what really got your attention was the choker in similar colour that it came with. It has a red flower with two ribbons that decorate your neck nicely. You can’t remember the last time you had ever dressed up like this. Your doctor’s coat nearly became a second skin. 

The event is boring, the music is tasteless and the food even more so. You’re practically counting the seconds go by. None of the people present are remotely interesting so you can’t be blamed for slipping out.

The night sky is beautiful. It’s always been one of your favourite things. The swirls of purple in the black sky with hints of blue, the twinkling stars each different and all extraordinary and the moon. You could look at the moon for hours without looking away. You don’t know why but it’s always been your thing, just looking at it for small yet priceless moments of peace. 

But peace never sticks with you for long.

“[Name]?” 

Even after so many years, your body and mind remember the voice. They remember the promises of love it had spoken once, they remember the hurt it had hurled towards you. How little and alone it had made you feel. How it had lied so easily. You can’t help the tremble in your body as you slowly turn in its direction. You’re so ashamed of yourself for letting it affect you like this. After all your hard work all it took was one word to collapse everything you’ve built.

“It is you,” he breaths, looking mystified. He doesn’t get to look at you that way. His eyes move around your body taking you in with a look that disgusts you. He doesn’t get to look at you that way.

“What do you want?” It takes everything you have to keep a solid tone, empathetic of any emotion. Your face follows the same way, he doesn’t deserve anything from you. Especially your emotions. 

“I just wanted to say hi.” He’s acting like you’re the one insane for being so vicious, like you have no reason to be. Your hand curls at your side. He’d sure look pretty with a large bruise on that face. That’s when your eyes drift to the woman by his side, she’s got her hand tightly clutched in his like you’re going to try and steal him. Her hand goes down to rub her stomach, by the size of it she should be about three months pregnant. She doesn’t meet your eyes, at least she has the decency to look ashamed.

He takes a step towards you. “You look…” he trails off.

“Better than I ever did by your side? Yeah, I do. It’s amazing what not having a cheating scumbag husband in your life can do for your complexion,” you bite. “You’ve said hi, now leave.”

“It’s been years and you still haven’t gotten over it?”

Red, hot white anger flashes through you but before you can open your mouth to fire back, you’re taken off guard by the feel of a warm coat over your shoulders. “There you are, honey. I’ve been looking all over for you,” a warm voice speaks through the silence. 

Unlike the voice before, Zayne’s voice calms you down. It’s like a soothing and warm blanket in a room filled with bitter cold. Your hand reaches up the coat, tugging it over you properly. His hand sneaks its way around your waist, pulling you closer. His other hand makes its way to yours, covering it with a gentle squeeze, you didn’t realise it was still shaking. 

“Should we head home?” he asks you. His eyes don’t leave yours, they don’t even glance the other way. “Please,” you whisper. He immediately turns you around so you don’t see them and you both start walking away. You don’t hear what Ha-yoon responds with and for that you’re glad.

Zayne leads you to his car. “I’ll drive you home.” The car ride is silent, you’re so plagued by your thoughts you don’t realise to ask how he knew where you live. 

Ever the gentleman, he walks you to the entrance of your apartment building. “Will you be okay?” he gently asks. For a few seconds you just look at him. “Are you hungry, Dr Li?”

Your question is unexpected. You let out a small laugh at his face. It’s nice to laugh after all that. “Because I am. The food at the gala was horrible but I know a place not far from here that’s still open.” 

He understands your unspoken question. “Let’s go then.”

The two of you receive many looks as you’re seated. You don’t blame them, you both stand out in your current attire. 

The small restaurant has become a comfort place for you, it specializes in the local cuisine of your country, a reminder of what once had been home. 

“I always find myself here when things get hard. When I had to take my first medical exams, after my first day at the hospital,” you explain as you both put away the plastic menus after ordering. “And now after your ex-husband appeared,” he finishes for you. You nod. “Yup.” 

“You helped me out that day so I thought to return the favour,” he continued. “You don’t have to tell me anymore but I’m here if you do.”

You bring your hands to your lap, clutching them tightly against each other. “I…I think I need to just tell someone.”

He leans back in the chair, making himself comfortable. He gives you that slight smile, warmth flooding his eyes. 

“We met when we were fifteen. He was everything I never was. Rich, popular and he had a sinful way with words. He could charm anyone and he did it to me. I was too young and foolish to realise his true intentions and face. That underneath it all he was just an insecure boy that couldn’t stand anyone better than him. He worked hard to chip away all the good things I had. We got married straight after we graduated. I completed my bachelor and confided my dream to go to medical school,” you start. Zayne doesn’t say a word, only watching. 

“That’s when he started chaining me down. It was small things at first, ‘How can you be a doctor if you can’t even do this?’. But it was enough to stick with me and suddenly I’m a housewife who once had a dream.” 

Your food arrives, you thank the waitress but neither of you make a move to eat. He’s still watching and you’re not finished. 

“She was his childhood friend, who moved away when they were young. She comes back and suddenly he’s spending any free time with her. She became his first priority and I was a third wheel in my own marriage. He made me feel like I was crazy for even thinking something was wrong. Then I walk in on the two of them,” you can’t help the shakiness of your voice, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. 

“I didn’t even realise that the pre-nup had a clause about cheating but only for me. He claimed that I was the one who had an affair with his bodyguard. My own mother stood under oath and lied that it was true, later I found that she was paid a lot of money.” 

“He’s a dick.”

You let out the ugliest cackle at the way Zayne said those words. He says them through a straight face, voice monotone but his expression breaks at your laughter, chuckling along with you. 

Things change after that. The biggest one you notice is how much he watches you, even when you catch him he’s not in a particular hurry to look away.

“Hey,” Yvonne pulls you aside one day. “There’s a Ha-yoon Choi here for a check-up. Says he’ll only do it if you’re the doctor.” She notices the slight way your eyes widen. “But I can tell him you’re busy and have no time, don’t worry. Should I involve security?” 

“No. I’ll do it,” Zayne snatches the tablet from her hand before you can tell no. You didn’t even notice him walk up to you two.

You don’t even have the time to ask what happened as your responsibilities call you away. A hand roughly tightens its grip around your wrist just seconds before you get in your car. “Are you really dating that guy?”

You flick him off. “Yeah I am, what’s it to you?” He scoffs. “Seriously [Name]? He’s your superior, what were you thinking?”

“Are you kidding me,” you try to shove him. “Are you seriously trying to lecture me on appropriate relationships?” 

Your voice picks up, gathering the attention of those littering in the car park. Your colleagues stop and watch the altercation. You can’t let him destroy your reputation so you try to get into your car and drive off but Ha-yoon’s never had you disobey him before. 

“Have you not even considered the consequences of dating Dr Li,” he yells. You glance around, everyone else has heard him. 

“Not here, Ha-yoon. Leave me alone,” you growl out before getting in the car and leaving.

But the damage is done.

Whispers and side eyes follow you everywhere you go. You’ve gone from a reputable doctor to a whore who seduced her superior for better surgeries and for special treatment. There’s no point in even denying the rumours, it doesn’t even matter that none of it is true. None of them blame Zayne, it’s all on you.

It’s been another two months since your altercation with your ex, and the whispers have yet to die down. You can’t even look at Zayne’s direction without hearing something about it. 

You’re lying down in your bed, a little sanctuary you’ve made recently, with your phone in your hands. You stare at Leo’s contact, debating whether to bother him with your problems. He’s been silent for months, at first you chalked it up to a doctor’s hectic schedule but his socials show him enjoying time with new friends. You don’t want to call him since there’s a chance he’s working so you settle for a message.

