#into behavior he’d rather leave behind

[nadvs]

the power play (part two)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

“There’s no way I just heard you right,” Lyla says. You look at your best friend through your phone screen, her mouth agape.

A moment ago, she called to invite you to her dorm room to watch movies. That sounds much better than the nerve-wracking plans you’ve already set for tonight.

“You did,” you laugh.

“You’re going to party,” she repeats, “with Rafe.”

“Yup,” you say. You set your phone down on your bed as you rifle through your closet. You’re already dressed, but you need to do something to expel your nervous energy.

You agreed to put on this farce yesterday. Now that you said it out loud, it’s setting in that you’re really going through with this.

“Back up,” she says over the phone behind you. “How did this happen?”

“We’ve gotten to know each other over tutoring. He asked me out. I said yes.”

“You actually like him like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” she replies.

You try to ignore the guilt that’s sitting on your shoulders. You’ve never lied to her, to anyone, like this.

But while she is your best friend, the bond she has with her twin brother is untouchable. You doubt she’d keep the truth of what you’re doing from Beck.

You settle back on your bed, picking up your phone.

“Well, I hope you have fun,” Lyla says with a chuckle, clearly surprised by your behavior. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“Thanks,” you say meekly. You’ve never been on a real date. You’re not sure how convincing you’ll be on a pretend one.

A text notification appears, making your stomach turn with nerves.

It’s Rafe.

There in ten minutes.

════════

You haven’t stopped talking since you got in his car.

Rafe glances over at you when he stops at a red light, a minute away from the student house at the edge of campus.

“We have to be believable, right?” you ramble on, growing uneasier the more you think about it. “Wait, will this look bad if anyone in the tutoring program finds out I’m dating you? It’s not like they ever said we can’t see the people we tutor, but if–”

“We can call this off,” Rafe interrupts. If you’re going to be a nervous mess, he’d rather not do this at all.

You cross your arms, staring ahead at the traffic light. It turns green.

“No. I just want to be prepared,” you say. “You’re sure he won’t be there?”

Rafe drives forward. He’d told you that most of the guys on the hockey team show up to these parties, but Beck usually skips out.

You’re hopeful he attends, but it may be better to ease into this before having to worry about convincing Beck just yet. Rafe is certain his ex will be there and you feel less pressure at the thought of having to trick one person instead of two.

“Pretty sure,” Rafe replies.

He doesn’t get why some athletes are so high-strung about partying. He parties every weekend and his game is just as solid.

It worked so well with Emma. He liked that she chased fun and had a careless approach to life that made him feel like if he spent enough time with her, he could, too.

“Okay,” you heavily sigh. “We’ll only have one person to fool, then.”

“Don’t take it so seriously, alright?” he says. “It’s just a party. We’ll show up, look like a couple, and leave.”

You nod, trying to picture how you should act tonight. You’ll hold Rafe’s hand. You’ll hug him. You’ll pretend like he’s charming, like he’s someone you can’t stop thinking about, instead of the cold person you know him to be.

“No kissing,” you say hurriedly. You’re not about to waste your first kiss on Rafe Cameron.

He snorts a laugh.

“Not a problem,” he says.

════════

The house is humid and crowded and loud. The bass is so heavy that you can’t make out the lyrics.

You’d thought touching Rafe would only be for show, but as he pushes through the foyer, you cup the inside of his elbow, using him as an anchor.

He greets a few guys once he gets to the living room. Some are familiar, hockey players you’ve seen before.

Rafe introduces you. By the way you’re clinging onto him as you greet his friends, he can tell you’re still on edge, but hiding it behind a big smile.

He leans down to speak close to your ear, and you realize since you’d only ever sat together before, you’d never noticed just how much he towers over you.

“I’m getting a beer,” Rafe says. “Do you drink?”

“Not usually,” you reply. “But I’ll take one.”

════════

On Rafe’s way back to you, he sees her. Emma’s in the crowd, smiling and dancing.

He still doesn’t get how she could throw it all away. They had so much fun together. He forgot about all the bad shit when he was with her. And then, all of a sudden, it was over.

He returns to find you chatting with Isaac, the team’s goalie. You thank Rafe for the drink, taking a sip and doing an awful job at hiding how much you hate the taste, and pull him into the conversation.

“Did you know he’s a music major?” you say, pointing to Isaac.

“Yeah,” Rafe says stiffly, still reeling from seeing his ex. “We’ve known each other for two years.”

“It’s so cool,” you say, unbothered by Rafe’s prickliness. “What kind of music are you most interested in?”

You continue to chat with Isaac, who’s clearly happy to be on the subject. Your nerves are stable now that you’re distracted by a genuine conversation.

Once there’s a lull, you turn to Rafe, clinking your beer against his, feeling like yourself again.

“Kind of late to cheers you now, but cheers,” you say.

“Do you talk everyone’s ear off?” he asks.

“I try to,” you reply with a grin, handing him your drink. “And now I need to go to the bathroom.”

════════

As you walk through the hallway to head back downstairs, a shelf crammed with books catches your eye. Unable to curb your curiosity, you wander into the bedroom to inspect the colorful spines.

You realize you lost track of time when a harsh voice interrupts your reading of a book’s back cover.

“You serious?” you hear behind you.

You turn to see Rafe at the door, two beers in his hands. You must have been gone so long that he had to come look for you.

“Oops,” you giggle. You cross the room, taking your drink back. “Thanks. I just wanted to check out the collection.”

“I didn’t bring you here to read,” he says sharply.

“Jeez,” you say, brows furrowing. Emma had said he was mean. She wasn’t kidding. “Why are you being grumpier than usual?”

Rafe exhales a sigh, but it’s not frustrated like usual. It’s wobbly. Almost sad.

“She’s here,” he murmurs.

Your heart sinks. She’s here. And you left him alone.

You beckon him into the room, shutting the door to avoid anyone overhearing. The music is muffled now, your senses mildly blurred from the alcohol.

“I didn’t mean to get distracted,” you say softly.

You gaze up at him to see that the hard, angry exterior you’ve grown accustomed to is gone. Right now, there’s a glimpse of softness, of genuine heartbreak.

You realize you only really heard Emma’s perspective on the relationship. You hardly know Rafe’s.

“She really did a number on you, huh?” you ask.

He only looks to the side, quiet and tense. You point to the desk by the window.

“Let’s sit,” you say.

“We don’t have to get into it,” he groans.

You settle on the desk’s surface.

“I should have some background information, don’t you think?” you say. “Humor me. I’m a decent listener. Way better at talking, but...”

You smile. Rafe is sure he’ll never understand how someone can be this damn perky.

Once he can tell you’re not letting it go, he shifts to sit on the chair, looking up at you through slitted eyes.

“How long were you together?” you ask.

“Few months.”

It's a little less impossible to picture Rafe as a boyfriend now that you see his guard down by half an inch. He must not open up all that much. You assume that’s why the breakup is hitting him so hard.

“Did you meet here at school?”

“Yeah.” He thinks back to when he’d sparked a conversation with Emma the first weekend of his sophomore year. “Things were good, but then she…”

He stops talking. He’s being pathetic. The night she ended things has been on a loop in his head. They were both drunk, at a party just like this one, arguing like they always did, when she said she was done with it, with everything.

That was a month and a half ago and he’s still a wreck.

He can’t help it. He’s always felt like a bottomless pit of a person, and Emma helped fill the void, made him feel like he was worth something.

Now that what she gave him is gone, he’s back to emptiness. To the constant reminders of how unlovable he is.

You stare at him. It’s obvious in the pain behind his stare, the tightness of clenched fists, that she broke his heart.

“Was it unexpected?” you ask.

He nods.

“Did you talk to her downstairs?”

“No,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, pain radiating in his core. “This whole thing is stupid.”

“It’s not,” you say. “And as your tutor, I have to tell you that stupid is a bad word.”

He flashes you an unimpressed glare. The tables have turned between you, dropping you into the role of the one who needs to be confident and reassuring.

“It’ll be fine,” you say, your tone lighthearted. “You just have to look like you’re having fun with your new girlfriend, who you’re completely infatuated with and who you would never yell at for innocently reading the back cover of a book.”

Rafe looks towards the bookshelf he found you standing next to, guilt pinching his chest. He’s always hated it about himself, how he snaps first and thinks later.

“Any chance you saw Beck?” you ask.

“No.”

“Okay,” you say. You chug the rest of your beer and wince once the bottle is empty. “That was gross. Let’s go.”

════════

It takes a few minutes to catch Emma’s eye from across the noisy, inebriated crowd.

You’re standing in the corner of the living room facing Rafe, your arms on his shoulders like he instructed you to do. Once her gaze is on you, you cock your head.

“She’s looking,” you say.

The combination of witnessing Rafe’s heartbreak and drinking the bitter alcohol has loosened up your nerves. The man standing across from you may be rough around the edges, but he has a heart. And he gave it to someone who shattered it.

While you might not know much about their failed relationship, seeing his pain up close is enough to make you want to help.

You step a little closer, the room’s heat pressing on your skin.

“Did you start Pride and Prejudice yet?” you ask.

Rafe’s eyes sweep over your face, his big hands settling on your hips.

“Don’t tutor me right now.”

“We’re supposed to be flirting, so we have to talk about something,” you reply. “It’s a really good book. A love story if you’re into that.”

He grimaces.

“Well, it explores other themes, too.”

You notice Emma’s still looking right at you, and this time, Gabby is standing beside her and staring daggers, too.

“Hey, is it possible to get drunk off of one beer?” you ramble. “Or is it just placebo?”

“Get closer,” he tells you impatiently.

“Right.”

You slide your hands around the back of his neck and pull him down into a hug, his cheek pressed on yours, the aroma of crisp aftershave drifting over you.

“I should limit myself to half a beer next time,” you say in his ear, faking a smile.

“Lightweight,” he replies.

You act like you’re scanning the room, as if you’re meeting Emma’s eyes by chance, and when you see her cold stare, you squeeze him tighter.

“She looks really mad,” you tell him.

Rafe smirks, his chest grazing yours. It feels good knowing he still has an effect on his ex. If she was really over him like she said she is, she wouldn’t care. This is the taste of power he needed.

He slides his hands to the small of your back, languidly dragging up the curve of your spine.

If he was a guy you like, if he was Beck, you’d be a nervous mess right now. But this is methodical and calculated. It’s easy to flirt with someone when it’s fake. There’s nothing on the line.

In the corner of your eye, Emma whispers something to Gabby and they disappear into the crowd. You pull back and slowly slip your hands off of Rafe’s shoulders to pat his chest.

“She left and she wasn’t happy,” you say. “You’re welcome.”

════════

When you think about last Friday, it’s like you’re recalling a story you heard about someone else, because it can’t possibly have been you.

One drink had you completely uninhibited. You’ve never been so close to a man before, and there you were, holding Rafe against you, murmuring in his ear, acting like two mutually interested people at a party, when in reality, you’re both always at least a little annoyed with each other.

As you sit in the study room, waiting for him to arrive for your tutoring session, you’re unsure if it’ll be awkward to look him in the eye after all that happened between you.

“Hey,” Rafe coolly says when he comes in.

“Hey,” you reply.

“Beck asked about you.”

You perk up, completely distracted from whatever you were just feeling.

“What?”

Rafe settles in his usual spot, a satisfied smile pulling at his lips, clearly proud of himself for thinking of this ruse in the first place.

“The other day at practice,” he says. He pulls out his laptop. “He asked me if you and me are hanging out.”

“And?”

“I said yeah, but it’s all fake.” He gives you an impatient shrug. “What do you think I said?”

“Ha ha,” you say flatly. “His sister’s my best friend. He must’ve heard about us from her.”

You were convincing when Lyla asked you about how your date went the next day, telling her that you had a great time with Rafe. She’s still surprised at the mismatched pair, but she’s trying to be supportive.

Rafe notices the subtle frown on your face as you pull his laptop forward.

“Did he say anything else?” you ask.

“No.”

“He’s asked his sister and you about me,” you say, “but he won’t talk to me himself. If he wants to check in on me, he should. I mean, I’ll definitely lie and say I’ve been doing great, but still.”

You try to shake away the thought. You hate how much you still care, how much his years of flirting with you just for everything to end the way it did have hurt you.

“Have you heard from Emma?” you ask.

Sorrow seeps into you when Rafe’s eyes lose their brightness. You shouldn’t have asked.

“She’s trying to act like she doesn’t care,” you try to console him. “You’ll have the last laugh.”

You swiftly change the subject, finding the file he was supposed to fill with a first draft. There’s hardly anything. You suck your teeth with a disappointed tsk.

“Rafe,” you say. “You need to come here with more written down.”

“What the hell am I supposed to write about a love story?” he grumbles.

“I already told you there are other themes in this book,” you reiterate. “Let’s go through them.”

════════

The next evening, you’re leaving the library after a study session when your phone vibrates with a text. It’s Rafe, letting you know that the team is celebrating a win at an off-campus bar and that you should come.

Imagining yourself walking into the bar and seeing Beck and acting the same way you did at that party feels impossible. A little part of you is worried last weekend’s display was a lucky fluke.

You reply to him as you walk deeper into the cool spring night: I have readings to do.

When ur done then?

You stare down at your screen, uncertain and nervous. It was easy when you had Emma to fool. You were confident she’d have some sort of reaction, seeing that it was her ex-boyfriend you were cuddling up to.

But Beck might not even care. And that’d hurt.

You eventually come to the conclusion that it’s worth a try. Beck damaged your pride. You want to undo some of that damage. And you didn’t start this just to back out.

You text Rafe: I’ll call you when I get there.

════════

Half an hour later, your name flashes on Rafe’s phone. He stands from his place at the table, all other seats taken up by teammates and girlfriends, and he makes his way to the entrance of the bar.

Even though you’re just someone he’s pretending to be into, it feels good to have a person come to a party just for him again. Emma used to always tag along for these things, back when she was the constant in his life.

“Hey,” he answers your call.

“Meet me at the front,” you say on the other end. Rafe finds you at the door, your arms crossed, your lips pulled into an awkward smile.

“I didn’t want to come in alone,” you explain. He puts his phone back in his pocket, eyes travelling over you in confusion. Why are you back to being nervous?

“Loosen up,” he says.

“I’m trying,” you breathe.

“Just follow my lead,” he says. “Act like you don’t care that he’s here.”

Rafe offers you his hand and you take it, feeling his slightly calloused palm against yours. You keep your gaze on the floor as he takes you into the loud bar.

He doesn’t give you a chance to think. He gets to his seat and pulls you onto his lap. You try your best to act like this is something you’ve done before.

You drape your arm around his shoulders, looking down at him, finding a sense of reassurance in his striking blue eyes as his lap warms the underside of your thighs.

“Casually sitting on your lap,” you mumble. “This is normal for us. Totally normal. Who needs a chair? Not me.”

Most of the group is in lively conversation. Some people don’t even notice your arrival. But Beck does.

You offer him a small smile from across the table, the sight of him making your stomach flutter. He nods in greeting, unreadable.

Rafe’s hand rests on the side of your bare thigh, fingers splayed over your cool skin, right where your skirt ends.

“You’re cold,” he says, loud enough over the music, quiet enough that only you can hear him.

His muscles start to tighten as his thumb brushes over the swell of your thigh.

It’s instinct. He can’t control that he’s getting worked up. He has a pretty girl on his lap. It’d be weird if his body didn’t have some sort of reaction.

“Yeah. It’s cold out,” you reply.

“How’d you get here?” he asks accusingly.

“I walked.”

“Walked?” he repeats. “By yourself?”

“Campus security can only escort me through school property,” you say. “I was on my own for like, two minutes.”

“Don’t do that again,” he says, quieter now. “I’d never let my girl walk alone at night.”

You tilt your head, frustration bubbling up inside you.

“Let?” you echo, brows furrowed.

He stares at you with hard eyes, forcing himself to push past the irritation of what you’re implying — that he’s controlling. He heard it from Emma before. She never understood that he was trying to protect her.

You’re supposed to be happy to see each other, not arguing. And he needs to get you back for pissing off his ex the other night. And it’s a good idea to get his hand off of your leg for his own sake.

His touch is featherlight when he cups your cheek. Your eyes soften with appreciation. He’s putting on this show for you, forcing your tense conversation to look sweet, and it makes you a bit more relaxed.

His ex is nowhere to be found, but he’s being affectionate with you, holding up his part of the deal. You can only hope this is working on Beck. You’d spent years seeing him with girls; he’d never seen you with a guy.

“I would’ve picked you up,” Rafe says stiffly, his tone mismatching his gesture. “If you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t be cool with knowing something could happen to you. You said we have to be believable, yeah?”

You study him under the dimmed, warm lights, your heart racing from feeling Beck’s presence at the other side of the table.

“So, it’s like you… feel responsible for my safety or something?” you ask.

The stress digging in Rafe’s shoulders fades into a relief he wasn’t expecting. It’s uncommon for him to feel understood. He felt it at times with his ex, but she hardly ever tried to see his side, calling him too much.

As if he needed the reminder. He knows he’s too much.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“I’ll tell you to come get me next time.”

He lowers his hand, resting it on your leg again. This time, though, he makes sure to only be touching your clothes, making no contact with your skin.

“How was the game?” you ask.

“We always beat Hatfield,” Rafe says.

“How many penalties did you get?”

“I don’t count.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” you say. “You’re in the sin bin a lot.”

Rafe’s lips curl into a smile that tells you he agrees, but that he also won’t change a thing.

“How’d you know that?”

“I came to a lot of games last semester.”

“You should probably start coming to them again,” he says.

He’s right. If this were real, you’d be coming to the rink to cheer your boyfriend on.

“It’s kind of hard for me,” you admit.

Rafe grimaces in the impatient way he always does, wearing that look that implies whatever you just said is silly. You lick your lips nervously, leaning even closer to him to explain.

“I used to go to all of his games,” you say, hushed. “All through high school, too. Sitting behind the home bench just reminds me of all the time I wasted thinking he liked me, too.”

You pull back. Rafe stares at you for a moment. Despite your differences, you really have been hurt the same way. You both saw a future with someone who gave you a glimmer of hope just to shut you down.

He doesn’t usually care enough to make someone feel better. Right now is different.

“Then sit behind the sin bin,” he says. “Count my penalties for me.”

You laugh. And when you notice Beck’s eyes on you, it feels really good.

You think back to what Rafe said, to act like you don’t care. You notice Isaac a few seats away and greet him with a hello and a smile, then meet Beck’s gaze.

“How was the game?” you say casually from across the table.

“Good,” Beck answers. “It’s cool to play with Marcus again.”

“Oh, right,” you say. Marcus was a mutual friend in high school who now plays for Hatfield, a college a town away. “Did you get to talk to him?”

“Not really,” Beck replies. “What’s up with you? It’s been a while.”

It’s irritating to hear him say that, as if the distance between you wasn’t all because of him. You used to talk to Beck all the time, until he unexpectedly drove you away.

You shrug, hoping you don’t give away how hurt you’ve been.

“Not much,” you say. You look at Rafe, willing yourself to flirt with another man in front of the one who broke your heart. “This one guy I’m tutoring has been taking up all my time.”

“Sounds rough,” Rafe says.

“Yeah,” you play along, “but I’m very patient.”

“You are,” Beck says. “I wouldn’t have survived last semester if it weren’t for you.”

You force another smile, meeting Beck’s gaze again. You don’t like the reminder of all the time you spent helping him with school, pining for him, hoping he pined for you, too.

Rafe looks between you and Beck as you continue to chat. There’s an obvious history between you two, a tone that only old friends could have, but the exchange is stiff.

It’s clear, at least to him, that there’s something you two aren’t talking about.

════════

Once the night ends, you get into Rafe’s car. He turns the key, the engine roaring to life.

“That was great,” you murmur sarcastically as you put on your seatbelt. You meant it to come out as a joke, but your voice has a strain to it.

It would’ve been amazing if Beck stared like Emma did the other night, but he didn’t. You feel rejected all over again.

“I think he knows us both well enough to know we can’t really like each other like that,” you say. You watch the bar’s neon sign blink in the passenger side mirror as you try to ground yourself. “Oh, well. We tried.”

Rafe highly doubts he caught on. There’s no world where you’d two be a couple — you’re irritatingly chatty and wear your heart on your sleeve, the complete opposite of Rafe and what he looks for in a girl — but while Beck kept a cool facade, his glances at you weren’t skeptical. And they weren’t platonic, either.

He puts the car in drive, anxiety gnawing at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. It sounds like you’re about to call it quits all because of a false assumption.

“He fell for it,” Rafe mutters. “And he was jealous. You’re crazy if you think he wasn’t.”

You were hoping that Beck would be convinced that you’re fine after what happened between you. That maybe he’d regret the way he handled things. But you never thought he’d actually be jealous. Why would he be if he never liked you in the first place?

“Then I guess I’m crazy,” you tell him, “because to me, he didn’t seem to care at all.”

Rafe scratches his jaw, exasperated.

“You ever think that maybe he’s just not transparent like you are?” he says after a beat.

You look at his profile, the passing streetlights washing over the planes of his face.

“Transparent?” you echo. “So, I… gave us away?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Rafe says gruffly. “You’re convincing with my help, but without it, you’re damn easy to read. He’s not as obvious as you. If you looked hard enough, though, you could tell that he really didn’t like that you were sitting on my lap.”

You stare ahead at the darkened street. From your first tutoring session with Rafe, he had you figured out. You mentioned Beck and he caught on to whatever gave you away.

You’ve been able to pretend you’ve been fine, that your heart has been kept intact. Rafe is the only one who saw through it, from the moment he sat down next to you in that study room. He has a knack for reading people.

“How do you do that?” you ask, studying his features once more.

“What?”

“I’m not easy to read,” you say. “Nobody else has picked up on how upset I’ve been over him. Not even my best friend. But you called me out right away. How are you so good at seeing through people?”

Rafe’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. It’s a loaded question.

He spent his childhood hyperware of what unhappiness looks like in people, desperately clinging onto his dad’s fickle approval since he can remember. It never left his system. It turned him into a man trained in recognizing the slightest change in someone’s mood.

He could even sense when Emma was falling out of love with him. She said he was paranoid when he called her out on it, but he knew he was right.

After you spend your life starving for approval, wanting someone to see every side of you and decide that you’re worth loving, it’s second nature to make note of the signs that they’re writing you off. And to lose control when you beg them not to.

He swallows hard. You simply mentioned how observant he is and his mind is spinning now. You stripped back a layer, peeling at a part of him he pretends doesn’t exist.

It’s another thing about you that he’d never want in a real girlfriend. You’re doing what you did the other night when you asked about his ex. You’re prying.

“Just am,” he finally replies.

The tension is nipping at his bones, the memories flooding back with no mercy. Emma never dug at him like this. It’s part of why he liked her so much. She didn’t make him look at these sides of himself.

“Riveting,” you say, rolling your head to the side to look out the window. “Well, you don’t need to try to make me feel better, okay? You can give it to me straight that he doesn’t like me like that.”

“Did you register anything I just said?” he scoffs.

“Now you know how I feel when I’m tutoring you,” you joke, unaffected by his brashness like usual.

“He asked me about you the first chance he got, remember? And he was awkward as hell tonight. He cares. He’s just the type that’s desperate for everyone to think he’s a good guy, so when he’s jealous, he tries to hide it.”

You mull over his words. You’ve only ever thought the world of Beck, until he abruptly distanced himself from you and made you almost certain that he’d been conciously leading you on for years.

To think of him as someone preoccupied with being liked feels accurate. He always keeps the peace, possibly in an effort for approval.

The idea that he did feel something for you, that he does, is a dangerous type of hope you’re well acquainted with. It makes you feel better that someone else sees what you’d seen for years.

Rafe’s words, albeit curt, bring you relief. Beck must feel something that he never wanted to act on. And he might want to act on it now.

“I guess I’m just so used to overthinking about him,” you admit. “Thanks.”

Rafe is silent. Irritated. Tense. You didn’t want to believe all that Emma had told you that night at the rink, but most things check out. He’s moodier than you could’ve expected.

“You okay?” you ask.

He’s doing it again. He’s hardly offering any insight on what he’s thinking, shutting you out. Your dynamic feels unbalanced now, considering how much you’ve told him.

Rafe comes to a stop in front of your building. He’d do anything but admit why he’s so good at reading people. It’s a burden, a reminder of the desperation that’s lived in him ever since he was a child.

“We’re here,” he states flatly.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. Despite everything, you don’t have it in you to be angry at him. Not after he helped you so much. Not after he tried to console you in his own abrupt way.

“Rafe?”

“What?”

You stare at him until he gives in and looks at you, wearing yet another grimace.

“I’m not technically going through a breakup, but if anyone kind of gets what you’re going through right now, it’s me,” you tell him. “I vent to you a lot. It’s cool if you want to vent to me, too. This is all an act, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. That’s all. Thanks for the ride.”

You step out of the car and shut the door, leaving Rafe with the disquieting realization that if he’s going to keep doing this with you, he’ll have to accept the fact that you probably won’t stop prying.

next >

author’s note it’s not a fic by me if rafe doesn’t have daddy issues…

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[meowdei]

Sukuna hates your job. He also hates early mornings. If you put them both together, he hates the fact that your job requires you to wake up early in the morning���and by default, it wakes him, too.

“Sukuna,” you sigh. It’s the same back and forth every day. A nonstop battle of push and pull as you try to leave your (sadly comfortable) bed while he stubbornly keeps his arm draped around your body. “C’mon, we do this every day.”

“Yeah, so then stop,” he grumbles. 

“I meant you,” you purse your lips. “We wouldn’t do this every day if you would just let go.”

“We wouldn’t do this every day if you’d quit wakin’ me up.”

You let out an exasperated exhale as his arms curl around your waist tighter, pulling you closer so he can bury his face into your chest. You don’t like to admit that you somewhat encourage his difficult behavior by letting your fingers weave into his messy hair, raking your nails along his scalp while he shivers lightly. 

“I can’t cuddle you forever, you know,” you hum, smiling softly despite the absurdity of it all. “We have bills to pay.”

“I don’t need cuddles,” he grunts. It’s a ridiculously blatant lie—you’re getting dangerously close to running late because he won’t let you leave the bed, and the only reason for that is because he stubbornly refuses to let your body disentangle from his.

You expect nothing less from him, of course. You’re not naive enough to think Sukuna would admit that he appreciates having your body pressed close against his, but the evidence of his rather grumpy frown is enough that you’re contently able to assume. Gently, you pinch his cheek, grinning as you murmur, “You’re pretty clingy in the mornings.”

“Be quiet.”

“Not even going to deny it, huh?” You tease, giggling softly as he cracks open an eye and glares through sleepy, bleary pupils. “You’re down bad.”

You like to think you and Sukuna have come a long way. It’s hard to break through walls and navigate how far you can push through his exterior when it’s as tough of an exterior as it is. The first time you dare to reach between your bodies and hold his hand, yours is clammy from overthinking his reaction. What if he pulls away? Or swats your hand away? Or gets annoyed? Or weirded out? What if he realizes he doesn’t like you like that? Your brain runs a mile a minute, coming up with every worst possible outcome for ages before you have the nerve to close the gap.

(It was all for nothing in the end. He’d casually tightened his grip, of course, so your inner pep talk in your head was a pointless fit of anxiety, but you don’t think you can be blamed. He’s not exactly the most emotionally available individual.)

Now, you think fondly, he never lets go. There’s always a hand on your body. The ones that rest on your hips as he stands from behind. The one that grabs your wrist to tug you along so you keep up. The one casually laid across your thigh as you sit. The one that hikes up your shirt when he’s particularly shameless. 

He clicks his teeth with a scowl as he glances up at you and grunts, “I’m not down bad. I barely even tolerate you.”

“You seem pretty obsessed to me. I guess being this beautiful is hard to ignore, huh?”

You can practically feel the smile he’s fighting back, grinning down at him as he tries to keep his scowl painted firmly on. “It’s too early for this, brat. Get back in bed.”

“Baby, I’d love to. But I have work,” you argue, pouting.

He pretends he doesn’t hear you. You scoff incredulously as he simply pulls the blankets tighter over his shoulders and settles against your body, trying to fall back asleep as if you’re not behind schedule and risking an angry questioning from your manager. And as aggravated as you should be, you’re not.

You can’t be. (Because, really, who else has the luxury of witnessing Sukuna be clingy? Certainly no one else but you. What sort of fool would you be not to take advantage of it from time to time?)

“I know you can hear me,” you roll your eyes.

“Then you’re perfectly aware I’m ignoring you,” he huffs.

“Don’t be stubborn—I’ll be back before you know it,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He melts a bit, but his grip only gets tighter if anything. “You’re not leaving at all. Now let me sleep.”

You slump back against your pillows in defeat, letting him smugly doze off again as he presses half of his body weight over you, just to be sure you don’t try to escape. You watch the rise and fall of every steady breath. The way the usual crinkles on his face from his almost permanent frown are smoothed out. The way his lips are parted and soft puffs of air exhale every few moments. You can’t help but think how far you and Sukuna have come. How easily it is to love him and feel loved—how impossible it seemed at one point to know if he even cared.

And if you end up sending a quick text to lie about being too sick to come in just to cuddle some more, you think there are worse things to lie about.

[rafesbabygirlx]

I’D RATHER HAVE YOU

✧ 𝙳𝙸𝙻𝙵!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚎𝚛!𝙽𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚢!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ✧

✧ 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃 | 𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃

✧ Warnings- suggestive behavior, name calling (rafe about wife)

✧ Some inspiration from @moondustbaby headcanons! Thank you 🩵 it really helped with the motivation here!

You were young and beautiful and driving yourself crazy with college classes. Being nanny was the only thing that kept you afloat in your tiny apartment and worked around your class time.

The rich families on the island would pay any amount of money to not have to worry about their kids. That’s how you ended up working for Rafe Cameron. Richest man on the island. You made $55 an hour taking care of his 3 kids.

When you interviewed, Rafe seemed nothing short of uninterested. He sat there silent staring into the glass of whiskey he was swirling in his hand. You couldn’t stop your eyes from constantly flickering over to him. All while his wife read off a list of questions that sounded like she entered - “questions to ask someone who may watch my kids” - into an ai system.

If it weren’t for their 3 kids running in and crashing the interview, you didn’t think you’d even get the job. Their youngest, Ella. She warmed up to you instantly, getting you hired on the spot.

You worked for the Cameron’s for about a month when you noticed Rafe working from home more as the time went on. You worried about your hours being cut, but I never happened. Ella was constantly stuck to your side. You watched as Rafe’s eyes always lingered to you, but you thought the stares were directed at Ella.

When the older kids were at school and Ella was down for her nap, you took the time to do your assignments at the kitchen island. Rafe would wander into the kitchen, stand a little too close and ask you what you were working on. You’d try to ignore the way you can hear him smell the scent of your shampoo or the way he leave the kitchen clearly adjusting the crotch of his pants.

When the kids would be outside playing you’d sit in the grass with a book, occasionally keeping an eye on them. Rafe would come out and sit next to you with that same glass of whiskey. His hand would slowly inch towards yours and he’d softly brush his thumb across your knuckles. You felt a flutter in your stomach and tried to play it off as best as you could.

Then came the night when everything changed. His hair was ruffled and tie was loose from a stressful day at work. His wife was god knows where with god knows who. You were at the sink cleaning up the dishes from dinner when he came and stood behind you, placing his arms on either side of you, locking you in place between him and the counter.

Your breath hitched when he leaned in and his lips grazed your neck.

“You’d be a great step mom. The kids already love you.”

“Mr. Ca-” before you could finish he cut you off again.

“My wife is a big whore. She doesn’t think I know what she does. I know. I know everything. Working on leaving her, by the way.”

You’re at a loss for words. You’re frozen in place.

“You’re a smart girl. Working hard to get places. She’s no good. Worth nothing. My kids need someone like you to look up to. I need someone like you. You feel what you do to me?”

And you do. You feel exactly what you do to him. It’s poking you in the lower back, letting you know it’s there. “I do, I feel you, Rafe.”

“God the way you say my name. Your beautiful. I promise I’ll make you mine once everything’s settled. You’ll fit right in here. I won’t make you work baby. You just study hard… and make me hard. That sound good?”

You couldn’t deny it. He was a beautiful man. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you. You were ok with waiting and that’s exactly what you were going to have to do. Just as you went to turn around the front door open and shut making you jump.

“We’ll have a moment again soon.” Rafe stood up straight and walked over to the fridge grabbing a beer walking out of the kitchen as his wife walked in not acknowledging her presence, leaving you, standing there alone with her.

Tags + some moots @rafestoothbrush @weluvwbb @itsforeverandalwayz @butterfly-ibuki @megiiite @siredbtches @bigenergy777 @aupernatural-teenwolflover @rafegf-real @skywalker0809 @snowtargaryen @kieeslove @leather-n-velvet @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @diasnohibng @slurpdew @alphabetically-deranged @whydoesthemirrorhateme @currentresidentinhell @slut-4-rafey @akobx @rafesheaven @laniirackssss @jjmaybankmylovee @slut4you @larema121 @nemesyaaa @cherrywriterrr @inthelibrarybtw @littlelamy

[minswriting]

DROP THE ATTITUDE - S.R x READER

About: Spencer’s been giving you an attitude all day and you’re not having it.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, brat!spencer, mean dom! reader, slapping, choking, dacryphilia, degradation, sub!spencer, mentions of spencer’s addiction, etc.

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Let’s bring back kinky spencer tumblr fr. If there’s anything you don’t like in the warnings, just don’t read. Border is by @esote-rika and this is proof read by @beenreidingaboutyou . Please comment and reblog to support your creators! The fic was originally called “Brat” but i changed the name heehee.

It wasn’t often that Spencer gave you an attitude. Usually he was very kind and respectful, happy and upbeat, understanding and adoring. He’d ramble about anything and everything on his brain. But today? Today, Spencer was off and giving you an unnecessary attitude which you were not going to allow to happen.

It had been a little while since the two of you had done anything sexual. With his long hours at the BAU and your job getting in the way of the rare alone time the two of you would have, it’s been a bit hard to sneak in some sexual time together. Today was a rare day that you both had off and rather than spending time together in an enthusiastic manner, Spencer was annoyed and dismissive of you.

