#keep in mind this is immediately after the confession

[matrixfangs]

blessed be the whore - part 1

Priest!Remmick x fem!reader

summary: The old priest in your small town has died a gruesome death. The new one has an... eccentric way of doing things.

word count: 6.3k

warnings: smut, sacrilegious actions, blood, praying, quoting the Bible during sex, sex in a church, sex on an altar, P in V, Oral F! Recieving, cum play, reader's first time, religious themes/imagery, blood play, blasphemy, abuse of a rosary, drool, squirting, degradation if you squint, praise kink, allusions to murder

a/n: HELLO! I have been working on this fic for weeks, and I finally came to the conclusion that it just needs to be a two-parter. I want to keep this A/N short and sweet because I have so many people to credit, all from Rosie's lovely Discord server! Firstly, my two beta-readers, @confetti-cakemix and @fuckoffbard! LIZ, YOU ARE MY NORTH STAR WHEN I'M WRITING, THE BESTTT, and CONFETTI!!! YOUR DESCRIPTION OF IMAGERY, EVEN WHEN YOU'RE JUST BETA READING, IS PEAK. Now that that's out of the way, I'd like to tag each and every person in the server that also gave me suggestions and helped me in ANY way! @spikedfearn @somnolenthour @citrinedigital @eternalstrigoii @le-temps-viendra36 @iceemochaa @hyoscyxmine @otxiycohcoy @flixpii @faestunna Clown (also not sure if they have a tumblr but that's my twin!!) @cherryxhaze. If I forgot ANYONEEE please please comment or DM me and I'll add you immediately! I got so much help in the server, and I had to scour through almost a month of messages to find everyone!

tags: @moyavsemoya @slasherflickchick @reneeswrld @made2wait @horror-moviehoe @arminstopguy @weirdblob21 @writersp3n @endofradio @thecontortionistsportal @notabot2 @spikedfearn @fuckoffbard @madkingcrowley @manyimaginativemuses

The new pastor of your quaint village church was strange.

The village itself was old. You’d grown up with wrinkled hands drawing ash crosses on your forehead, strings of garlic hanging on doorways, barefeet in hot, red dirt. When you were younger, you were never allowed out after dark. No exceptions. Kids who went out after dark went missing. Their names became prayers on the congregation's lips at each church service.

The old pastor, Monsignor Quinn, had been so kind. He’d listen to your panicked confessions, fleeting feelings of lust with a boy from school. Brushes of fingers against skin that kept you awake at night. 

He’d died so suddenly. He hadn’t been very old, not even past his thirties. And the weirdest part - the local sheriff wouldn’t tell you or anyone in your village how he died. You heard rumors of blood-streaked walls and screams that had only been heard by those awake that late into the night. You watched people cross themselves as they passed his boarded-up house. Little children crossed the street to avoid passing it.

And now, you were shaking the new pastor’s hand, rough and firm. Father Remmick. His lips curled like he could tell what you were thinking, his tongue running through the folds of your twisted mind. His eyes, calm and clear blue, never left yours when he introduced himself. Your father’s arm rested protective and heavy on your shoulders, the heat radiating from him comforting you like a blanket.

“Pleasure to meet y’all.” Father Remmick drawled, hand still wrapped around yours. His accent was strange - deep, and Southern, but mixed with something old that you couldn’t place. Something thick and gooey, honey falling slowly off a wooden spoon. “I’m sorry for what happened to Monsignor Quinn. Tragic… truly.”

He didn’t look sorry—not really. His other hand pressed to his chest in sorrow, but his eyes shone with a playful gleam that was sinister, bloody, and cold. 

Your voice was dry when you spoke to him for the first time, having to turn your chin up to look at him. “What happened to him?”

“Oh,” Remmick’s smile fell, but the concern didn’t feel real. It felt mocking. You felt his thumb stroke your knuckle. “Nothing that needs to fall on ears as sweet as yours.”

Your father’s arm tightened, and you were grateful for his presence. When Remmick released your hand, you fought the urge to wipe your palm on your dress, to wipe him off of you. His crooked grin remained, and his tongue slowly ran over his bottom lip, licking the sweat from his chin.

“I can’t wait to get to know you.” He looked away from you like he had to force his eyes away, like it was painful not to be looking at you. His gaze left you feeling naked, the inside of your body tingling like someone had dug around inside and pulled out everything sacred.  “All of you, of course.”