[Name]:

Hey, can we talk?

Leo:

Not now. I’m with my girlfriend.

[Name]:

Girlfriend? When did that happen?

Leo:

When you started dating Dr Li.

[Name]: 

I see. Have fun.

The phone drops down next to you. For all his hefty claims of love and how he would wait, he couldn’t even think to hear it from your mouth first. From all the years he had known you, did it seriously never occur for him to realise how out of character it is for you to date your superior? 

Or maybe he never really saw you, only the parts he wanted to notice. This is why you’re never falling in love, they’re all the same.

You cry yourself to sleep that night.

Ha-yoon hasn’t left you alone since the altercation, you have no idea how he managed to get your number but blocking him does nothing, he just messages from a new phone. You’re not even safe in your own home. Every night when you come home, there’s a package waiting for you. The items range from designer clothing to expensive jewellery, all of which you sell. 

The police practically escort you off their premises when you try to lodge a complaint, they see you as someone delusional because why would a man belonging to a prominent family stalk you? 

Even in the game they’re incompetent. 

In an odd turn of events, the only one you can turn to for comfort has been Zayne himself. Like you said, things have been different between you two. You’re softer around him, he’s become something akin to a friend. He had apologised for the vitriol you’ve been receiving, blaming himself since but you had told him not to. It was neither of your faults.

You confided in him about Ha-yoon’s new stalkerish methods and the failure of the police, in turn he helped you install cameras in your home and told you to always record any conversations with him. “It would be extremely helpful for your case if you managed to get him to admit to it,” he had told you. 

“Stalkers tend to escalate, especially when they’re not being received well. He already knows where you live, it won’t be long until he makes his way inside. I suggest leaving your home pin with someone you trust,” his ears had gone red when you informed him that person was him. You feel a little better knowing he’s looking out for you. 

“Check your windows are locked,” Zayne’s soft voice commands through the phone.

You do as he says. It’s become a routine between you two, you call him before you go to sleep and he answers. Then, he goes through a checklist you came up with before you say goodnight. It’s the only way you can sleep these days. The only way you feel safe. And you have Zayne to thank for that.

“That’s everything, good-” your words are cut off by a sudden pounding on your front door.

“What’s that?” Zayne asks, concern laced in his voice.

“Someone’s at my door,��� you respond. 

“[Name], I know you’re in there!”

“Find a hiding spot, I’m calling the police,” you don’t register Zayne’s voice. You remain frozen. As a doctor one of the most important things is to never freeze yet here you are. Your breath picks up as fear runs rampant inside you, your skin covered in goosebumps whether from the cold or the uncertainty of your future, you have no idea. 

Your mind screams dozens of sentences at you but all you can do is gasp for the air you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe. God, I’m so pathetic. 

“[Name], listen to me. You need to hide, find a weapon and a safe spot,” Zayne’s voice finally makes it way through the buzzing accumulating in your ears. “I’m on my way, stay calm.” 

All previous sentiments of finding your little apartment small and cozy are gone as you curse yourself for the lack of good hiding spots. All you have is under the bed or the closet. It feels like you’re going to puke your heart up as you find the biggest knife you have and hide in the closet.

Under the bed is the first place he would look, giving you time to sneak up behind him and catch him off guard. 

“I’m coming in,” those three dreaded words are followed by the beeping as he inputs your code. There’s no time to wonder how he even knew it in the first place, your body quickly manoeuvring itself in your wardrobe, hiding yourself under the clothes. 

“I’m going to stay quiet now,” in your frenzy you’d forgotten you were still on the phone. “Hurry,” you whimper. He doesn’t respond but something tells you he heard.

The air feels thick as you hear the creak of your front door open. For a second you wonder if he can hear the thundering of your heart in the chilling silence. Your ears pick up every footstep, the creak of the floorboards with it, tears run down your face and you force your hand tight against your mouth to block off any whimpers. You don’t even breathe. 

It’s when the footsteps go silent that you worry but you don’t get to linger on that worry for long as the closet door is yanked open. A hand wraps itself around your wrist with such a strong grip it feels like your shoulder might dislocate. Another hand grabs the knife and tosses it across the room before you can even react. Your body is thrown on the floor so roughly that your head bangs hard against the floor. 

You’re not sure how long you’re out but judging by the current situation, it wasn’t more than a few seconds. But the view around you is blurry and tilting as you can’t concentrate, you can barely hear the words out of his mouth. Ha-yoon hovers above you with a crazed expression, he brings his face closer to you, an action that only has you sob. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he coos, caressing your face. You try to move your head away but the throbbing in the back of your head has you disorientated. “This is why you should’ve just listened to me, [Name],” he chastises. “We could’ve avoided all this,” he brings his hands down to your pyjama shirt, lingering around the buttons. 

“I have to remind you who you belong to,” he pops one. “Doesn’t matter if we’re still together or not, you don’t get to move on,” another one opens. You don’t even realise your sobs getting louder until he presses his hand against your mouth. “Shut up and just take it,” he slams your head down again.

Maybe that’s what snaps you out of it, maybe it’s the anger his audacity brings or maybe your brain registers that you’re not going to be conscious for long but with newfound strength you bring your legs up and kick right at his chest with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Even in that state, you aim right for where his heart is. 

The last thing your eyes see before they close is the bastard hunched over the floor, clutching desperately at his chest and gasping for air. It’s a beautiful sight. One that you painted. 

You awake to the sound of similar beeping of hospital machines. You don’t register anything, only the memories of what happened before you passed out, your body moves itself up in a panic to get away. The sudden move only has you clutch your head in pain as it throbs, your eyes sting with tears. A warm hand rests on your shoulder, guiding you back on the bed. 

Yvonne tries to smile at you but her eyes brim with tears. “Don’t move, you’re just going to agitate it even more. I’ll get you some painkillers later, okay?” 

You try to nod but even that brings pain. “You’re safe, he’s not here,” she holds your hands in hers. “I’ll get the doctor on schedule,” she tries to leave but you stop her. “What happened,” your voice comes out croaky, Yvonne moves to hand you a glass of water. 

She tells you everything. It’s not the first time you’ve woken up, you had been conscious when help had arrived at the scene, but you were so out of it, you still don’t remember. It’s a good thing, if you had been out for longer than a few minutes it would’ve indicated severe head trauma. You don’t even want to imagine what that could’ve entailed. 

You were given a sedative by the paramedics since you had been in too much pain hence why you’re waking up now, only a few hours later. They placed you in a private room, all paid for by the hospital. A CT scan had been done while you were out, showing no major concerns but you’ll be monitored for a while just in case. You don’t need to feel it but the affected area on your head has massive bruising and swelling which is why it hurts so much. 

You want to tell her that this wasn’t what you wanted to know, that you needed answers about what happened with Ha-yoon but the room keeps spinning and it hurts to keep your eyes open. “Sleep, I’ll be here,” Yvonne gently says as you doze off. 

The next time you wake up, Zayne is in the room with you. He’s sitting on the chair by your side, dressed in normal attire and reading a book. His attention is instantly on you when you groan, he’s by your side faster than you can realise. The soft behaviour usually distributed to his patients is now presented to you. He asks a bunch of questions while looking over your vitals. He masks it well but you can see his concern shining through. It’s oddly comforting.

You open your mouth to ask but he cuts you off. “I know you’re curious but you’re in no state to process anything. I’ll answer everything when you’re doing better, okay?” You just nod, you can tell by his tone that there’s no convincing him. 