Like when you had woken up in bed alone to the smell of coffee. You had gone into the kitchen, still wearing your pajamas as you walked up behind Spencer and wrapped your arms around him. “Good morning,” You said softly, as you pressed a kiss onto his shoulder blade.

“Morning.” He said shortly, a complete difference in how he usually greeted you in the morning. The way you were greeted in the morning usually consisted of peppering your face with kisses and wishing you a good morning as he grabbed your butt. This was a complete difference but you tried your best to ignore it. He was likely very tired due to working very hard the last few weeks.

“Are you alright?” You murmured, resting your chin on his shoulder but letting go of Spencer.

“I’m fine,” He said coldly, grabbing his cup of coffee and pulling away from you, leaving you with a frown on your lips from Spencer’s out-of-character behavior.

You decided to give him space as you got yourself ready for the day and went to the store to buy groceries for the two of you. And while you were out, you had gotten one of Spencer’s favorite snacks. When you had gotten home, grocery bags in hand, Spencer wasn’t in the living room like he had been when you left. Instead, you heard him in the shower.

As you were putting the groceries away, you heard the shower turn off. When Spencer eventually came out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, you greeted him with a smile. “Hi, my love,” You exclaimed, holding up Spencer’s favorite snack. “I bought you these while I was out.”

And rather than being met with a “thank you”, you were met with nothing but a sassy response. “I didn’t ask you to buy those for me,” He replied, furrowing his eyebrows.

You once again frowned. “I know you didn’t,” You exclaimed. “But I wanted to.”

“Okay,” He said before walking away, going to the bedroom.

The whole interaction left a sour taste in your mouth as you finished putting away all the perishable items. The last time Spencer had given you such an attitude was when he was on Dilaudid. And then suddenly, something in your brain clicked as you felt worry wash over you. You put down the box of pasta you were holding before making your way to the bedroom as well. You didn’t bother to knock on the door as you walked in.

“What is wrong with you today?” You asked, looking at Spencer, who was sitting on the bed with his back to the headboard with a book in his hands. Though you could tell he wasn’t really reading it.

“What do you mean?” He asked with disinterest, his eyes glued to the book.

“You’ve been cold to me all morning,” You exclaimed, crossing your arms. “So what is wrong with you today?” You asked once more. You were concerned, annoyed, and overall not enjoying the energy that Spencer was giving you.

“Nothing,” He replied simply, his eyes still on the book.

“Nothing?” You let out a chuckle of disbelief. “Clearly it’s something otherwise you wouldn’t be acting this way.” You looked away for a second, taking a deep breath before putting your gaze back on Spencer. “Are you using Dilaudid again?” You asked, your tone much softer but your face held a look of concern.

That sudden question caused Spencer’s eyes to shoot over to you as he immediately closed the book. “No,” he replied quickly. “Why would you think that?”

You frowned. “Because you haven’t given me this much of an attitude since you were using,” You replied honestly.

Spencer frowned as well, a small look of hurt on his face as he realized that he had been acting rudely to you all day. “I-I’m not using,” He said honestly. “I’ve just been frustrated all day.”

“And so you’ve been acting like a brat all day?” You retorted.

Spencer tensed for a second, biting his bottom lip as he had a certain look in his eyes. And that’s when it hit you. He really had been acting like a brat today. It had been so long since the two of you have done anything remotely sexual. And he’d been acting like a cunt because he hadn’t gotten his rocks off in so long.

“Oh my god,” you said, walking closer to Spencer. “You’re sexually frustrated.”

Spencer didn’t respond as he watched you get closer to him. He put the book he had in his lap on the nightstand as you moved to sit yourself on his lap. “I-“ he began but you stopped him, placing a finger on his lips.

“Brats don’t deserve to talk,” you replied.

This led to your dress being ridden up with Spencer’s pants lowered just enough for his cock to be out as you bounced on his cock. Spencer’s hands were on your hips as he looked at you with his eyes blown out in pleasure. “You’re so wet-“ Spencer began but stopped when your hand collided with his cheek. He let out the loudest moan, bucking his hips into yours. Clearly an indication that he loved the feeling.

“As I said earlier,” You breathed out, slowing your hips. “Brats don’t deserve to talk.”

It wasn’t often that you had to tame Spencer. He was usually such a good boy for you. Or you were a good girl for him. But when you had to tame him, he wanted you to be harsh on him. He adored whenever you slapped him and choked him, to put him in his place. “My dirty boy,” you said, licking your lips. The hand that collided with Spencer’s cheek gripped his jaw, keeping his head from falling back from the pleasure. “Think you can have an attitude all day simply because you want to get your dick wet? How pathetic.” Spencer whined at the degradation, pressing himself into you as your hips collided with his. “There’s this thing called using your words. You need to use them if you want something.”

“I-I’m-“ Spencer tried to speak but your hand went to his throat, pressing gently to cut off the blood flow but not to cut off his oxygen.

“Did I say you were allowed to speak?” You asked, keeping your hand there. You continued moving your hips, going faster as you bounced on Spencer’s cock. To say you missed this was an understatement. The feeling of Spencer’s cock diving in and out of you, hitting that sweet spot inside of you just right. And the times you got to be in control? Divine, absolutely divine.

Spencer was whining and whimpering underneath you, his cheeks were reddened by the heat of the moment and the lack of blood flow to his brain. His lips were parted as his beautiful brown eyes were on you, looking at you in pure bliss. Your hand moved from Spencer’s neck to his shoulder, stabilizing yourself as you rode him a bit faster.

“Oh my god,” Spencer breathed out, throwing his head back. If you had been feeling particularly mean, you would slap him again and make him look at you. But you decided he deserved at least just a little break. “Feels so good, feels so good,” He whined, closing his eyes in pleasure.

That was something you were not going to allow.

You smacked his cheek again, causing Spencer to whimper loudly as he moved his head to look at you once more. His eyes were glistening with tears and the imprint of your hand on his cheek. “What are you going to do, Spencer,” You asked mockingly. “Cry about it?” You held a faux sympathetic look on your face as you spoke, the movement of your hips not faltering. You clenched your walls around Spencer’s cock, eliciting a pathetic moan from the genius beneath you.

“I’m so close,” Spencer choked, tears spilling from his eyes. You couldn’t help but smirk. The sight of Spencer crying was much more of a turn on than you cared to admit to yourself. He gripped your hips tighter.

You chuckled, taking pleasure in Spencer’s current state. “Do you deserve to cum?” You asked, a mocking pout on your lips.

Spencer groaned. “No,” He mewled. “Need to cum so badly though,” He said, looking at you through teary eyes. “Please let me cum. I’ll be so good to you, I’ll be your good boy,” Spencer begged, his bottom lip wobbling as he spoke.

How could you say no when Spencer was begging you so nicely? God knows he truly does need it. “Oh, my baby,” You cooed, grinding your hips against Spencer’s. “Yes, you can cum for me.”

That was all Spencer needed as he bucked his hips into yours, thrusting his cock in and out of you as he met your hips with his own movements. He was moaning loudly, so loudly that you were sure the neighbors could hear what was going on. You were close too, the feeling of Spencer’s cock adding to the heat in your abdomen. And with just a few thrusts, Spencer began cumming. “Oh-Oh fuck,” He whined, spilling his seed inside of you which sent you over the edge as well. Your cunt clamped around Spencer’s cock as your orgasm overcame you.

And when you were both finished, the room filled with nothing but the sounds of your heavy breathing. Spencer’s grip on your hips loosened. You let out a satisfied hum as you lifted yourself up and off of Spencer’s cock. “Feel better?” You breathed out, looking at Spencer.

Spencer looked at you almost dazed as he nodded his head. “Much better,” he replied, leaning in to kiss you on the lips which you happily reciprocated.

When you pulled away, you rested your hands on Spencer’s shoulders. “Next time you’re frustrated, you need to tell me,” You murmured, leaning in to kiss Spencer’s cheek, the one you slapped.

“I will,” Spencer said, moving his head to kiss your lips once more.

The rest of the day was spent cuddling and holding one another, relishing in the rare day off the two of you had.

[cbeargyu]

favorite toy

summary: you were the queen bee — untouchable, cruel, and stunning. everyone wanted you, but the only one you ever allowed close was jaemin: your most loyal worshipper, your obedient little dog. he wasn’t just obsessed, he was deranged — willing to bleed, kill, and fall to his knees if it meant earning your attention. but when a man dares to touch what’s yours, jaemin snaps, and what follows is blood, devotion, and a night you’ll never forget. because good boys get rewarded. and he’s been so good.

pairing: dom!reader x sub!jaemin

genre: smut, psychological thriller, yandere, dark romance, obsession, toxic relationship dynamics, power play. (MDI!!)

warnings: NSFW / explicit sexual content, dom x sub dynamic, heavy yandere themes (obsession, stalking, possessiveness), knife violence / murder (graphic), blood, gore, and physical assault, toxic & manipulative relationship, degradation, praise kink, pet play, power imbalance, public harassment (attempted assault — noncon implication), crying kink, orgasm control, overstimulation, psychological manipulation / unhinged behavior, mentions of body disposal / crime cover-up, use of slurs in a kink context, intense emotional dependency, minors DNI 🚫

wc: 4,60k

notes: hope you enjoy this one! i’m stepping a little out of my comfort zone with this genre (yandere), so please make sure to read the warnings before diving in 🔞

you were the kind of girl people didn't believe existed outside of teen movies — long legs, glossed lips, sharp eyes and sharper words. you walked through the hallways like you owned the floor beneath your heels, and in many ways, you did. teachers turned a blind eye when it was you. students stepped aside like trained dogs. the girls hated you, the boys obsessed over you, and you? you didn’t give a fuck. why would you? the world bent over backwards for you.

and when it didn’t? you had jaemin.

sweet, beautiful jaemin.

he wasn’t like the rest. he didn’t just want you — he worshipped you. he looked at you like you were hung in the sky by the hands of god himself. he didn’t care that people called you a bitch behind your back —and to your face—. to him, you were a queen, and he’d rather bleed out than let your crown tilt for even a second.

"jaemin!" you’d yell, lips pursed, eyes narrowed, annoyed at the tiniest inconvenience.

and he’d come running. like the loyal little mutt he was. obedient. desperate.

he didn’t just want to be near you. he wanted to be used by you. wanted your voice in his ears, your scent on his skin, your name carved into every part of him. there was no limit to how far he’d go for you. he wasn’t the type to offer his jacket over a puddle — no, jaemin would lay his whole fucking body across it, and smile when you stepped on him.

he loved you. too much. dangerously so.

you knew it. you saw it in the way his eyes followed you like a shadow. you felt it in the way his hands shook when you were too close. you heard it in the way he said your name — like a prayer, like a curse.

and you? you let him. you used him like your personal toy. because that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? he didn’t want your heart. he wanted your attention. your praise. your fingers. your voice. your spit.

so when he got your chemistry notes perfectly recopied and highlighted like you asked, what else could you do but reward him?

"good boy," you purred, pushing him down onto your bed, silk sheets rustling beneath him. you straddled him like a throne, nails dragging down the smooth skin of his chest. "you did exactly what i told you to. i’m almost impressed."

his lips parted, a soft whimper leaving them as he nodded, flushed and dazed. his hands were trembling where they held onto the bedsheets — not even touching you, not unless you let him. you made sure he learned that.

"say it," you demanded, rolling your hips slowly against his. "what are you?"

"y-your good boy," he breathed, eyes wide, glassy. "your toy. your—fuck—yours, y/n. only yours."

your smile was wicked. you leaned down, lips brushing his ear as your hand moved lower, over his stomach, teasing.

"that’s right. you’re nothing without me, jaemin. just a pretty face with no brain unless i tell you what to think." your fingers wrapped around him and he cried out, bucking up into your touch. "but when you’re good like this? when you behave for me? you get to feel good."

he was already close — of course he was. the pathetic way he moaned when you so much as touched him made it obvious. you barely had to try. a few strokes, a few praises, and he was sobbing for you.

"look at you," you cooed, watching his face twist in pleasure. "falling apart just because i said you did a good job. you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?"

"anything," he gasped. "please, please, y/n—"

"shhh," you silenced him with a hand to his throat, tightening just enough to make his eyes roll back. "be a good toy and cum when i say."

his body was trembling beneath you, muscles taut, trying so hard to hold back even when he was right there, teetering on the edge. he didn’t dare cum without your permission — he knew better. he’d learned that lesson already, the hard way. his mind was drowning in you, flooded with your scent, your voice, your touch. nothing else existed. he didn’t even wantanything else.

you were everything. every breath, every heartbeat, every thought. there was no “jaemin” without you.

“you’re so easy to break,” you whispered, dragging your nails down his chest just hard enough to leave little red lines. “so easy to ruin. and yet… so fucking desperate to be mine.”

“i am yours,” he choked, hips twitching. “please—i need—y/n, please.”

you tilted your head, amused. “you need? and what makes you think you’re allowed to need anything?”

his eyes widened, lips parting like he’d just been caught stealing. you leaned closer, lips brushing his jaw as you whispered, “you only get what i decide to give you. you only exist because i let you.”

“yes,” he whimpered, tears in his lashes. “yes, fuck—i’m sorry. i’m yours. only yours.”

you tightened your grip around his throat just a little more, watching the way he gasped, pupils blown wide with pleasure and pain. your hand never stopped moving on him, slow, controlled, cruel. you wanted him right there — suffering under your touch, drowning in the pleasure you dangled just out of reach.

"look at you," you murmured, licking a stripe up his neck, "crying just because i won’t let you cum. i should keep you like this all night. shaking and begging like the little mess you are."

“please, i can’t—i’ll die, y/n, i swear—”

“you’d die for me?” you asked, faux sweet, lips curling into a smirk. “mm. of course you would.”

you finally let go of his throat, just so you could slap his face — not too hard, just enough to make his head turn and leave a red mark behind. his mouth fell open with a sharp gasp, and his cock twitched in your hand.

"you liked that?" you taunted, voice low. "you liked being hit? god, you’re such a fucking freak. you’re lucky you’re pretty."

"i'm lucky because i'm yours," he sobbed, "please, please, i’ll be good, i’ll be perfect, just tell me what to do, tell me what you want—"

“cum,” you ordered, voice sharp like a whip. “now.”

and he did.

it was pathetic. the way he cried out your name like a dying man, whole body arching, twitching, lips trembling. he didn’t even care that he was crying. his hands clenched the sheets like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. he came so hard it left him breathless, eyes glassy and unfocused, completely ruined just by your voice and your touch.

you watched him crumble, satisfied.

then you leaned down and kissed his cheek softly, almost mockingly tender.

“good boy.”

he stayed like that, dazed and sticky and aching, while you got up and fixed your hair in the mirror. you didn’t even glance at him when you spoke.

“i want my nails done tomorrow. you’ll book it, pay for it, and pick me up after school.”

“yes,” he croaked, still catching his breath. “anything.”

you looked back at him with a smirk. “and don’t forget who you belong to, jaemin.”

he smiled — actually smiled — like you hadn’t just ripped him to pieces and put him back together with your bare hands.

“i could never forget. you’re the only thing i’ve ever wanted.”

you were fixing your lipstick when jaemin spoke, voice soft but shaking at the edges. “you’re really going?”

you didn’t even turn to look at him. “mm-hm. the girls want a night out. just us.”

he sat on the edge of your bed, hands clenched in his lap. you could feel his eyes on you, burning with a jealousy that curled at the edges like smoke.

“and i can’t come?”

you laughed. a pretty, cruel little sound.

“no, baby. girls only.”

he swallowed hard. “but what if—what if some guy tries something? i won’t be there to protect you.”

you finally looked at him, sauntering over with that slow, confident walk that made his heart race and his stomach twist. you cupped his face in your hand, thumb brushing across his cheek.

“i can handle a few drunk losers,” you whispered, smiling sweetly. “besides... why would i want any of them?” your smile widened into something darker, crueler. “i only have eyes for my favorite toy.”

he shivered. you kissed his forehead and walked out the door, heels clicking like gunshots on the floor.

but jaemin didn’t stay behind.

he stood outside the club with his hood pulled low over his face, his messy fringe shadowing his eyes. he watched every man that looked at you. every one of them who dared to laugh too loud, stand too close, glance too long.

his hand was clenched tight in the pocket of his hoodie, fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife he’d taken from his kitchen drawer. just in case.

he hadn’t planned to use it. really. but if someone touched you, if someone hurt you—

he wasn’t going to let that happen. not to you.

you were laughing with your friends, sipping your drink like nothing could touch you. your dress was short, your legs crossed, your lipstick perfect. every man in the room looked at you like you were a prize to win.

but they didn’t understand.

you weren’t a prize.

you were a goddess.

and jaemin? he was the sword at your altar.

your friends had gone to the bathroom in a group, and for once, you let yourself stand alone, basking in the attention like it was sunlight — until he came.

some random guy. drunk. sloppy. bold in all the wrong ways. he reeked of cheap cologne and desperation, stumbling up to you like he thought you’d be impressed.

“you’re too pretty to be alone,” he slurred, grabbing your wrist before you could step back.

you rolled your eyes and yanked your arm away. “i am alone because i want to be. get lost.”

he laughed, low and ugly, and leaned in, trying to whisper something into your ear — and that’s when his hand slid down your back, groping without shame, fingers curling possessively over your ass.

you gasped, shoving him away with your purse. “get your fucking hands off me.”

but he didn’t listen. he grabbed your waist with both hands this time, tighter, trying to pull you toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms. “come on, don’t be like that—”

panic bloomed fast in your chest.

you tried to fight — kicked, shoved, cursed — but he was too strong, too fast, too sure of himself. his grip bruised, and your voice caught in your throat when he yanked you again, harder, enough to make you stumble.

“LET GO OF ME!” you screamed.

you screamed, tried to hit the guy with your bag, but he was bigger than you — stronger — and your friends were too far, the music too loud. you twisted in his grip, eyes filling with tears, trying to scream again but the panic was too much.

and that’s when he appeared.

you didn’t see him at first — just felt the sudden weight disappear from your body as the man was ripped away from you.

a blur of black hoodie, messy bangs shadowing furious eyes, and then fists.

jaemin didn’t say a word.

he just launched at the guy, tackling him to the floor in a savage, bone-snapping crash. fists flying, jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d shatter his teeth. the music didn’t drown it out — you heard the first punch land. then the second. then the third.

blood splattered up jaemin’s arm as he kept hitting, again and again, teeth bared like an animal, like he wasn’t even human anymore — just pure rage wrapped in your name.

“don’t. fucking. touch. her.” he shouted with every blow.

your knees buckled, mascara streaking down your cheeks as you watched, frozen, trembling.

security rushed in. people were screaming.

they grabbed jaemin, yanking him off the now-unconscious man, dragging both of them out of the club. but jaemin didn’t struggle. he never took his eyes off you, even while being dragged away. his lip was split. his knuckles raw. his breathing ragged.

you followed.

you had to.

outside, the bouncers shoved them into the street and slammed the door behind them. jaemin barely felt it. his pulse was roaring in his ears, his hands shaking. the man was still coughing, still alive.

jaemin turned slowly, blood on his shirt, his hand clutching something deep in the pocket of his hoodie.

your eyes widened. “jaemin…”

he pulled it out.

a knife.

not huge. not fancy. but sharp, gleaming under the streetlight. his hands trembled as he looked at the man slumped beside him — groaning, half-conscious — and then up at you.

he saw your smeared makeup. the tear on your dress. the faint bruise on your arm where the bastard had grabbed you.

and jaemin snapped.

“he touched you,” he whispered, voice broken. “he hurt you.”

“jaemin—”

"stay back, y/n," he said, not looking at you. "you shouldn't have to see this. i’ll clean up the mess."

but it was too late.

he lunged forward, fast and deliberate. the knife sank deep. once. twice. again. the man choked on blood, coughing and struggling, but jaemin didn’t stop. he stabbed and stabbed, his face twisted in something halfway between agony and bliss.

it was fast. brutal. precise.

“don’t ever fucking touch what’s mine,” he growled.

by the time it was over, the alley was quiet. just the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears, and jaemin panting, covered in blood, shaking like he’d come down from a high.

you were standing there, clutching your wrist, mascara smudged from your tears. when jaemin looked at you, saw your fear, something in him snapped.

his eyes were wild, feral, but when they landed on you… they softened.

“he hurt you. i told you i’d protect you.” you stared at him, trembling.

he took a step forward, still holding the knife. “you’re mine, y/n. no one gets to put their hands on you. no one.”

he dropped the weapon like it burned him, then reached for you — gently, reverently, like you were glass.

"you're safe now," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face with bloodied fingers. "i'll always protect you, no matter what it takes."

your breath was still uneven, chest rising and falling as you stared at him — at the blood dripping from his fingers, the wild look in his eyes, the lifeless body on the ground. the alley smelled like metal and sweat and something sickly sweet, like roses blooming in rot.

and yet…

you weren’t afraid of him.

you should’ve been. anyone else would’ve run. screamed. called the cops.

but not you.

because this was jaemin. your jaemin.

your precious, broken little pet who would’ve let himself burn alive if you asked.

he looked up at you, hands shaking. “i’m sorry,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean to—i just couldn’t let him hurt you, i couldn’t—”

you walked up to him slowly, heels clicking on the pavement, and cupped his bloody face in your hand.

“shhh,” you murmured. “don’t apologize.”

his eyes widened, lips trembling. “you’re not... mad?”

you tilted your head, smiling. “mad? baby, you just killed for me.”

he blinked, stunned silent.

you leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “do you have any idea how fucking hot that is?”

he let out a shaky breath — half a gasp, half a whimper — as you licked the blood off his cheek. his knees buckled. he almost collapsed right there in the alley.

“you’re mine,” you whispered, grabbing him by the jaw. “you don’t belong to the law. you don’t belong to this world. you belong to me. and when someone touches what’s mine…”

you looked down at the body, then back at him.

“…you did exactly what you were supposed to do.”

he moaned — actually moaned — like your words were slicing through him deeper than the knife ever could. his cock was already hard, twitching in his pants, pressed tight against the fabric of his jeans. he was still trembling, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he was in some kind of trance.

“you want your reward now, don’t you?” you teased, nails dragging lightly down his chest.

“please,” he begged. “please, y/n, i—i need—”

“on your knees.”

he dropped instantly.

there, in the alley, with blood on his hands and the weight of his sin still fresh on his skin — he knelt before you like a disciple.

you lifted your dress just enough to expose your thighs, watching the way his eyes locked onto you like he was starving.

“you were so brave, baby,” you purred, running your fingers through his messy hair. “my perfect little killer. my good boy.”

he let out a broken, wrecked sound, mouth already open, tongue out, begging for a taste of you like it was communion.

and you gave it to him.

you tugged him closer by the hair, guiding his face between your thighs, his blood-stained lips kissing the inside of your skin like he was worshipping an altar. he licked you like a man possessed — sloppy, desperate, moaning against your heat as you rocked your hips into his mouth.

“this is what you get,” you hissed, thighs tightening around his head. “for being such a perfect monster.”

he nodded as best he could, unable to stop himself from rutting against nothing, grinding like a dog in heat. he didn’t care. he didn’t need to cum. he just needed to serve.

you came on his tongue, eyes locked on his as you moaned his name, and it hit him harder than anything else ever could. his whole body shook.

when you finally pulled back, your inner thighs glistening with spit and slick and smeared red, you looked down at him with that same icy, dangerous smirk.

“clean up the mess, baby.”

he licked his lips, chin stained, and nodded.

“yes, mistress.”

you didn’t ask what he did with the body.

you didn’t need to.

he came back to you hours later, hands scrubbed raw, face pale, blood washed off but eyes still wild. he knocked on your window, not your front door. of course he did. like a stray cat, dirty and loyal, hoping you’d let him in again.

and you did.

you always did.

“get in,” you said, voice low, silk-soft. “did you clean up?”

he nodded.

“did you leave anything behind?”

“no. not a trace.”

you leaned in close, your perfume wrapping around him like smoke. “good boy.”

he whimpered, eyes rolling back slightly like those two words alone made him dizzy. your praise was his drug — one taste, and he’d bleed himself dry for another.

you pulled him inside, sat him on your bed like he was fragile, precious, something to be handled with care. and then you straddled his lap, your fingers curling around the back of his neck as your lips brushed his ear.

“tell me,” you whispered. “what did you do with him?”

“i dragged him to the back lot,” jaemin muttered, voice thick with adrenaline and need. “there’s a place behind the dumpsters where no one ever goes. used my jacket to wipe the blood. took the knife apart and buried the pieces. burned the clothes. no cameras. no witnesses.”

you smiled.

“look at you,” you purred. “you’d make such a good little hitman. maybe that’s what i’ll use you for next.”

he whined — actually whined — at the idea. “i’ll do anything, y/n. anything. i just want to be yours. please. let me stay yours.”

you grabbed his jaw, hard enough to make him shut up, and stared into his eyes like you could see his soul.

“you’ll always be mine. but only as long as you behave.”

he nodded frantically, breath coming out fast.

two days later, the police showed up at school.

the guy’s friends had reported him missing. the alley was clean, but the club had cameras outside. no clear footage, just shadows and outlines. not enough to make arrests, but enough to raise eyebrows.

you were in the office when they called you in for questioning. not as a suspect. just someone who might’ve seen something. you played it perfectly — innocent, sweet, a little shaken up but not too much.

“i left early,” you said, blinking slowly at the officer. “i wasn’t feeling well. my friends stayed longer. i didn’t see anything weird.”

they let you go. of course they did.

but jaemin?

you found him in the back of the library, curled in on himself, hoodie up, chewing on the skin of his thumb until it bled.

“they’re gonna find out,” he whispered when you sat down beside him. “they’re gonna take me away. i can’t leave you. i can’t—”

“look at me.”

he did. instantly.

“you’re not going anywhere,” you said, voice firm. “you’re mine. and i protect what’s mine.”

he stared at you like you hung the stars.

you leaned in, lips ghosting over his. “tonight. my place. you’re staying the night. i want to play with my toy.”

that night, he arrived exactly on time. showered, dressed in black like always. your parents weren’t home — they rarely were. and your bedroom? your bedroom was your temple. silk sheets. soft lighting. perfume heavy in the air. and in the center of it all, you — wearing his favorite dress, the one that made him want to kneel the second he saw it.

“strip,” you ordered the moment he stepped inside.

he obeyed.

you didn’t even touch him right away. you just circled him like a predator, watching the way his cock twitched with every step, how his breath hitched whenever you got too close.

“you really killed someone for me,” you whispered, dragging a fingernail down his chest. “doesn’t that make you mine forever?”

“yes,” he gasped. “please—claim me. mark me. ruin me.”

“mm,” you smirked. “as you wish.”

you pushed him back on the bed, pulled a collar from your nightstand — red leather, gold buckle, a tag that read “property of y/n.”

his eyes rolled back as you strapped it around his neck.

“now you’re really mine.”

he came untouched.

and you laughed — a dark, delighted sound — as you leaned down to kiss his trembling lips.

the collar clicked into place with a soft metallic snap, and something in jaemin broke.

his chest rose and fell rapidly, throat bobbing as he tried to catch his breath. the red leather sat snug against his skin, and the little gold tag with property of y/n glinted under the warm light of your bedroom.

you sat back on your heels and smiled at the sight of him: flushed, leaking, eyes glassy, lips parted like he couldn’t believe this was real. your pretty killer boy, naked and on his knees at the foot of your bed, dick already hard and dripping against his stomach just from the feeling of belonging to you.

“how does it feel?” you asked softly, tilting your head as you ran your fingers through his hair.

he shuddered. “i… i can’t—” he whimpered, dropping his head. “it’s everything. i feel like—like i’m not even human anymore. just… yours.”

you tugged his hair hard enough to make him gasp and tilt his head back to look at you. “that’s exactly what you are, jaemin. not a person. not a man. just a thing i use.”

his cock twitched violently, and a low, desperate moan escaped his throat.

you shoved him backward onto the mattress with one hand, straddling his hips with slow, commanding ease. he didn’t dare move — not unless you told him to. he just looked up at you like you were holy, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“i’ve been thinking about this since the alley,” you murmured, dragging your nails down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake. “you looked so hot covered in blood. all that violence. all that loyalty.”

he moaned under his breath, trying to buck his hips, but you slapped his thigh — hard — and he immediately stilled, lips wobbling.

“ah-ah,” you tsked. “bad dogs don’t get rewards.”

“i’m sorry,” he breathed. “please, mistress, please—i’ll be good, i’ll be perfect, just… please use me.”

you leaned down until your lips brushed his, but you didn’t kiss him. not yet. you wanted him starving.

“you are perfect,” you whispered. “my perfect little psycho.”

and then you sank down on him.

he screamed.

his back arched off the bed, hands flying to your thighs but freezing midair like he didn’t dare touch you without permission. his whole body shook as you took every inch of him, tight and slow, grinding down until you were seated fully on his cock.

“fuck,” you groaned, tossing your hair back. “you’re so hard for me. so full. you’re gonna make me cum just from the way you’re twitching inside me, baby.”

jaemin sobbed.

his eyes rolled back, tears already slipping down his cheeks from how overwhelming it was — the stretch, the heat, the pleasure, the weight of your power over him. he’d killed for you. he’d die for you. but this?

this was worse. this was better. this was fucking heaven.

you started to move — slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that made him whimper with every pass. his mouth dropped open, tongue lolling slightly, and you couldn’t help but laugh as you leaned forward to spit right on it.

he swallowed it like it was gold.

“filthy fucking dog,” you whispered, voice dark and breathless. “you like when i degrade you, don’t you?”

“yes,” he gasped. “i’m yours — your dog, your toy, your killer — please, please don’t stop—”

you slapped him across the face, just once. sharp enough to make him reel, not enough to hurt.

“shut the fuck up.”

he moaned like he came from that alone.

you rode him harder then �� fast, punishing, loud. the bed creaked, the sound of skin against skin filled the room, and jaemin was babbling nonsense now: “so good, so tight, i love you, i’d kill again, i’d do anything, please don’t ever leave me, please—”

you leaned in close and kissed him — hard — your teeth catching his bottom lip as you pulled away just enough to whisper against his mouth:

“if the cops ever come for us, you’re taking the fall.”

“yes,” he gasped. “yes, of course, i’ll take it all, i’ll protect you—”

“and if i want you to kill again?”

“just give me a name.”

you came just from that.

your nails dug into his shoulders, your head falling back as your orgasm crashed through you, but you didn’t stop. you used him, over and over, until you were soaked and shaking, until he was the one crying — tears and drool on his face, cock aching and untouched because he knew he couldn’t cum unless you let him.

“please,” he sobbed, trembling under you. “please let me cum, please—i need it, need you—”

you cupped his cheeks and leaned in close, your voice low and venom-sweet.

“cum for me, you sick little freak.”

he screamed your name as he came, hard and violent, his whole body convulsing beneath you.

and as he lay there, twitching, ruined, panting like an animal at your feet…

you smiled.

because he was yours.

completely.

[hoardcloneheadcanons]

I Was Not Built to Handle Emotions

Agent Stone has not felt anything resembling distinct emotion in a good 20 years. When he starts feeling things around Robotnik he does not know how to handle it. An account of their early interactions.

Trigger Warnings: Depression, Work Burnout, Self Harm, Murder and Amputation in passing, Emotional Repression and Possessive Behavior

I got deeply inspired by @technically-human comic post here and this one here

I've been enjoying her work since March and find it deeply inspiring for fic writing.

Agent Stone's heart had been a cold, numb thing for decades.

In a time when he had a name, before he'd blacked it out of every record book and deleted it from every database he could find, he'd had grandparents.

His Teta and Jido. He had been a foolish, passionate mistake of his parents, and his Teta and Jido had been the ones to raise him while his parents kept making passionate, foolish messes.

He did not feel attached to his functional cousins with functional parents who adapted to their adopted country so well.

He did not feel attached to the other children around him. They were noisy, messy, emotional and ill-behaved.

But he was attached to his grandparents. He listened to their stories, and their grumblings, and loved it when they shared their interests with him. His Jido built bird fountains and gardened, and his Teta read books that she'd share with him. He'd lean over her lap and look at the pages. 

Then they got older, and he had to help them out more. Jido’s hands shook, Teta’s eyesight got worse, and both needed help reading the smaller labels on their medication.

Then they died and his parents attempted to raise him. 

Him, who had been taking care of their parents for years, going to doctor's visits in their stead. 

He responded by smiling, playing the part of the dutiful son, graduating early, and going into the military.

He followed orders well. it wasn’t so different from playing the part of the dutiful son. And suddenly his lack of attachment and quiet nature became his greatest boons, and he was encouraged to nurture them. It didn’t matter what he was asked to do. It could be murder, maintenance, security or covert operations, he'd become the best at it and feel nothing.

When he was offered the promotion into a covert special agent for "The Agency" (what was known as G.U.N. before the incident of the Shadow project, and what would be known as G.U.N. again, once the scandal had faded) they told him that he may never speak to his family again. They said it as if it was a warning rather than the ribbon-wrapped gift it was.

It was no big event for him to rip out his name. It was his father's. He had no attachment to it.

For a while, everything was good as he became a cold, unyielding machine handed award and merit. 

But after a good 20 years of dutifully ripping out his emotions for the military he was growing numb, and unmotivated. 

He was at a point of plateau where he didn’t feel like he had anything to move forward or progress to when that had been his main drive.

He began to leave behind pieces of necessary equipment, injure himself before his assignment just to see if he could still do it with the handicaps. Just to feel some sort of stakes.

He succeeded several times before It caught up with him.

It was a small terrorist cell; he was disabled and eliminated. And for the record he did disable them, he cut off their ability to communicate with their allies and destroyed all their weapons. 

But he’d gotten too invested in hurting them and humiliating rather than just killing them, and a few of them had gotten away, dragging away their bleeding and flayed limbs behind them.

Stupid. He's ashamed to admit that before he'd seen their truck drive away and MISSED THE SHOT at the wheels, he'd been overconfident and having fun. Stupid.

He was suspended after that. For six months. In his commanding officer’s opinion  Stone needed a change of pace. They were calling it an enforced vacation. He hadn't had a break in years. It was understandable that he'd be slipping. He needed to get his head together.