She visits you too, plopping a plushie on your favourite member from the group. “Thought I’d return the favour,” she gave you a strained smile and her hold on your hand lingered for a long time before her duties called her away. She leaves her warmth behind. 

Everyday, the staff fight off the police officers that drop by, all of them advocating that you’re not okay to answer their questions, something you’re grateful for. You’re in no shape to be scrutinized and judged.

Zayne concludes that you’re ready for the whole story one afternoon when you finally walk in a straight line before him. He does more tests to be safe, seeing how well your arms and legs hold up against his grip and whether it’s still difficult to move your head around. You get through it all with no issue.

“I got there seconds after you passed out, he was on the floor beside you so I froze his hands together,” he said like it wasn’t a big deal. “He deserved it,” Zayne countered. “It’s not him I’m worried about, what if it landed you in trouble?”

Your question has his posture relaxed a little. “You should be more worried about yourself,” he flicks you on the head, smiling when you glare in offence. “The police were right behind me, he tried to claim I just attacked out of nowhere but we had all the evidence from the cameras in your apartment. It showed everything, him breaking in and assaulting you. I gave them a witness testimony since I was on the phone with you.”

Your lips tremble as you try not to imagine what would've happened had Zayne never been on the phone with you. How can you even begin to pay him back?

Before you can thank him, your heads snap towards the door sliding open. Yvonne steps through, flashing you a guilty look. “I tried to stop them but they’re no longer taking no for an answer. Said they’ll drop the case without your testimony,” she whispers something else, you can’t be sure but you think she was cursing them out.

“It’s okay, I’ll talk to them,” you respond before turning to Zayne. “Can you stay?” 

“Of course.”

To your terrible luck, one of the police officers is the same one that hadn’t taken your complaint seriously. You can’t hide the displeasure or anger, you’re lucky to be still here, had they done their job none of this would’ve happened. 

The police fill in the gaps that Zayne didn’t get to, Ha-yoon’s facing charges of assault and attempted rape. With your phone call with Zayne, his testimony to the whole thing, the video evidence and Ha-yoon admitting everything on it, it should stick. They leave after hours of questioning, putting you under a microscope and dissecting every part of you. It leaves you in desperate need of a shower to wash it all off. 

The warm rays of the sun offer no solace as you look out the window. Mindlessly, your hands trace over your skin. The media has already picked up the story, your face and name has long been released to the public. One look through your socials confirmed you’ve been thrown to the wolves. People are accusing you of trying to break up a loving family, they’re saying you’re trying to get money out of him, the normal vitriol a victim faces but it gets to you.

The only good thing about this whole thing is that the entire hospital now knows that you and Zayne never dated, that it was a ruse in an attempt to keep Ha-yoon away. 

Two days later, you’re only a day away from being discharged when there’s a knock on your door. It means the person on the other end is not anyone that’s visited you so far. You tell them to enter. Leo walks in, a sheepish smile adorning his face, he’s doing the same habit of his, fiddling with his hands. Something he does when he’s nervous. 

“Can I sit,” he gestures to the chair, growing more nervous when your face remains impassive. You nod.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I should’ve been here, you were trying to tell me before, weren’t you?” You look away from the guilt shining on his face. It makes you waver and you can’t let that happen. “Yeah, I was.”

You don’t see him move from the chair, only noticing when he settles on your bed with you. “I came as soon as I heard. Are you okay?” He tries to caress your face but you move it out the way. His face drops but he honours your request. “I am, you can leave now.”

“Wait,” he lurches forward and grasps your hands together, not caring that he’s crossed your boundary. “Why didn’t you tell me your relationship with Dr Li was fake?” You give him a baffled look. “Are you kidding me? That’s what you’re more concerned about?” you’re practically yelling, all the pent up emotion from the last week finally making its way out. Some part of you feels bad, no matter how selfish he’s being, Leo doesn’t deserve the brunt of all your feelings but the other…the other is happy for a release. 

“You couldn’t even be bothered to ask if it was true in the first place, you don’t get to come back and ask for apologies. Get out, I never want to see you again,” by now your voice captures the attention of those outside. Zayne himself enters, confused at first before comprehending the situation. Your current state has him by your side, only the feel of his hands on you calms you down. The nurses usher Leo out of the room and you don’t even spare him a second glance, your attention is on Zayne. You see it then, a quick flash in his eyes. A glint of something.

Almost like satisfaction. 

You’ve always had his attention.

Even when he had yet to meet you. 

All it took was a meeting with an old friend who passed on your unfinished thesis. He read all twenty pages in one day, your words had him in a trance and he wanted to meet the person with such a fascinating mind. 

He cheated by looking at your socials. You didn’t have much of an online presence nor did you post often, none of the photos you posted had your picture in them, all he could settle on was your profile picture. A simple photo of you bundled up under covers, smiling softly at the camera. He didn’t know then why he saved it, or why he found himself looking at it from time to time. 

It’s when he sees you for the first time in that lecture room that he makes sense of it. You notice him too, not just because he’s the guest lecturer, but because you know him or maybe he’s just being deluded. He doesn’t affect you in the same way, he wished it didn’t hurt or that he was used to it or even that it was the first time. He allows himself one look at you, you stare at him mystified and it leaves him smug. He’s not above feeling in such a way, you might not look at him in the same way but he’ll take this. He’ll make it enough.

But he didn’t realise that there would be a time where it won’t be enough.

The first time he spoke to you didn’t go in the way he wanted, he was glad none of the coffee burnt you but a sick part of him was glad, you won’t forget him so easily with a first meeting like this. He makes an off hand comment about you joining him at Akso and he knows he has you with the way you light up at his praise. 

A whole year goes by without seeing you and he’s never been so restless.

It’s funny, he went years not seeing her, meeting her again by chance and yet he’s barely holding it together now. Looking back, he should’ve realised sooner his infatuation with you, he’s better than that. Perhaps he just didn’t want to admit it. 

Loving her had been a constant throughout his entire life, he knew her since they were kids, he knew her. Well enough to know she’d never feel the same way for him but that was okay with him. As long as she remained by his side, he’d have her in any capacity, as a patient or a friend. Maybe that’s why he didn’t see you, you weren’t familiar, what you were was unknown. He should’ve realised that the unknown was what he specialized in, that sooner or later he would want to discover you.

Maybe he could’ve warned himself then, to keep his distance through all the years he’s known you because it’s too late now. There’s only one role you can have is by his side. And it’s not as a friend or a colleague. 

He makes sure not to give anything away when you start at the hospital, not even his voice betrays the fact that he’d been keeping an eye on you. Zayne expected you to cry when he yelled at you, he’s not proud of it but he’s raised his voice on several occasions when patients' lives are put at risk by the very people meant to help them and in each occasion they cry but you take it. You don’t flinch, your eyes meet his and all he sees is regret. 

You have two special areas in the hospital, one of them is a corner far away where you go to cry. He hears you cry for the little girl, apologising to her in the silence. You’ll make a good doctor. 

Two years pass by, you’ve decided to specialise in cardiology with him. A lot has changed in these two years and a lot hasn’t. He’s become somewhat of a mentor to you, you’re not afraid to seek him out and ask for help. Zayne doesn’t think you even realise that the other residents have also started doing the same. He’s not sure why they’re all so afraid of him, all he wants is for them to succeed and he’s thankful you helped them see that in your own way. 

You part ways with your friend, Leo. Zayne shouldn’t be happy about it, it clearly affects you. He shouldn’t be happy. He shouldn’t. 

But he is. 