Stone responded, by going above his commanding Officer’s head to Commander Walters, and volunteering to be a lab assistant for Dr. Robotnik.

It was a plan he'd had in his back pocket for years in case anything like this happened.

Robotnik chewed through agents, tormenting them so they were forced to quit without technically violating the terms of the contract that required he have one on hand. 

Agent Stone knew that Commander Walters was desperate to find him an agent that would stick and that it would override his suspension if they found someone willing to volunteer. After all, wasn’t it punishment enough to work for the Mad Doctor?

His commanding officer told him his suspension would start once he quit Robotnik.

Agent Stone was certain that wouldn’t happen. He hadn't heard great things about Robotnik, but between him and interacting with civilians? Of course he chose the Mad Doctor. 

…………………………………………………………………………………..............................

Dr. Robotnik is going to get rid of Agent Stone.

Right after he’s done experimenting with him.

As a rule, Robotnik does not trust agents. 

There was a reason Agency scientists were given special agents as assistance, rather than researchers, and it’s so that the Agency bigwigs could keep tabs on them.

Robotnik had found that out in his 20s when he got his first agent. He’d been so excited. Finally he had some legitimacy and some staff to order around.

That excitement lasted all of two weeks, until he had a project review with some of the higher up majors and they asked him about the satellite upgrades he was working on.

The satellite upgrade that he tooled around on in his free time while he was waiting for product orders to come in or data analysis to process for the missile he was designing for them, that they were supposed to be talking about.

The satellite upgrade that wasn’t for them.

It didn’t take him long to connect the dots and figure out who was at fault.

 Robotnik used that first Agent as target practice. He forced him to stand against a wall while he set an experimental gun to cut silhouettes around him in bullets. He justified it as “testing the gun’s ability to see”

The agent quit and never returned.

He’d made a game of it after that, “how long does it take to get rid of the newest Agent(s)” (sometimes they came in pairs or in triplicate). It got easier each year as his established reputation spread. It meant that the new Agents assigned to him had pre-existing expectations and anticipation that made them more jumpy.

His record was  37 seconds, The  Agent walked in on his first shift, saw him covered in blood and motor-oil, and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble.

A perfect agent in Robotnik’s opinion.

And Robotnik definitely has plans to get rid of Agent Stone, but he’s never had a spook before.

Robotnik made a habit of researching his agents once they got to him, finding some piece of incriminating or humiliating blackmail to send out if they ever touched his files.

But on Agent Stone there was nothing. Not even a first name, not even a birthday. Which meant they gave Robotnik one of the fancy ones.

He should be suppressing rebellions, or killing entire terrorist cells, or digging up blackmail on ambassadors, not stuck keeping tabs on a scientist.

Robotnik had no idea he was considered enough of a threat to merit somebody like Agent Stone. He was flattered. To be clear, he absolutely should be, but the recognition required anybody in higher command to have enough working electricity in their brain to static-charge a sock and he wasn’t sure any of them did. 

And now he was having fun finding the difference between a standard agent and Agent Stone.

So far he’d discovered:

Agent Stone was immune to about six types of poisons, and did not mind being volunteered as a poison tester. Robotnik had poisoned his own food just to see which ones he could get by. With antidotes on hand of course, but he just wanted to know.

He was not bothered about being shot at, but he had asked Robotnik to warn him when he was going to do so, so he could put on hearing protection.

Videos of bloody murder and mayhem would not disturb him, in fact he’d take detailed notes on them to note how the murder could be done more efficiently. This is when he decided he was pretty sure this was an assassin brand spook rather than an intel gathering one. Or possibly both.

He did not have to ask the man twice to hide a body.

Robotnik hadn’t seen any of his data stolen yet or his projects looked into, and he hadn’t seen Commander Walter or any of the Higher Generals react to the fake threats he put in the files, so either Agent Stone was smart enough not to bother, or was playing the long game.

He seemed designed to be hard to get rid of??? He wasn’t sure if agents at that level were required to be pretty or if they had to alter his face to be that way, but either way Robotnik had a compulsion to hang him on the wall to brighten up the lab.

In the same vein, the agent had an obsequious, sort of patient manner that was enjoyable. He’d never had an Agent listen to him talk for so long without rolling their eyes or looking like they wanted to escape. This one was good at hiding his true emotions, even faking attentiveness? Impressive.

He’d yet to find an order he’d say no to, or any sort of pain or psychological torture he’d react strongly to. But by God he was going to keep testing.

It never failed to delight him. It was a win-win with Agent Stone. Each test would either get rid of him or give Robotnik more data on him.

And at this point Robotnik was less inclined to chase him off than he was to keep him in a jar and study him under a microscope.

But despite that inclination. He was going to get rid of him.

Eventually.

He just had to study him a little further.

……………………………………………………………………………………........................

Stone is thawing.

Bit by bit.

He hates to admit that maybe he did need a vacation.

He’s not…happy but he is content. He is ok. It’s different than the clenching fist of nerves he’s been for the past couple of years that lead him spiraling into numbness trying to keep it choked down.

Being in an established base that he can get used to is nice. Having a routine is nice.

And yes, the Doctor is experimenting on him, but none of the experiments are lethal, they always have a backup plan to allow him to survive. So he’s not worried.

He feels a little like he’s growing roots. After years of constant motion he can finally just learn the patterns of the area and not move.

He’s taken notes on the facility and mapped it out. It’s similar to reviewing or casing an area, he just gets to stay there now. He knows where the mess hall and the coffee stations are (all of them disgustingly ill supplied) and he knows a few central figures well informed of the normal operations.

He finds himself doing as he always does and morphing his personality to suit his surroundings, he puts on the disguise of someone affable, and plain, and it helps him move through the area easily.

And there is an indulgence, in just being able to quietly prepare his coffee in the morning and know where everything is.

He smiles more, sometimes it's even real. It’s an old face, close to the one he wore as a dutiful grandson.

And his tolerance for the Mad Doctor is increasing.

He’s learned his habits a little bit more. He knows when to be out of the lab and let him work, and which tasks he won’t check for days on end. 

He can tell when the doctor is getting restless, and is ready to experiment on him, or rage at him.

It’s like predicting a storm, and he knows how to brace.

He feels like the other agents must’ve been exaggerating a tad.

And sometimes the tolerance even bridges on something of…fondness?

His abrasive personality keeps people away. Agent Stone is fond of that first and foremost.

And there was the… enthusiasm the doctor constantly sported? While Agent Stone had trouble reaching his emotions, Robotnik seemed overflowing with them all the time.

Robotnik has a habit of grabbing him by his face, or his tie or his belt-loops to show him something he’s excited about. It made something in Stone’s chest squeeze pleasantly. It was… cute. Like a child tugging on his sleeve, he wanted to watch that part of him grow.

He praises him consistently just to see the behavior increase. It feels like gardening, watching something bloom. ( What’s he waiting to bloom, happiness? The multitude of creations that come from Robotnik’s hands? Stone doesn’t know)

It is slow and patient work, and he’s pleased as the tugging increases and the suspicion decreases.

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

Bloom One:

Robotnik starts including him in the creation process

At first, it's just it’s just asking him to hand him tools. Which Stone doesn't know and has to pick up on.

Then he asks Stone to fix things he knows Stone knows nothing about, just to watch him fail.

Stone was having fun learning how the mechanics worked in his off-hours, just so that he could see the Doctor’s surprise the few times he didn’t fail.

It was fun to learn something new after peaking in his combat experience. And it was fun surprising him.

……………………………………………………………………………………......................

Bloom Two:

When Robotnik didn't want Stone in the lab, he'd send him on random errands.

The most frequent was coffee runs. The man inhaled it more than food, and seemed to enjoy the sensation of over-caffeination, referring to it as switching into "high gear"

There was a random day in Stone's fifth week there when Stone handed him his 3rd cup of coffee and he got to witness Robotnik make actual robot noises with his mouth as he picked up the cup and chugged it down.

It was so cute that Agent Stone's heart stopped, and he became temporarily incapable of moving from his spot.

“What are you standing there ogling at Agent?”

Stone wanted to squeeze his face so hard. He wanted to pinch his cheeks and shuffle his hair.

He took those desires and shoved them in a little box inside of himself labeled “Urges not to unpack or indulge in”

Good god he’d seen and done horrors unimaginable before, why was this what was getting to him? Why is this the thing that makes him need to hold onto control with his teeth?

“Nothing Doctor, how was the coffee?”

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Bloom Three:

Robotnik starts bringing him around outside the lab.  He’s pulling him to every meeting like a comforting token.

He says its for his own protection. And he wants a second opinion on the energy of the room.

Stone thinks it's actually because Robotnik likes the boost in praise. The meetings are vicious. There is a lot of verbal shoving for power and needling at details of his designs, and while he pushes back just as hard, Stone can’t imagine it’s easy to swallow. He can provide a little extra praise afterward. He can be a presence that exists in the room that’s on Robotnik’s side, that’s easy.

Keeping a straight face is harder.

Amongst the items in his internal “Do not touch, Do not indulge in” box he now had to shove: “Snapping at every person who insulted Robotnik” and “lock him in his lab to keep him safe.”

The first was a constant struggle to keep tamped down. He was very thankful for every year he spent as a sniper. It required him to stay still and quiet in the same spot for hours, sometimes days on end, and those skills were very useful now.

However, the second was fed by Robotnik's insistence on bringing him everywhere. He couldn't keep Robotnik in one place, but the more he was consistently kept by his side the more he could minimize threats to his being.

There were quite a lot of them actually. A lot of people had been killed by his technology and he had a lot of enemies as a result.

In the few months Stone had been here he’d foiled two assassination attempts and one aborted kidnapping.

It kept him on his toes.

However, because Robotnik was unknowingly indulging that part of Stone, Stone now had to deal with the evolution of that urge which was, "follow Robotnik home to make sure he was safe."

Stone had been resisting pretty well so far, but it was a near thing.

...........................................................................................................................

Bloom four:

Robotnik does not always dress professionally. On days where he has meetings or knows he's going to be seen he does. But on days where he's just going to be working in the lab on a prototype he doesn't have to dress up nice.

And he doesn't.

Stone walks in on him in a tank top, black slacks that had seen better days, and work boots, as he was slid under a personal-jet prototype, with some of his playlists blasting on the loudspeakers.

He slid out underneath to greet Stone and take whatever coffee and food was offered, and Stone was forced to noticed the exposed arms and the light sheen of sweat on them and he had to go into overdrive to repress urges such as:

"lick/bite arms or neck." "Dig fingers into exposed waist" "Push him against ground" "See how easy tank top is to tear." and on and on. A litany of things going into the box.

And oh he was still talking to Stone and Stone had no idea what he was saying.

"Hm?"

"Earth to Sycophant! Can you hand me the quarter wrench?!"

"Right away, Sir" He said, grabbing for the wrench.

"I did not get five PHDs to be called Sir!" Robotnik shouted behind him.

"Sorry, Doctor!"

"I swear I don't know what's gotten into you today." Robotnik grumbled as he slid back under the jet.

..........................................................................................................................

Bloom 5:

Unexpectedly, Robotnik started feeding one of Agent Stone's hidden needs. Stone is certain that Robotnik had no idea what he was doing and that he didn't know the secret things Stone kept in the dark. Things just got busy.

The shifts with Robotnik were always long. A 50-hour work week was pretty normal for him and any agent working for him. But lately they'd been getting a little ridiculous, the daily work shifting from 10 hours to 11 to 12 to "let's just have dinner in the lab, can you order something?" to "there's a cot in the back if you need to collapse, we can use it in shifts while we wait for this read-out."

At first it was to meet a deadline but then they just got used to the pace. It was always so easy to say yes to. He didn't even need an excuse for it. This was job, these were his orders, he was a professional. It was just convenient that it also happened to feed his need to be around Robotnik all the time.

It felt like losing a limb every time he left.

…………………………………………………………………………………….....................….

And then

And then it is over, and his six months are up.

His commanding officer calls him to tell him his probationary period is up and that he has a new assignment.

He doesn’t want to go.

He want to tell them to fuck off. He’s fine where he is.

But he has his orders and the desire goes in the box with the rest of them.

……………………………………………………………………………………........................

Robotnik is embarrassed to admit that he might have actually started trusting Agent Stone for a few seconds there.

He'd bugged Stone's computer and phone, and put trackers on his shoes and found that Stone was reporting back to Commander Walters about him. He was giving him brief, professional summaries about Robotnik's work, the kind of information that could have been found in anyone's well-taken meeting notes.

He was not complaining about Robotnik's behavior, and he even lied several times to cover up any extra projects Robotnik had showed him, and the late hours they'd been working.

It felt too good to be true. It had to be a cover-up for who he was actually reporting to, to what he was actually saying about him.

But he checked the trackers he put on him and he was going nowhere else. The time codes on his recordings showed no gap in time for extra to be said. He checked. Several times.

(He also found that Agent Stone could be incredibly passive aggressive in his emails despite his amazing word economy, and he saved a few copies of to keep as evidence)

So slowly he let himself trust Agent Stone and believe that the always smiling face and lack of irritation might be real.

So slowly, slowly he let himself believe that somebody in his life might actually stay around.

Stupid.

Six months in, just enough time for him to get attached, to think he might be safe, Agent Stone informed him he was leaving.

“For how long?”

“Indefinitely.”

Robotnik slowly turned around, looking away from the prototype he’d been working on.

“Explain.”

“I am primarily a special operations agent, and they’re putting me back on assignment, this was only supposed to be a temporary break until I got myself together. I already have more orders for my next mission”

“I was a break?”

So much for considering himself a threat. That’s on him for thinking anyone in the higher echelons had brain cells. They were sending spooks to him to relax. Wasn’t that funny?

“Yes, Doctor.

“And you knew that it was temporary this entire time and you said nothing.”

Stone looked taken aback.

“I never considered it was information that would interest you. You will be given other agents. I am inherently replaceable.”

“I should’ve still known as your employer.”

“I’m sorry Doctor, I'll do what I can to amend the mistake. I can negotiate to stay a little longer to find a replacement for myself and give them instructions for the work, if that would make the transition more comfortable.”

And wouldn’t be fun, having Stone talk with other agents about his weird habits? Couldn’t you just die?

“Do what you need to just don’t do it in front of me. Get out of my lab. Your permissions for coming in here are officially revoked."

………………………………………………………………………………………....................

Stone picked three agents of varying competencies that seemed capable of carrying out the list of tasks he did for Robotnik.

He typed out an instruction set for each and sent them on their way.

The 3 agents looked at the individual 30-page packets they were each given and wondered what they had gotten themselves into.

……………………………………………………………………………………........................

Agent Stone methodically follows every order he’s given. Just as he had before. He can feel his old mentality creep into his body as he leaves. It feels like ice water flowing into his veins, stealing all the sensation

He is a soldier. He is a machine. He does what he is told.

Everything sort of feels like cotton and static. But that’s manageable. He had enough feelings in the last couple of months. It should keep him going for a while at least. And he knows exactly how much he can mess up before he gets suspended again.

(Would they send him back to Robotnik again if he did or was that resource used up? Does that make it tempting to try? Slam his own left hand in a car door and see if he can complete the mission without it? Would they send him back?)

He completed his assignment in record time. No deviations, no intentional self-sabotage, no excitement. He was tired. He just wanted to sleep for an eternity. He felt like an imitation of a human being.

"Are you doing, ok?" Asked the agent in his passenger seat. "You've looked a little off since you got back from working with the Mad Doctor. Did he really take it out on you?"

He bit back the reflex to defend him. It would just bring up more questions he didn't want to answer.

"Too terrible to talk about."

"Yeech, that means something coming from you."

Melissa was keeping the conversation going as they drove back to base, doing her best to keep them both awake and provide directions. He'd already had a dynamic established with her in training. He used to flirt with her, just to see if the overzealous oaf who had a crush on her would ever try to kill him. (She never did, the coward.)

Stone is pretty sure the higher ups assigned him someone familiar as a consolation prize for how terrible he looked coming back. He was greatful. The pre-established rhythm of conversation allowed him to more easily pretend to be normal while feeling like half of a man.

The topics were light: Gossip, old memories, the things he missed while on his probation. He was using it to pull him back to his old self.

Their conversation was interrupted by the beeps of their radio going off.

She picked it up,

"Shadow unit 3, calling in, what's your message?"

"This is dispatch, We're sorry to do this to you, but we're going to have temporarily stall your return to base and redirect you to a secondary target. We got eyes on another sect of the Plokan radicals. They captured one of our lead weapon developers and we're going to need you to eliminate them and retrieve him."

Dread.

Melissa looked irritated, "C'mon Jer- you don't have anybody with more sleep in them?"

"Which weapons developer?" Stone interrupted.

"Robotnik" said the man on dispatch, "We're pretty sure it's a trap for Agent Stone. They still have a grudge against you after you- scooped their leader's left eye out."

Stone was no longer having an issue with ice-water veins. The twin emotions of rage and panic were fighting for dominance.

What did they mean, the worst of his sins could result in Robotnik’s death? 

"You did what?" She mouthed.

He shook his head to say not now.

“We’re pretty sure we have a leak and we're sending out units to investigate it. But we think they got information on Agent Stone's current reassignment a little late and were aiming for him. One of the Agents assigned to Robotnik is in critical condition, they sniped him.”

Agent Stone's knuckles went white as he clenched the steering wheel.

"Where were the other two?"

"He sent them on some bullshit errands, so they weren't in the area at the time. He thought he would be safe with his drones, but they had an emp prepared. We have both of them secured. Don't worry they're safe. Stay on the line for coordinates and rough estimation of targets in the area."

Stone's heart was pounding. He wasn't worried about them. He'd given them very specific instructions to case unsecured areas before Robotnik went into them. He was going to make the dead one the lucky one when he got back.

Melissa was plugging the coordinates into their GPS system, the radio now hung up after they had all the information.

"Soooo...You scooped his eye out?"

"Yes, it was why I was on probation. I also cut off the hand from one of his lieutenants and broke the knees of another."

"You what?"

"I am going to need you to brace yourself because I am about to go very fast, and break a lot of traffic laws, and I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

She put her back ram-rod straight against the back of the seat, squared her feet on the floor, and her hands against the dash.

"Ready."

Agent Stone’s foot pushed the gas straight to the floor and didn’t leave it the entire drive.

_____________________________________________________________

Stone killed efficiently and coldly.

Absolutely no one heard him as he came in. He sent them into darkness with no fear, hearing nothing before a bullet was buried in their brain or a knife slashed across their throat. It wasn’t his priority.

He moved from room to room searching for the Doctor, feeling his panic grow the longer he went without finding him.

Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, I will break.

……………………………………………………….....................……………………………….

Stone finally found him outside the warehouse, standing near the railing, looking for a way out.

Stone’s head was just noise at that point, a steam engine boiling over going “go go go go go go”

He found him just in time to see the one-eyed leader of their organization shove Robotnik into the water.

Stone left his knife in the man’s neck before diving in after him. Cold water on the outside instead of the inside.

He could feel the smile on his own face as he finally dragged Robotnik head above water and saw his angry face perfectly alive.

He dragged him up the rails, the effort feeling like nothing at all. It felt like euphoria to just stand next to him and know he was safe, know that all the dangers were eliminated and that he could begin to breathe easy again.

Melissa came running up to him staring at his face. She’d been busy catching anyone outside the hideout who tried to run away. His old mistakes would not be repeated.

“Are you ok? He was thrashing around an awful lot, I think he got you.”

She gestured to his nose.

Stone let awareness of his body creep back in, and realized his nose was bleeding. He hastily wiped it away.

Then he felt a weight behind him as Robotnik, still coughing water out of his lungs hunched over and dug his face into the back of Agent Stone’s shoulder.

“Tell her to stop looking at me.” Robotnik said, his voice a rasp and laced with pain.

“They took my gloves.” He said in an even smaller voice, lamely, as if he was trying to explain his behavior, justify it.

And the panic mode that had just started to dissipate came back in full force.

No. he didn’t need to do that. He didn't need to do that. No.

He should shouting and taking up space, still angry at him, or full of sadism and enthusiasm and delight. He shouldn’t be-

Stone’s experiences Roaring, Dreadful, Intense, Uncontrollable feeling. A mountain of lava after already being cracked open and run ragged by the emotions of the day.

Who let him get like this? He left his doctor for a couple weeks- two, it’s been two- And he’s cold and wet and shivering and broken and how fucking dare they.

He thought he got half-way decent replacements but apparently not. He got three just to be sure and none of them could do their damn job. Incompetent. This shouldn’t even be a problem, his doctor should be fine.

Agent Stone was feeling emotions.

All of them. 

Panic that the doctor was not acting like himself.

Rage that anybody made him feel this way, that it rang of old scars and he wanted to go through on a list every person involved and slaughter them all.

Despair and  humiliation that it was all his fault that they were here because of his mistakes, his mess, his carelessness.

Absolute Elation that he was even alive at all to make him still panic like this.

It was too much, much too much. All the noise and hurt and pain that he hadn’t felt in years and he let the carefully designed systems of adrenaline he designed for life-and-death situations take over.

Shut it down. Unimportant. Act. Fix it.

“Melissa,” He can hear his own voice like it’s not part of his body, calm, clear, crisp and professional as always, “I’m going to get the Doctor to our transport, can you go through the hideout and see what weapons they acquired and start loading them up?”

“Got it” She glanced at the scientist stabilizing himself on his shoulder. “Good luck with him, and get something for your nose while you’re at it. Don’t let him bite your head off!”

Stone gave her a painful smile. He was counting the seconds for her to leave.

He shifts his weight, get’s Robotnik’s arm  hanging over his shoulder, and braces his own on the other man’s back so he can lead him away.

(A memory, his Teta rubbing his back while he was sick)

Don’t think about it, unimportant.

Stone lets himself move like an automaton on autopilot as he drags Robotnik back to the car. The manta of “is he safe is he safe is he safe” pressing in on his brain.

It settles slowly as he dries off his hair and wraps the trauma-blanket around him, and hands him pain medication. And it starts to dissipate when Ivo snaps

“Would you stop? I can do this part myself” with a growl, when Stone nearly buckles his seatbelt for him

Good. He’s better. Stone would like to breathe normally now if the doctor was done scaring him half to-death.

“And get me back to my lab, I’ve got spare clothes there and I am sick to death of being wet. How long is the other agent going to take?

“She’s going to assess the capacity of what’s there so they can send out the vehicles to load it up. She’ll get transport. We can go soon.”

Agent Stone turned to leave.

“Where do you think you're going?” Robotnik snarled. And lunged through the window to grab his shoulder.

Agent Stone looked confused. “To go retrieve your gloves. You said they took them.”

“They threw them in the ocean. I have spares back at the lab. Would you stop leaving for five seconds?”

There was absolute bloody murder and rage in Robotnik’s eyes, and then it was gone, and the Doctor was letting him go and recoiling from his own emotion.

"I mean if you want to throw yourself uselessly to the bottom of the ocean without any proper diving equipment, don't let me stop you. It's not like you can get anymore wet."

Stone had the desire to open the car door, squeeze him to and to his chest and hush him, telling him he wasn’t going anywhere.

He opens the box to shove it inside.

Closes it. Where had that gotten him? Like this? Did he think he was leaving?

And opens the car door, stands on the door frame, and gets three inches from Robotnik's face. meeting him with his own version of the intensity Robotnik had let fade from his face, cold where the Doctor's was always boiling.

“Doctor, I am not going anywhere after. If I have to ruin one of my own missions to get suspended and systematically sabotage every single agent, they send to you until I get reassigned to you I will. Do you understand. I am not going anywhere."

Robotnik eyes lit "I thought you said you had your orders."

" I can adjust where they come from. I hate not working for you. It's boring out here."

They stayed staring at eachother for a long time, willing the other to look away.

“Point made. You can turn it down now, Sicko. Down.”

Stone stepped down and slid himself into the driver's seat.

"Let's get some dry clothes."

..........................................................................................................................

"You're absolutely incompetent at picking replacements, by the way. they were completely useless. I'm going to tear them a new one when I get back."

"Please let me do that for you, Doctor. It's no trouble for me and you've had a long day. Please."

Robotnik could now identify what anger looked like on his Agent. Interesting.

"Oh I want to see what you do to them."

…………………………………………………………………………………….....................…. 

In a time before Agent Stone erased his own name, his mother suggested an arranged marriage for him.

Just to settle you down. So, you don't make the same mistakes we did.

She'd talked to some of the families in the area. She brought head shots of the girls, each with a one-page description.

Please just meet them. You might like one of them. You can start building a life together early. Know you have some stability, someone to come home to. You need someone to talk to if you don't talk to us.

He'd smiled, done so, given her some passable reason why he didn't match for each and then left not long after.

Now:

Commander Walters, Stone's commanding officer, and an agent in charge of staffing slid over an envelope that contained a file on each of them and a ten-year contract for working with Dr. Robotnik.

Wasn't funny how time looped and flipped and how he once again had to hold in his emotions about two headshots, a description for each of them, and one place that, if he signed, would allow him to stay for a good, long time?

Stability. He wanted to laugh. That did sound nice.

"We're sorry about this. We know he took it out of you the first time, but he insisted and he makes half our advanced weaponry. Our hands are tied. I'm sad to lose you. You were a good soldier," said his commanding officer. (ex-commanding officer)

"I am pleased that he finally has an agent he'll stick with, but I'm sorry what the job is going to require of you," said Walters.

"We talked him down from 20. And if you don't want this, we can get you reassigned to somewhere away from him." Said the staffing agent, "It will include a temporary demotion since you're refusing an assignment. But technically since it's a contract directly from him and not a military assignment it doesn't count as going AWOL. You'll come back from that in no time"

Agent Stone tried to look properly resolved but remorseful, like he would've looked with his mother had he ever been honest with her.

"No. Don't do that. I've handled worse before, and if this is what is required of me, I'll do it. You've talked about needing someone to keep tabs on him for years. No sense leaving a problem when a solution is readily available."

He thumbed at the watch Robotnik had given him, It had a tracker in it. There were apparently others, and Stone had made a fun game of trying to find them all.

"Where do I sign?"

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to, “When we break up _______,” text prank

Requested !

A/N: These text prompts take quite some time to write, but that's okay since it’s an excuse to think about my 13 boys hahah. I’m not entirely sure (I'm sure this is not what the anon wanted) if this is exactly what the anon had in mind. Perhaps they wanted me to describe what the members were doing at the time and their immediate reactions (but I tried to incorporate), rather than just their responses to the texts. However, as I was writing, this format felt more natural. I hope you still enjoy it regardless! If you’re looking for context behind this request or want to read something similar, please refer back to this.

Content: Slightly suggestive (Hoshi and Vernon) MDNI!, author losing their mind, overthinking, Minghao being Minghao, some being stinking cute especially Dino.

For the sake of the reaction, OT13 are not physically with their s/o at the moment.

This is my personal opinion and perspective. It may not accurately reflect their real-life personalities or behaviors.

Seungcheol:

Text: "When we break up, don’t forget to delete all my photos from your phone."

Reaction: He'd read the text and immediately respond,

“Why would I ever delete your photos? And why are we even talking about breaking up? Did something happen?”

When you confess it’s a prank, he’d sigh deeply.

“You really scared me. I was already planning to fight for us. Now, don’t you dare even think about leaving me, okay?”

“When will you stop doing these stupid pranks with me??”

You'll find him whining every now and then just because you attempted another breakup prank on him (he can't stay upset at you for too long). He’ll probably make some extra effort afterward to spoil you with love and affection, making sure you know that there’s no way he’d ever let you go.

Jeonghan:

Text: "When we break up, I'll take everything I've ever given you. Just so you know."

Reaction: Immediately knows you are messing with him. His reply would be sarcastic,

“Oh no, how will I ever part with my favorite mug that says ‘Best Boyfriend Ever’? Truly heartbreaking.”

If you insist it’s serious, he’d still keep teasing,

“Sure, I’ll give everything back… including my heart. But are you sure you can live without me?”

He already knows that it's a prank so there's nothing to confess so he'll just be like, “Now let’s go get some ice cream.” simple.

Joshua:

Text: "When we break up, I'll delete all the playlists I made for you."

Reaction: Joshua would be confused at first and think you were joking, but a part of him would start overthinking. He’d respond carefully ignoring the playlist comment:

“When we break up? Why are we even thinking about that? Are you okay?”

If you keep pushing the prank, he’d try his bestest to approach it calmly,

“Why would we even break up? And the playlists were for us, not just me. I’d never stop listening to them, even if…”

“I wouldn’t want anything back because the memories would be more important to me. But seriously, why are you thinking about breaking up?”

He’d hesitate, genuinely upset at the thought that you can even image you guys breaking up because for the love of god the mere suggestion of living without you, even hypothetically, is unimaginable to him. When you reveal the prank, he’d sigh in relief. “You got me good. But don’t joke about stuff like this—it hurts too much to even imagine.” The idea was unfathomable. You were his safe place, the person he envisioned in every corner of his future.

Jun:

Text: "When we break up, you better not cry over me. Stay strong!"

Reaction: Jun would be both amused and confused.

“Why are you breaking up with me in a hypothetical situation and then telling me not to cry? Are you okay?”

And obviously you'll keep pushing, so he’d add,

“If we ever broke up, I’d cry so much, you’d have to come back just to stop me.” (this is so Jun coded I'm crying-)

When you confess it’s a prank, he’d laugh and actually say, “You’re so weird, but that’s why I love you. No more breakup talk, okay?” He just loves you too much to even take what you're saying seriously in his first thought so he took what you said as an hypothetical situation immediately. At least you didn't say you're breaking up...that would be another case-

Hoshi:

Text: "When we break up, I’m taking my tiger plushie back."

Reaction: He would immediately text back in all caps:

“WHEN WE WHAT?!”

“YOU CAN’T TAKE THE TIGER PLUSHIE! IT’S OUR CHILD!”

He’d call you within seconds, borderline panicking. He wouldn't even let you speak when you picked up, “What’s going on? Are you mad at me? Don’t take the tiger—take me instead!”

It would take you a good few minutes to get a word in, and when you finally explained it was just a prank, the silence on the other end would be DEAFENING. Then, a dramatic groan, “YOU’RE SO MEAN!” He’d pout for the next five minutes, ranting about how you shouldn’t joke about something so serious. Please, cuddle our baby tiger (not hamster) (Hoshi will be so proud of me).

“You better hold me extra tight tonight to make up for this! And no, I’m still not over it, but fine…I’ll forgive you because I’m a nice person.”—and then this will lead to something else...open to interpretation-

Wonwoo:

Text: "When we break up, I hope you find someone who loves gaming as much as you do."

Reaction: Wonwoo would stare at the text for a while, overthinking every s.i.n.g.l.e word.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

If you keep it going, he’d send another message, quietly emotional,

“No one could replace you. And I don’t want someone who loves gaming—I want someone who loves me.”

“Which can be only you”

When you quickly reveal the prank, he’d let out a quiet laugh. “You really know how to mess with my heart, huh? Let’s stick to love texts from now on.” He has literal heart eyes for you so why do you always try out these pranks with him when you very well know that he takes these very seriously?? Your happiness is his main priority. He doesn't even care if it means he’ll get hurt in the process—he’ll give you whatever you want, as long as it makes you smile. It's like he’d do anything for you, even if it means falling for your pranks over and over again and making his heart suffer. He’ll laugh at himself for being so easy to be fooled by you, but deep down, he’s just so grateful to be the one to make you laugh.

Woozi:

Text: "When we break up, promise me you won’t write any sad songs about me."

Reaction: He'll raise an eyebrow at the message, unsure how to respond.

“Why are we breaking up in this scenario? And who said I’d write sad songs? I’d be hurt too much to even write.”

If you insist you're being very very VERY serious, he’d add something along the line,

“But we’re not breaking up, so stop being weird.”

When you tell him it’s a prank, he’d shake his head, not even surprised at this point. But he’d exhale slowly, the tension leaving his body. “You’re lucky I’m used to your nonsense. But don’t distract me while I’m working next time!” He’d probably end the conversation with a quiet but sweet, "I love you.” (AHHHHHHGVthhtxutFGCG)

Dokyeom:

Text: "When we break up, don’t tell your mom—it’ll break her heart."

Reaction: My love will immediately start spiraling. His cheerful smile fades, replaced by an obvious frown, genuinely not being able to fathom why you would even suggest something like that.

“What do you mean, ‘when we break up’? Is this a joke?”

“And why are you dragging my mom into this? She loves you!”

“i love you!”

If you don’t respond quickly (it's been only 7 seconds), his heart drops even more as the seconds tick by, and before you even have the chance to reply, he's calling you while on his way to your place,

When you pick up, his first words are rushed and anxious, "Hey, you’re not serious, right? You can’t be serious! Are you upset about something?”

When you reveal it’s a prank, he’d let out a dramatic sigh of relief as he exhales loudly, remaining still on the road "I thought you were going to really break my heart there," he'd say, still in slight disbelief. "Don't ever do that again… Seriously." But then, after a pause, he'd add with that signature bright smile of his, “But, I guess if we did break up... I’d tell my mom.” But jokes aside even if there’s a misunderstanding or a small argument, Dokyeom is the first to apologize and seek resolution. He never likes holding grudges and believes that communication is key to keeping the relationship strong, so he'll talk about this thoroughly after he's back home for, ‘just incase’ scenarios.

Mingyu:

Text: "When we break up, I’m taking all the kitchen gadgets with me."

Reaction: Mingyu would be shocked and devastated. He immediately pauses whatever he’s doing to process what you’ve just said. It doesn’t make sense, and his mind races, trying to figure out why you’d even mention breaking up,

“Wait, why are we breaking up? And why are you taking the kitchen gadgets? I need those!”

He’s genuinely worried about losing the gadgets, yes—but more than that, he’s upset at the thought of losing you. The kitchen has become one of his favorite places to be with you, especially when you both cook together or when he’s making you something special. That’s one of his favorite ways to show love, and now to him it feels like everything’s about to crumble because he really thinks you're being serious. So if you keep pushing, he’d add,

“You know I can’t live without my kitchen gadgets, and I can’t live without you, either! Why are you breaking up with me?” (being funny is his coping mechanism)

“Fine, take them, but I’ll visit every day to borrow them. And I’ll cook for you while I’m there.”

He didn't process the, ‘when we’ and came to the conclusion that you're breaking up with him right this second and wanting to take the kitchen gadgets lmao. He's pretty smart in general but when it comes to these...poor boy. So then when you explain that it’s just a prank, he lets out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, still sounding a bit flustered but trying to act casual about it. Beneath his strong, athletic build and playful demeanor, Mingyu has a soft heart. He’s easily affected by things that involve you—whether it’s a prank like this or just knowing you’re having a hard time. He wants to protect your heart, even if it means being vulnerable himself.

Minghao:

Text: "When we break up, make sure to stay stylish so I don’t regret dating you."

Reaction: His first instinct would be to chuckle softly, finding the text both funny and absurd.

“When we break up? First of all, not happening. Second, I’d stay stylish anyway—who do you think I am?”

If you push a lil more further, he’d reply in no time. There's no chance for you to argue here because to him your question is already very stupid—wdym by, when you guys break up? Do you think that's happening? No.

“But seriously, why are we even talking about this? Is this your way of saying you want attention?”

“You know I’d give you all my attention anyway, right?”

When you confess the prank, with a deep sigh, “Pfft, I’m too cool to get mad. Next time, try being more subtle and convincing.” He’ll joke a little, but you can tell he’s low-key affected by the prank. Then, with a teasing smirk, he adds, “But seriously, I would stay stylish. That’s a given.”

Seungkwan:

Text: "When we break up, promise me you won’t cry in public—it’s embarrassing."

Reaction: Seungkwan would gasp LOUDLY and immediately text back:

“EXCUSE ME?! Are you breaking up with me in this hypothetical situation AND calling me embarrassing?! How dare you!”

He’d follow up with: (also immediately after taking a 5 sec deep breath)

“Fine, I won’t cry in public, but I’ll cry so hard in private that the whole neighborhood will hear me!”

You can almost hear his dramatic flair through the text as he exaggerates the idea of a breakdown, and he doesn’t hide the slight edge of hurt in his words. He’s a little too dramatic about it, but it’s because he feels deeply, even about a prank. As soon as you reveal that it’s all a joke, Seungkwan lets out an over-the-top, exaggerated groan as if he’s been completely defeated dramatically.

“You’re evil!” He'll sulk for the next 48 hours so now you'll have to spend the whole day complimenting him to make up for this.

Vernon:

Text: "When we break up, you can keep the hoodies you stole, but I’m taking my vinyls back."

Reaction: Vernon would too stare at the text for a while, unsure if you were joking.

“Uh… are you okay? Why are we breaking up?”

“And why are you taking my vinyls?”

If you keep it going,

“If we broke up, I’d let you keep the vinyls. But I don’t really want to think about this.”

When you tell him it’s a prank, he’d laugh softly to himself.

“You’re so random. But seriously, no more breakup talk—it’s weird.”

He might be soft while he's away but when he's with you?—bahahah—he'll waste no time locking the door behind him and pulling you into a deep kiss. You're not leaving this room tonight, he'll whisper in your ear. He'll make sure you're exactly where he wants you-close, under him, or in his arms, depending on the mood. It'll be a long night, just the two of you, and no one else...open to interpretation TT

Dino:

Text: “When we break up, promise me you'll still be my friend."

Reaction: He would instantly get a little confused, texting back with a wide-eyed concern because wdym that you want him to be your friend when he's your boyfriend right now??? When breaking up with you is the last thing in his mind?? And he's spamming,

“Wait, what? We’re breaking up?”

“Why?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Please don’t leave me—”

“of course, I’ll still be your friend, but I don’t even want to think about us breaking up…”

“Are you there?”

“I'm coming home”

You’d tease him telling him to go back to his work, revealing it’s a prank, and he’d let out a huge sigh of relief, but then he’d whine a little. He'd probably ask for some aygeo, maybe a surprise, just so he can feel reassured that he's still your favorite person in the world. I mean how can he be not?! An hour later, just when you think the moment has passed, there’s a knock at your door. Opening it, you find a beautiful bouquet of flowers with a little handwritten note:

These flowers don’t even come close to how beautiful you are. See you soon, my forever favorite. P.s. Don’t ever scare me like that again—or I’ll send you even more flowers to make you feel guilty. Love, Dino.

Reading it, you can’t help but giggle, your heart fluttering at how effortlessly he makes you fall for him all over again. How could someone be this sweet and still be yours? How could anyone not melt at that? He’s truly the sweetest, and he’d do anything to make sure you know just how much you mean to him—even if he’s the one who should be mad!

[kittenan]

i’m loving all your contents but i hope you post a joon fic next (i’m sorry i’m just starved for a joon fic lately i’ve been reading the same fics every other day🫠)

Seduced and Saved

Pairing: Mafia's Right-Hand Namjoon x Kidnapped Reader Genre: Dark Romance | Mafia AU | Smut | Forbidden Lust | Rescue Mission | Seduction Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, violence, kidnapping, non-con elements (coercion), power dynamics, possessive behavior, degradation, praise kink, rough sex, oral sex, wall sex, desk sex, intense make-out sessions, angst, betrayal, gun violence, emotional manipulation, torture (graphic but non-excessive), aftercare. Word Count: ~9k

The world was a blur of chloroform and rough hands when you were taken. Now, the haze had cleared, leaving you in a suffocating underground suite, all velvet and gold but reeking of cigar smoke and bourbon.

Your wrists burned, bound behind your back with coarse rope, but you stood defiant, chin high, refusing to let fear seep into your bones.

Viktor Drae, the mafia lord who’d orchestrated your kidnapping, lounged on a chaise, his tailored suit a mockery of elegance. His eyes, dark and predatory, glinted under the chandelier as he twirled a dagger between his fingers. “On your knees, pet,” he purred, voice smooth as poison.

You spat at his polished shoes, the glob landing with a wet splat. “I’d rather choke.”

His laugh was sharp, a blade slicing the air. “Oh, I like you. You’ll be fun to break.” He waved a hand toward the shadowed corner. “Namjoon, keep an eye on her.”

A figure emerged from the darkness, broad shoulders cutting through the haze like a storm. Kim Namjoon, Viktor’s right-hand, was a paradox—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes colder than a winter grave.

His black suit hugged his frame, every movement precise, lethal. He didn’t spare you a glance, his expression carved from stone.

“Not my job,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, already turning toward the door.

Viktor’s smile faltered, a crack in his facade. “Don’t test me, Joon.”

Namjoon paused, jaw tight, his hand twitching toward the gun at his hip. Then, without a word, he strode out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You smirked despite the ropes cutting into your skin. If Viktor’s attack dog wasn’t interested, maybe you had a chance to claw your way out of this hell.

But deep down, you knew: Namjoon’s indifference was a lie. You’d seen the flicker in his eyes when Viktor called you pet. A spark of something—anger, maybe, or something darker. You filed it away, a weapon for later.

Days bled into nights, the opulent suite a suffocating cage of crimson velvet and gilded mirrors. Viktor’s obsession with you grew sharper, a blade honed with every defiance you threw at him.

He didn’t just want your body—he craved your submission, your spirit shattered at his feet. Each morning, he’d slink into your room, his cologne a sickly prelude to his games.

“You’ll beg for me, pet,” he’d murmur, his fingers bruising your wrists as he pinned you to the wall, his lips grazing your ear. When you spat in his face, he laughed, but his punishments were swift.

The first time, he locked you in a windowless closet for hours, the air stale, your screams swallowed by darkness.

The second, he forced you to kneel on rice grains scattered across the marble floor, your knees bleeding as he watched, sipping bourbon. “Pretty when you hurt,” he said, tilting your chin up with his dagger’s tip, a thin cut blooming on your jaw when you jerked away.

You bit back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but your body trembled from the strain.

Later that night, you found a first aid kit on your bedside table—bandages, antiseptic, a small roll of gauze. No note, but you knew. Namjoon. His silent act of care, hidden from Viktor’s eyes, was a crack in his icy facade.

Namjoon was always there, a silent specter in the shadows. Unlike Viktor’s other “toys”—women who’d crumbled under his cruelty, their eyes vacant as they trailed him like broken dolls—Namjoon had never spared them a glance.

You’d overheard the guards whispering about it: how he’d walk past Viktor’s parade of captives, his face a mask of indifference, as if they were furniture. “Kim doesn’t care,” one guard sneered.

“He’s got no heart, just a brain for the boss’s dirty work.”

But with you, it was different. You noticed it first in the security room, where Namjoon monitored the feeds. His eyes lingered on you—not with the lustful hunger of Viktor’s men, but with a quiet intensity, like he was solving a puzzle.

When Viktor pinned you during one of his “lessons,” Namjoon’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around a glass until it shattered, blood dripping onto the floor. He didn’t flinch, just left, but you saw the storm in his eyes.

Why you? You pieced it together slowly. The other women had begged or bargained, their spirits snuffed out by fear.

But you fought—clawing, spitting, cursing Viktor even as he hurt you. Namjoon, a man who thrived on control, was drawn to your fire, the unyielding spark that refused to dim.

You caught him watching you in the dining hall, where you’d thrown a glass of wine at Viktor’s face, the red staining his shirt. Namjoon’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, before he turned away. It was your defiance, your refusal to break, that unraveled him—a challenge to the cold, calculated world he ruled.

You also learned his power by observing. Viktor was the face of the empire, but Namjoon was its spine. Guards straightened when he passed, their banter dying.

Once, you overheard a phone call through a cracked door—Namjoon barking orders in clipped tones, rerouting shipments, silencing a traitor with a single command.

“Without Kim, Drae’s just a loudmouth with a gun,” a guard muttered later, unaware you were listening. Namjoon held the keys to Viktor’s trafficking networks, his smuggling routes, his blackmail files. He wasn’t just the right-hand; he was the mind that kept the machine running.

Namjoon’s hidden anger at Viktor’s cruelty fueled your plan. You saw it in the way his fists balled when Viktor cut your jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you limped from the rice punishment.

He never intervened, but his silence screamed louder than words. He hated this—hated you being the target. That was your leverage. If you could break through his icy facade, you could use him to escape this hell.

One morning, Namjoon brought your breakfast tray, a rare task he’d taken from the guards. You decided to test him, leaning against the table, your voice low and teasing.

“You know, Joon, you’re not as scary as you think,” you purred, brushing your fingers lightly over his arm, your eyes locked on his. “Bet you’d be fun if you let that ice melt a little.”

His eyes narrowed, cold and unyielding, and he jerked his arm away, his voice sharp with disdain. “Don’t waste your breath. I don’t care about you or your games.”

His words cut, his rudeness a slap to your pride, and you hated him in that moment—his arrogance, his detachment, the way he made you feel small.

“Liar,” you snapped, stepping closer, your voice trembling with anger. “I know you put that med kit in my room every time Viktor hurts me. You’re not as heartless as you pretend.”

He froze, his jaw ticking, but his eyes remained glacial. “You’re delusional,” he muttered, turning away, but the slight hitch in his breath betrayed him.

You smirked, your hatred simmering, but you saw your opening. If he could lie to himself, you’d use that against him.

Later, you stood before the mirror, your hair damp from the shower, clad only in a thin robe.

When Namjoon returned to collect the tray, you let the robe slip, “accidentally” dropping it to the floor, revealing your bare skin.

His eyes widened, pupils swallowing the brown, his throat bobbing as he froze. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, turning sharply, but not before you saw the bulge straining his slacks.

He slammed the door behind him, but you smirked, heart racing. He was affected—deeply. Seduction was your weapon, and Namjoon was your target. You’d play his desire like a blade, cutting your way to freedom.

You needed to push harder, to chip away at Namjoon’s icy control until he shattered. One night, you faked a nightmare, sobbing loud enough for the guards to fetch him.

He stormed into your room, gun drawn, his shirt half-unbuttoned from being roused from sleep, revealing a sliver of toned chest.

His eyes scanned the room, then landed on you—curled on the bed, trembling in a sheer nightgown that clung to your curves, the fabric slipping to reveal the swell of your breast.

“Please… stay,” you whispered, eyes wide and pleading, a tear streaking down your cheek for effect. You sat up, letting the strap of your nightgown slide down your shoulder, your voice soft but teasing. “Unless you’re scared of a girl’s bad dreams, tough guy.”

He sighed, holstering his gun and dragging a chair to the bedside, his jaw tight. “Five minutes,” he grunted, sitting stiffly, his gaze fixed on the wall. But you saw his eyes flicker to your exposed skin, his fingers digging into his thighs.

You shifted, the nightgown riding up your thigh, and leaned closer, your breath warm against his ear. “You don’t strike me as the babysitting type, Namjoon,” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “What’s it take to get under that cold skin of yours? Or are you just Viktor’s robot?”

His eyes snapped to yours, a storm brewing in their depths. “Don’t play games with fire, girl,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel, but you caught the hitch in his breath, the way his gaze lingered on your lips.

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your hair fall seductively over one eye. “Fire? Oh, I think you’re the one burning, big guy. Your eyes are practically begging to touch me.” You stretched, arching your back just enough to make the nightgown strain against your chest. “Or are you afraid you’ll like it too much?”

His jaw ticked, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair. “You talk too much,” he muttered, but his voice was strained, and you saw the bulge in his slacks growing.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his earlobe as you whispered, “Then why are your pupils blown wide? Bet you’re imagining all the ways I could make you lose control.”

He shot to his feet, towering over you, his chest heaving. For a moment, you thought he’d snap—grab you, pin you, do something.

His eyes burned with a mix of anger and desire, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “You’re fucking trouble,” he snarled, adjusting his slacks with a curse, and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

You flopped back on the bed, grinning, your heart pounding. The ice wasn’t just cracking—it was melting. You’d seen the hunger in his eyes, the way his control frayed at your teasing.

Namjoon was yours to unravel, and with every taunt, you’d pull him closer to breaking. Soon, he’d be your key out of this cage.

You couldn’t wait anymore. Next night, Victor wasn't there. You slipped into Namjoon’s quarters, the door clicking shut behind you.

He was at his desk, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of toned chest, a glass of whiskey in hand. His eyes snapped to you, narrowing as you stepped into the dim light, your silk robe barely tied, the fabric clinging to your curves.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled, setting the glass down with a clink.

You stepped closer, hips swaying, letting the robe slip open to reveal lace panties and nothing else. “I can’t sleep,” you purred, voice low and sultry. “Thought you could… help.”

He stood, towering over you, and grabbed your throat, pinning you to the wall with a thud. His grip was firm but not cruel, his thumb brushing your racing pulse. “You want me to lose control?” he snarled, his breath hot on your lips. “Fine.”

His mouth crashed into yours, a bruising kiss that tasted of whiskey and rage. You moaned, tugging his hair, and he growled, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth with fierce possession.

You bit his lip, drawing blood, and he hissed, pulling back to glare at you, his eyes black with desire, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his gaze raking over your body as he ripped your robe open, the silk tearing slightly under his urgency.

The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you bare except for the lace panties, your skin prickling under his intense stare.

He spun you, bending you over the desk, your chest pressing into the cold wood, the edge biting into your hips. You gasped as cold metal grazed your wrists—handcuffs clicking into place, securing your hands behind your back.

“No,” you snapped, twisting against the restraints, your voice sharp with panic, your heart racing. “I hate this thing. I’m not a toy, Namjoon. Don’t make me feel like one.”

His hands froze, his breath ragged, his body tense behind you. For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours over your shoulder, conflict raging in their depths.

“You’re different,” you whispered, voice softening but firm, your gaze pleading. “You’re not him. Don’t do this.”

He cursed under his breath, his fingers trembling as he unlocked the cuffs, tossing them aside with a clatter that echoed in the room.

The moment they fell, something shifted—his gaze softened, his touch gentler as he cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that stole your breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse, and you both froze.

That apology, that vulnerability—it was more than lust. You meant something to him, and the realization hit you both like a tidal wave, raw and overwhelming.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less desperate, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that felt like he was trying to memorize you.

His hands slid to your hips, lifting you onto the desk with ease, the wood cool against your bare thighs. He slid your panties down, leaving them dangling around your thighs, and you felt his fingers tease your entrance, finding you soaked, your arousal coating his fingertips.

“Already dripping?” he taunted, circling your clit with agonizing slowness, his voice a low growl laced with dark amusement.

“Shut up and fuck me,” you snapped, pushing back against his hand, desperate for more, your core throbbing with need.

He chuckled, dark and dangerous, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and challenge. Then you felt him—thick, hot, stretching you as he thrust in with one brutal stroke, filling you so completely you cried out, your nails scraping the desk, the pain melting into pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to you.

Each thrust was punishing, the desk creaking violently, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic flurry. His pace was relentless, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow, like this was the last time he’d ever get to claim you like this.

His hips snapped against yours with a ferocity that made your breath hitch, each deep thrust hitting a spot inside you that sent sparks through your veins.

His hands gripped you tighter, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, his cock driving into you with a desperate urgency, as if he was afraid you’d slip away, as if he needed to mark you as his before the world tore you apart.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice raw, almost breaking, his breath hot against your ear. “No one else gets this—fuck, no one else ever will.”

You clenched around him, your walls fluttering, smirking despite the intensity, your voice taunting through gasps. “Harder, Namjoon.”

He snarled, a primal sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and obliged, slamming into you with a force that made you see stars, the desk shuddering beneath you, threatening to collapse.

His rhythm was merciless, each thrust deeper, harder, his cock stretching you to your limits, the pleasure bordering on pain. He fucked you like he was chasing something—redemption, oblivion, you—his hips pistoning with a desperation that made your heart race, your body trembling as you teetered on the edge.

His hand slid up your spine, fisting your hair to pull your head back, exposing your throat, his lips grazing your skin. “Look at you, taking me so fucking well,” he growled, his voice a intoxicating mix of degradation and awe, his breath ragged. “Perfect—made for me.”

The coil in your core tightened, your body quaking as the pleasure built, overwhelming, unstoppable. “Come for me,” he commanded, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles that pushed you over the edge.

You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with a scream, your walls pulsing around him, milking him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, your vision blurring, your body shaking.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts erratic, his own release chasing yours. His grip on your hips tightened, bruising, as he pounded into you with a final, desperate frenzy, his cock throbbing inside you.

“Fuck, I’m—,” he groaned, his voice breaking, and he spilled inside you with a guttural moan, his body shuddering, his forehead pressed to your back as he rode out his climax, his breaths harsh and uneven. Each pulse of his release felt like a claim, a vow, his warmth filling you, grounding you in the moment.

For a moment, you both stilled, panting, the air heavy with the scent of sex, whiskey, and sweat. Then, he kissed your temple—a soft, reverent press of lips that made your heart stutter, a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before.

He froze, as if realizing the tenderness of his action, and pulled away, his hands shaking as he helped you sit up, his touch now gentle, almost hesitant.

“Get out,” he muttered, voice hoarse, turning his back to you, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched at his sides.

You smirked, pulling your robe on, your legs still trembling, your core aching deliciously from his intensity. “You’ll beg for me again.”

He didn’t respond, but you saw the tension in his posture, the way his hands flexed, fighting the urge to reach for you. You’d cracked the beast, and there was no going back.

Namjoon avoided you for days, his presence a ghost in the halls. You didn’t let up. One evening, you snuck into his office, leaning against his desk in a tight skirt that rode up your thighs, revealing lace garters. When he walked in, his eyes darkened, his jaw tight, but he kept his distance, warring with himself.

“Did I feel like a mistake?” you purred, sliding closer, your fingers trailing along the desk’s edge. “Or are you just scared to admit you’re hooked, big guy?”

He growled, stepping closer but stopping short, his hands fisted at his sides. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, voice low, but his eyes betrayed him—hungry, conflicted, desperate to touch you but holding back.

You tilted your head, smirking, your voice teasing. “Dangerous? Oh, I think you like it. Why else do you keep staring like I’m your last meal?” You hopped onto the desk, crossing your legs slowly, letting the skirt ride higher. “Come on, admit it—you’re dying to taste me again.”

His breath hitched, but he turned his head, avoiding your lips, and the rejection stung more than it should have. You were using him, weren’t you? Just a means to escape.

So why did his refusal to kiss you hurt, a sharp ache in your chest? You pushed the feeling down, focusing on the game. “What’s wrong, Joon? Scared you’ll fall for me?” you taunted, poking his chest.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but careful. “Stop,” he snapped, but his voice was strained, his eyes flickering with torment. He wanted you—badly—but he was fighting it, and that hurt more than you cared to admit.

He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessive strength, pushing them apart with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath catch. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he growled, his voice rough, almost pleading, as he buried his face between your legs.

His lips found your core, hot and insistent, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, tasting your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your skin, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your spine.

You gasped, your hips bucking instinctively, but his hands held you firm, fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you spread open for him.

His tongue was relentless, swirling around your clit with precise, teasing flicks that made your toes curl, each movement calculated to drive you wild.

He sucked your clit gently at first, then harder, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud, pulling a cry from your throat as your head fell back, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard.

His moans hummed against you, deep and primal, like he was savoring every drop of you, drinking you in like a man starved for weeks.

His tongue dipped lower, plunging into your entrance, fucking you with slow, deep strokes that had you trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

He alternated between lapping at your folds and sucking your clit, his pace maddening, building you up only to slow down just as you neared the edge, making you whimper with need.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped against your core, his voice muffled, his breath hot and tickling your oversensitive skin. His lips grazed your inner thigh, nipping lightly before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit with a rhythm that felt like worship, each stroke sending sparks through your body.

Your thighs quaked, trying to close around his head, but he growled, prying them wider, his fingers bruising as he held you open, exposing every inch of you to his relentless assault.

He licked you like he was memorizing your taste, like he’d never get enough, his moans vibrating through you, amplifying every sensation until you were a writhing mess, your hips grinding against his face, chasing the release he kept teasing.

“Namjoon,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling until he groaned, the sound raw and hungry. He doubled down, sucking your clit with a pressure that made stars burst behind your eyes, his tongue flicking in tight, rapid circles, pushing you closer, closer.

Your body tensed, the coil in your core snapping as pleasure crashed over you, a keening cry ripping from your throat as you came, your thighs trembling, your hips bucking against his mouth.

He didn’t stop, lapping at you through your orgasm, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, whimpering, tugging his hair to pull him away.

He stood, wiping his glistening lips with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and wild, his chest heaving. He freed himself from his slacks, his cock hard and heavy, and fucked you slow, his hands gripping your waist, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re not just a game to me,” he whispered, his voice raw with confession. You both froze, the weight of his words hanging between you.

He avoided your lips, his forehead pressing to your shoulder instead, and the ache in your chest deepened. Why did you care? Why did you want his kiss, his heart, when all you needed was his help to escape?

He pulled out, tucking himself away, his hands shaking. “This can’t happen again,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

You smirked, adjusting your skirt, hiding the hurt. “Liar.”

Viktor’s suspicions festered, his touches growing bolder, his gaze dissecting. One night, he summoned you and Namjoon to his office, the air thick with cigar smoke and malice.

He leaned back in his chair, a cruel smile curling his lips as he beckoned you closer. “Come here, pet,” he purred, his voice dripping with possession.

You stiffened, your stomach churning, but you didn't move, every muscle tense. Viktor’s hand snaked around your waist, pulling you against his side, and he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering, wet and invasive.

You flinched, a shudder rippling through you, your skin crawling as you fought the urge to shove him away. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms, and you bit your lip hard, tasting blood to keep from gagging.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed under your breath, but Viktor only chuckled, his grip tightening, a silent threat.

Namjoon stood across the room, his posture rigid, but his reaction was a storm barely leashed. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked, veins pulsing in his forearms.

His jaw locked, a muscle twitching furiously, and his eyes—dark, lethal—burned with a rage that could’ve set the room ablaze. When Viktor’s lips lingered on your cheek, Namjoon’s hand jerked toward his gun, his fingers curling around the grip before he forced it away, his breath ragged.

His chest heaved, his gaze locked on you, not Viktor, as if memorizing every flinch, every tremble, every mark of your disgust. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the air around him vibrated with violence, a promise of retribution he couldn’t yet deliver.

Viktor released you, his eyes flicking to Namjoon, a taunting glint in them. “Loyalty test passed,” he said, waving you both out, but his smile was a blade, cutting deeper than his dagger ever could.

That night, Namjoon didn’t come to your room as a lover. Instead, he slipped in silently, his gun still holstered, and sank to the floor beside your bed, his back against the frame.

He didn’t speak at first, his head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but you felt his presence like a shield. “Why are you here?” you whispered, sitting up, your voice soft in the dark.

He didn’t look at you, his voice low, rough with exhaustion and guilt. “Because I can’t trust him tonight. Not with you.” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “One more day. Just give me one day more.”

His words were a vow, a cryptic promise. You’d overheard him earlier, arguing with a contact about “finalizing the files”—evidence of Viktor’s crimes, enough to bring him down.

One more day meant he was close to dismantling the empire, to freeing you, but he couldn’t risk Viktor’s wrath until then. Sleeping on the floor was his way of guarding you, of keeping you close while he wrestled with the fear of losing you and the love he couldn’t admit.

You leaned over the edge of the bed, your voice barely a breath, heavy with guilt. “Namjoon… I’m sorry. I seduced you to get out of here. I used you.”

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light, soft but piercing. “I know,” he said, his voice steady, no trace of anger or betrayal. “I’ve always known.”

The weight of his words hung between you, a quiet acknowledgment of your game and his choice to play it anyway. His gaze held yours, raw and unguarded, revealing a man who saw through your plan but couldn’t walk away.

You reached down, touching his hand. “I’m not afraid of him, when you are beside me,” you said, and for the first time, you meant it.

His fingers curled around yours, a fleeting squeeze, and he stayed there, silent, your protector in the dark.

A guard betrayed Namjoon, a hidden camera catching you slipping into Namjoon’s quarters. Viktor’s rage was apocalyptic, a tempest born of wounded pride and shattered control.

He never knew that the day he brought Namjoon into this hell, a boy barely out of his teens, was the day he began writing his own destruction. Namjoon had been a shadow then, sharp-minded and fiercely loyal, molded by a promise to his father to serve the man whose own father had saved their family from ruin.

But that loyalty was a chain, one that had stolen Namjoon’s childhood, his youth, every dream he might have had, chaining him to Viktor’s cruel empire. Namjoon despised it—the blood, the betrayal, the endless cycle of violence that defined Viktor’s world. Yet he stayed, bound by duty, his hatred simmering beneath a mask of obedience, waiting for the moment to break free.

Viktor dragged you both to a warehouse, the air thick with dust and gasoline, his men tying Namjoon to a chair, ropes biting into his wrists but leaving him largely unharmed—Viktor needed his mind intact, his right-hand functional.

Viktor knew Namjoon was indispensable; without him, the empire would crumble, a truth that made him untouchable, a fact Namjoon wielded like a blade.

You, however, were Viktor’s target, the focus of his wrath. He grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back with a vicious jerk, his nails scraping your scalp raw, making you cry out as pain seared through your skull.

“You think you can play me?” he snarled, backhanding you across the face. The slap was a bone-rattling crack, your cheek splitting open, blood streaming down your jaw, your vision swimming.

He tore the strap of your dress, the fabric ripping to expose your shoulder and neck, and pressed his knife to your throat, a shallow cut deepening, blood dripping to your collarbone, your body trembling from the pain.

Namjoon’s reaction was a storm unleashed, a raw, primal fury that shook the warehouse. His eyes widened with anguish, his body jerking against the ropes, the chair scraping the concrete as he roared, a guttural sound of pure, helpless rage.

His veins pulsed in his neck, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled, and his eyes—black with fury, glistening with unshed tears—locked onto your bloodied face, every drop of your pain carving into his soul. His hands strained, ropes fraying under his strength, his breaths ragged, as if he could tear the world apart to reach you.

Viktor had never thought Namjoon would betray him, especially not for a woman. Namjoon, who’d never shown interest in any woman his entire life, who’d walked past Viktor’s broken “toys” without a glance, was now unraveling, his loyalty shattered by you—by your fire, your defiance, the way you’d claimed his heart without even trying.

“Since you’re so interested in her,” Viktor sneered, his voice dripping with malice, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement at Namjoon’s torment.

Namjoon’s eyes burned, but he forced his voice to a desperate lie, his voice cracking with the effort. “I don’t care about her. I’m not interested in her.”

His words hit you like a punch, betrayal slicing through your chest. You froze, your eyes locked on his, searching for the man who’d left med kits, who’d kissed your temple, who’d called you more than a game.

Your heart splintered, a silent sob choking you, but you bit it back, your bloodied lips trembling. The pain in your chest rivaled the sting of your wounds, a raw ache of abandonment, as if the fragile trust you’d built had crumbled under his cold denial.

You wanted to scream, to call him a liar again, but the knife at your throat kept you silent, your eyes pleading for the truth he’d buried.

Viktor’s laugh was sharp, cruel, his confidence unshaken.

“Is that so? Let me strip her in front of you. And let all other men enjoy the show too.” He yanked your dress harder, the fabric tearing further, exposing more of your skin, and gestured to his leering men, their eyes hungry, their laughter a sickening chorus that echoed in the warehouse.

Namjoon’s rage exploded, a primal roar ripping from his throat as he surged against the ropes, the chair splintering beneath him, wood cracking under his strength.

“Touch her again, and I’ll rip your fucking heart out!” His gaze locked on Viktor, promising death, then flicked to you, softening for a split second with guilt and desperation, as if begging you to forgive his lie.

His eyes screamed what his words couldn’t: you were everything, the reason he’d endured this hell, the spark that had ignited his rebellion.

Your eyes locked on Namjoon’s, silent, desperate, pleading. Tears welled but didn’t fall, your gaze screaming for him to stop this, to save you, to be the man you’d glimpsed in his tender touches.

Your lips trembled, your body shaking, but you didn’t speak, your eyes conveying every ounce of fear and trust you placed in him.

He snapped, his voice a deadly growl, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Untie me. Let’s see who survives.”

He knew exactly what he was doing, choosing words that stabbed at Viktor’s ego, knowing Viktor’s pride couldn’t resist a challenge to his power. Viktor, predictable in his arrogance, would take the bait, blind to the trap Namjoon was setting.

“You think you’re untouchable, Viktor? Cut these ropes and prove it. Or are you too weak to face me without your little games?”

Viktor’s ego couldn’t resist the challenge, his laughter taunting but his eyes betraying a flicker of unease.

He knew Namjoon’s power, knew that without him, he was nothing—a loudmouth with a gun, as the guards had whispered.

He cut the ropes, sneering as Namjoon lunged, grabbing a gun from the desk with lethal precision. Viktor aimed at you, his finger twitching on the trigger, but Namjoon pressed the barrel to his own temple, his hand steady, his eyes cold and unyielding.

“If she dies, I die with her,” he said, voice deadly calm, a vow that carried the weight of his entire existence. “You know what that means. Even if I die, I have enough ways to ruin you.”

Viktor’s face crumpled, panic flickering in his eyes. Namjoon was his mind, his shield, the architect of his empire.

Without him, Viktor was nothing but a hollow king, his power a facade. “Fine!” he screamed, lowering the gun, his voice shaking with fury and fear. “She walks free.”

You staggered to Namjoon, his arms crushing you to his chest, his heart pounding against yours despite his own minimal injuries. “You're mine now,” he growled, his voice low and fierce, his eyes locked on Viktor, a brazen claim that rang through the warehouse.

He knew Viktor wouldn’t touch him—couldn’t touch him—because Namjoon was the foundation of everything Viktor had built. With you in his arms, he stood taller, his claim a defiant proclamation to Viktor and his men, a vow that he’d burn it all down for you. “I don’t care if I burn the world.”

Viktor laughed, a hollow, bitter sound, his eyes dark with defeat. “You’ll regret this, Joon.”

Namjoon’s grip on you tightened, his voice a low, lethal promise. “Try me.”

After the warehouse showdown, Viktor’s grip on his crumbling empire tightened, his paranoia festering into desperation. In a final bid to keep Namjoon in line, Viktor summoned him to his office, the air thick with the stench of bourbon and cigar smoke.

His eyes, bloodshot and calculating, bore into Namjoon as he leaned back in his chair, twirling his dagger with a smirk that barely masked his fear. “I’ll let your little pet go,” Viktor said, his voice low, dripping with false magnanimity.

“She walks free from this hell, Joon, but only if you swear on your father’s grave you’ll never betray me. No exposing my operations, no playing hero. You keep my secrets buried, and she’s yours to take her away.”

Namjoon stood rigid, his face an unreadable mask, but his mind was a cold fire. He’d had enough of Viktor’s games—the blood-soaked deals, the broken lives, the endless cycle of cruelty that had chained him to this hell since he was a boy.

He’d already decided to expose Viktor, his plan set in motion weeks ago: files copied, evidence of Viktor’s trafficking and smuggling networks ready to leak to Interpol.

But he knew if Viktor even suspected his intentions, you’d be the one to pay—his wrath would hunt you down, no matter where he hid you.

Namjoon had already moved you to a secret safehouse, a quiet apartment he’d bought in the city’s underbelly for both of you, its walls bare but safe, a sanctuary he’d built to shield you from the chaos to come.

He met Viktor’s gaze, his eyes cold, unyielding, and lied with a curt nod. “I swear it,” he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the fire burning inside him.

Viktor’s smirk widened, believing he’d won, but Namjoon’s mind was already on you—safe, alive, waiting for him in the safehouse, your heart the only thing tethering him to this fight.

He left Viktor’s office, his jaw clenched, knowing every word was a step closer to dismantling the empire and keeping you out of Viktor’s reach forever.

Viktor had let you go, but Namjoon knew better than to trust him. Viktor’s pride was wounded, his empire threatened, and men like him didn’t forgive.

To protect you from his inevitable retaliation, Namjoon faked your death—a staged car explosion, a charred body too mangled to identify. The news spread, and Viktor’s men stopped hunting you.

He spent nights hacking Viktor’s files, exposing his trafficking and smuggling networks, his hands flying over the keyboard.

One night, after a close call with Viktor’s men, you found Namjoon in the safehouse’s tiny bathroom, blood and dirt smearing his face, his shirt torn.

You stripped bare, your clothes falling to the floor, and joined him under the shower’s spray, your heart aching at the sight of him—so strong, yet breaking under the weight of keeping you safe. “You’re a mess,” you whispered, grabbing a cloth to clean his wounds.