The first time he saw you together with her, he couldn’t help but compare you two. Yvonne was right, the two of you couldn’t be any different. She was younger or brighter in a sense. It showed in the kindness she held for everyone, her openness pulling in everyone. You were older and not dull but…silent. It was your silence that captured attention, made you a mystery in a way. Which is why you seemed to shine in those little moments where you held warmth for others around you, you were loyal to a fault. Even the way you both laugh are polar opposites, she laughs loud and with force, folding over and holding her stomach or lightly hitting someone around her. You laugh quietly with your hand over your mouth, politely but also a way to restrain yourself. 

Zayne still doesn’t realise until he’s in that room and she’s hooked to several machines, unconscious and unable to respond and you’re pulling him to your second comfort area in the hospital. The storage closet you kept a secret from everyone, yet were willing to share it with him. He’s inside the room, the slight crack through the door allows him to see your feet and all he can do is lightly trace where your figure must be on the door. He’s flushed bright red and you have no idea what the mess you’ve made him.

One hand remains on the door, where he hopes your heart might be, and the other rubs quickly on his shaft. He’s holding his shirt in his teeth so that no moans slip out as vile images of you play in his mind. What would you think if he was to pull you in this room and show you the sight of your superior needy and wanton all for you? It’s the imagination of you on your knees that does him in, cum spraying all over his hand.

He’s tainted your room with him.

And you have no idea.

Claiming to be your partner in front of that buffoon that threw you away was done without thinking. Protecting you became second nature and it was what gave him an in. He brushed aside the rage directed at your ex because in truth he was a little grateful to the man. Ha-yoon had ruined you for any other men but Zayne would fix you just for himself. 

Because you don’t love him, not now and certainly not after his plan is put in motion. He can’t handle it, he was fine with her not returning his feelings but you’re not allowed to. You don’t love him but he can make you think you do and by the time you realise, it’ll be too late. 

He’ll start with Ha-yoon.

“No, I’ll do it,” the idiot had no idea how predictable he truly was. Zayne saw the way man looked at you at the gala, Ha-yoon saw you as property and discarded or not, the moron still saw you as his. 

He tries not to delight in the way Ha-yoon’s face drops when Zayne steps through the door but it must show on his face as the other man glares. “Where’s [Name]?”

“She’s busy.” 

Too busy for you. 

“What brings you here today, Mr Choi?”

“Cut the crap, we both know why I’m here,” Ha-yoon snaps. “I want her back.”

“And you thought harassing her at her work was the way to do it,” Zayne raises an eyebrow, he has a unique way of making anyone feel inferior and the way Ha-yoon shrinks, it’s currently working. “I saw your wife, in what world did you think [Name] would enter a relationship with a man willing to leave his pregnant wife? Do you even know her?”

“I miss her. I never realised how much she did for me until she was gone. She knew me inside and out, how I like my coffee, or how my suit should be ironed and all the things I like. I love her and she loved me once, she can do it again.”

Zayne lets out a cold laugh, the other man involuntarily shivers as the temperature in the room drops. “You claim to love her when all the reasons listed are just the labour she did for you. What you should’ve said is that you miss how she throws her head just a little when she laughs, how mesmerising her smile is that imprints itself into your mind or how no matter how hard you try, her scent will always linger,” he walks closer to the man. Zayne is taller, he’s just…better than this scumbag in every way. “Face it, you left her penniless and broken and it backfired. She fixed herself better than you ever thought possible, she’s too good for you. You knew that from the moment you met her, that’s why you worked so hard to make her into something she’s not.”

With that he walks away and opens the door, looking back at the man. “We’re done here. Show up again and I’ll call security.”

He’s an idiot, Zayne thinks for the tenth time that day as he watches Ha-yoon confront you from the safety of his office. The man had done exactly what Zayne wanted. Ha-yoon’s ego and pride were too big to sustain being damaged, so he would gladly ruin you in response. 

And Zayne will be there to comfort you every step of the way.

Zayne likes to see himself as the lesser evil of the two. He’s not so deluded to think himself as a knight in shining armour, no he knows exactly what he is. But that’s the issue with knights in shining armour, they save everyone, they’re willing to sacrifice the one they love for the world. You don’t need that, you need someone who’ll always love you first. 

You think no one else realises, Zayne thinks you might not see it yourself, but you’re starved for attention. He noticed the way you lean into hugs, you never initiate affection but you’re always the last one to let go. 

It makes him laugh how much Ha-yoon doesn’t see his actions only push you closer to Zayne. He now has access to the cameras installed in your house, he knows your code, the password to your phone just in case, Zayne’s become your safety. Just the way he wanted.

In a twist even he didn’t see coming, Leo takes himself out of the equation and you try to keep in how you’re grieving the loss of friendship but you fold with some soft prodding, right into his arms once again. 

The only thing he’s sorry for, the only thing he regrets is how Zayne failed to see that Ha-yoon was pushed too far. His heart dropped when he heard the man banging on your door, his panic and worry were all real as he raced to your apartment. Zayne would’ve killed him, he should have killed him but the police were right behind so he shifted his attention to you. The guilt that manifests upon seeing your state crumpled on the floor, reduced once again to that once small figure Ha-yoon had made of you, Zayne thinks for the first time he might’ve taken things too far.

But the regret doesn’t last long. You don’t leave him alone after. Your hold on his wrist tightens whenever he informs you that he needs to leave, you text him first and you call even more. You need him more than ever and he’s drunk off the feeling.

So, he leaks the story to the press. All he has to do is sit back and watch as your face and name get released. As your address becomes public knowledge and you have nowhere to go. He slyly offers up his guest bedroom before anyone else can.

It’s torture sleeping in the room next to yours, knowing you’re right there but he can’t do anything. He settles on reading a book to pass the time. Except he never realised how unpredictable you can be when his bedroom door opens and you walk in. You don’t say a word as you crawl on his bed and sit right on his lap.

You bring your head closer to his, close enough for your hair to fall on his face. “Do you like me, Dr Li?” you whisper. “Yes,” he confirms, keeping eye contact with you. His eyes fall on your lips, which curl up into a smirk as you notice. “You have no idea how much,” he whispers back, his gaze falling back into your eyes letting you see his devotion.

You bring your lips closer, almost about to kiss him but he blocks it by lightly touching your mouth with his palm. You look at him in confusion but he’s not budging. Because you’re testing him, to see if he’s like the other men in your life. He’s not so disillusioned to think otherwise. But he is cruel enough to make you believe otherwise. 

“I didn’t bring you here for this,” his hand moves and his thumb traces over your top lip. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

Seeing that he’s not going to give you what you want, you make the first move. Your hand clutches the hand near your mouth, bringing it in and pressing a kiss in the middle of his palm. You hear his breath hitch when you do. “I think I like you, Zayne,” you smile teasingly and gently roll your hips right against his, eliciting a small groan from him. “What if I want you to take advantage?”

His hands settle on the side of your hips, stopping you in place. “You little minx,” he growls. He’s quick to shove you over, nudging your legs to open with his thighs. “You don’t get to take it back,” he whispers against your lips.

He has you now.

Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk but each move only has the man pound harder into you from behind. 

The fast movement from his hips leaves you mindless and draped over his desk, your body pliant for his bidding. You bite your lips hard to prevent any sound from leaking, to the displeasure of the man currently bringing you, well…pleasure. 

“Zayne,” he says, making you look at him in confusion. “That’s the name of the man making you feel like this,” he brings his mouth to your ear. “Say it, moan it or scream it. Pick one,” his movement stills, pulling a whine out of you. 