He caught your wrist, his eyes dark, raw. “I won’t let anything hurt you again,” he vowed, pulling you close. His lips crashed into yours, a desperate, hungry kiss that stole your breath. You moaned, your hands fisting his shirt, tugging it off as he backed you against the wall, the cold tiles biting your skin.

His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming every inch, his kisses fierce, unrelenting, like he was pouring every fear, every promise into you.

You bit his lip, drawing a growl from him, and he deepened the kiss, his hands roaming your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You felt him hard against your thigh, the evidence of his desire making you dizzy, but he kept it slow, deliberate, savoring every second.

You broke away, gasping, but he didn’t stop, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point.

“Namjoon,” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair, your body arching into him. He groaned, his lips finding yours again, softer this time, but no less intense, each kiss a confession of everything he couldn’t say.

His hands slid over your wet skin, calloused fingers grazing your curves, sending shivers through you. He lifted you onto the shower ledge, stepping between your thighs, his kisses growing frantic, like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, breaking. You kissed him back, matching his desperation, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

You lost track of time, lost in the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way his hands held you like you were his lifeline. He pulled back, panting, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You cupped his face, kissing him softly, your lips lingering. “You won’t,” you promised, and he kissed you again, slow and deep, sealing the vow.

After, he wrapped you in a towel, cleaning your face with gentle hands, his touch soft. He kissed your forehead, pulling you to his chest, and you stayed there, listening to his heartbeat, knowing you’d face the world together.

Namjoon sent Viktor’s files to Interpol, every dirty secret laid bare. The final showdown came in a burning warehouse, Viktor’s empire crumbling around him. Flames licked the walls, smoke curling thick and black as Namjoon faced Viktor, gun in hand, his eyes cold, but his heart a furnace of obsession for you.

Viktor stood amidst the chaos, a gun trained on Namjoon, his smirk twisted. “You think you are something different from me, Namjoon. And you can claim one of my pets as yours.”

Namjoon’s grip on the gun tightened, his voice low, lethal, dripping with possessive fury. “She’s mine, Viktor. You touched what’s mine, and that was your first mistake.”

His eyes burned, every word laced with the weight of his devotion, his need to protect you, to claim you. “I’ve spent years cleaning up your messes, hiding your crimes. But you crossed a line when you hurt her.”

Viktor laughed, but it was shaky, his eyes darting to the flames. “You’re nothing without me. You need me as much as I need you.”

Namjoon stepped closer, his gun steady, his voice a growl. “I built your empire. I kept you alive. But I don’t need you anymore.” He glanced at you, standing behind him, your presence fueling his resolve. “She’s my reason now. You’ll never touch her again.”

Viktor’s smirk faltered. “You’re bluffing. You won’t kill me. You can’t.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his voice a whisper of finality. “You shouldn’t have touched her.” He pulled the trigger, the shot echoing as Viktor collapsed, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide with shock.

The warehouse burned, and you pulled Namjoon away, his hand tight in yours. “It’s over,” you whispered, your voice trembling with relief.

He looked at you, his face softening, his obsession laid bare in his gaze. “No. We’re just beginning.”

You and Namjoon had carved out a quiet life off-grid, in a cozy safehouse by the sea, the world felt softer, the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting silver glows across the bedroom.

The ocean’s gentle waves whispered outside, a lullaby to your new beginning. You lay curled against Namjoon on the bed, your head nestled in the crook of his neck, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his breath steady, content, a far cry from the cold beast you’d first met.

You tilted your head, your lips brushing his jaw, your voice a soft murmur. “Thank you for freeing me from becoming his pet.”

Namjoon’s eyes sparkled with warmth, his hand sliding to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with reverence. “You’re not a pet. You’re my queen.” He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss, his mouth soft and warm, tasting faintly of the peppermint tea you’d shared earlier. The kiss was a promise, a vow of forever, and you melted into it, your heart fluttering.

You pulled back, grinning, your fingers poking his chest playfully. “Queen, huh? So you’re my loyal knight now, ready to fetch my coffee and fluff my pillows?”

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made your toes curl, and he rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Knight? Baby, I’m your hopeless servant, but don’t ask me to cook something. I’d burn the house down trying.”

You giggled, swatting his shoulder, your eyes dancing with delight. “Hopeless is right. Last week, you broke the toaster trying to ‘fix’ it. My queenly standards are slipping with you around.”

“Slipping?” he gasped, feigning offense, his hands sliding to your waist, tickling you lightly until you squirmed, laughing breathlessly. “I’m a masterpiece, Your Majesty. Brains, brawn, and a knack for breaking appliances.”

“Masterpiece, my foot,” you teased, tugging at his shirt, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his chest. “Lucky I love you for your cuddles and not your handyman skills.”

“Cuddles?” he purred, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh, my queen, I’m about to give you the royal treatment.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue teasing yours in a slow, languid dance that made your heart race. His hands roamed, gentle but deliberate, slipping under your oversized sleep shirt—a stolen tee of his that smelled faintly of his cologne.

He tugged it off, revealing your bare skin, and his breath hitched, his eyes raking over you with adoration. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts.

You blushed, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, pulling his shirt off, your fingers exploring the planes of his chest, the faint scars that told stories of battles fought for you.

You leaned up, kissing his jaw, his neck, nipping playfully at his earlobe, earning a soft groan that made you grin. “Weak for me already?”

“Always,” he whispered, his lips finding yours, the kiss slow and sweet, each brush of his mouth a declaration of love. He trailed kisses down your throat, lingering at your pulse point, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, making you whimper.

His hands caressed your sides, sliding over your hips, your thighs, his touch reverent, like he was worshiping every inch of you. “You’re my everything,” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing your nipple, teasing it with a gentle suck that sent heat pooling between your legs.

You arched into him, your breath hitching, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Namjoon,” you sighed, your voice a soft plea, and he smiled against your skin, his hands guiding your legs around his waist.

He tugged off his sweatpants, revealing himself, hard and ready, but he didn’t rush, his movements deliberate, savoring the moment. He kissed his way back up, his lips finding yours, his tongue exploring your mouth with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face, his eyes locked on yours as he positioned himself, his tip brushing your entrance, teasing you with agonizing slowness. “Tell me you want this, my queen.”

“Want you,” you gasped, your hips lifting, urging him closer. “Always, Joon.”

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you with a delicious fullness that made you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his breaths ragged as he moved, each thrust slow and deep, a connection that went beyond flesh. “God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion, his hands sliding to your hips, guiding you in a gentle rhythm.

You laughed softly, breathless, your lips brushing his. “Heaven? Thought you were the devil.”

“Only for you,” he teased, kissing you deeply, his tongue mimicking the slow, sensual pace of his thrusts. Your bodies moved together, lazy and intimate, the heat building in soft waves, every touch laced with love.

His hands roamed, one sliding to cup your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you closer for a kiss that stole your breath.

“Joon,” you whimpered, your climax building, a warm, pulsing tide that made your toes curl. He sensed it, his movements steady but tender, his lips trailing to your ear, whispering, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shattered, your orgasm washing over you in a soft, shuddering wave, your moans muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him.

He followed, his release a low groan, his body trembling as he spilled inside you, his lips finding yours in a messy, perfect kiss. He stayed inside you, rolling you both to your sides, your legs tangled, his arms wrapping you tight against his chest.

You lay there, panting, his fingers tracing lazy hearts on your back, his lips brushing your forehead. “You’re stuck with me now, queen,” he murmured, his voice playful but thick with love.

“Good,” you whispered, snuggling closer, your cheek pressed to his heart. “But you’re doing the dishes tomorrow. Non-negotiable. And don't you dare to break them.”

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “Deal. But only if you keep stealing my shirts. You look too cute in them.”

You laughed, kissing him hard, your heart full. You’d both survived. You’d both sinned. And you’d do it all again, together.

A/n: Was planning to post it on another account but since I got this Namjoon fic request here, so posting on this main account.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[inkieun]

You See, Baby....... - Kim Jiyong x F!Reader

“That’s better.” Jiyong’s voice softened, but his smile stayed sharp as he twirled the knife like a toy, stepping slowly toward the bed. “You were always mine, baby. You just didn’t know it yet.”

cw : dark!jiyong, kidnapping, knife, blood, noncon, fingering, creampie and murder.

"In other news, the Vigilant has struck again. Late last night, reports surfaced of a man thrown from the rooftop of a downtown apartment complex. The body was later identified as Minhyun Kim, a man once arrested for abusing his ex-girlfriend. He'd served time but was released early for good behavior. Soon after, he began stalking her, begging to get back together. When she refused, he beat her so viciously she's now clinging to life in the hospital."

The news anchor’s voice began to blur, fading into the static hum of the room. It didn’t matter what channel you turned to this was the only story anyone seemed to care about.

“Wow, that guy’s insane,” Hwangjoon muttered, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blinked and turned toward him, nodding like you'd been listening the whole time. “I mean,” you started, your voice calm, “I don’t feel bad for the victims.” Hwangjoon choked on his coffee. “Hey—don’t say that! You’re training to be a cop,” he said, half-yelling, half-laughing. You shrugged. “True.”

Seonwook leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat. “I agree with her.” His voice was low but the way he smiled afterward made your heart kick once against your ribs. You looked away before it could show on your face. Jiyong cleared his throat, not looking up from his drink. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, maybe a little too quickly. Hwangjoon clapped his hands once. “Alright, tonight we are hitting up a club, whatcha say” He pointed between the three of you like he was announcing an award. “We’ve earned it. This week was hell.”

“Yes,” you and Seonwook said at the same time. Your voices were just a little too loud for the quiet cafeteria, drawing a few stares. You both glanced at each other, then away again. Everyone turned toward Jiyong, who was already shaking his head before the question formed.

“I can’t. I have to go home and rest,” he mumbled. “—rest,” all four of you echoed, finishing his sentence in unison. Jiyong’s ears turned red.  Seonwook reached over and gave his back a light tap. “This is the last time you get to use that excuse, Jiyongiee.” The poor guy just nodded, defeated.

“Okay, guys, let’s meet after our last class,” you said, standing up and grabbing your tray. “Yeah,” they all answered in near unison. You turned to leave, weaving through the cafeteria crowd, eyes already drifting toward the clock. You were just a step from the trash bin when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You glanced behind you. Jiyong stood there, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Hey, Jiyongie,” you greeted with a small smile. “Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes darted around, avoiding yours. “What’s up?” you asked while tossing your leftovers and sliding the tray onto the rack. You dusted off your hands and faced him fully, tilting your head slightly in curiosity.

“Can I... talk to you for a sec?” he asked. His voice was low, a little rushed, like he was afraid he’d change his mind if he didn’t say it fast enough. “Yeah, of course.” Your brows drew in slightly, unsure why he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Jiyong finally met your eyes. There was something determined hiding behind all that nervous energy.

“Okay... let’s go somewhere quiet,” he said. You gave a simple nod. “Sure.” You turned to walk with him, but before you could take a step, Jiyong reached out hesitating for a second then interlocked his fingers with yours.

Your hand stilled in his. His grip wasn’t tight. You looked at him. His ears were red, his jaw tense, and he still wouldn’t quite meet your gaze. You didn’t pull away. You just walked with him, silently, your hand still in his, trying not to overthink why your chest felt so heavy.

He led you to the nearest empty classroom, glancing around before pushing the door open. He stepped aside and motioned for you to go in first. You did, footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum floor. He shut the door behind you with a quiet click that suddenly made the room feel too still. “Okay, so—” Jiyong began, voice cracking just slightly. He cleared his throat. “I’ve liked you for a long time and I was wondering if you’d go on a date with me.”

The words tumbled out in one breath, fast and almost panicked. You blinked. It took you a second to process what he’d just said. “Oh,” was all you could manage. His hopeful expression twitched. He tried to smile, but it faltered at the corners. You stepped closer, not sure how to soften what had to be said. “Jiyong… I’m so sorry.” You paused, searching his face. “But I only see you as a friend.”

You made yourself meet his eyes, even though everything inside you twisted. He looked down, shoulders shrinking inward. “Oh. That’s… that’s fine,” he said quickly, too quickly, voice tight. “You okay?” you asked gently, reaching for his hand.

But he stepped back, pulling his hand away like your touch might make it worse. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he said, eyes fixed on the door. “I’ll see you later.” And just like that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him. You stood there, unmoving, your chest heavy. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. But lying would've been worse. Leading him on… especially when the truth was so much more complicated, when you liked his best friend. 

You’d been standing in the empty classroom so long, lost in your thoughts, that you didn’t notice time slipping by until the bell rang. “Shit,” you muttered, snapping back to reality. You rushed out, heading toward your locker to grab your bag, the weight of the day pressing heavier with each step. You were halfway up the stairs when you walked straight into a broad chest, familiar scent. Seonwook. 

“Hey,” he said, steadying you with a hand on your arm. “I was looking for you. You missed Mrs. Choi’s class… and you know how she gets.” “Yeah, sorry,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I wasn’t feeling too well.” His brows pulled together. “Oh no. You okay?” “Yeah, just tired. I was heading to my dorm to grab my bag.”

“I’ll walk with you,” he said simply, already falling into step beside you. When you unlocked the door and pushed it open, you winced. “Sorry for the mess,” you muttered, quickly scooping up some stray clothes from the floor. “It’s fine,” he said, waving it off. “I’m just as bad. Jiyong’s the neat freak, that’s the only reason our dorm’s remotely livable.”

The mention of Jiyong’s name brought you back to the classroom, to his downcast eyes and the way he pulled his hand away but you pushed the memory aside before it could settle. “Hey,” Seonwook said, now leaning casually against your doorframe, arms crossed. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You looked up and smiled. “What’s up?” “Wanna go on a date tomorrow?” You blinked. Heat crept up your cheeks before you could stop it. “Yes. I’d love to.” “Nice,” he said with a grin, pumping his fist in the air. “Let’s go!” You squinted at him. “I might take that back after that shit.” “What? Nooo!” he yelled in mock horror, clutching his chest like he’d been shot.

You laughed, tossing your bag over your shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before we’re locked in for the whole weekend.” You shut the door behind you, twisting the key, and turned toward the stairs. “Let’s head out.” You and Seonwook walked side by side, hands brushing, fingers barely grazing not enough to notice. The hallway buzzed faintly under the fluorescents, but your chest felt light, almost giddy.

You missed the shadow behind the wall. Didn’t feel the stare that followed you. Jiyong watched, his jaw clenched and eyes cold.

You didn’t go with the guys to the club. You were too nervous and too wired with anticipation. Tomorrow was your date with Seonwook, and that thought alone had your heart doing somersaults. You stood in front of your closet, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. Cute or sexy? You were losing it.

With a groan, you face-planted onto your bed and stayed there, breathing into the comforter like it could somehow make a decision for you. buzz. Your phone jolted beneath the sheets, slicing through the quiet. You smiled before even looking. You already knew who it was. Seonwook. “Can’t wait to see what you wear tomorrow.” Your breath caught. Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing. 

You rolled onto your back, the phone now clutched in both hands, grinning like a fool under the dim glow of your bedside lamp. Your thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before you typed, deliberately slow.

You: Careful… keep teasing like that and I might show up in something that'll make you forget how to breathe. 

You hit send, biting your lip at the rush that followed. Not even five seconds passed before the typing dots popped up. He was waiting for it.

Seonwook: That a threat or a promise? 

You snorted, heat crawling up your neck.

You: Wouldn't you like to know? Guess you’ll have to survive the anticipation… try not to combust before our date, hmm?

The dots paused,

Seonwook: No promises. But if you’re trying to kill me slowly, it’s working. And I’m not even mad.

You stared at the message, pulse skittering like a drum roll under your skin. You could practically hear his voice in your head, smooth and low, teasing.

A soft heat bloomed across your cheeks as you stared at his last message, the words “kill me slowly” echoing in your chest like a drumbeat. You let out a small, helpless laugh, the kind you made when your brain short-circuited and butterflies threw a rave in your stomach. “God, stop,” you muttered to no one, hiding your face behind your hands like that would help cool the flush rising up your neck.

With a deep breath, you locked your phone and tossed it to the other side of the bed, as far from your reach as possible. You needed to sleep, not spiral. Sliding off the edge of the bed, you padded across the room, peeling off the day’s clothes with slow, lazy movements, your mind still tangled in Seonwook’s voice, the way he said things. 

You pulled on a soft oversized tee, the hem brushing your thighs, and flicked off the lights. Darkness wrapped around you like velvet. You crawled back into bed and buried yourself in the comforter, warm and cocooned.

Your heart leapt when the phone buzzed again with fast and impulsive hope flickering through your chest as you grabbed it from the sheets. Seonwook. Of course it was him again. Still playing, still—

Unknown Number: If you know what’s good for you, you better cancel that date tomorrow.

Your breath snagged. The smile on your lips died instantly. You sat up. The glow from the screen cast a pale sheen across your face, and suddenly the room felt colder and too quiet. Like it was holding its breath with you. "What the hell…" you whispered, thumb frozen above the message.

The number was nothing but “Unknown” no name, no details, just those words sitting heavy in your inbox like something rotten. Your finger hovered, then acted on instinct you deleted the message, blocked the number. The phone chimed softly with confirmation.

You lowered the phone slowly, eyes scanning the dark corners of your room like they might move. The shadows clung thicker than usual tonight, stretching long across the floor, like they were listening.

You laid back down, this time under the covers, dragging them up to your chin like armor. But the cold had followed you under. You checked your phone one more time. No new messages. You shut your eyes. And behind them, the words replayed. If you know what’s good for you…

Sleep eventually found you but it was restless and patchy. Like waves breaking over your thoughts before pulling away again. You drifted in and out. But morning came anyway, as it always did.

Warm light spilled through the curtains, and you stirred beneath the covers with a low groan, limbs heavy, eyes sticky with sleep. You rolled over, face half-buried in the pillow, and reached blindly for your phone.

First thought: Seonwook.

The thought alone was enough to stir a grin back to your face. You didn’t even remember the other message from last night. All you remembered now was Seonwook’s smirk in text form. And the way he said “Can’t wait to see what you wear.” Your heart kicked up a beat. Excitement bloomed.

Whatever that was last night… if it even happened… it didn’t matter now. Not in this warm bed, not with Seonwook waiting. You had a date to get ready for. And a feeling tonight was going to be unforgettable.

You spent more time getting ready than you wanted to admit. Standing in front of the mirror, you second-guessed everything, your outfit, your hair, the way your perfume lingered just faintly in the air. You even changed once. Then twice. Then went back to the first thing.

You left early, phone clutched in your hand, checking it every other block, trying not to seem too eager though your heart had already sprinted ahead to that restaurant booth where you’d picture him waiting. Maybe already ordering a drink. That lazy, unreadable grin on his face when he looked up and saw you walking in.

But when you arrived, that booth was empty. You glanced around, breath catching. A couple sat by the window. A waiter carried two wine glasses past you. But no Seonwook. You double-checked the time. Right place. Right hour. You were even five minutes late.

Still… nothing. You sent a quick text:

You: Hey, I’m here. You stuck in traffic or something? ;)

You tried to make it light. You even added a little winking emoji, like it wasn’t already crawling under your skin. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. You refreshed your messages. Again and again. Nothing.

The waiter came over with a soft, apologetic smile. "Would you like to wait a bit longer? Or maybe… start with a drink?" You nodded, murmuring something, the menu blurred in front of you.

The atmosphere shifted. The soft clinks of glasses, the chatter of couples laughing, suddenly sounded too far away. Like you weren’t really in the room anymore. Just beside it. Watching everyone else live out their ordinary nights while yours started to crack at the edges.

You sat there, motionless, staring at the untouched glass of water the waiter had kindly brought you. Time kept moving, indifferent. Your chest felt tight, too tight, as if your ribs were slowly knitting themselves together to crush your own heart. You refreshed your messages one more time. Still nothing.

The waiter passed by again, careful now, as if you might shatter if he said the wrong thing. "Would you like to order, or—?" You waved him off, your throat closing around the words that wouldn’t come. You couldn't even look him in the eye. You didn’t want to see pity there.

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. Purse clutched, chair scraping too loudly against the floor, you rushed out of the restaurant, barely hearing the waiter’s soft, "Take care," behind you.

The cold air outside slapped your cheeks, but the heat of shame burned far hotter under your skin. Tears came, uninvited, as if they’d been waiting just behind your lashes this whole time. You wiped them away quickly, but they came faster, falling in hot streaks as you half-walked, half-ran down the street. You didn’t care who saw. You just needed to get away.

You swallowed the thick knot of humiliation, but it stuck there, solid and heavy. Every step home felt like sinking into the ground. The weight of waiting still clung to you, as if you hadn’t fully left the table.

By the time you slammed your door shut behind you, you were sobbing. Ugly, shaking sobs that echoed in the empty room, bouncing off the walls like cruel reminders. You slipped off your shoes, tossed your phone onto the couch like it burned to touch it, and dragged yourself to your bed.

The sheets smelled like you. Like mornings you thought mattered. You buried your face in the pillow, muffling the sounds that wouldn’t stop, the frantic swirl of embarrassment and grief tightening around your throat and you slowly drifted away to sleep.

You woke to the weight of silence. Thick, oppressive, unnatural silence. Your eyes cracked open, sticky and sore, expecting the familiar dim light filtering through your bedroom curtains, the muffled hum of the city outside, maybe the lingering ache of last night's tears.

But this wasn’t your room.

The ceiling above you was too high, lined with cracked plaster and water stains that looked like crawling things if you stared too long. The walls were a deep, peeling gray, shadows stretched unnaturally long across them. Your bed…it wasn’t your bed. It was hard, cold, the blanket scratchy against your skin, unfamiliar. Smelled faintly of mildew. Of something that hadn’t been touched for years.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You jerked upright, breath catching in your throat, your head spinning with the violent surge of wrong wrong wrong. Where are you!?!

You whipped your head around. Nothing familiar. No windows. Just a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, as if someone had only just stepped out. Your pulse thundered in your ears, every sound amplified in the terrifying quiet. You pushed the scratchy blanket away and stumbled to your feet, your legs shaky, your throat dry. The floor beneath you was cold stone. Cold and real. This was not a dream.

What is this? How did I get here? I was just—I was crying, I was—

Your hands trembled as you pressed them against your temples, trying to remember something, anything, but your memory was blank past the moment you buried your face in your pillow. This isn’t right. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

The door creaked, moving just an inch more, and you jumped, heart seizing in your chest. 

A figure, tall, hood up, face masked, moved into the room like they belonged there, like you didn’t. Their footsteps were careful, measured, as if they were making sure you could hear each one. You pressed yourself harder against the wall, the stone biting cold through your thin clothes, your breath trembling in your throat.

“W-where am I?” you whispered, voice cracking, not daring to be louder. Something about the silence told you that raising your voice could make things worse. Don’t make it worse. Don’t make them angry.

The figure didn’t answer. They just stared at you, their hands hanging loose at their sides, not a word, not a twitch. Just their eyes, dark, sharp, too steady. You couldn’t see most of their face, but those eyes. Why do they feel familiar? The thought rattled through your skull like loose glass, but your mind was spinning too fast to grab it.

“Please, please let me go,” you said, trying to sound reasonable, trying to sound small and harmless, your voice thin with panic. “I, I won’t tell anyone. I swear. Just let me go.” The figure didn’t move. Didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Just stared at you.

The silence wrapped around you like wet fabric, suffocating, smothering. It was unbearable. Say something. Please, just say something. The pressure built until it cracked. “Let me go, you fucker!” you screamed, grabbing the nearest thing, an old, flattened pillow, and hurling it at them with everything you had.

They didn’t flinch. They watched it come and stepped aside with effortless calm, like they’d already seen you do it a hundred times. The pillow hit the wall and fell uselessly to the floor. Your breathing was ragged now. The tears were hot and fast again, but this time they were burning with something else, fury, terror, shame all twisted together. 

Your eyes locked on theirs, wild and shaking, and for a long, terrible moment, neither of you moved. Just staring. Your heartbeat throbbed in your ears like a ticking clock. And then, without a word, they turned. The door creaked again as they stepped out.

The click of the lock slid into place, a soft, final sound that made your knees almost buckle. "Wait, no! Come back! Come back!" you screamed after them, running to the door, pounding your fists against the wood. "Let me out! Please! Don’t do this! I said I wouldn’t tell anyone! Please!" Nothing. Just silence.

You sank to the floor, your hands shaking violently, chest heaving, pressing your forehead against the cold door. The quiet pressed in tighter, heavier. It felt alive now, breathing around you, swallowing the edges of your thoughts. And somewhere, buried under the panic, something else pulsed in the back of your mind.

Why did their eyes feel so familiar?

You didn’t know what else to do.

Your fists, raw from pounding the door, slowly slid down the wood. The silence had swallowed your screams, the walls holding them like a secret they’d never give back. Panic clawed at your ribs, but you forced yourself to move, to search. You paced the edges of the room, dragging your fingers along the cracked plaster, checking every seam, every corner, every inch of the floor. Looking for something, anything. A loose board, a window hidden behind the grime, a vent, a crack.

There was nothing. The walls were solid. The air was heavy. The room was a cage, and you were burning your strength uselessly inside it. You didn’t know when your body gave out. When your legs buckled. When your back hit the cold floor and your eyes finally slammed shut under the weight of exhaustion and terror.

But the sound of the door creaking open again ripped you awake like a blade to the spine. You shot up, heart hammering, a sour taste thick in your mouth. The masked figure stepped inside again, but this time, he wasn’t alone. He was dragging someone behind him, their body limp, heels scraping over the stone with a horrible, gritty sound that turned your stomach inside out.

"No, no—" you whispered, pressing yourself back against the bed frame as if you could vanish into it. Your throat was too dry to scream. You watched in frozen horror as the figure dumped the person on the floor like they were nothing, like they weren’t even human.

He crossed the room calmly, grabbed a battered old chair from the corner, and dragged it back, the legs scraping the floor with an awful screech. He pulled the limp figure upright, shoving them into the chair, then wrapped duct tape around their chest, arms, legs tight, fast, efficient, like he’d done it a hundred times before. The silver tape glinted in the weak light as layer after layer pinned the person to the chair.

You wanted to move. You wanted to scream. But your body wouldn’t listen. Then the masked figure yanked the black bag off the person’s head. Your breath punched out of your lungs. Your stomach dropped like you’d fallen through the floor.

"Seonwook?" you choked, the word barely making it past your lips. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. But it was. Seonwook’s face or what was left of it was destroyed. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, skin purple and split, blood slick and crusted across his jaw, his nose bent at a sickening angle. There was so much blood. It dripped from his chin, speckled his torn shirt, smeared down his throat. 

You couldn’t tell where it started, where it ended. His body sagged in the chair, head lolling weakly to the side, breath shallow and rattling. "Seonwook!" you gasped, stumbling forward, but your legs faltered, dragging you back in terrified hesitation. The thought hit you..he hadn’t stood you up. But honestly? You almost wished he had, compared to this. 

Your pulse pounded in your ears, louder than your own breathing. The walls seemed to pulse with it. The masked figure turned, slow and deliberate, locking eyes with you again. Still silent. Still watching. His silence was worse than any scream. Worse than any threat.

You trembled violently, bile rising in your throat. Your mind screamed to do something, anything. But you couldn’t move. The masked figure let the moment hang in the air, as if he was savoring your reaction, as if this was what he had wanted all along.

You pressed your hands to your face, your breathing ragged, tears burning the corners of your eyes. And somewhere inside you, horror curled even tighter as a question clawed to the surface. What does he want me to do?

"You should’ve listened to me when I told you not to do it." The voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and close, too close. Your breath froze. Your eyes snapped to the figure now leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his presence suddenly louder, heavier than the silence ever was.

That voice. No. No. No. It couldn’t be.

"Wait… that voice…" you whispered, your throat tightening. "It can’t be… no. No, that—he wouldn’t…Jiyong." The name fell out of your mouth like a curse, like betrayal wrapped in sound. The masked figure’s head tilted slightly. "Oh?" His voice softened to something cruelly playful, as if this were all some joke only he understood. "You know now, huh?"

Without hurry and no shame, he reached up and peeled off the black face mask, tucking it under his chin. He pushed the hoodie back from his head, ran his fingers through his hair as if fixing it for a casual conversation, as if none of this the blood, the fear, the locked door. It meant anything.

"Jiyong," you breathed, disbelief clashing with terror as your legs carried you toward him without thinking. "What the fuck, Jiyong—what are you doing?" His hand snapped up, palm out, stopping you cold. The movement was quick, sharp, final. His eyes narrowed.

"Take another step," he said, his voice now ice and steel, "and I swear, your precious Seonwook will never walk again." You froze. The words hit you like a slap, your feet locked in place, your heart thundering in your chest.

"Jiyong, you can’t—he’s your best friend," you stammered, your voice cracking, desperate and pleading. "You grew up together—you love him like a brother—"

"No," he barked, the sound slamming against the walls, ricocheting inside your skull. His composure shattered in an instant, his face twisted with something raw and unhinged. "He’s not. He never was." Your chest caved in as the weight of his words settled over you like a trap.

"He knew," Jiyong seethed, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white. "He knew I liked you. I told him. I told him that I loved you. And he still went ahead and asked you out like I wasn’t even there. Like I didn’t fucking matter."

"Jiyong, I told you—I told you I don’t like you like that!" you shot back, your voice shaking, your breath coming too fast. "I told you! You said you were fine!"

"I don’t care," he hissed, his voice spiraling, his control slipping further with every word. "I don’t care! You belong to me. You always have. And now, I’m going to make sure you understand that."

His eyes gleamed with something terrifying and feral, like this was the moment he’d been waiting for.  Your pulse screamed in your ears, every muscle in your body burning with the command to run, but there was nowhere to go. The door was locked. Seonwook was barely conscious, tied to that chair, bleeding because of you.

And Jiyong was smiling now. His hand lowered slowly, deliberately, as if he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

“On the bed.” His voice dropped, low and sharp, coated in a dominance you’d never heard from him before. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command like a cage snapping shut around you. Your entire body locked up. "Jiyong, let’s not—"

His hand shot up so fast you flinched, but it wasn’t meant for you. With brutal precision, his palm slammed down into Seonwook’s stomach. Seonwook jolted violently in the chair, a raw, choking sound tearing from his throat as blood splattered out of his mouth, streaking down his chin in thick red streams. His body spasmed against the tape, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t even curl in on the pain.

"No! No, stop!" you screamed, stumbling forward, your panic overwhelming every other thought, but Jiyong’s glare pinned you in place. "On. The. Bed." Each word struck you like a pulse of cold air, final and merciless. His hand hovered inches from Seonwook’s bruised torso, fingers twitching as if he wanted an excuse to hit him again.

Your breath trembled, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. "Please, Jiyong. Don’t do this. I’m listen, okay?, I’ll—just don’t hurt him. Please."

"Then get on the bed," he said, his voice wrapped in ice, a warning lingering beneath it. "Now." You hesitated. You could barely feel your legs beneath you, barely understand how your body was moving, but you backed toward the bed, each step slow, shaking, a countdown you couldn’t stop.

The silence throbbed around you, the only sound Seonwook’s ragged, wet breathing and the faint drip of blood hitting the stone floor. You sat down, your hands clenching the rough blanket beneath you, trying to hold onto something solid.

Jiyong’s head tilted, his eyes devouring the image of you obeying, like he’d imagined this moment a thousand times. "See?" he said, almost gently, as if this was something you could both look back on fondly. "It’s not so hard. You should’ve just listened to me from the start."

"Please," you whispered, your voice breaking apart. "Please just let him go. He didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to—" "Shh," Jiyong murmured, holding up a finger. "You’re still talking about him. I don’t want to hear his name anymore. From now on, it’s just you and me."

Your breath faltered, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs, caged like the rest of you. His smile widened. "I’m going to make sure you never forget who you belong to."

And in the silence that followed, the weight of those words settled into your skin like chains.

"I want you on your back." Jiyong’s smile stretched, slow and razor-sharp, like this was all just a game and you were the final piece he’d been waiting to claim. Your stomach twisted violently. "What?" The word cracked out of your throat, half-sob, half-disbelief. "Jiyong, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even flinch at the question. Instead, his hand slid into his back pocket in one smooth, casual motion, like he had all the time in the world. You blinked, breath caught in your chest, struggling to see what he was holding until the flash of silver caught the weak light. A knife.

"No, no, wait—" Without a word and without hesitation, he drove the blade deep into Seonwook’s thigh. Seonwook’s body arched violently against the chair, a garbled, raw scream ripping from his throat as blood gushed from the wound, spraying across Jiyong’s face, flecking into his hair, splattering the floor in thick, hot drops.

"NO! STOP!" you screamed, scrambling to your feet, but Jiyong didn’t even turn to you at first. He twisted the knife cruelly before yanking it out in a single, brutal pull, the sound wet and sharp in the choking silence.

Seonwook sagged against the chair, a weak, guttural groan the only thing he could manage, blood pooling beneath him in a sickening puddle. Jiyong wiped the back of his hand across his blood-speckled face, smearing it across his cheek like war paint, then turned to you with a smile that froze your veins.

"You really want him to suffer, huh, baby?" he said, tilting his head as he winked at you. You collapsed to your knees, choking on sobs. "Seonwook," you cried, your voice splintering as your chest caved in. "I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—" Seonwook’s head lolled weakly toward you, blood trailing from his lips, his eyes too swollen to really see you and his groans barely reaching your ears.

There was no fight left in him. No strength. Just pain. Your throat burned. Your hands trembled as you looked back at Jiyong, standing there with the knife dripping in his hand, waiting. "I said on your back," he repeated, his voice like ice now, sharp and final. "Don’t make me say it again."

You crawled backward onto the bed, your entire body shaking, tears blurring your vision, every nerve screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something but there was nowhere to go. You laid on your back, the rough blanket burning against your skin as your breathing came in shallow, terrified gasps.

"That’s better." Jiyong’s voice softened, but his smile stayed sharp, dangerous, as he walked toward you with slow, measured steps, twirling the knife between his fingers like it was just a toy. "You see, baby…" he whispered, dragging his feet towards you, his gaze never leaving you. "You were always mine. You just didn’t know it yet."

And the sound of Seonwook’s fading groans mixed with the steady drip, drip, drip of his blood was the only thing filling the room as you realized—this wasn’t the beginning.

This was Jiyong’s endgame.

Jiyong’s breath came slow, steady, almost rhythmic as he trailed the blood-slick knife up your trembling legs, the cold metal smearing sticky crimson across your skin.

His eyes glazed over in something between obsession and satisfaction. “This pretty skin…” he murmured to himself, the words rolling off his tongue like he was cataloging you, like you were some beautiful object meant to be marked, claimed. The blood left a wet, glistening path as the blade slid higher, his hand painfully steady, savoring every inch.

You couldn’t stop shaking. Your breath hitched when the knife slipped under the edge of your nightie, sliding slow, dragging the fabric up until the tip rested at the top of your underwear. The cold steel pulsed against the heat of your skin.

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t bear it. You wrenched your head to the side, staring hard at the wall, at the cracks, at anything to pull yourself out of this moment. You chased any memory, any escape, anything that wasn’t this room, this bed and this man you used to trust.

But his voice slammed you back.

“You don’t get to blank out of this,” Jiyong snarled, his fingers clamping around your chin, forcing your gaze back to him, his breath thick with the metallic sting of Seonwook’s blood. “Look at me.” You turned, and something inside you broke free. You weren’t afraid anymore. You were furious.

Without warning, you shot up, grabbing both sides of his head and yanking him forward, slamming your forehead into his nose with a sickening crack. He stumbled back with a hiss of pain, blood spurting from his nostrils, dripping onto his lips, onto the knife still clutched in his fist.

You lunged, desperate, hands crashing against his as you fought for the blade. His grip tightened, his knuckles grinding against yours, both of you locked in a vicious, desperate struggle. The handle, slick with sweat and blood, twisted between your palms as you shoved, pulled, clawed for control.

His breathing turned ragged, a mix of pain and rage, his eyes flashing wild. “baby you think you can take me?”

“I know I can,” you growled, your muscles straining as you shoved him back, driving your knee into his ribs, forcing him off balance.

The knife grazed your palm, sharp and hot, but you didn’t let go. Your training surged through your body like a lifeline. You aimed your elbow for his jaw but he caught your arm mid-swing, forcing it down, his strength bearing down on you like a crushing weight.

You pivoted your hips, twisting to tear the blade free, but Jiyong roared, yanking you violently forward. The momentum flipped in his favor as he slammed his forehead into yours in a brutal reversal. Your vision went white. Pain shot through your skull as your grip loosened, just enough for him to wrench the knife back into his control.

“No—!” He slammed his fist into your stomach. The air punched out of your lungs as your body folded around the blow, your knees giving out. He shoved you back, his palm crashing into your chest, sending you sprawling onto the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath you.

Your head spun and the ceiling blurred. Your chest burned with the frantic effort to suck air back in. Your hands clawed at the sheets, scrambling to rise, but Jiyong was already towering over you again, blood trailing from his nose, from his chin, dripping onto the knife as he pointed it at you, his smile wide, manic, trembling with sick triumph.

“You really thought you could win?” His voice dropped low, thick with venom and dark satisfaction. "I gave you a chance to do this the easy way, but you always like making things harder, huh, baby?"

You glared at him, panting, rage still burning hot under your skin, but your body wouldn’t move fast enough, wouldn’t fight back the way you needed it too.

"You just don’t get it," he whispered, brushing his thumb over the bloody edge of the blade, like he was savoring the weight of it. "You can fight me. You can hate me. You can try to run. But at the end of the day…"

His knee pressed into the mattress as he leaned in closer, the air thick with his breath and his blood. "You belong to me."

Your pulse screamed in your ears, your muscles tensed, your body torn between terror and the stubborn heat of defiance still thrumming inside you. 

The knife bit into your throat, cold and unyielding, its edge kissing the same pulse that hammered like a trapped thing under your skin. Jiyong’s breath was hot against your ear, ragged from the fight, laced with something darker than victory, something that made your stomach twist.

"Look at him," he murmured, tilting the blade just enough to force your gaze toward Seonwook’s limp body. "That’s what happens when you forget your place." Your fingers dug into the sheets. Every instinct screamed to lash out, to fight, but the steel at your throat was a silent, lethal reminder: One wrong move, and he’ll hurt Seonwook.

Jiyong’s free hand slid up your thigh, slow, deliberate, his touch a mockery of tenderness. "You’re so good at fighting," he mused, thumb brushing the inside of your knee. "But that’s not what I need from you right now, is it?" Your jaw clenched. "Go to hell." He laughed and pressed closer, his weight pinning you down. "You first."

The knife didn’t waver as his fingers traced higher, not quite touching where you were most vulnerable, just hovering. Taunting. "Tell me," he whispered, lips grazing your temple. "Do you want me to hurt him? Or are you going to be good?" Your breath hitched. The choice wasn’t a choice at all but just another way to break you and force you to participate.

"That’s it," he crooned when you went rigid beneath him, your silence answer enough. "See how easy it is when you obey?" His fingers moved, and your stomach lurched. Not from the touch itself but from the way he watched you, studied you, drinking in every flinch, every suppressed tremor like it was something holy.

"You hate this," he observed, almost amused. "But your body is reacting nicely." Shame burned hotter than rage. Because he was right. Every ragged breath, every frantic beat of your heart it was all a betrayal. And he reveled in it. "That’s why you’re mine," he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "No matter how much you scream, how much you fight…" His teeth grazed your earlobe. "Every part of you will be mine." The knife finally eased away only for his hand to replace it, fingers curling around your throat instead, his grip just shy of crushing. "Now," he said, smiling as your vision blurred at the edges. "Let’s try again. And this time… don’t disappoint me."

His fingers tightened around your throat, not enough to cut off your air completely just enough to make every breath a struggle. A reminder. His control. "You’re shaking," he murmured, dragging his lips along your jaw. "Is it fear? Or are you just that excited to finally understand?" You swallowed against the pressure of his hand, your pulse fluttering like a caged bird beneath his palm. "Go fuck yourself," you rasped.

Jiyong chuckled, low and dark, his thumb stroking the frantic beat in your neck. "Still talking." His grip shifted, fingers sliding up to tilt your chin, forcing your eyes to his. "You never learn, do you?" A flicker of movement and Seonwook groaned weakly in the chair, his head bobbing. Jiyong didn’t even glance his way. His gaze stayed locked on yours, relentless. "You see that?" he whispered. "He’s waking up. Perfect timing." His free hand trailed down your side, possessive, lingering. "Should I let him watch? Or do you finally want to behave?"

Your stomach twisted. "Fuck you," you breathed. His smile didn’t waver. "Wrong answer." A sharp jerk of his wrist, and your head snapped to the side as he backhanded you twice, the blows calculated, stinging but not hard enough to knock you out. Just enough to make your vision swim, to leave your lips split and copper on your tongue.

"Let’s try again," he said, catching your face in his hand, his thumb smearing blood across your bottom lip. "You’re going to lie still. You’re going to take what I give you. And when I’m done, you’re going to thank me." His voice dropped, a velvet threat. "Or I’ll make sure Seonwook understands exactly what his mistakes cost him." Your chest heaved. The knife was gone, but the weight of his body, his will, was worse than any blade.

Jiyong leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "Nod if you understand." A beat of silence. Then, slowly, you nodded. "Good girl." His reward was a kiss, his teeth sinking into your lip just hard enough to draw another whimper. When he pulled back, his eyes were alight with something unholy. "Now," he murmured, fingers tracing the curve of your hip. "Let’s see how well you listen."

His fingers flexed around your throat again, not choking just resting there. You gasped as his other hand shoved your thighs apart, his weight pinning you deeper into the mattress. The moment you tensed to resist, his grip tightened, cutting off your air just long enough to make your vision splinter at the edges.

"Ah-ah," Jiyong tutted, grinding his hips against yours, the friction deliberate, taunting. "You agreed to behave. Don’t make me hurt you." You spat blood in his face.

He didn’t flinch. Just smiled, slow and venomous, before licking the crimson streak off his lips. "God, I love when you fight." His palm cracked against your cheek, snapping your head to the side.

His mouth crashed onto yours, more bite than kiss, his teeth splitting your lip wider. You groaned, half pain, half fury, and he swallowed the sound like it was sustenance. "That’s it," he panted against your mouth. "Give me that pretty noise. Let me hear how much you hate it."

Seonwook groaned again from the corner, and Jiyong’s eyes flicked toward him, a predator savoring the audience. "He’s watching," he whispered, dragging his thumb over your swollen bottom lip. "Should I let him see you come? Or should I make you beg for it first?"

You snarled and twisted, but he caught your wrists in one hand, slamming them above your head. "Wrong move." His free hand slid down your stomach, fingers dipping between your thighs, cruel and unrelenting. "Now you don’t get a choice."

Your snarl twisted into a gasp as his fingers pressed where you didn’t want them, his grip on your wrists unyielding. The harder you fought, the deeper he sank into you, his touch deliberate, calculating like he already knew every way your body would betray you.

"You can fight all you want," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "But your body knows the truth."

You clenched your teeth, muscles locking against the intrusion, but he didn’t stop. He worked you, fingers curling just right, relentless in their rhythm, as if he could carve obedience into your flesh.

"That’s it," he coaxed, voice dripping with mock praise. "Let go. You don’t have a choice anyway." My cheeks burned, not with rage, but raw humiliation. Because despite the fury screaming in your veins, your hips jerked betraying you. His laugh was low, victorious.

"See? Even now, you can’t help yourself."

Pleasure coiled, unwanted, inevitable, tightening low in your stomach. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood, but your breath came ragged, your body arching into his touch even as your mind recoiled. "Go on," he taunted, fingers driving deeper. "Cum for me baby."

Your vision whited out. A broken sound tore from your throat as your body obeyed, waves of forced pleasure wracking through you, leaving you trembling, hollow.

He didn’t let you come down. His grip tightened on your wrists, forcing you to meet his gaze as he brought his glistening fingers to his lips.

"Pathetic," he whispered. "You say you hate me… but your body begs for me." "

You snarled, bucking against him. "I’ll kill you—" "You’ll what?" He laughed, low and dangerous, before slamming his hips against yours, the rough fabric of his pants grinding where you were already oversensitive. "You’re not killing anyone, sweetheart. Not when you can’t even stop this."

His free hand fumbled with his belt, the clink of metal loud in the charged air between you. You seized the moment but he caught you by the throat again, slamming you back into the mattress.

“There it is," he purred, watching your face twist. "That’s the look I wanted but try that again," he hissed, "and I’ll make sure Seonwook watches me ruin you for real." Your breath came in sharp, furious bursts.

In one brutal motion, he sheathed himself inside you, your body stretching to take him with a choked cry. He groaned, head dropping forward, his forehead pressing against yours as he exhaled—"Fuck, you’re tight. Even when you hate me."

You clawed at his back, nails biting into skin, but he only smiled, rolling his hips in a slow, filthy grind that dragged a traitorous shiver from your spine. "That’s it," he murmured, lips brushing yours. "Fight me all you want. You’re still gonna take every inch."

And then he moved. 

No rhythm, no mercy just pure, punishing pace, each thrust driving the air from your lungs. You bit back every sound, but he stole them anyway, his mouth crashing over yours in a kiss that was more teeth than tongue, more blood than breath. "You feel that?" he growled against your lips. "That’s me winning."

You writhed, but he pinned you harder, his hand sliding from your throat to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Look at me when I fuck you. Look at me when you lose." Your vision blurred, tears of rage or pain or something you refused to name burning at the edges, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

His pace turned erratic, his breath fracturing. "Gonna come inside you," he rasped, fingers digging into your hip. "Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel it for days." You jerked against him, a broken "Don’t—" tearing from your throat, but he swallowed it with another kiss, his tongue licking into your mouth as his hips stuttered.

"Too late." He groaned, deep and satisfied, as he spilled into you, his body locking yours in place until every last pulse was spent. Only then did he pull back, panting, his thumb swiping over your bruised lips.

"See?" He smirked, wiping his own sweat from your brow like some twisted act of care. "I always get what I want."

The words slithered into your skull, sticky and suffocating, even as darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke with a gasp, your sheets tangled around your legs, your body aching in places that made your stomach heave. You were back in you room. A dream. It had to be a dream. But the throbbing at your neck..the bruises fingerprinting your thighs told a different story.

Your hands shook as you pushed yourself up, the room tilting violently. The door creaked open. "Hey, baby." Jiyong stood there, a plate balanced in one hand, steam curling off a stack of pancakes. Breakfast in bed, his smile said, all lazy charm, like last night had been nothing more than a shared bottle of wine. 

Like the stickiness between your legs wasn’t him. Like Seonwook wasn’t…"Jiyong," you hissed, your voice raw. "I swear to God, if you don’t leave—" "Who would you call?" He set the plate on your dresser with a clink, tilting his head. "The cops? Your friends?" A laugh, soft and mocking. "Come on, baby. Be smarter than that." Your blood turned to ice. You dropped onto your bed, your legs giving up. 

He stepped closer, his fingers trailing over your sheets. "You think I didn’t cover my tracks?" His thumb brushed your knee, and you flinched. "I’m disappointed."

"What did you do to Seonwook?" you asked not actually wanting to know from you sanity. "Hmm." He tapped his chin, feigning thought. "Two days, maybe? His body will show up in the Han River. Some ex-con’s knife in his ribs. Open-and-shut case." He grinned, wide and feral. "And if you don’t start playing the part of a good girlfriend..." His hand slid to your throat, not squeezing, just resting.

"You’ll end up just like him." The pancakes smelled like syrup. Like normalcy. Like the life he’d carved out for you. "Now," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, gentle. "Eat up. We’ve got a big day ahead."

[rafeovermorals]

FATHER FIGURE— RAFE CAMERON

warnings: dad!bf au. NOT incest or stepcast, but if this is not your thing please just scroll! ddlg dynamic, taboo themes, spanking as punishment, brat taming, yes reader and rafe are trauma bonded

their song: radio by lana del rey spanking p!link here! word count: 1.9k intro here (can read as a standalone)

your arrangement with rafe was unspoken.

it didn’t have to be said. he knew what you needed the second he laid eyes on you. a dad. a boyfriend. a father figure.

you were the walking definition of daddy issues if he’d ever seen one. how’d he know? well, he has them himself.

but if it was different for him than it was for you. you wanted a caregiver while he longed to be one— it was the perfect situation.

rafe’s twenties were strictly business. taking over the family company so abruptly didn’t leave him time for marriage, let alone kids. over the years he came to realize that maybe he didn’t want either of those things, not in the conventional way at least.

now he was in his thirties. he didn’t have to work nearly as often as he used to, which meant he had too much time and no one to spend it with.

then you came along. perched on the barstool at his country club. too young. too pretty. too damn clueless.

he felt a natural pull towards you, something deeper than attraction. he wanted to protect and nurture you as if you were his own— a parental instinct.

but rafe was still a man after all, and there you were with your short skirt and doe eyes fucking flirting with him while he was trying to teach you a lesson on biting off more than you can chew.

you learned soon enough once his cock was in your face.

“next time you’ll listen to me though, won’t you?”

and you did.

when he arrived at the country club the following afternoon, you were already there waiting for him. you sat in the same spot as before, scanning the crowd like you were a lost puppy looking for its owner.

he thought it was cute how quick you attached to him.

you stayed close on his heels wherever he went, as if he was pulling you by an invisible leash. if you did go wandering off, which was rare, you always found your way back to him. home.

he made all decisions for you going forward, just as a real daddy should. what time you went to bed? nine pm. what you wore outside of the house? had to be approved first. providing was his job and doing as he told you to was yours. you caught on to that rather quickly. what he said goes and you weren’t to question him, that wasn’t up for debate.

“dad knows best, doesn’t he baby?” he’d ask it as a question, but it was rather a statement.

—

you first called him that by accident. it slipped out so casually that you hadn’t even realized it, like it was normal. the lines were so blurred that you really didn’t know what he was to you. you weren’t officially together, and he treated you more like a child if anything. you’d only known eachother for a few weeks, but he didn’t want you addressing him by his name— something about it being disrespectful since he’s your elder or whatever.

so you usually opted for sir, maybe mister. but people at the country club were starting to notice your unusual behavior with him. most of them already knew who rafe was and wouldn’t dare question him directly.

except for this one guy. he was probably your age and didn’t have a clue who rafe was. the name rafe cameron was just a fairy tale to him, someone he’d heard stories about but never met in person.

he had left you alone just for two fucking minutes and this kid had swooped in beside you, sitting in his seat.

you saw rafe walking up behind him with a quick stride. you gave him a wave, urging him over as you were completely oblivious to how mad he was. “hey! come meet my new friend. trevor, right? this is my dad.”

poor kid couldn’t even introduce himself before he was thrown out of the chair and you were being dragged away.

“the fuck was that? calling me your dad in front of that boy? are you interested in him or something?” he gritted through his teeth, still gripping your arm. you shook your head, face turning pink in embarrassment. when it came to discipline he didn’t care who saw, even if it caused a scene.

“no! it’s not- it’s not like that. i don’t know why i said that! it just came out.”

he scoffed. “yeah, right. im not buying that shit. we’re leaving.”

and of course rafe purposefully walked by him so he would see his hand on your ass— a gesture that was far from innocent.

then you would tease him about it. whenever he’d boss you around you’d complain in a mocking tone, “okayy, daddy.” or if your friends invited you somewhere and he made you turn them down, you’d throw him under the bus, “sorry girls, my dad says i can’t go.”

usually he’d brush it off, pretending to be annoyed, but one night you mumbled it into his neck while on his lap— half asleep in a daze. you could’ve sworn you felt him twitch beneath you, which was confirmed when he eventually gave in, unable to resist you.

you stirred awake from your nap with your panties soaked and his cock rubbing between your thighs. “you made a mess on me while you were sleeping, couldn’t help myself.” he grunted, covering himself in your dripping slick. you whimpered in response, attempting to reach down to pull the fabric to the side when he stopped you. “nuh uh, not until you repeat it.”

“repeat what?” you asked puzzled, your head still foggy.

“what’s that you like to call me, hm? dad, is it? want you to say it while you beg, baby.”

—

rafe took that role seriously in and out the bedroom. hell, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you. he treated you like a damn princess. he rarely told you no (mostly because if he tried, you would give him a pout that he just couldn’t resist) but if he did, it was for good reason.

you were still stubborn and liked to push him to his limits. he had to remember you truly didn’t know any better and he couldn’t be so harsh. before him, you didn’t have a man in your life to tell you right from wrong, or good from bad. it was all up to him now.

there were instances he had to punish you— when the disobedience called for it.

a little bit of back talk here and there wasn’t the problem. he could handle that. he’s used to it with you, but once you start being bratty is when you really piss him off.

like today.

you would act out whenever you didn’t like rafe’s answer. usually he could calm you down by bribing you with some ice cream or a few kisses, but you weren’t having it.

he’d been in a grumpy mood all day, barely acknowledging your presence. his face was buried in his phone, and whenever you asked what was wrong or who he was talking to, he would deflect.

“this is adult stuff, nothing for little girls to be worrying about.” he ushered you away, going back to texting whoever he was hiding from you.

“hmph.” you crossed your arms, giving him a glare. he just rolled his eyes and continued typing. he was clearly irritated, tongue peaking from his lips as he read over the persons response.

you finally blurted it out. “are you cheating on me?”

he looked up at you from across the couch, just staring— like is she fucking serious? when you weren’t smiling, he realized you were. he let out a dry laugh, unamused with your attempt of starting an argument.

“im not doing this with you today.” he dismissed with a firm tone. you liked to fuss when he wasn’t giving you attention so that he’d give in, but he wasn’t in the mood.

you persisted. “you’ve been ignoring me since this morning! how is it fair that you get to see what’s in my phone but i can’t see yours?”

“the difference is that it’s not your place. you think i have time to cheat when im always with you? that’s how you see me?”

you simply shrugged.

“fine. you wanna know what im doing that has me so aggravated? here.” he turned his phone to you— showing a booking confirmation email for two flights to maui. “ive been planning this trip for the summer, wanting to surprise you, but ive been stressed the fuck out trying to make sure everything is perfect.”

“we’re going to hawaii?!” you squealed with a grin.

“maybe not anymore. since you’re such a brat.”

you frowned, the guilt settling in. “i didn’t mean it.”

“yeah. you didn’t mean it.” he agreed before continuing “that’s the problem. you say things knowing you’re pushing my buttons no matter how many times i tell you.”

he leaned back against the sofa cushion, gesturing with a finger to come over to him. he didn’t have to speak, you knew what you were in for just by his expression. you crawled over, giving him an apologetic look with that same pout in hopes all would be forgiven, but he shook his head.

you slowly laid across his spread leg, tummy flat on his thigh. your feet were pressed to the floor— a long pausing of waiting for him to just do something.

“im sorry-“ an immediate smack on your bottom at the sound of your voice. you yelped at the sudden impact.

then another. and another. they kept coming. his rings added to the pain, surely bruising you by morning.

you kicked your feet, shifting up the couch to move from the burn of his touch. he used his opposite hand to hold you down, hooking you in tighter so you couldn’t move.

he continued hitting. over and over and over, each slap stinging more than the last. he moved your skirt, bunching it to displaying your ass to him.

“after everything i do for you, im starting to think you’re ungrateful. accusing me of some bullshit. you think i deserve that?”

you began to cry. “no, it’s not-“

crack. your skin was blushed red and tender— the warmth sinking to your core. he swapped from cheek to cheek, giving each the same number of harsh smacks. he wasn’t letting up until he felt like it. you wanted his attention right? well you got it.

rafe did it so much, so hard that he could see his handprint marked on you, swelled and inflamed that it was deemed to linger there. a punishment that you would be reminded of it for days whenever you sat.

once he was satisfied, he smoothed over the flesh where he struck with his palm, muttering praises “you did so good for me, sweetie.” and “took it so well.”

that’s who he was— the same man who would be rough one minute would be gentle the next, going from hurting to comforting you. like how most dads were, he showed his affection in tough love. he applied aloe vera to the area and gave it a kiss when he was finished before giving his lecture, “you know daddy had to do that, right?”

“yes, i understand.”

“good. let’s go shopping for hawaii, yeah?”

[lily-sofii]

While male otters may be cute and cuddly, their behavior has a dark side. They are extremely aggressive during sex; the male will grab the female, bite her nose, and hold on for dear life. These acts of aggression usually result in deep cuts and lacerations. Once the male has penetrated the female, the two will spin around until insemination; only then will the male release his grip on the female. Unfortunately, sometimes, this ritual results in the death of the female from either physical trauma or drowning.

Otter connected Neuvillette Headcanons

(suggestive)

Tw(?): Neuvillette has a connection to otters, he explains that the aggressive otters you see are mating not fighting, needy neuvillette, swimming dates

-When you began dating Neuvillette, he was a gentleman. In public or in private, he always acted the same.

-Nice but serious. As if he was constantly in the courtroom.

You were so used to him acting this way, that you just assumed he’d be the same when intimate with you.

-But oh, how wrong you were.

-You truly couldn’t understand why he became so aggressive… so needy when having sex with you.

-It seemed to you that Neuvillette himself wasn't aware of this behavior.

-Especially during the moments where he behaves in such a way.

-You tried to explain his behavior, by him being the hydro sovereign, but upon consulting Zhongli, that didn’t seem to be the case.

-Much to your surprise, it was probably because of his connection to otters that he behaved the way he did during intimacy.

-You always believed otters to be cute and cuddly creatures. So how come Neuvillette bites and scratches during intimacy?

-Do otters truly do the same?

-You wanted to find out… no. You needed to find out.

-You decide to take Neuvillette with you, passing it off as a swim date.

-He ignores the fact you put a few otter snacks into your bag, as you’re getting ready to leave.

-He just assumes you have taken a liking to otters and want to feed them. A cute way to appreciate one of Fontaine’s most majestic animals. In his opinion at least.

-Upon coming to the sea that surrounds Fontaine, you were met with otters all around. Some floating in water, others just laying in the sun.

-You glance around the beautiful scenery, your eyes stopping at a pair of otters that seemed to be fighting.

-One otter was holding the other, biting and clawing at it as they both spun around, water splashing around them.

-You avert your eyes, feeling bad for the otter.

-Tugging at Neuvillette’s sleeve you get his attention, pointing at the otters.

-Neuvillette nods and places the bag you brought down.

-”Indeed. Male sea otters tend to be… rather aggressive when mating. Their female counterparts tend to end up injured.”

-You blink twice and look up at him with wide eyes, unable to understand what you're hearing.

-”Monsieur Neuvillette… are you saying those otters are not fighting?”

-He nods and covers his mouth, clearing his throat.

-Deciding to ignore it you begin undressing, slipping into your swimsuit as Neuvillette does the same.

-Upon entering the pleasantly warm water Neuvillette holds you from behind, turning in circles with you.

-Truly, he does act like an otter. It’s almost ironic.

-Swimming slowly with you close, Neuvillette hums softly, a few small whines coming from his throat.

-Was he okay?

- “Neuvillette, mon amour, are you alright?”

-Neuvillette nods and stops his swimming, keeping you close. He cannot let you out of his grip.

-You try to shift in his hold, but his tight grip makes any movement almost impossible.

-”I’m sorry, my beloved… it’s just… so hot.”

-Neuvillette’s face is bright red.

-Maybe he’s sick? Or could it be the water making his face flush?

-You shift your hand and press it to his forehead, your eyes widening slightly when you feel how hot to the touch he is.

-Neuvillette moves one of his hands from your waist, moving them down to the bottom of your swimsuit, his fingers threading under them, slowly pulling them off.

-You let out a gasp and consider swatting his hand away, but it doesn’t seem like he’d listen.

-Neuvillette ignores your whines as your swimsuit falls off of your ankles into the water.

-It was safe to say that your bottoms were lost forever, and that during your passionate lovemaking, the water around you both began to be tainted red.

-Neuvillette apologized, but now that you have your answer for why he acts the way he does, you do not care anymore.

[twstafterdark]

A big boy deserves a treat

Author’s Note: Not me writing this while on my cycle and feeling horny…

Content: bj | riding | missionary

Jack

Jack, much to the envy of his peers, has the fattest cock in his whole dorm. He doesn’t really realize how big it is until one of his roommates checks him out on a bathroom run, turning the other way in silent disgrace. He didn’t think that his own manhood was that of a big deal, yet he was already embarrassed from circulating rumors.

As his lover, you were acutely aware of Jack's endowment; you'd catch him on a morning jog with his manhood outlined by the front of his pants. Such an image burns itself in the forefront of your mind, a warm sensation tingling in your nether regions.

The sheer sight of Jack’s member at full mast is more than enough to elicit a warm sensation by your nether region, veins pulsating a steady vigor, beads of precum dripping from the crevice. You find yourself licking your lips, ready to devour such cock into your being.

“Give it to me, Jack,” Your voice laces with lust as you open your legs for your lover to plunge his girthy length in. To say you were needy for Jack was an understatement; you craved his presence desperately, seeking his warmth like a plant seeking water. He closes in, plunging his manhood into you, eliciting muffled squeals from you as you nearly reach euphoria. Yet, he manages the tip, his face contorts to that of craven pleasure. “I’m coming in, [Reader].” Strong arms lock onto hips as he further sheathes himself deeper into your warmth. Tighter and tighter goes your grip as you can feel his entirety find itself into your being. You can’t help but gasp out his name, anticipating the moment he begins to rock his hips.

“You’re inside me, my love.” You venture a smile, tracing the connection between you and Jack, the tool pumping inside you. Jack returns the smile, nuzzling against your cheek as he leaves a gentle kiss by your shoulder. ”I’m going to move now.” Sensing nothing but the thrilling ride of pleasure, you lock your legs behind his back and wrap your arms around his shoulders, all with a dangerous look on your features. “Give me all of it, my love.”

Trey

Trey has a delicious dick that faintly tastes and smells like vanilla, that his lover would deepthroat it all just for a taste. Matter of fact, he loves the feeling of his cock in your mouth, pleasuring warmth sending shivers down his spine. He didn’t really talk much about his livelihood in the sheets; rather, he’d prefer if you didn’t have to point it out all the time - he gets flustered when you start admiring his manhood and kiss every itch of it. The moment you take in all of him in your mouth, Trey lets out a deep, guttural groan, your warmth catching him by surprise.

Your tongue a sort of magic playing with his tool, Trey shudders under your spell, a string of curses rolling from his lips as he feels you teasing his length with vigor. A sneaky hand grasps at your throat, feeling for your lover’s girth as you widen your jaw for Trey. Strong hands grip your head tightly, keeping you at bay from whatever devious behavior you might do to him. You clasp onto his hips, letting him fuck your mouth with vigor, enrapturing his cock with nothing but your gaping lips and tongue.

“[Reader], I’m cumming!” He bucks his hips oh-so-slightly, his cock hitting the back of your throat with ease. You can only wait for his release, feeling his cock swell in your mouth. Tension unfurls in tendrils of cum in your mouth, the taste of bitter sweetness overflowing. Trey unsheathes his cock from your mouth, smoothing strands of your hair gently as an amused smile graces his lips. By then, you take in his essence, greedily licking your lips as you absorb his taste.

“Delicious.” You hum excitedly, earning a light-hearted comment from Trey. “You didn’t have to swallow it..” He helplessly watches you open your mouth to reveal nothing by the base of your tongue, your flawless teeth a perfect sight otherwise.

Sebek

Sebek has an insecurity that he can never tell his roomates: his dick is abnormally large for someone his age. Given his half-fae, half human lineage, his endowment can be described as an absolute unit to an outsider’s perspective. An abnormal length for a human, his manhood was so girthy that anyone who saw would be put to shame.

He struggles to put it into use, letting his hip buck tirelessly against the flesh of your ass, pleasure coming forth as tears threaten to fall from the corner of his eyes. You urge him to keep going, knowing quite well of Sebek’s potential in bed. His throat burns with more whines, pants rolling off his lips as he attempts to quicken his pace, your warmth addicting.

You thought of another idea, pushing Sebek down to the bed while shifting yourself up, a position perfect for riding Sebek’s cock. “[Reader]..” He groans, his hands drifting to your hips as soon as you recover your place onto his manhood. “Don’t worry, baby, I got you. Just breathe in and enjoy yourself, okay?” You coax him, pressing kisses down his jawline and cheek. His handsome features that could make one swoon from a glance turn sultry with sweat crowning his minty locks, lust melting his bronze eyes to a smoldering gaze.

You were ready to eat him all up, a devious thought slips in your thoughts as you rock your hips rhythmically, sending a chorus of groans from your lover. All sorts of pleasure contort his features as you play tricks in your magic, cooing him as you felt waves of pleasure shudder down your spine.

The more he endured, the tighter his grip on your hips, leaving marks around your love handles. This position was perfect, feeling all of Sebek sheathe in your innards, a bulge pulsating by your stomach. It takes more than a singular motion to launch Sebek into a sobbing mess, his hips bucking wildly under you as you struggle to match his rhythm, the vulgar sound of skin slapping skin permeating the room. “Oh Sebek!” A squeal leaves your lips as you can fathom stars by your vision. He answers with grunts, biting down his lip as he too can feel the rush of euphoria fast approaching. You latch onto him, wanting more of his seed milked inside you.

[classyrbf]

THE MAN I USED TO KNOW! — GETO SUGURU

SYNOPSIS...you’ve noticed suguru has changed, his attitude, his demeanor, he isn’t the same anymore. his coldness towards you won’t change and it breaks your heart

INFO...geto x fem!reader, angst (no seriously), arguments, yelling, break up, cheating, crying, cursing, no comfort, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

The metal scraped against the ceramic plate as Geto played around with the food you had made for him. His face stoic as he sits there and stares at it. Your eyes flicker up to his fingers, taking a bite of your food. He hasn’t said a word to you since he’s walked through the door, completely ignoring your presence and advances. He didn’t even respond when you said hi.

He’s been acting cold towards you for months know, not responding to your texts, coming home late, always tired, shrugging you off when you try and show him affection. You didn’t want to overthink it, knowing that he does go through phases where he’d rather be by himself. But this, this was different. Usually he’d talk to you, explain what he’s feeling, and now he can’t even do that. He treats you like a stranger, like you’re a roommate rather than his girlfriend. As you sat there in your bed late at night, staring at his sleeping figure, you began to wonder if your once loving boyfriend was cheating on you.

The thought of it broke your heart in two, made you sick to your stomach and put an empty feeling in your chest. You’d walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind you to cry, hoping you don’t wake him up. The man who was sitting across from you right now wasn’t the man you fell in love with.

“Not hungry?” You broke the silence, placing your fork down on the plate.

“No,” he bluntly answered, tossing his fork down. A long sigh left his lips, pushing the plate of food away from him. “I already ate.”

“At work?” You asked, puzzled. He didn’t come home until nine at night, six hours after he was supposed to leave work.

“Yep,” he plainly replied.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, looking back down at your plate as Geto sat there, arms folded across his chest. You weren’t sure what to say to him anymore. Anytime you tried sparking up a conversation he never showed interest, completely shutting you down. He was pushing you to your breaking point, leaving you nothing left but to lash out on him about his behavior towards you.

“You really shouldn’t have waited up for me.” Yet another sigh leaves his lips, like he was annoyed with the fact you were present in his life. Your brows furrowed, his words not sitting right with you. He’s made you feel useless, unwanted, like you were nothing but a placeholder in his life.

“Well, I wanted to. We never spend time together anymore.” You grab your cup, taking a sip of your water in hopes to hide the shakiness in your voice.

“We do,” he quickly said.

“We don’t.” You avert your gaze, unable to look at him.

“What is your problem?” He asks, voice sharp.

You found it in yourself to meet his gaze, taken by surprise from his question. You scoffed, almost laughing in his face. “What is wrong with me?” You ask.

“Yeah!” He shrugs his shoulders.

“What is wrong with you, Suguru? You come home and ignore me, can’t even find it within yourself to say hi. You come home late every single night, walking right past me like you have something to hide. You don’t even eat the food I cook for you anymore even if it’s your favorite! You can’t even hold a conversation with me! And we haven’t even said I love you to each other in I don’t know how long!” You’ve reached your breaking point, all the months of holding everything back now unleashing.