He’s not going to continue until you adhere, so you give in. “Please Z-zayne,” you tug at his shirt. “Faster,” you whine. He moves his entire body on top of yours, kissing your cheek and nuzzling into your neck. “Good girl,” he praises, smirking as you tighten around him in response. 

You let out a moan as he gives you what you want, the desk moving with each hard thrust. The new angle allows him to piston even deeper into you, drawing loud moans from you both. It thrills him that you’re so lost in the pleasure that you don’t even care who hears, it could end your career but you’re too busy moaning like a slut to realise. You’re lucky his office is sound-proof but where's the fun in telling you that?

You can feel the pressure building inside you, you’re close and judging from how his speed picks up as his movements get sloppy, so is he. A sudden thrust has him landing even deeper and it’s your undoing as you cum around his cock with a grunt he cums too. He holds you on his desk for a few minutes, both of you just taking the time to breathe and come down from the high. 

His hand comes up to your chin and pulls it to him, bringing you into a kiss. It’s been a few months since you started dating and not a day has gone by where he hasn’t had his way with you. The man is insatiable, needy even when he’s so tired he can’t even move. With how much he’s come inside you, you’re wondering if your birth control can even put up a fight anymore.

You don’t know that he replaced your pills months ago.

He’s always seen himself having kids after marriage but you would never agree to either so quickly so he’ll have to make you. 

A year later you stand before the mirror, examining the ring on your finger and the round bump housing something in your stomach.

This was what you wanted.

Right?

AN: Scattered Adolescents = Stray Kids. I just had to, I found it so funny.

And yes, I included exactly how I lost my 50/50 to Caleb, I don’t care that it's been over a week, I’m still salty. 

I felt like out of all of them, Zayne would be the one to be subtle rather than forceful so I hope I did it justice. I thought it would be funny to start with reader judging her other self for falling victim to manipulation and then end up in the same position.  

Currently watching Lost in space and why is the robot sexy? Guys, why did they make the robot hot? I yearn for the metal. 

Happy Juneleb guys! May you all get the birthday card x4 in one pull.

Tag list: @zeverean @quill-for-glory @smittenlynn @nm4565natty @miuangel @noxus123

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 6, Part 3

masterpost (Danny... Danny honey.)

“How sure of this are we?” Wally asked. His freckles scrunched up adorably when he was worried.

“Sure enough for Nightwing to give the okay,” Danny said. “You know he’s checked with every group at least three times before he even let the big planning start.”

Wally didn’t look at all relieved about that.

“Flash, it’s been weeks,” Danny said. He dropped his voice to a soft murmur between them. “We need to do this now, Walls, before I can’t anymore.”

Wally rubbed at his arm and glanced away. “I don’t want to be why you die.”

“I was dead before you knew me, time boy,” Danny teased. “Trust your team to bring me back.”

Wally gave a wet sounding chuckle. “You’re never afraid, are you?”

“Plenty, but not about death, I’ve walked with it too long,” Danny said. “So no tears for me, okay? Start planning our date instead. You have a lot of catching up to do.”

“I still can’t believe he got to kiss you first.”

“You get stuck in the timeline, you lose,” Danny said. “Now are you ready? You can’t hesitate.”

Wally searched Danny’s gaze for a moment longer before he squared his shoulders and nodded. “Ready.”

Danny turned and gave two thumbs up towards the observation room.

A moment later, Dick’s voice rang out over the comms. “We’re go then. Danny, time to show us Phantom.”

Danny backed up from Wally, hands held out to his side. “Cover your eyes!”

The world went white, then dark, and then was washed faintly in green as it always was as Phantom. Wally stood out like a beacon, as if glowing under black light. Danny drifted up and around him in a circle. “Well, that is fascinating…”

“What is?” Nightwing asked.

“What? Oh, sorry. Flash is practically glowing for me,” Danny said. He pushed off the ground so he could hover at the same height as the observation room. “As is the other Flash, though not as bright. Best as we ever figured, I see things different as a ghost, like how insects see in infrared or all the mantis shrimp craziness. I think I’m seeing an effect from their timey wimey stuff.”

“Timey wimey stuff,” Constantine muttered.

Danny just smiled serenely back. “Raven, Constantine, and Zatanna have a glow too, but in different ways. That’s expected with them being magic users. Ghosts and magic aren’t that far apart and there are ghosts who actively use it. But that the Flashes having the effect, well, I think that just reinforces the theory that we’re going with.”

“Good, because if it went against it, I would be calling this,” Nightwing said.

Danny laughed, aware how the sound echoed on itself and swooped over to the window. “Calm, Nightwing. The plan is solid.”

“There’s still a high risk of death for you.”

“That’s the wonder of it, I’m already dead,” Danny said with a fanged grin. “Any issues with the readings or calculations?”

“Everything looks good,” Barry!Flash answered. “Your transformation hasn’t cause any issues with the readings. We’re still locked on to Flash.”

Danny nodded and floated back just a little from the window before he dug around in his chest for the medallion. He ignored the noises and reactions he got for reaching into himself like that. It was convenient. Besides, without it they would have never found Wally.

“That caused a spike,” Barry!Flash said, voice a little tight. “Give us ten to adjust.”

“More support to the theory though,” Danny said, mostly for Nightwing’s benefit.

“What all do you keep in there?” Nightwing asked with a little tilt of his head.

Danny placed his hands over his heart. “Aw, Nightwing, that’s third date sort of information.”

“Ghosts,” Constantine muttered.

“Oh, like you can talk, laughing magician,” Danny said with a more vicious baring of his fangs.

“Gentlemen,” Batman admonished.

“But to give a real answer,” Danny said to avoid picking a fight reight before he (probably died again, “things I always want on me like the medallion or things I only need as a being of the Infinite Realms. I have a phone that works over there, for example. It was more of a thing when I was an active hero.”

“Okay, Phantom, can you move around with the medallion?” Barry!Flash asked. “I want to make sure that we’re tracking it right.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Danny said. He made some slow, easy loops of the room, making sure to change elevation as well.

“That’s solid,” Barry!Flash said. “Nightwing?”

“Alright, stage two,” Nightwing said. “Flash, remember you have to hold the medallion with both hands. Grab it quickly and tightly. Don’t let go until you’re given the all clear.”

“Understood,” Wally said seriously as Danny landed lightly in front of him.

“Take a breath,” Danny said. “It will be alright. We have to believe that.”

Wally did as he was told, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Right.”

Danny held the medallion out, gripped tightly in both of his hands. Wally took another breath before he reached out and grasped the medallion just like he had been told.

The world light up with lightening—brighter than it ever was as Phantom. Bright as it had been when Danny had died in the portal. And died again.

It felt like dying again.

Was he?

Probably.

Ah, well, he’d know the risks.

[kxsagi]

HELLOOOO OK SO I JUST READ YOUR LATEST WRITING ABOUT READER LOVING FOOD AND I ABSOLUTELY DEVOURED THE WHOLE POST😋😋

so like now I've got an idea. what if now..it's a reader that eats less, like they don't like eating just because everyday they don't feel like it. and bllk boys being an athlete ofc prioritizes getting enough energy and nutrients from food so they ask the reader to eat more or prob they just learn how to cook for both. can I get this with isagi, kaiser, itoshi brothers, shidou, and karasu? THANK YOU SO MUCH AND BTW I CANT HELP BUT KEEP MENTIONING THAT I REALLY LOVE UR WRITING AND DONT FORGET TO REST WHEN NEEDED.

LOVE YOU!!!!!

“𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐟”

a/n: thank you so much!!! i'm getting emotional 😭😭😭 i'll rest when i need to and you do the same! love you!!! 🫶🏻

also side note, i really don’t promote unhealthy eating habits, and even if you don’t feel like eating, please make sure to eat and fuel your body because you deserve to be fed and feel good! 

ft. isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito

isagi yoichi

he finds out on accident. 

you casually say something like “oh, i didn’t eat today either” when he asks what you had for lunch, and the word “either” shatters his entire worldview. 

“what do you mean ‘either’? wait… wait wait wait, how long has this been a thing?” 

the boy goes from concerned boyfriend to a TED Talk nutritionist in three seconds flat. 

immediately pulls out a color-coded meal tracker app to “make it more fun” like it’s a game. 

and he will absolutely start meal prepping with you. thinks it’s kind of romantic, actually. he’ll sit at your counter with a blender and go “if we blend chicken and spinach together, you get all the protein and fiber without having to chew anything! win-win!” 

his mission becomes “get you to eat three times a day like it’s the world cup final.” 

“love, i swear on blue lock, just take one bite of this or i’ll start crying.” 

kaiser michael

kaiser’s first instinct is to mock you. 

“you’re not eating again? what are you, a plant? photosynthesizing your way through life?” 

but deep down he’s worried sick. 

he notices the way you get tired easily and how your hands are cold even in summer. and while he’s a little dramatic, he does care. 

so he starts learning how to cook – secretly. because if you found out he was doing all this for you, you'd probably get flustered and avoid it. 

next thing you know, there’s a very flustered kaiser in your kitchen at 8 AM, shirtless, aggressively googling “how to make cute bento boxes that will guilt-trip your girlfriend into eating.” 

tries to act cool when he presents it to you. 

“eat it. i didn’t spend an hour making smiley-face eggs for you to skip breakfast again.” 

if you say “i’m not hungry,” he fake gasps and goes, “i see. you hate my cooking. okay. noted. i’ll go cry in the shower now.” 

itoshi rin

rin is not subtle. 

the moment he catches you skipping meals or brushing it off, he just squints and goes, “that’s not healthy.” 

he’ll start leaving little plates of cut-up fruit, protein bars, or drinks with a sticky note like “eat this. now.” 

very “acts like he doesn’t care, but is cooking rice in your kitchen at midnight because you haven’t eaten.” 

if he sees you get dizzy or tired, he will pick you up bridal style without saying a word and place you on the couch like you’re a sims character about to pass out. 

“you can’t just run on vibes. you’re not a ghost.” 

but the cutest part? he starts copying recipes from youtube cooking channels, awkwardly learning how to make tamagoyaki or miso soup just because it’s light but filling. 

and when you actually eat something he made? he looks away all flushed like, “whatever. just don’t starve. dumbass.” 

itoshi sae

sae finds out when you casually mention you haven’t had an appetite in a few days. 

he stops chewing mid-bite. slowly lowers his chopsticks. 

“what do you mean… ‘a few days’?” 

he’s horrified. in a calm, dead-eyed, big-brother-knows-best way. 

immediately texts rin like “this is why i have trust issues.” 

he doesn’t make a big deal of it, but the next day he shows up at your place with groceries. fancy ones. imported olive oil. cuts of salmon. actual saffron. 

he cooks gourmet meals like he’s on a michelin-starred revenge arc. 

“you don’t like eating? then i’ll make something so good you’ll change your mind.” 

he casually drops phrases like, “this has slow-digesting carbs and omega-3s, so you won’t feel heavy,” like he’s in your stomach. 

bonus: he cuts up the food into small bite sizes so you don’t get overwhelmed. he’s smooth with it too. 

“you’re eating this one. no negotiation.” 

shidou ryusei

shidou finds out and goes FULL PANIC. 

“HUH???? YOU’RE STARVING YOURSELF FOR FUN?????? BABE, DO YOU KNOW HOW FOOD WORKS???” 

he’s being dramatic, but he’s actually very worried. 

and of course, his version of helping is… weird. 

he decides to cook, which is already a disaster. man made cereal with hot sauce once. 

“i’m gonna feed you with so much protein you’ll turn into a meatball.” 

he tries to make you “protein bombs,” which are just weird mixes of peanut butter, tuna, and pre-workout powder. 

you gag. he calls you ungrateful. 

eventually, he settles on bribery: “eat this, and i’ll let you sit on my lap while i do squats. hell, i’ll do push-ups with you on my back. anything. just eat.” 

he’s so in-your-face affectionate it’s hard to say no. especially when he hugs you from behind and goes, “babe, seriously. you’re perfect. but i want you to have energy to sass me back, y’know? it’s not fun if you’re fainting mid-roast.” 

karasu tabito

karasu notices everything. 

you’re talking about your day and casually mention “i had water and a banana” and he does a full slow turn like, “sorry. that was your meal???” 

turns into mom friend energy immediately. 

he’s a little annoying about it in a loving way. 

“okay, but hear me out… what if you did eat something with actual nutrients? revolutionary, i know.” 

he’ll start showing up with smoothies and snacks unprompted. 

hand-feeds you fries on the couch. 

and he can cook. surprisingly well. 

“i made you a lil something. don’t get used to it, though. unless you want to. actually, yeah. get used to it.” 

jokes aside, he’s really gentle about it. when you explain that it’s more of a lack of appetite than anything serious, he doesn’t push – just offers small, frequent snacks and praise every time you eat. 

“good girl. finish that rice and i’ll let you wear my hoodie tonight.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[jjjjisun]

Lucky Slip

Yiren X Male Reader | 3090 words

TW: Incest

—

Buy me a Ko-Fi.

—

She was singing in the shower again. Boy, I hated hearing her sing when she knew I was waiting for her. There was always my parents' shower, but we tended to leave that one alone for whatever reason. So I stood there, waiting, pacing, and generally worrying about whether I'd make it out to my job this morning. Sure, I didn't have to be there right on time, seeing as I had been running my own thing during the summer for a while now, but it was the principle of the thing. I had commitments, and she was headed, god knows where this morning. Believe me, this was not the first time.

Judging by tight and tiny workout clothes lying on her bed, she was heading to the gym and was likely just doing some of her "beauty" exercise, designed only to maintain what was already near perfect. Oh yeah, and there was that; the fit, 18-year-old tart, my little sister Yiren, singing the sweet notes that were breaking steadily through the sound of the falling water, was drop-dead gorgeous.

It started with the face: a cute but sultry combination of deep brown eyes, great cheekbones, and a set of pouty, pink lips. Her dirty black hair often fell messily down and sometimes in a tight braid. Now, it would be wet and hanging down her shoulders and body below. There probably aren't words for how amazing her body was, but either way, she had breasts made up of the perfect handful, a taut, smooth stomach, and never-ending slender legs coming from a spankable behind.

She was rarely discrete about prancing around the house, as she would be now if she walked out in one of those tiny bath towels we owned. (I still don't know where our mother could have possibly bought them) Sure, I felt guilty, but I assured myself that my deliberate avoidance of concentrating on how hot my little sister was was enough to balance the dreams I often had of her. Even my peripheral vision couldn't un-see that half-naked angel bending down to take clothes out of the drier in a bra and panties on Sunday afternoons. And more than once, I saw an unmistakable smirk on her face when my mouth dropped open wide. She flitted across the kitchen in nearly nothing as I made breakfast.