“Because I am too tired! What don’t you understand?!” He yells, a scowl on his face.

“Too tired?! Too tired! You stay six hours later than you need to every fucking day doing who knows what! That’s your own fault! I’m your girlfriend, Suguru, sorry that I have to remind you! I’m not some damn roommate of yours that helps pay the bills! You’ve been treating me like some stranger for the last few months!” You quickly respond, tears brimming your eyes. You stand up from your seat at the table, letting out shaky breath as you turn to look away from him. The room becomes silent. All that could be heard were your broken sobs. Suguru looks at you, chest heaving up and down as he tries to control his breathing.

“It’s hurts,” you whimper, sniffling. “I love you so much and I don’t even think you feel the same way anymore.” You turn to look at him. “What happened to the man I used to know?” A frown forms on your face as you try so hard to hold back your tears. “What are we?”

He stares at you for an unreasonably long time, eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t know,” he answers after what feels like hours. His words make you sob even harder, embarrassed that it’s come to this.

“Are you seeing someone else?” You have your back turned towards him, heart beating rapidly in your chest. It feels like an elephant is sitting on your chest as you wait for him to answer you. You can’t bear to look into his empty eyes, knowing that the love he had for you is no longer there. He’s an empty man. Anxiously, you bite on your nails, leg bouncing up and down. Your dinner was cold, and so was the room. Everything seemed cold.

“Yes.” He almost sounds ashamed when he answers. Tears pour down your face upon hearing that singular word. You knew it all along. Suguru is still sitting there, holding his head in his hands before dragging them down his face.

The room is spinning and your chest hurts. You feel nauseous, the food you just ate threatening to come back up. Though your knees are weak, you find the strength to walk towards your shared bedroom, tears blurring your vision as you pull your suitcase from the closet, tossing whatever clothes you had in, not bothering to fold them. Anger flows through you, remembering all the times you desperately tried to fight for his affection and love, all the times when you cried to yourself as you sat alone with your thoughts. He didn’t care.

You hear footsteps approach from behind you as you angrily rip your clothes off of the hanger and from the drawers, throwing them to the floor. You can’t stop crying no matter how hard you try. He doesn’t deserve your tears. “I’m sorry.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, slowly turning to look at him. “Now you’re sorry?!” You inch your way towards his brooding figure. “Why did you even stay?! Did you get enjoyment from me trying to get your attention, huh? You’re a fucking joke.” You stare up at him with hatred, venom lining your tone. “Fuck you!” You push him causing him to stumble backwards. “I hate you!” Your voice cracks as more tears well up in your eyes. “I really hate you!”

“I know.” He stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you through half lidded eyes.

You shake your head at him, returning back to packing your things. Suguru doesn’t know what he expected, he can’t seem to find an explanation for why he did what he did. You were perfect, loving, beautiful, caring, and he took all that away from you in a span of five minutes. He took it away from you his hands touched that other woman. He knew you’d catch on, you weren’t stupid. He felt guilty, but couldn’t stop himself from indulging in the attention of others—the woman.

“Who is it?” You ask, sitting on the floor as you hold your crumpled up shirt in your hand. As much as it would hurt to know, you needed some type of closure.

“I met her the night we had that argument.” He bit the inside of his cheek. It was a petty argument the two of you had, something about him leaving his clothes all over the floor. It escalated into a full blown fight, yelling at each other about that things that had zero correlation with what you first started fighting about in the first place. Hurtful things were said and he left to blow off some steam, finding himself at a club while you were at home texting and calling him, wondering where he was. That’s where he met her. Declining your calls while he was entertaining another woman. That entertainment shortly turned into him ending up at her place, their clothes discarded on the floor and his lips on hers, sweaty bodies pressed against each other.

After she fell asleep, he checked his phone to see you had texted him over ten times and called him over five, concerned for his safety. When he came back home, he found you sleeping on the couch, no blanket, no pillow. You fell asleep while waiting for him. It spiraled down from there.

A sob raked through your body as you remembered the argument he was talking about. “You were fucking her while I was here…waiting for you to come back home.” You felt sick, hands shaking as the thought formed an image in your head. “I can’t even look at you. I don’t know who you are anymore,” you said with disgust. Zipping up your suitcase, you stood to your feet and bumped shoulders with Suguru as you walked towards the front door to grab your coat and put on your shoes.

You left the house key on the small stand by the door before walking out, slamming the door shut behind you. The house stood silent, Suguru standing in the hallway as he stared at the front door. Remnants of your perfume filled the air, the dinner you had made still left on the two plates, the gifts he had got you were left behind, your side of the bed still messy from where you slept this morning, your towel still hanging in the bathroom along with your shampoo and conditioner.

He understands how much of a shitty person he is. He knows that he deserves a life without you as he casted you aside. As to why he stayed? Suguru was unsure of that himself. He questioned it multiple times when he heard you crying in the bathrooms all those nights. He hurt you deeply. Maybe he was waiting for the moment you broke up with him, afraid of doing it himself for whatever reason. He feels a sort of emptiness as well now, standing as silence consumed him. He was unsure of how to feel or react. Is he broken in a way? Is that why he did what he did?

His phone vibrating in his pocket pulled him away from his thoughts. He slowly pulls it out, staring at the name on the screen. It was her. He sucked in a breath, thumb hovering over the screen.

He declined the call.

Part 2

tag list (comment to be added):

@kodzukein @inayasahin @mxchi-mxxn @vlsquuu @love-4-keum @thirtykiwis @viisgrave @bellefaerie @manifestis @oliviaissocool1 @prettyfacedream @bsi25 @zayn-210 @charbunxxi @nahoye @mistyheart @supernatrualqueen @lem-hhn @mimibesticon @fateisnotafactor @iwanttoberich420 @angelofthorr @honestlywtfisgoingon @araities @vampzity @spicynoodles23 @pinkbunnysblog @nn-hh192 @chrishak @keiva1000 @darkstarlight82 @brownbtch @70cosmo07 @sadmonke @notfancyrebelpaper @aydene

[steddieas-shegoes]

no one but me

for @subeddieweek day 6 prompt 'possessive'

rated e, 18+, minors dni | 2013 words | cw: possessive behavior, jealousy | tags: friends with benefits, friends to lovers, semi-public sex, coming in pants, sub eddie, dom steve, brief mention of subspace, idiots in love, love confessions

also on ao3

🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸🍸

Eddie’s laughing at the bar, head thrown back in something that can only be described as a cackle. It’s loud enough to be heard over the crowd, over the music that’s making Steve’s head pound. His eyes are closed, his hair is falling from the half-assed bun he put it in before they got here, and he’s having the time of his fucking life.

Steve sees red.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He’s immediately embarrassed about the way he wants to grab Eddie by the scruff of his neck like he’s a poorly trained dog and lead him outside to make him sit for a treat. Steve winces at the feeling of ownership he has over someone who is very much not his.

Eddie’s face is a little red, but it’s because it’s hot as hell in here, not because of the obvious flirting the bartender is doing. No one makes Eddie blush except for Steve. That’s just a fact and has nothing to do with whatever jealousy is brewing in Steve’s chest.

He watches as Eddie takes the drink from the bar and leaves some cash in its place. He’s still smirking, like whatever the bartender said to him is still fresh in his mind.

Steve just has to stay cool. Act normal. Don’t make it obvious that he’s bothered that someone else made Eddie light up like that.

“You won’t believe what-”

“Bathroom. Now.”

Steve is walking away before he can hear whatever Eddie was going to say to him.

He knows Eddie will follow. Eddie always does what he asks, what he demands.

Sure enough, when the door of the bathroom closes behind him, Eddie’s right there, breathless and waiting. They shouldn’t do this here. Eddie gets so light, so far gone, it wouldn’t be fair to make him that vulnerable in a bar’s bathroom.

He’s just gonna make sure Eddie remembers he’s here with him tonight. They may be here as part of a group, but Steve’s the one who asked Eddie along, he’s the one who picked him up at his apartment. He’s the one who bought him his first drink tonight.

The bathroom is surprisingly empty, but it’s still early. No one’s had enough drinks to need to go, and no one’s had enough time to talk to anyone enough to convince them a bathroom hookup is what they need. Steve still reaches behind Eddie to lock the door.

They won’t have long, but he plans on getting his point across.

He keeps a few inches of distance between them, stares at the way Eddie is curling in on himself. A small part of him is glad he clearly feels guilty, but he doesn’t actually want him to be upset. He didn’t technically do anything wrong. He didn’t break any of their rules.

“Let me know if you’d rather have the bartender in here,” Steve says through clenched teeth. He has to get a hold of himself. “I’m sure he’d be willing.”

Eddie’s eyes widen as he seems to realize exactly why Steve reacted the way he did. And then he grins.

“I see,” Eddie steps in closer so his breath brushes across Steve’s lips when he huffs out a laugh. “You’re jealous.”

Steve could deny it, and he should. Jealousy is for people in relationships.

He knows what he wants to get from this, though. Trying to deny would just make Eddie leave.

His hand is around Eddie’s throat, pushing him back against the door. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t even do anything but rest his palm there. It’s enough.

“I didn’t think I had to worry about you being a slut tonight,” Steve says with a smirk. Eddie shivers against the door. “We were supposed to have fun with our friends and then go back to mine, weren’t we?”

Eddie nods. He swallows and Steve groans at the feeling.

“So what made you decide to flirt with the bartender?” He pushes his leg between Eddie’s, shoves his thigh up so it sits in what has to be an uncomfortable position against Eddie’s dick.

“I wasn’t-”

“Don’t lie.” Steve pushes his leg up further, almost taking Eddie’s feet from under him. “I know what you look like when you’re flirting.”

That’s how they got into this, after all. Eddie flirted with him during a movie night, played and lost a game of chicken he didn’t think Steve would actually play with him.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did,” Steve drops his hand from his throat to cover his crotch. “Do you think he would know how to take care of you?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, sir.”

Steve has to hold back his own shiver at Eddie’s response. He takes him in fully, his wide eyes, red cheeks, goosebumps on his arms.

“I could show him if you’d prefer his hands on you,” Steve offers. It’s an empty offer. There’s no way in hell, no amount of money or begging that would get him to give anyone else the secrets to making Eddie look and sound and act like this. “Maybe he’d be better at it.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head. “No one better than you.”

“No?” Steve smiles. He can’t ignore how good it feels to know no one does this for Eddie except him. “That’s because I know you, baby. I know exactly how to touch you. I know what you need, when you need it.”

“Mhm,” Eddie ruts forward. Steve allows it this time. Sometimes he gives more than he should. “You got me.”

Eddie’s eyes are closed now. Steve looks at him. He’s really beautiful like this. He’s beautiful all the time.

“I got you,” he says quietly, softer than he means to.

Eddie’s eyes blink open as he smiles. He’s checked out a bit, not completely gone, but definitely floating away.

“Wanna be yours.”

Steve swallows. Sometimes Eddie says things when he’s like this that make Steve want more. He does want more, all the time. But that’s now what this is, what they are. Eddie made it clear at the beginning he doesn’t do relationships, just wants someone he can trust to take care of him like this when he needs it. Steve can’t take advantage of that.

“You can be mine, baby,” Steve plays along. “You gonna be good now? Make it up to me?”

Eddie’s dick is straining against his jeans and Steve’s hand curls around the bulge as he talks. He has no intention of sticking around this bar after he gets Eddie off. He’s gonna make him come in his pants and then take him home so he can wash him, kiss him, tell him he’s good.

“Please. I’m good,” Eddie says, and it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Steve.

Steve moves both hands to his hips, holds him steady. He watches as Eddie tries to buck up, get any kind of friction he can. He only has a little from Steve’s leg in this position, definitely not enough to get off.

Steve nips at his jaw, licks a stripe down his neck. Eddie’s whimpering, trying his best to stay still. Steve didn’t even have to ask him to, he just knows he needs to.

“Good boy.”

Eddie throws his head back, closes his eyes again. Steve laughs as he sucks a bruise into his neck, something visible.

A claim that he doesn’t deserve to have, but Eddie always lets him take.

By the time he pulls away, Eddie’s begging for more. He’s not quiet and if anyone is on the other side of this door, they’ll hear him.

“Please, touch me, fuck me, need you.”

He’s not fucking him here. Steve can get mean sometimes, and they’ve been messy and done some gross shit, but he’s not fucking Eddie in a rush against a public bathroom door. He’s so close already, just from the words and the rough touches, he wouldn’t even last long enough to open him up on his fingers.

He didn’t bring lube or a condom anyways.

“I know you’re desperate for my cock, baby, but I can’t fuck you here,” Steve whispers against his ear, biting at his lobe. “You’re too loud. No one gets to hear how I make you feel except me, right?”

Eddie’s nodding, but he doesn’t think it’s because he’s actually listening. Steve’s hand rubs against his clothed dick, squeezes the bulge in his pants. He smirks to himself when he feels a small wet spot on his jeans.

“C’mon, you’re already wet for me. Why don’t you come so I can take you home and clean you up?” Steve pulls away, looks down at Eddie. Most of his weight is against the door and Steve’s leg now, and he keeps trying to move his hips against Steve’s hand faster.

“Can I?”

He’s so sweet like this. Steve’s so lucky.

“You’re so good. You can come.”

Eddie shakes through it, biting his lip until it’s bleeding so he doesn’t get any louder than he already is. Steve doesn’t stop rubbing against him, even when he can feel the wet spot growing, feels Eddie’s breathing hitch more at the oversensitivity. His hair is a mess now, front pieces sticking to his sweaty forehead.

He’s so beautiful, Steve feels like crying.

Instead, he kisses his mouth, hard. He puts everything he has into it, not letting his hand slow for a second. He knows what Eddie can handle.

Eddie kisses him back, moan nearly turning into a scream as Steve applies more pressure to his spent dick. The zipper has to be painful, rubbing wrong against his wet boxers. But Eddie doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to push Steve off of him. He takes it, like he always does.

“God, I love you,” Steve groans against his lips.

It takes a moment for him to realize Eddie stops kissing him back.

When he does, he pulls away, steps back. There’s space where there shouldn’t be, but he’s realizing what he said, and he doesn’t think Eddie will want him near him now.

Eddie takes a few deep breaths, trying to focus, center himself back on the earth he’d barely been on only a minute ago. He wipes the hair from his face, brushes it back so it’s at least behind his shoulders now.

“Is that why you were so jealous?” Eddie’s voice is wrecked, but he’s focused. “Because you love me?”

Steve can’t hide now. It’s out there.

He’s ruined this. He might as well be honest.

“Eddie, I couldn’t do this with anyone I didn’t love,” he admits. “I know it’s not what you need.”

Eddie shakes his head. Steve’s heart breaks a little.

“Why do you think I don’t need it?”

The question isn’t what he’s expecting. He’s not sure how to answer.

“You didn’t know I’m yours?” Eddie continues when Steve can’t find words.

“I…thought you didn’t do serious stuff,” Steve finally says.

“I don’t. Not usually. But you’re an all or nothing guy, Steve. It’s hard not to want everything with you.”

“You’re really mine?”

Eddie kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth, his lips. “Yeah. Only yours.”

“So the bartender…”

Eddie laughs, the same bright, loud, chaotic laugh that he’d had earlier. Steve can’t help but smile at the way he glows.

“Was telling me that he saw Robin sneaking into the bathroom with the same woman the last three times she came and the woman is the owner of the bar. Apparently she’s older and he thinks she’s taking Robin for a spin as part of a mid-life crisis. I just thought it was funny.”

Steve laughs. He’s so ridiculous.

“But the jealousy thing was hot. Maybe I should go dance with someone and see what I get out of it,” Eddie continues, wiggling his brows suggestively.

Steve growls, tugs him closer. “Not happening.”

Eddie flushes bright red. “Okay. Take me home, then, big boy. I think you mentioned a shower?”

“Gonna make you more of a mess before that, baby.”

[baseonezero]

Toxic - 석매튜

warnings: toxic relationship, matt is kinda an asshole, degradation, smut, manhandling, raw penetration (p in v), hair pulling, creampie

wc: 1.3k

a/n: to distract everyone while i work on other things 😇 and excuse the sloppiness of my writing

seok matthew was such an amazing friend — so what the fuck happened when you started dating him?

his behavior turned so nasty and he was unbelievably toxic.

you honestly couldn't do anything without matthew being right on your ass about it. nothing ever slipped past him and if you even dared to try to be sneaky, it turned straight into an accusation and then an argument.

matthew absolutely hated when you interacted with other men — especially those significantly taller than you. with him being only 5’7, it brought out this never to be seen insecurity that he had kept buried until he had started dating you.

to compensate for his height, he made sure to consistently workout, watching his diet so he could at least be big in some other way.

god forbid he ever catches you accidentally zone out at a conventionally attractive man who happened to be tall. he’d lash out at you—calling you a slut and asking if you were wet at the thought of getting your pussy blown out by a complete stranger.

he made sure to constantly remind you that absolutely nobody would love you the way he loved you. nobody could ever possibly make you feel as good as he did. whatever they can do, he can do better.

you, however, did not care. no matter how shitty matt would try to make you feel, he was never able to fully get into your head. you owed it all to the defiance you inherited from your mother.

so why the fuck would you stay with someone like him anyway? you weren't so sure yourself. maybe because he was hot? it could be the fear of losing someone you once cared about so much that held you back from leaving or the fear of losing the best sex you’ll ever have.

he was mean, but you were into it. sure it isn't healthy but hell, when could you ever find anything as amazing as this?

through mutuals, you became friends with some guy named gyuvin. you both had many similar interests and hobbies, allowing you two to click almost instantly.

of course, you’d have to keep this little friendship a secret because you didn't want to deal with matthew’s nagging or harsh words. as much as you liked it, it got annoying really quick sometimes. it depended on your mood or rather — how horny you were.

“who the fuck is that?” matt questioned as soon as you stepped inside the house.

maybe you should've taken an uber instead of letting gyuvin drop you off. on top of him dropping you off, you let him walk you to your doorstep.

you slipped your shoes off at the entrance. “don't worry about it,” you scoffed, pushing past him to go to your room.

he huffed in disbelief, quickly following behind you. “how long have you been letting him hit?”

and with that, you quickly turned around with your eyebrows furrowed. “huh?” your top lip lifted, agitated by your boyfriend's question.

“don't fucking act stupid. why else would you let some guy walk you down to the door of our house?” he stepped closer until you were face to face, his hand coming to the back of your head and pulling your hair back in a tight fist. “or is that ‘just a friend’?”

you winced at the stinging of your scalp, eyes staying on his. “yeah. that's exactly what he is,” you hissed, keeping your chin up.

“guess i’m gonna have to check for myself.” he gritted his teeth, dragging you fully into the room before pushing your cheek against the wall.

“what are you talking about?” you tried to push away but his hand already trapped yours behind your back, making sure you wouldn't be able to fight him off.

pushing your pants and underwear down your thighs in one go, his fingers found their way to your wet cunt.

“did he leave you like this?” he asked, spreading your arousal between your folds and onto your clit, starting off with small circles.

your thighs instinctively squeezed together, trapping his hand between them. “yeah he did all this without even touching me,” you spat, knowing exactly how to get under his skin.

“but he’ll never make you cum the way i make you cum,” he lifted you bridal style with ease, taking you to the bed and dropping you there with no care.

with no chance to react, he completely stripped you of your pants and underwear, tossing them aside before moving himself between your legs.

his lips quickly smashed onto yours, sloppily making out with you as he rutted against your bare core.

the coarseness of his jeans created a delicious friction you would’ve never expected and you found yourself grinding against his movement, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth.

once he was hard enough, his hand rapidly yet clumsily flew to his fly, unzipping and unbuttoning his jeans to allow him to slip out of his pants. his briefs soon followed, his mouth and tongue never leaving yours.

he parted away from you for a second, a string of saliva attaching your mouths.

“you just love being a whore, don't you?” he held the base of his cock to guide his tip onto your glistening cunt, sliding it between your velvety folds. “just look at how wet you are,” he growled, amused and aroused by the image.

“so are you just going to stand there or—”

he slammed right into you, immediately shutting you up.

his groan sounded with your choke on a gasp, your hands gripping onto the dark gray sheets beneath you.

“god damn you’re so tight,” he sighed as he slowly slid out of you before ramming back into your cunt.

the roughness made your eyes fill with tears which only slipped down your cheeks as he pounded into you.

he was so relentless with the way fucked your pussy. he firmly pushed your legs back so he was sure to hit the spongy sweetness hidden in your cunt. it was less about actually making you feel good and more about making sure his ego was boosted by how loud he can make you moan out his name.

the bed creaked and the headboard hit the wall with the amount of force he was using, grunting and moaning at his own pleasure.

“mgnhhhohmgod matt—” you moaned out, eyes rolled to the back of your head, not being able to say or think of much else.

matt couldn't help but to smirk, feeling more confident than ever which only reminded him of one thing.

he paused for whatever reason, giving you just a few seconds to catch your breath before he went back to thrusting into you with no mercy.

“hey, what’s that asshole’s name?” he asked between pants, pushing one of your knees down to your chest.

“g-gyuvin..” you barely managed, having your arm draped over your eyes as you felt a knot form in your tummy.

“he could never make you feel this way.” he huffed, his thrusts growing sloppy as he felt himself grow closer to his own release.

“gonna cum—” you whined, flexing your abs as you finally came undone around him, hips jerking at the action.

matt soon followed, keeping still as he let his seed spill into your cervix.

he let a breath out as he slowly pulled out, watching the mixture of your juices drip out of your cunt.

“fuck,” he laughed, running his fingers through his hair.

you didn't realize it until later but matt had filmed the last two minutes of it, showing off how he had filled you up with his load and sent it to gyuvin.

the read receipt showed he had seen it right after the video had been sent and you frantically tried to delete the video from the chat, even if you were too late.

right before your finger could hit the unsend button, gyuvin’s message had been sent.

‘let your bf know that i’ll accept the challenge lmao’

[flokali]

♢ I own you, I love you | Tartaglia

warnings: yandere, dub/con, male m.asturbation, violence, threats, corruption, unrealistic sound-isolation, delusional thoughts, possessive behavior (from childe), childe/tartaglia lore-spoilers, canon divergence (maybe?), misunderstanding/miscommunication, manipulative behavior (from ajax) , unreliable narrator (ajax), ask to tag more.

pairing: afab! fem! reader x childe

word count: 10.7k

a/n: after months... here it is;; i'm so sorry for taking so long (tt),, i'll make it up to you !! istg (huhuh)

— 18+

You had trouble falling asleep ever since the day Ajax went missing.

It was meant to be yet another normal day, one that would blend in with all the others – muddled with other memories of childhood. Instead, it became the day your life began to change in ways you hadn’t even fathomed possible. 

It had heavily snowed the previous night, which left a brand new layer of pure white to cover the humble roads of Morepesok. Normally, after such a heavy storm, you and Ajax would go over to his house and play inside – making use of the fireplace his father had built and hot chocolate his mother would make to keep warm. You both would steal his father’s diary and read about his adventures across Teyvat, recreating the scenes in your minds with yourselves as the main characters, before sharing your dreams with one another.

You never had the courage back then to tell him your ideal adventure was a rather simple one, while you always dreamt of moving to a less snowy nation, one like Mondstatd or even Sumeru, you were content with peacefully traveling across Teyvat before settling down. You didn’t want to spend your life fighting monsters and exploring the world, you only really longed for a simple life, where you could work a safe job and create a new home for yourself and those you loved. It was fun to imagine yourself on a long, rewarding journey across the nation to complete a request, but you’d rather keep it as just that – a figment of your imagination.

Ajax, on the other hand, longed for the chance to become a warrior. While never too skilled with the blade, always too nervous to even kill an animal, his determination was enough to convince you he’d one day make a great adventurer like his father. He’d longed for the thrill of exploring every corner of Teyvat, roaming the land until there was nowhere in this world where he hadn’t been to. Meeting new people, learning about new cultures, fighting monsters and gaining the freedom that came with being an adventurer; Ajax’s dreams had been clear from a young age.

A part of you, albeit really, insignificantly small, always wished he’d never succeed, secretly hoping he’d leave those ambitions behind with age and become a fisherman or craftsman instead. You’d heard tales of men and women who’d joined the Adventurer’s Guild only to never come back, and even more about those who’d joined the Fatui’s ranks, and you didn’t like the idea of waking up one day to find out he’d passed in a foreign land. It was selfish, you knew that, but you hoped that maybe he’d choose a safer option, one where you two could live together, away from the cold winters of Snezhnaya and safe from the dangers of the world. Maybe you’d both move away from Morepesok, find a quaint town in Fontaine where you’d both settle down and continue being friends, or maybe more, with no worries for each other’s safety - only busy being happy and healthy.

While you were putting on your boots and coat, making sure to layer as many clothes as you could to avoid the freezing cold temperatures that came with such heavy snowfall, you remember feeling an odd sense of uneasiness, a queasy feeling settling down in your stomach making you feel sick and nauseous. At the time you had thought nothing of it, too focused on meeting up with your friend and the taste of his mother’s hot coco, but now, years later, you think it was the Tsaritsa’s way to warn you for what was to come.

You remember nearing his house, confused as to why he hadn’t met you halfway down the road like he always did. It was quiet, eerily so, only the sound of your boots and your labored breath as you battled your way through the snow. There were no kids out on the street, all the adults that would normally be on their way were missing, even the birds seemed hesitant to chirp.

Instead, you find his mother worriedly looking around the perimeters of their humble cabin, her normally neat appearance now disheveled. Her long, ginger hair was half-hazardly put up, her clothes were wrinkled, her coat wasn’t even buttoned up all the way, but she stood there, frantically looking around.Whenever you’d come over, you and Ajax would always bump into one another before racing home to see who’d get there first, but today there was his mother’s choked sobs where normally his laughter would ring.

“Auntie?” You asked, running the rest of the way as you saw her expression, the closer you got the clearer the worry in her face became and you felt yourself grow anxious.

“Sweetie,” she looks at you in surprise, not having seen you approaching - too preoccupied to hear your unsteady footsteps as you struggled to run towards her, you see her blue eyes frantically look behind you and you follow suit, “A-Ajax, he wouldn’t have been with you, right?”

“No…” You shake your head, the previous feeling in your stomach expanding across your body, your head felt fuzzy as you asked, “Isn’t he home?”

“I… I’m afraid not,” She looks distressed at your words, her eyes water as she ushers you inside while still trying to look around to see if she caught sight of her son’s bright ginger hair against the cold white that coated the roads, her hands are shaking as she holds yours and brings you into her home, “Come inside, come inside – it’s too cold out t-there, you’ll get sick.”

Behind you, you hear more people arrive, you’re almost certain you hear your parents as well, but you have no time to ask before the worried mother shakes her head at the curious adults that looked up at her – the atmosphere worsens at the realization he hadn’t snuck out to be with you, she tries to occupy herself by taking you inside so as to not give into hopelessness.

You’re confused, not too sure of what’s going on even as you see adults from around the village inside of the house, maps in their hands as they whisper about the boy’s possible whereabouts.

“Is Ajax… o-okay?” You ask, you start to feel afraid as you process their concerned faces, seeing all of these adults who’d always been smiling and assured look so worried and uncertain sent a chill down your spine.

Where was Ajax? Normally he’d be here, assuring you your imagination was running wild and that nothing was wrong, the empty space next you where he’d normally be felt awfully cold.

Nobody answers you, instead you’re taken to your friend’s room where his siblings were gathered. Their mom, who you've always called your auntie, kneels down in front of you, taking your smaller hands into hers and giving you a weak smile.

“Ajax will be fine, okay?” Her words are meant to comfort you but you feel like they’re more for herself in that moment, “He’s just… gone out for a while, but he’ll be back before you know it.”

You nod, not truly understanding what she meant but feeling as if that was the response she needed to hear.

She gives your forehead a small kiss, you feel a tear fall travel down her cheeks and into your hair but you say nothing as she leaves, noting how she desperately tried to conceal the tears in her eyes; You’d never seen her cry before and it’s only then, as you look at his siblings and the pained look in their faces, that you finally begin to grasp the severity of the situation.

He was missing. Your best friend was gone and no one had any idea where he had run off to.

That evening your parents came over and stayed the whole day with Ajax’s family, alongside the other townspeople who went and came as they searched for the young boy in the woods around the area. Normally, you had to fight tooth and nail to let them grant you permission to stay over but that night they’d been the ones to offer it first.

That night was the first and only time you had a sleepover without Ajax. You and his siblings huddled together in the living room, next to the fireplace as his mother looked over you all. You would wake up every so often to the sound of people coming and going as the search efforts seeped into the night and early morning.

The suffocating cycle repeated itself for three days. Three days, two nights, and one afternoon later, after countless hours crying to your parents in fear of losing your best friend; Ajax emerges from the woods in one piece, but he who returns is not the same boy.

The first thing that stood out was his disheveled hair, he was wearing the same clothes – which were in too good a condition for a kid who’d gotten lost in the woods by himself for three days –, and the hunting knife he’d stolen from his dad now dull as if it’d been used continuously for a long period of time. What shocked the men and women who’d found him was the blood on him – specks decorated his face and hands as he looked up at them from his position near the corpse of a bear, one easily three times his size, he’d somehow taken out. 

They’d found him in a clearing close to his house, the smell of blood had been what had alerted the rescue party – they’d prepared for the worst case scenario where the blood came from Ajax’s body, instead they found him to be in good shape even after three days by himself in the wild – perhaps a little too good, for it seemed he’d somehow taken down a beast by himself with his hands and his father’s old hunting knife. 

The news of his return quickly spreads, everyone gathered near his home as they awaited with bated breaths to see the young boy; you’re there as he’s reunited with his family, hugging your mother’s leg as tightly as you could.

Rumors spread about him having killed an animal, some claimed it had been a rabbit while others alleged it had been a beast the size of a horse, and you wondered if they had mistaken another kid for Ajax – he’d never had the guts to harm even a fly, you doubted he’d changed so much in the span of three days. But it seemed as if you’d been wrong.  

He doesn’t shed a tear, he doesn’t say a word. Not even a squeak as his parents coddle him; nothing at all. The only sounds are hushed whispers as people discuss the absurd situation and gleeful congratulations from onlookers as they celebrate his arrival and well being while giving his family well wishes. Instead, his blue eyes find yours and you’re unnerved at the empty look in them. Where there’s once been a warm light, you found an empty void that seemingly sucked you in and refused to let you go. You felt goosebumps arise all over your body the longer he looked at you.  Even as he’s embraced within his father’s arms, his family surrounding him as they cry from relief, it’s only when he makes eye contact with you that, the first time since arriving, he smiles.

You feel a chill travel down your spine as you realize Ajax hadn’t been the one to return that day. You unconsciously nestled closer into your mother’s coat, as if trying to hide from his unnerving gaze.

You did your best to ignore that unsettling feeling, opting to attribute it to the rumors you had heard instead of something your friend had done, you pushed it and as well as any doubts aside as you attempted to focus on the good news; he was here, home with his family and back next door to your own house, and that was all that really mattered.

Ever since then, he’d become more confident. His once timid personality completely disappeared and the days where you had been the stronger one, defending him from his older siblings’ teasing and the mocking from other kids, were now but hazy memories. The roles had switched quite suddenly, not that you minded it too much – there were times where it felt nice to be the one being protected rather than the protector, but it had been quite the surprise at first.

He’d become bolder and more protective, never afraid to throw a punch (and sometimes even more) if he felt like you had been disrespected. It came to a point where you’d sometimes grow suffocated by his mere presence; eventually it escalated to where he’d never let you hang out with anybody he didn’t approve of, afraid they’d hurt you and he wouldn’t be there to defend you, and he’d make sure to let it be known you were his friend first and foremost. Unknowingly, a set of rules had been implemented between the two of you. Rules that stated you were his responsibility to protect and care for, even if it meant it drove others away and left you two isolated from other kids your age.

There were times you missed the Ajax that’d gone into the woods, the freckled boy who was timid and polite – who’d rather be teased by his siblings than hurt even a bug the size of your pinky, you doubt that boy would have picked fights with kids twice his size because they’d made a joke or two that didn’t land too well. But you hesitated to dislike the new Ajax, after all, when it was only the two of you - it was as if that damned day had never occurred at all.

He was back to the sweet, delicate boy who’d blush at your jokes and avoid prolonged eye contact. Whose hand would grow warm from holding yours, who’d confess his feelings to you every night when he thought you’d fallen asleep. 

A few years later, once you were both older – now settled into your teen years, he ended up joining the Fatui and leaving your humble seaside village to go to the capital to train as a soldier. 

You cried the day he’d given you the news. As overbearing as he could be, the ginger had been your only friend that your parents consistently let you hang out with, you’d spent your whole lives together and the thought of being without him terrified you greatly.

You remember the look on his face, the way he desperately tried to look strong and not let a single tear get away, his hands that had once been soft were now calloused as he grabbed your own.

“I’ll come back for you, I promise.” He’d whispered, his lips near your ear as he enveloped you in a hug.

You don’t trust your voice not to break and so you nod, letting your nose burn from trying to contain your sobs and not worry him more than he already was.

“A-and I’ll write you letters, so you better not forget me,” he continues, and even if by now he’d long since grown taller than yourself – you’re amazed at how small and vulnerable he felt against your frame, “so please… wait for me.”

“Only if you always write to me first… ‘Cause I swear I’ll leave if you forget.” You try to lighten the mood, halfheartedly warning him as if you both didn’t know it’d take death itself for Ajax not to fulfill a promise from him to you. He tightens his arms around you and you feel a wave of nostalgia wash over you as you wonder how long it’ll be before you can both hug like this again.

“I promise.” He laughs softly, the sound warms your heart.

“Then I promise as well.”

Ever since the day Ajax went missing, you have had trouble falling asleep. 

When you did manage to fall asleep, a task which took longer than you’d like to admit without external factors such as medicine, your dreams would be strange and cryptic, often times you’d wake up in the middle of the night with a racing heartbeat and a sense of urgency, as if you’d been in danger; you’d learned to hate the images your brain would concoct during your rest. Some nights, you’d dream about that day and what would have happened if Ajax had never been found, other times you’d open the door to soldiers grieving his death; whatever tragic scenario your mind decided to present you, it would always be so realistic you’d wake up with tears streaming down your cheeks and a devastated heart.