So there I was, waiting outside the door like a total sucker when I finally decided to address the problem, and whether it was my impatience or my considerable need to pee that led me to it, I don't know. I jiggled the doorknob just so (living in the same place for ten years, you pick up a few things) and swung open the locked door, making right for the porcelain. I took care of business quickly, and I was happy to have gotten there before I had an accident at 22 years old. It was then, standing there, that I noticed the silhouette of my little sister on the curtain.

Whatever the material was, it probably wasn't designed for much privacy because I could see enough to immediately get blood pumping to my lower half. For crying out loud, I could even make out the pink of her nipple as she arched her back and ran water through her hair. I looked away, remembering my resolve. But there was nothing to be done; the most naked view of my sister I'd ever gotten had penetrated my defenses. My cock was all the way hard before I could do anything. Combine that with my accidental reflex to flush the toilet, and I was about to be standing there with a raging boner just as my little sister realized I was in the bathroom.

She teased me enough about any girls I could be seen with or my wide eyes when I turned the corner to her room in the middle of her undressing; God knows what she'd say about her big brother getting hard over his sister. So I did the only thing I could do: I sat down quickly and leaned forward to try and conceal my arousal. As expected, Yiren poked her head around the curtain's edge within seconds of the flush. She did a poor job covering what the curtain revealed; that certainly wouldn't help the situation.

"What the fuck, Oppa!" she hollered.

"I had to go, and you are taking so long, I just couldn't wait anymore!" I piped back.

"Ugh, you are such a jerk. You never give me any privacy," she steamed

That was a laugh - her prancing around the house was far from asking for privacy.

"You better not look," she said as she disappeared behind the translucent shroud again, "I've seen you do it before, hmph!" She said the second part was a little quieter, but I still heard it.

Seconds later, when I was practically begging my penis to calm down, the water suddenly shut off, and I could hear Yiren drying off and sliding back the curtain before I could do anything but hunch to try and avoid her seeing my stiff shaft. She led with her long, smooth leg before I could see the tops of her breasts threatening to free themselves from the snugly wrapped towel. I was beginning to doubt I'd get through this; her body was working overtime against me.

And then there it was, the little bit of water she'd dripped on the floor before when she'd pulled back the curtain to curse me out was just below her lead foot. Already lifting her other foot to clear the tub, she was doomed. The heel slipped with an audible screech, and Yiren headed backward fast and directly toward where I sat. I didn't know what to go for in my attempt to catch her; I removed my hands from their shielding of my erection. I reached out to grab her arms as they came for me, but her unbalanced stance sent her sweet bottom first. It slid right by my outstretched arms and down. I just missed it, and I could only attempt to cushion her fall the way I did. And then she touched down...

It was an impossible chance, lightning striking the same shark attack twice. And yet, when I was just about to ease her to a stop, the final 8 inches of her fall made all the difference. My head popped just between her lips, and a second later, it was buried within her. Yiren came to rest, completely sheathing me, her brother, inside of her.

Silence. Reality was trying its hardest to set in, but the utter warmth, the clasp of her walls, the wetness. Oh my God, was she wet? And not 'just out of the shower wet' but more 'now I know why she takes such long showers wet.' "I must have interrupted her," I thought as I savored being engulfed in my sister just after she'd been playing with herself. My hands were on her butt just as they were when I reached out to catch her, and she wasn't even touching the floor. She made one slight movement, testing what would happen if she tried to get up, and I'm not sure what she thought of the result.

Though I didn't think it possible, I pushed a bit forward into Yiren when she moved, and both of us gasped. My hands unintentionally squeezed at her butt, and when my cock found that new place in her pussy she shot a hand back to grab one of my wrists. She hadn't meant to, but I appreciated the sheer emotion of the gesture.

"Oppa......" she whispered between pants.

I waited. I attempted my old 'avoid the temptation' technique, and when I felt her quim pulsing upon me, I knew it was pointless. My squeezing fingers pulled Yiren closer to me, my shaft slid against Yiren's walls, and I could feel her fingernails upon my wrist.

"You have to... we have to stop..." It sounded like she was trying my strategy, though her words were barely audible.

".....yes, okay..... you have to get up first." I warned.

At first, she didn't move, and then she put her foot on the ground and pushed upward. My sister's tiny hole slid out around me slowly, pleasurably, until she slipped again. I looked around and could see no reason for it, but down she went until her ass reconnected with my hips. I searched her for an answer and only caught a second of the glance she'd sent my way on her look back. However, it was unmistakable as it flashed a smile.

And a naughty one at that. My perfect little sister wasn't as innocent as she'd played. Her smile gave her away. I positioned my hands for a different type of help this time. Her hand, still wrapped around my wrist, tightened. My hands indented in her as I guided her just a fraction of an inch from popping out. She cast her glance my way, sending boughs of her luscious black hair bouncing over her shoulder. She was sitting more upright now, her back arching, and as my eyes met hers, the wicked grin I observed told me she wasn't about to stop.

She began to sink back into my lap, my rod filling her with its heat, inch by inch. This time, she cooed and reached back with her other hand. I was in heaven. The towel fell away from her body, and for the second time, my naked, sexy little sister was descending upon my protruding member (intentionally, that is). It was so warm, and its tightness made me focus on nothing but the feeling. I couldn't control myself. As she came down to meet me, I grasped her all the more firmly and thrust upward to meet her.

"Oh God, we should stop..... oh fuck..... we should not be doing this..........uhhhh," she couldn't even finish the sentence.

I started to move my hands a bit, becoming bolder and hungrier to feel my sister's body. They inched over her hips, which I paused to grasp, feeling her hipbones as I pressed my fingers into her. I massaged her a bit there, causing the slow and steady bouncing she had begun to increase in tempo.

"I thought you were getting up?" I teased, having trouble focusing as Yiren was sliding herself up and down on top of me. My God, I knew she wasn't, but by the tightness of her tunnel, I could have sworn she was a virgin.

"Uhhhh... Fuck you..." She let out with evident frustration.

"I think you are, sis..." I strained, and she laughed.

My hands made my way up to her breasts, finally, and they were all I'd dreamed of. As I took them in my hands, they sat there cupped perfectly. I kneaded them, brushed my fingers over her nipples, and marveled at their perfection. One of my hands continued adoring her breasts while I wrapped my other arm around her abdomen, forcing her down hard now onto my penetrating rod.

"Fuck you're big... I can't stop.....mmmmmggghh..... don't stop fucking me." She sounded so sexy, moaning and cooing while talking dirty to me.

I decided to take more initiative, pushing myself up from our position and finally causing Yiren's dainty toes to contact the ground. As soon as they did, I turned her, with my cock still lodged inside of her, to the sink. Standing now, it was my turn to start fucking my little sister just the way I wanted her. Bent over the sink as she was, she suddenly stood on her tiptoes as I started pushing my thick head in and out of her once again. It was an involuntary gesture, the little spasm that had stood her like a rail for me to shove myself directly up into, probably from all the pleasure I was giving her, and I loved it almost as much as the panting I could hear coming from my ungodly sexy sis.

I reached in front of us once again and took a firm grasp of her chest, lodging myself inside her warm pussy as my hands massaged her tremendous tits. She did her best to meet my thrusts, but my desire for her had me winning out and slapping my pelvis against her toned butt. I fucked her like that for a few minutes, my hands alternating between a dominant grasp of her slender neck, soft breasts, toned abdomen, and pert ass. I even reached down to massage her clit and send her into a powerful orgasm.

"Ohhhh FUCKKK..... Oh my God, I can't believe.......ughhhh.... my brother is making me cummmm!!"

And cum she did; the pulsing of her walls around my penetrating member was almost enough to send me over the edge, but I powered through and made her ride out her orgasm with continuous thrusts inside of her. We looked each other in the eyes in the mirror, watching as my hands worked themselves around her body and seeing each other's wide eyes in disbelief at the sheer excitement and pleasure.

"Fucccckkk...." She whispered as she came down from her orgasm. She was short of breath but had enough to say: "I want to watch. I want to watch your big fat cock going in and out, please?" I wanted to look into her eyes directly, too, to watch her watch me press my cock into her pussy and know just how much she loved it. My little sister - the consummate tease and the object of so many of my dreams now in my grasp. I wanted to look deep into her eyes as I fucked her. I wanted this act of incest, which had started as an accident, to end up with Yiren begging for more; now that I was inside of her, I wasn't sure my cock would ever feel right anywhere else.

Yiren must have felt the same way, too, because when I dislodged myself from inside of her to flip her around, her face was laden with need -- the need to be filled up by her big brother's big cock once more. It was she who reached between us and took hold of the head of my steaming rod, placing it at her entrance and saying:

"Oh please, Oppa....put it back in me..."

I leaned into her body, my cock head urging its way passed her tight lips. As I began to inch my cock into my little sister's pussy I also lifted her by the ass, my fingers pressing into her firm, smooth cheeks as I put her weight on the vanity.

"Yeessssssssssssss.... Show me, Oppa, that big thing of yours going in your naughty little sister....oooohhhh." I did just that, bottoming out in her inescapable warmth before retracting and entering her passage once again. First, we were both looking at the penetration, the unbelievable and erotic incest we were both losing ourselves in, and then upward. My eyes scanned her body, hers mine. When we reached our lips, I leaned in, locked eyes, and kissed her recklessly. The kiss said everything we couldn't: that Yiren's teasing had been only about torturing me and that my dreams were fighting to manifest themselves. Yiren's look was one of desperation. I could see another orgasm welling up inside of her, and I wanted her to come with me. I was so close.

"Oh, baby, oh, big bro... please... I know we shouldn't, but... uh..." she trailed off.

"What Yiren...? I said over hurried breaths, still focusing on sliding my shaft in and out of Yiren's pussy. I could watch it flex to accommodate me, her insides making way for the penetrating staff.

She moaned as she tried to catch enough breath..."I could get pregnant......Ohhhhh God, I don't give a.... fuckkkkkkkk......oooooh." I pushed in deeper on that one, spurred on by what I could tell my little sister was implying over an escalating orgasm.

"Just fill me up baby... yes, yes..... cum in your bad little sis...... I've been teasing you for so long..... I can't believe I've been....uhhhh... missing this!" God, she sounded so sexy.

I was seconds away now, and Yiren was headed there, too. Just a couple more strokes, and we'd both be......Wow, the feeling was so wonderful. I watched my sister roll her eyes and head back as she started to feel it, my cock pulsing with its first powerful jet of sperm, directly, deeply into my little sister's pussy. She was over the edge, and I held her in my arms as she clutched me and howled in front of me. With another pulse of sperm, my heart felt like it would explode, but I only exploded again into Yiren's womb.

It felt like it could go on forever, Yiren's spasming body or the powerful sprays of my seed. It didn't, though, and my beautiful, albeit horny little sister was smiling like the dirty little girl she was while we remained locked together at the hips. My cock softened only a bit, remaining so full of desire for Yiren that it refused to disappear. Yiren rested her head on my heaving chest.

"Ummmm..... wow.....

"Yea... That was...." I stuttered to find the words.

Yiren finished them for me, "Intense...amazing.....wow."

"You are... unbelievable." She blushed when I said that, though I wouldn't have known over her sex-flushed face.

Yiren felt my cock still hard inside of her. It must have grown because her eyes widened, and she said with shock, "Are you serious? Ready to fuck your little sister again so soon? Don't you think we should get some protection or something?"

"Yesss.... " I got out.

But my cock had other plans. The risk of getting my little sister Yiren pregnant sent my cock expanding deeper and broader into Yiren's slick channel. She flashed me that famous smile, and I knew she wanted it.

She wanted it three more times that night. We fucked on the kitchen table, on the screened-in porch, and, best of all, in our parents shower. I couldn't get enough of Yiren's beautiful body and her seductive and sexy personality. We got to protection eventually, but filling my little sister up with her own brother's sperm was all that either of us wanted for a while. We're just crossing our fingers, and I'm still making love to my sister as much as possible every chance I get.

[deadsetobsessions]

“Did this place pick up a ghost when I was dead or something?”

Tim whipped his head towards Jason, who looked mildly perturbed.

“You too?!” Tim demanded.

“What?”

“The ghost! I kept thinking it was a hallucination, you know? But even when I laid off of the caffeine, there’d be a fucking shadow at the edge of my vision! At night! You saw it too, right?” Tim rambled, increasingly agitated. “It even moves the fucking coffee mugs! I know where I left my favorite mug, and it sure as hell wasn’t in the sink!”

Jason blinked at him, face morphing into concern.

“Replacement, when was the last time you got some sleep?”

Tim inhaled. “Jason, I swear to god I will replace all of the shampoo in your twenty six safe houses with glitter glue if you don’t tell me whether you saw it or not.”

Jason nodded immediately. In his defense, Tim grew up to be a scary motherfucker. Diabolical little shit would have been a fucking terrifying villain.

“I knew it.”

——

Danny hummed. Tim was going to freak when he found his cowl three inches to the left.

He merrily avoided all of the set up cameras by simply going invisible and intangible, save for his arms that he uses to sweep the cowl to the side.

He could hear the static on the cameras. Danny grinned. Operation Gaslight, Ghostkeep, Girlboss is on.

——

“Tim-” Dick started, only to be cut short by Tim whirling around and jabbing a painful finger into his chest.

“You owe me this, for that Arkham comment when B went missing.”

Dick raised his hands in surrender, guilt flaring.

“Drake, what kind of pointless scheme are you getting us in, now?”

“Not now, demon brat.” Jason elbows the kid. “Just go along with it.”

“Look.”

“Well. I guess we were right, yeah, Tim?” Duke muttered, eyeing the moved cowl. “My ghost-sight isn’t seeing anything. Not even wind movement.”

“What’s going on, boys?”

“B, there’s a ghost in the manor.”

“He’s freaking out because it moved his coffee mug like three times.” Steph chimed in.

——

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen anything weird, lately?”

Danny tilted his head. “No…?”

“Not even in the house?” Jason asked.

“Shadows? Anything?” Dick asked, eye bags prominent on the normally exuberant man. Danny snickered inwardly. They’ve been up for three days trying to “catch” the ghost.

“Uh. I mean the floorboards creak sometimes? But in terms of shadows… I think I saw them outside? Kind of looked like Batman, actually. But my eyesight gets bad at night. Why?”

Danny could see in the dark just fine.

“Nothing! Let me know if you see anything, okay?”

“Uh. Sure? Maybe you guys should… get some sleep?”

“Uh-huh.”

The bats file out of his room.

——

Danny locked glowing green eyes with Tim and Dick. He did some quick thinking and contorted his ectoplasm into something more grotesque.

“Kkkhggggghkkkkeeee!!!” He screeched.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!” The two of them screamed, both bolting and throwing things at him. It was impressive how fast they backpedaled.

“That was close,” Danny muttered. He quickly scribbled on Damian’s whiteboard with conspiracy theories and dipped before the rest of the bats came thundering.

He fell into a light sleep just as Stephanie checked up on him, work done.