This time, however, your sleep had come easier than expected and there were no dreams or nightmares to haunt you. No earthly worries were present and, after such an unexpected day filled with reunions and world-shattering news, you wished to succumb to a never ending night; however, the fates had other plans for you.

As you’re forcibly awakened from your slumber you feel a familiar, pleasant hand gently caressing your head. It felt gentle, their touch delicate and sweet, as if they were afraid any more force would hurt you. If the owner of said limb wished to lure you into consciousness, their touch had the opposite effect as it almost seemed to beg you to go back to sleep and forget the world of the living.

You felt truly content as you laid there, the blanket that laid atop of you was heavy and cozy,  a foreign feeling - nothing like the blankets you were used to, and the pillow smelt like an old friend, welcoming and nostalgic. It all felt like a perfect trap set out to catch you, if that were that case then you’d have to admit it was a little too good at its job as you resign yourself to cuddling closer to the fabrics that enveloped you.

If it hadn’t been for the gentle kiss pressed against your cheek, you probably would have never gotten up. You want to complain, already formulating a sentence of indignation and annoyance to throw at the perpetrator, but the warmth left behind by the gesture is cozy and fills you with a taste full of happiness and fulfillment you don’t want to sour. At the feeling of a pair of unknown, soft lips against your skin you become more alert, slowly your consciousness begins to enter the realm of the living once more while you grow aware of your surroundings. Your eyes open timidly, the leftover fatigue from such a deep rest keeping them heavy, it takes you a second or two to adjust to the light and another few to register the man that lovingly gazed down on you.

“Ajax…?” You call out, rubbing your eyes as you wonder if it really was him. You’re almost sure you’re dreaming, as embarrassing as it was to admit, it had been so long since you’d seen him in person you may have simply gone crazy and imagined the man to be here; You’re about to ask him what he was doing here, if he were real at all, but he beats you to the punch with a smile before answering you with a gleeful tone that reminds you of summers long gone.

“The one and only,” he laughs gently as the hand that laid atop your head began to ruffle your hair in a familiar gesture – reassuring you that he was, in fact, a real person and not a figment of your imagination you had come up with to deal with the loneliness, “… don’t tell me you forgot about earlier.”

He teases you, but there’s a hint of worry in his eyes as he awaits your answer; surely, you couldn’t have forgotten. It’d only been a couple of hours and he had been sure to be as thorough as possible so that he left a print on both your mind and body, there was no way you’d forget making love with your soulmate. Just the thought of it sent jolts of anger and frustration down his spine, not at you - never at you, but at himself as he wonders if maybe he’d underperformed and disappointed you to the point you’d try and act like nothing had happened. If that was the case, he was more than willing to go again just this instant to right any previous wrongs.

“Earlier?” You mumble, you wreck your brain trying to think of what he meant but it isn’t a full minute before you realize what he meant. If it hadn’t been for his words, maybe his coat laying on you and your sore body would have been enough to eventually jog your memory. You feel your cheeks grow hot as you remember what you two had done earlier, you’d been so tired by the end you’d fallen into a deep, dreamless slumber that momentarily left you empty-headed when you woke up, but now the memories are rushing in and you doubt you’ll be able to forget the feeling of Childe on top of you for a long time.

Your embarrassed gaze was enough for him to know you’d remembered the dance you’d both partaken in earlier that day, the way your eyes avoided his had his heart swooning and a warm, fuzzy feeling settling deep within his very soul. 

He feels himself calm down the more he looks at your flustered face, his whole body light and intoxicated on your sweet expressions; his pants felt so tight as he watched you fiddle with his coat, he wonders if he’d be able to warm you up on the ride back to his place the same way he’d done so previously.

You were absolutely adorable to him, so very weak and fragile in comparison to him – if he wasn’t such a gentleman, he would have loved to destroy you until you were too scared to leave his side. Alas, he decided that you shouldn’t be the one to face the sharp end of his blade, instead, he’ll scar your psyche and those around you so violently you’ll have no want nor need for anything else other than him.

“So, ‘slept well, my love?” He asks, his tone sweet as to never betray his darker thoughts — you didn’t have to know about how deeply he wished to break you until you couldn’t function without him by your side. You nod while suppressing a yawn, blissfully unaware of the chaos that was unfolding due to the man in front of you, and he laughs, content with your naïveté; he missed you oh so very much, “That’s good.”

There’s a warm, almost euphoric feeling that invaded your senses as you both took the time to enjoy each other’s presence; it felt different from earlier, something had changed now that you both had finally indulged in each other’s bodies. It felt akin to drinking a warm cup of tea, comforting and pleasurable, a reminder of home and the feeling of familiarity after a long period of impersonal and foreign coldness.

“Let’s get going then,” he breaks the silence, finally standing up from his crouching position, he gives you one last pat in the head before he starts making his way through your room and inspecting your belongings – or what remained of your belongings, “the carriage will be here soon, it’s only an hour long ride away but I think it’s best we take as much as we can today and send someone to pick up what remains.”

That’s when you notice he’s fully dressed, other than for his cape that was laid on you, as if he was anxiously awaiting the time to leave. You’re confused; why was he so keen on leaving and so fastly – he’d barely been here a handful of hours. Did you misunderstand his intentions? 

“What do you…?” You ask, you rub your eyes while you sit up, using the large coat as a cover once you feel chilly Snezhnayan air hit your sensitive skin. It’s then that you can finally look at the many bags and boxes that litter the floor, and the almost empty room you laid in. All of your belongings seemed to have been packed away, almost nothing remained other than old family portraits and gifts from your parents from across the years. 

“Huh?” The sight of your room packed into boxes was enough to wake you up, you instinctively try to stand up but a firm hand keeps you in place; you look up and see Ajax looking down at you. Your eyes meet and a chill goes up your spine at the look in his, they look eerily empty. You barely feel the coat slip from your shoulders, too focused on the feeling of his fingers against your forearm and the fact he, as a soldier, could easily overpower you if he wished.

“You’re still sleepy, aren’t you?” He asks, the muscles on his arm flex slightly as he speaks to you - he sounds disappointed as he continues interrogating you, “Do you really not remember?”

You shake your head, trying to wrack your brain for any indications of what he could be referring to; you remember the news about your parents and what happened after, but moving out? You have no memory of such a thing being even discussed, lest he meant —

“You agreed to marry me,” he says, as if reading your mind, your arm is finally set free as he adjusts the gloves on his hands, “and as my wife, you’ll be living with me from now on; I assumed you wouldn’t want to stay… here for much longer, considering everything.”

“Marry you…?” You echo as you watch him parade around your room, sharp eyes taking in what was left of your belongings on display. You vaguely remember his proposal during the first half of your conversation, something about how it’d serve as an obstacle for the arranged marriage – after all, it’s not as if the wife of a Fatui Harbinger’s marriage could be easily questioned or objected to. You had agreed almost immediately, even if you had your doubts about the reasoning behind the arrangement, you’d rather marry someone you knew than a stranger.

You wished you’d thought things through better, waited a bit longer before giving your answer. Clearly Ajax had made up his mind but now, after the shock of the news began to wear off, you felt like you owed your parents and yourself a discussion. Even if you felt betrayed, like their decision degraded you to an object instead of their daughter, you wanted to head their side; if only to get closure for your own aching heart.

Instead of answering you, Ajax turns around to meet your eyes. His eyes had always had the ability to suck you in like a void, they’re never clear - always muddy, like there was a side of himself he hid from you; you could never find your reflection on them. It took you a while to get used to them, to their empty, numb look that sent chills down your spine all those years ago.

The room feels small as you both look at each other, you sit on the bed naked and he stands in front of the door as if he were trapping you in, it’s silent and intimate and it makes your skin crawl. His expression is one you can’t read, maybe all those years in the Fatui had taught him how to make his enemies cower thanks to his presence alone, because the harder you tried to understand what his gaze meant, the less you felt you knew about him.

“Yes, you said you’d marry me.” He states and, even if it wasn't phrased as such, it felt more like an order than a recalling of events. 

“I know,” you mumble, “and I… I like you, Ajax, I really do, and I’d love to be with you, but… but  I can’t run away from this without hearing them out, you know?”

“You said you loved me.” His expression changes into a frown; Had you lied to him? 

He probably sounds childish, his sentences short and repetitive like that of a toddler throwing a tantrum, but the truth was he simply couldn’t believe that you’d even hesitate to marry him; his brain completely short-circuited as he tries to understand why on Earth you’d ever think of giving anybody a chance when you had him.

“I mean, I-I do,” your cheeks feel hot as you’re quick to answer, at least you think you love him, “but… mom and dad wouldn’t just do this without a reason and you know that. I can’t just leave and never see them again without their explanation, even if it’s bad… I need some sort of closure; I can’t accept they’d just do this to me for no reason.”

“As if that changed anything, they gave your hand away for Mora, my love” He retorts, completely bewildered at your words; they’d tried to give you away to some lowlife, they hadn’t consulted you, they were going to spring it up on you one day and expect you to get over it the next, “Does a reason even matter?” 

“It does, at least I… I think it does,” you look down at yourself and notice droplets falling down against the coat, staining the heavy leather with your sorrow, you were crying and hadn’t even realized it, “I don’t want to hate them… I don’t want them to hate me.”

He goes quiet when he catches sight of your tears. He freezes, his chest tightens and he feels himself grow dizzy – it’s the same foreign feeling he got when he first heard of the engagement, he feels his knees buckle under his weight and himself sway with every step he takes in your direction. They were beautiful, your tears, so delicate and clear, they shone like crystals when the soft afternoon light came through the window just right; he wishes he could collect them in his palm and weave a necklace to keep with himself, a reminder of your fragile heart he desperately needed to protect. 

You looked so vulnerable, naked and crying, covered only by his coat. It was an intoxicating sight, he wished he could take a photograph and engrave it on his eyelids so every time he blinked he’d see this scene play out. You broke so beautifully, it was haunting to hear your voice break into sobs and wails as you mourned the life you thought you had, but it sounded beautiful to his ears nonetheless. It makes him feel insane, it was taking too much self-control from his part not to jump on you.

He sits down once more next to you, shaking limbs trapping you in his arms as he rubbed your back softly. As you cried uncontrollably, he found his cheeks hurting from the large grin on his face; it couldn’t be helped, no matter how much he tried to will it away, the joy he felt as he saw you cry was too much for him to hide.

“It’s okay,” he makes no effort to quell your fears, instead he chooses vague words of comfort to let it fester in your heart, “you won’t need to see them ever again, you’ll have me instead.”

He feels you hiccup, too deep in your own despair to formulate words. Your shaking body clings to his, you felt so scared and alone; How were you supposed to accept such a cruel, unforgiving truth? What could you possibly do to ease the pain in your heart as you thought about your parents and siblings, who had so easily given you away to a stranger. They felt so far away from you, it felt as if your whole life had been a long dream, nothing but a fantasy you were unaware could break any second, leaving you afraid and confused as you awakened to a reality you could have never seen coming.

“Come, I’ll help you get dressed,” Ajax helps you up as he speaks, essentially forcing you to face reality and displace the fogginess in your mind, he’s gentle as he makes his way with you to your closet - you vaguely note that it was still full, unlike the rest of your room it seemed he hadn’t touched it save for a few drawers here and there -, “the sooner you get ready,” he keeps an arm around you while he goes through the rack of your clothes, making sure you stay close to him, “the sooner we can get out of here.”

You nod, your head hurts but you can’t seem to stop the tears. 

Maybe he was right, maybe it was a bad idea for you to talk to them; there was truly no excuse, was there? You doubted anything they’d say would take the feeling of betrayal away, they had treated you like an object, completely forfeiting your own personhood and giving you away to a stranger for Mora. No matter how desperately you wanted to understand what they’d done and why they’d done it, the more your head and heart hurt – it was such a cruel, heartless thing to do, to throw away your own blood to whoever bid the highest for them.

You can’t even muster the strength to facilitate the Harbinger’s task of dressing you, your whole body felt heavy as he made sure to layer on your clothes, it was near impossible for you to even stand up by yourself without your legs swaying and your knees buckling under your weight. It’s only due to the ginger’s persistence and strength that you don’t collapse.

By the time you’re ready and boarding the carriage, you’re tired and too drunk in your own misery, to question why, even as it neared nighttime, your parents nor your siblings hadn’t come home yet. Not that you cared, at least not right now, seeing them was the last thing you wanted to do.

The ride home is peaceful, you’d fallen asleep early on and laid beside Childe as he caressed your sleeping cheek and gazed out the window. Your head laid on his lap, broad thighs becoming a make-shift pillow for the ride, a blanket covering your body to keep you warm while you both made your way to his residence in the capital through the cold night.

Bored, deep blue eyes mindlessly gaze at the scenery passing by, his thoughts too jumbled together for him to admire the scenery. His thoughts stray back to your mother’s horrified face as she walked in on you together in bed earlier, he chuckles to himself as he recalls the screech she let out; it felt nice to see her so uncomfortable, but it wasn’t nice enough he’d forgive her for what she’d tried to do to you; Separate you from him.

“Ajax?” She finally gasps out, her hand points at him in an accusatory manner, “What… what is going on?” 

When did that boy come back? He’d been gone for years, the last she remembered him was as a young teenager going off to join the Fatui; what was he doing in bed with you? You hadn’t mentioned him once during all these years, she had thought you’d long since forgotten about him. So why on Earth was he laying in bed with you - naked? Had he pressured you to do so? You two had such a close relationship, there was no way you wouldn’t have mentioned him to her if you two were dating - her mind was racing with a million thoughts and all of them left her worried and confused. It’s clear she’s not doing well, her breaths are visibly unsteady, her chest rising and falling unevenly while she audibly gasped for air, she’s shaking so hard you can see her knees wobble as she tries to steady herself against the doorframe; this wasn’t something she could have ever seen in coming. 

Ajax couldn’t care less, the whole spectacle was boring and wholly unnecessary; she wouldn’t get to see you ever again, she should be grateful he hadn’t simply taken you home with him the minute he saw you. 

“I came back for my beloved,” he answers carelessly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he makes a vague gesture towards your sleeping form as if to make the point clearer, “can’t have a wedding without a bride, after all.”

“Wedding? You and her… are getting married?” 

“Yes, is it that hard to understand? Come on, ma’am, everyone could see that she and I were going to get married,” he scoffs, “you said so yourself multiple times.”

“But,” she looks visibly confused, “that was back when you two were together everyday, Ajax… you haven’t seen each other in years. You can’t seriously think that you’re getting married because you both said so when you were children.”

The audacity this woman had was near parody, clearly she knew nothing about you nor your life and it made him feel sick. She had the privilege to be a constant part of your life during all those years he was away and yet she clearly spent them doing Archons’ knows what, he was growing visibly angry the more she spoke.

“We’ve known each other long enough,” he shoots her a glare, “and I’ve known my whole life I’d marry her, whether we’ve been seeing each other everyday or not - we’re getting married and that’s final.”

“Did she agree to this?” Your mother asks, her voice rising until it was near a squeak.

“Of course she agreed to marry me!” He snaps, his tone venomous; Could she just shut the hell up already?

“Then why didn’t she mention it to her father nor myself?”

“Because we agreed to get married today,” he puts your sleeping body aside, slowly standing up and tying a loose blanket around his hips, “and neither of you were here.”

“Today?” She echos, “You came back today and asked her to marry you?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I did,” he shoots her a glance as he picks up his clothes, slowly putting them on as he goes on, “and she said yes, I think you get the point by now.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” she mumbled to herself, she made her way inside the room, careful as to not wake you up, “there’s no way she was serious about marrying you. You… you’re practically a stranger to all of us at this point, Ajax.”

His pants were on at this point, his blouse now balled into his fist as he tried to control his annoyance. This was starting to get pathetic on her end.

“I will have you know,” he interrupts her, turning around to make eye contact with the woman once more to make his point clear, “that not only have we been in constant communication since I left, she agreed quite happily to the proposal - I don’t understand what exactly is not clicking, ma’am.”

“Of course she’d agree,” she exclaims, her hands flying up in desperation as she continues, “she has liked you all her life; but were you two dating until this point? What even was the relationship between you two; how am I supposed to support her getting engaged with a man we haven’t seen or heard from in years. Never once did she mention you, Ajax, she never spoke of a partner much less a marriage, all her life she’s made it clear that’s one of the least of her concerns and you want me to believe her mind changed in one day because you came and had sex with her? You’re insane if you think I’ll allow it.”

He feels himself freeze, most of what she’s said up until now feels like background noise the moment he finishes processing her words. You never mentioned him to your parents? He knew you hadn’t mentioned the letters, not all of them at least - he’s asked you not to, but never once in the almost eight years since he left had you mentioned him - not even as a potential suitor nor as a lover. That hag is lying, right? There’s no way you’d do this to him, right? You loved him, you said you did when he was fucking you just minutes ago, you wouldn’t lie to him, no.

“Listen to me, I don’t care if you want to get married to her - but there’s an order to how things are done,” your mother shoots your sleeping form a glance, “you could have at least let us know beforehand you’d be coming, you… you should have spoken to us; you know we would have given you our blessing if you’d waited a bit longer. This is the first time you’ve seen each other in years, emotions are running high - at least give her some more time to think this through, you already bedded her… don’t make this harder on her - she was beginning to move on, she’d been planning to move and now you’re telling me she’s throwing it all away? For a man she’s barely seen in years no less.”

“You’re… you’re wrong.” He mumbles under his breath, “You’re wrong, we both love each other.”

“Listen to me,” had your mother’s voice always been so grating to the ear, “she might have said yes to you now but how do you know she won’t regret it? When did you ask her? Today, the same day you come for the first time to see her? You think that under all the emotions that’ll come up seeing you again she’ll be thinking rationally? Was this even a conversation you both had previously, Ajax? How are you so sure she loves you like a wife and not just as a friend?”

His movements slow down, his hands feel heavy as he buttons up his shirt; can she just shut up? What did she think she was doing, lying to get him out of the way? Insinuating you’d ever regret him, what a joke - you needed him to survive.

“I’m saying this not just as a parent but as a wife, you can’t rush into these things, you can’t spring the question up suddenly and not take the time to consider it properly! You… you immediately had sex with her and you want me to believe this is out of love and not physical attraction? You couldn’t even wait for her father and I to get home. You’re telling me that both of you are completely sure of what you’re doing, you want me to believe that? I’m not letting my daughter make such a rash decision in a day -”

“So what if it was in only a day, huh? You’re just looking for any excuse to oppose us getting together,” he’s quick to interrupt her, “because you are trying to get her to marry some old fuck for some quick mora.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You think I don’t know, huh? You don’t care about her at all, do you? Lying to me that she’d never mention me, as if you didn’t know we were together all this time… acting like you care about her when there’s some fucking bitch downstairs you sold her off to.”

“What… What's this about selling my daughter?” “Don’t act stupid on me,” he doesn’t even bother buttoning the rest of his shirt before he’s pushing your mother out of the room and following her out the door, “I tried to be civil, but I’m getting really damn tired of you criticizing us and you keep on lying.”

She hits her back against the wall, she yelps in surprise but the Harbinger makes no acknowledgement of any discomfort he may be causing. Instead, gloved hands shoot up and take hold of her shoulders as he continues going at her; there’s a crazed look in his eyes as he keeps on speaking, getting progressively annoyed the longer the conversation went on.

“We – I, we never sold her off,” your mother pants, she looks up at him in confusion and fear, “who do you take us for?”

“I have the records,” he pushes her down, “there’s no use in lying to me, ma’am – I know everything I need to know.”

“You’re crazy,” she spits out, “you’re fucking crazy… I don’t what the fuck happened to you, but I’m sure as hell now that you are absolutely not getting anywhere near my daughter!”

“Shut up!” He picks her up and throws her against the wall, there’s a loud thud as her body slowly sinks into the ground, he corners her with his body, “Shut the fuck up, you hag.”

“Let go!” Tears are streaming down her eyes as she pleads,“Help, someone help! Please, upstairs… come upstairs now!”

“Listen here,” his eyes are wide open, his posture threatening as he leans over her shaking body, he’s rough in his handling of her and he knows it but chooses not to care, “she said she’d marry me, she said she loves me, she said so and so it is. There’s no debate, got it? If I want to fuck her two minutes after seeing her, I do so, and if I want to marry her after not seeing her for years, I do so. We don’t need a lying bitch getting in our way, you understand that, right? I don’t need you taking her away from me to give her to someone else. She was mine before I left, she was mine when I left, she’s mine right now, and she’ll be mine as long as I’m alive, so you either shut up and accept it or I’ll get rid of you and your fucking mistake of a family.”

“Listen here,” his eyes are wide open, his posture threatening as he leans over her shaking body, he’s rough in his handling of her and he knows it but chooses not to care, “she said she’d marry me, she said she loves me, she said so and so it is. There’s no debate, got it? If I want to fuck her two minutes after seeing her, I do so, and if I want to marry her after not seeing her for years, I do so. We don’t need a lying bitch getting in our way, you understand that, right? I don’t need you taking her away from me to give her to someone else. She was mine before I left, she was mine when I left, she’s mine right now, and she’ll be mine as long as I’m alive, so you either shut up and accept it or I’ll get rid of you and your fucking mistake of a family.”

“Get off of her!” 

Oh, your father was here.

It’s strange to think that at some point, Ajax would have considered him something akin to a second father - especially now as his stomach filled itself with venomous rage at the mere sight of the older man.

“I said get off,” he runs towards the younger soldier, at an impressive speed for a man his age, his hands lunge forward as if to tackle him but it takes one hydro blade’s slash for him to stop dead in his tracks, “I… what do you want?”

Your father looks visibly worried as the ginger brands his weapon, the sight of an unfamiliar vision user threatening your spouse is one that would make anyone think twice before taking their next step. 

“Do you seriously not recognize me?” Tartaglia laughs incredulously, “Come on, sir… I was only gone for a couple of years.”

“Ajax?” Your mother nods her head frantically as your father finally puts a name to the face of the strange man in his house, “What the hell are you doing, boy?”

“He’s going on about,” your mother gasps for air, “marrying her and - and, us selling her or something!” The awkward position she found herself in made it hard for her to comfortably speak, even so, she made sure to spit it out as quickly as possible. Her chest is heaving while she desperately tries to make your father understand the absurdity of the situation, the hydro blade in his hand was simply too close to her skin for her comfort - the power of Harbinger was nothing to scoff at and she wanted nothing more than to never find herself in this position ever again.

“We can talk this out,” your father’s hands shake as he tries to slowly approach the ginger, “there’s clearly been a misunderstanding…”

“There has been no misunderstanding, sir,” he laughs, “I know damn well what I saw and what I heard.”

“We would never -” “Yes, you would!” He nearly shouts, but he restrains himself - if only because you’re still sleeping nearby, his whole body shakes as he tries to control the volume of his voice, “And I’m getting really fucking tired of you acting like you wouldn’t, you know? Just admit it and maybe, just maybe, we can work things out.”

“We would never hurt our daughter like that, Ajax,” the older man tries to explain, “please, understand that… let my wife go and we can talk this out properly, please.”

“Talk it out?” Ajax looks at him incredulously, “There’s nothing to talk about if you won’t admit to your mistakes, sir.” “B-but we didn’t -”

“Shut up!” His blue eyes are wide open, the crazed look in them was enough to send a chill down a grown man’s body. Why couldn’t they just admit to trying to separate the both of you? Why were they so desperate to lie? He knows what he heard, he knows they were trying to ruin his chances to be with you. They were clearly trying to get in his way, they had to be conspiring against the two of you - there was no other reason as to why you’d been so hesitant to agree to his proposal, why you’d been scared to see the truth; they were brainwashing you into forgetting him, doubting him. They had to have known he’d come back, there was no way he wouldn’t have, it’d take death itself for him to give up on you.

He couldn’t take it anymore, he couldn’t stand to listen to your parents’ pathetic attempts at covering up their lies.

Your mother’s words die in her throat as he knocks her out with a single blow, it’s by sheer luck the impact against her skull hadn’t straight up killed her. Your father doesn’t even get to react, not even a pip can be mumbled, before Tartaglia is making his way towards him at rapid speeds, the young man’s strength was enough to tackle him down. The Fatui soldier makes sure to use as much strength as possible, all in an attempt to get his opponent to knock his head against something and pass out with as little fuss as possible. 

It’s almost pathetic how quickly he’d taken both of them down, in just a few minutes the couple was knocked out cold - not yet dead nor mortally injured but not awake, no longer able to annoy Ajax or disturb you.

It’s almost pathetic how quickly he’d taken both of them down, in just a few minutes the couple was knocked out cold, both lying motionless on the ground, their limbs sprawled awkwardly; not yet dead but no longer able to annoy Ajax or disturb you, much to the former’s delight.

Footsteps could be heard from the first floor as the guests downstairs started getting worried, standing up and roaming around calling your parents’ names - too polite to dare wander into the house but too anxious about their absence to stay completely still, the thick wooden floors muffled the sounds but not enough that the commotion upstairs couldn’t be heard. One of the many benefits of Snezhnayan architecture was the isolation you could achieve in a big enough house, he’ll keep it in mind when he picks a house to start a family with you in.

Due to your house’s size, Ajax wouldn’t have to worry too much about Andrei or his parents hearing too much, meaning he’d be able to keep the element of surprise.

The Vision user knew he’d have to avoid the dining room, the place where the guests currently found themselves, lest he lose control and kill his former subordinate the minute he laid eyes on him, however his reasoning was anything but noble; Tartaglia simply wasn’t too keen on the idea of letting him get away with his crimes just yet. 

To him, death would be too soft a punishment, it would have to be a fate worse than, not just for Andrei but every single person who was involved in the scheme.

His gloved hands make their way to check their pulses, both weak but still there - good. 

With a satisfied huff he makes his way down the hall and staircase, quick to dismiss his signature hydro blades as he purposely makes his presence known with loud, rhythmic footsteps any soldier who’d served under him would recognize.

Years of hanging out under this very roof meant Ajax knew exactly where your back entrance was, which meant that he could enjoy instilling a sense of dread into the people downstairs without risking being found.

With a lazy smirk, Ajax purposely lets a couple of framed pictures and paintings fall from the wall, his hand tracing the walls and making sure to create as much sound as possible. As he approaches the dining room, he can hear the confused, hushed whispers as someone tries to peek into the hallway but, by the time the young man finally reaches the door to look around, Ajax has long since exited the house as he makes his way to recall the soldiers he’d stationed around the neighborhood.

With a wave of his hand soldiers seemingly appeared from thin air, emerging from bushes and rounding dark corners, soon the Harbinger is surrounded by men awaiting his orders.

“Is the Galkin residency ready?” He asks, making direct eye contact with a shorter soldier.

“Yes, sir.” The man nods.

“Good,” he combs a hand through his hair as he looks at your childhood home, “there’s a knocked out couple on the second floor, the rest are in the dining room.”

“Yes, sir.” A chorus of voices respond, mechanically a group of the soldiers turn around and march into the house.

“Keep it down, will you? If they scream, knock them out,” he adds half-heartedly, “she’s sleeping, so don’t wake her up.”

The leader of the group nods enthusiastically, making sure to echo the sentiment to his men before making their way inside the house.

As their operation takes place, Tartaglia turns back around to address his remaining companions; “Make sure to make it look as realistic as possible, we need the charges to stick.”

“Yes, sir.”

He asks to see the boxes full of fabricated evidence one last time. There are at least six large boxes filled to the brim, but he focuses on one. The one that holds the most damning evidence for the most serious crime anyone could commit in the land of Cryo; Treason against the Tsaritsa. Cold, blue eyes look with a gleeful glint at the falsified letters, penned to look exactly like your family members’ handwriting, there’s more; photographs, bank records, falsified shipment records, and more.

He gives one final nod, officially sealing everyone’s fates. From this moment onwards, your family and the Galkin’s would be charged with treason against the Tsaritsa and conspiracy to overthrow the Fatui. Sure, many others, perhaps even innocent people, will unjustly be implicated but he’ll make sure to pin this on the worst people he can. He’ll get rid of two birds with one stone while he’s at it.

It takes only a couple of minutes before everyone is being pulled outside of the house and led into carriages. It’s a humiliating sight, the ones who were awake were panicked, some even crying, the ones who had to be subdued needed to be carried by two or more people as they were unceremoniously dragged away.

Ajax purposely hides away, making sure to make a mental note of who was being taken and their condition. Andrei and his father are the only Galkin family members out of the four present who hadn’t been knocked out. Your parents, your eldest sister, and younger brother are knocked out - your elder brother, and your other sister are the only ones awake. There are a couple of other people, their partners, and a few he didn’t recognize immediately. In total, there were 16 people taken from your home.

Tartaglia made a point to only reveal himself as they finally dragged Andrei out, the final person out the house. His hands were bound behind him, a confused look clear in his eyes as he desperately tried to understand what was going on. His green eyes finally make contact with Ajax’s, they widen.

“Sir? What is going on -” He’s cut off by a harsh shove from the soldier walking him, he stumbles.

Ajax almost feels bad at the sight, Andrei was a good man - if only he didn’t try to get with you. He was young, unlike the idea he’d planted into your head, Galkin had only recently turned 27 last month, and he’d been a promising soldier until he was honorably discharged after a failed mission took the lives of most of his troupe. However, if you found out about his closeness in age to yourself, you’d probably not have reacted as poorly - maybe you’d even think about giving the fucker a chance. After all, people like Andrei - honorable young men who sacrificed a part of himself for his nation - were always appealing to the masses. But never as appealing as Ajax was to you, he couldn’t be.

The Harbinger turns around on his heels, not even sparing another glance to the arrested individuals, before making his way inside your house.

It’s filled with strangers, their serious faces evident as they set up the scene - their movements calculated as they did their best to create the image of guilt. Even though there were easily five or more people in every room, the whole place felt eerily empty. In a way, he almost feels as if you two were the only people in the world - you, the sleeping beauty waiting for him to arrive.

There’s a spring in his step as he pushes the door to your room open, his eyes immediately find you buried within his coat. He’s not surprised you had managed to sleep through it all, you’d always been a heavy sleeper even during your youth. 

He ushers a soldier in with a bunch of empty boxes, signaling for her to start packing your things up.

“Wake her up and you’re dead.” He adds while he makes his way towards you, a cheeky smile on his face as he makes himself comfortable next to you.

The soldier nods, making sure to be as quiet as humanly possible as to not anger the man in front of her - at this point, everyone in the house knew that he was not exaggerating when he said such things. When it came to you, the eleventh Fatui Harbinger knew no bounds. She turns around, making sure not to look too much at either of you in fear of upsetting him.

He patiently waits for the woman to finish packing all she could fit in the boxes. By now, he’s cuddling you in his arms, never allowing you the chance to so much as squirm away from him. It’s a suffocating, possessive hold he has on you, like he was scared if he let you go even for a second you’d leave him.

“Good, thank you.” He doesn’t even look at her - too focused gazing lovingly at your sleeping form. She says nothing but bows before leaving, desperate to leave the room as soon as possible.

The minute she closes the door he pulls himself away from you, making sure to not wake you up with any sudden movements - a concern he seemingly hadn’t had before when he’d been tormenting your parents.

He’d done his best to conceal himself but the truth was that the minute he saw you again, he felt himself growing hard again. Your naked body was hidden enough he didn’t feel the need to kick the soldier from before out, but he knew - he knew that beneath it you were still dirty with him, you were bruised from his handling of you, your neck filled with his kisses and bites. Just knowing that was enough for him to get dizzy, as if all the blood that was meant to flow to his brain had been redirected to his dick. His white pants were tented up, it almost hurts from how erect it was - just the memory of you taking him inside had a wet patch forming in his underwear.

“Look at what you do, baby,” he moans, his voice breathy as he pulls his zipper down, slowly freeing his hard-on, “ah… hah, I want to be inside you again.”

Just the cold air hitting his bare cock is enough to send a jolt of electricity down his spine, he just wants to feel you again, it’s all he wants - to be inside you again and to fuck you until all you can think of his your future husband’s cock. He takes your hand, so much smoother than his battle-worn one, and cautiously shoves two of your fingers into his mouth as a make-shift gag. 

He keeps one hand there while the other one slowly caresses his slit, his touch almost a ghost on his skin as he makes sure to tease it until a glob of pre starts to form from how sensitive he already was. He takes a small amount of pre-cum and uses it as lube, making sure to spread it slowly across his tip and down his shaft with long strokes.

He’s trying his best not to bite down on your fingers but it was so hard not to, instead he occupies himself by sucking on them in sync with his hand. 

“Mhm!” He accidentally touches his vein, the thick bump was extra sensitive against the cold air and your scent, his whole body twitches.

He can’t stop his hand from gaining speed and force, the longer he’s here with you the more his hand moves. It just not enough, his hips thrust upwards as he gives into himself, fucking into his balled up hand. His tongue laps at your fingers, his lips wrap tightly around them as he tries not to bite into your flesh; he can’t stop his hand from tightening against his cock.

He continues like this for a while, humping into the air like a bitch in heat, making sure to not cum - he didn’t want this to end too soon, he wanted to continue feeling like this next to you. In your room, a place that smelt so much like you it was overstimulating him, the taste of your lips against his tongue was intoxicating - he didn’t want today to end.

“Hah, mhm…” He chokes against his moan; it’s starting to get too much for him.

It’s then that he makes the mistake of looking over to you. Just the sight is enough for him to cum, it takes just a few strokes for him to finally spill.

“F-Fuck!” He can’t stop the moan that leaves his lips, he takes your fingers out of mouth in fear of hurting you but he refuses to let it go, gripping tightly while he lets himself ride the wave of pleasure he feels.

It takes him a second or two until he finally calms down, his dick growing sensitive as he slows down his strokes until he finally stops. His chest feels heavy as he pants, his heart beating painfully loud - he wonders if maybe you could hear it even in your sleep, a part of him hopes so. His whole body is on fire but he thinks this is the best he’s ever felt, just being near you was enough to make him feel like a God.

“I… I love you,” he pants, his fingers almost leave a dent in your hands from how tightly he’s gripping it, “hah… I love you so, so much…”

Almost a little too much.