His sermon had been even stranger than he was. He said all the right words, but they came out of a twisted mouth. A serpent’s tongue ran over the words of God, words meant to comfort and uplift, but coming from him, made your stomach twist. Your fingertips ran over the silver rosary underneath your shirt as he spoke, his eyes never drifting down to the Bible before him. He knew the words by heart, and they still sounded so wrong. 

When you got on your knees to pray, you felt something so deeply, internally wrong in your chest. You couldn’t help but look up while everyone else’s heads were down, their lips moving silently in prayer. You found Father Remmick, hands wrapped tightly around the lectern, looking at you. His knuckles were white, his eyes roaming over you ardently. A rust color flashed over the blue of his eyes, like the nictitating membrane of a reptile. His gaze violated you, drilled a hole through your chest.  

For a single heartbeat you kept your gaze locked on his. When he smiled at you, you swore you watched something crawl under the skin of his forehead, two points—like horns—begging to poke out of his skin.

That night, and for many nights onward, you dreamt of Father Remmick.

The church was empty, save for you and him. His clerical collar glowed against the black of his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal veiny forearms and slender fingers following it. Fingers that reach for your rosary beads, let them clatter to the floor. He spoke in a language you didn’t know, touching you in a way you’d never felt. A way that felt too good to be holy.

When you woke, you prayed. You prayed for hours into the early morning until the skin on your knees was raw and your eyes were sore from being squeezed tight. The rosary left a red and stinging imprint on your hand that would be there for days. 

But what frightened you most was the throb between your legs, pounding rhythmically and making you yearn for… fullness. After every hour of prayer it seemed only to get worse. 

At church, you couldn’t listen to the sermon. You couldn’t even look up at Father Remmick. Not without images flashing behind your eyes, sounds so vile and loud in your ear that you couldn’t even hear the words he was saying.

Throaty moans. A hot, wet tongue between your legs. The feeling of rhythmic thrusts, something pressing into a spot inside of you that made you feel more euphoric than God himself ever could. You felt weak every time you looked at him, your fragile body giving in with every glance. 

“My child-” His voice echoed through the rickety church, but you knew he was speaking to you.

“You look distracted.”

Your throat ran dry as you stared at the scabbed-over skin of your knees, just below your dress. You could feel your father's demanding elbow digging into yours. Be respectful.

A flash of something else when you looked up at him again. Something softer, something tender. Lips pressed to your skin, dragging against the top of your breasts. 

“What could be more important to you?” He was smiling. Smiling like he knew what you’d seen, and the devilish things you’d heard. “Than worshipping and praising God with your community… with me?”

His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he raised his arms to grip the sides of the lectern. The muscles under his shirt tensed, and your eyes lingered. By the way his smile widened, he noticed.

“Be sober-minded and alert, Miss.” He nodded his head toward you, like some kind of twisted teacher. “Your adversary, the Devil, prowls around like a roaring lion…” His eyes, gleaming again like something inhuman. “Looking for something to devour, like a lamb wandering from the flock.”

Remmick paused, smiling to himself. “Be glad that I arrived here at the right time, to lead you down the path of righteousness.” 

Your skin had grown cold, like spiders were running up your arms and the back of your neck. But it wasn’t just what he’d said that made you rigid, a dripping of cold sweat rolling down your spine. It was the agreeing hums of the congregation, like they knew what you’d been thinking.

You couldn’t sleep that night. The pillow's satin fabric was coated in sweat, which clung to the back of your neck and made your butter-yellow nightdress stick to your back. You stood from your bed, bare feet pressed against the hardwood of your bedroom floor. As you left your room, you knew every creaky spot to avoid, opening the door with close precision to keep it from making a sound.

You could hear your father snoring from the cracked door of his bedroom as you slipped through the hallway like a ghost. You blindly slipped your feet into slippers in the dark, your hand wrapping around the gold door knob of your front door. 

The cool breeze of a late July night kissed your skin, making your hair prickle against the fabric of your nightdress. The sky was black, stars spilled across it like bleached sugar against molasses. 

The walk to the church was by memory, your feet crunching above the gravel road in the cool dark of your village. No light was lit in anyone’s homes; the only sound was the cicadas whining in the trees surrounding you. As you passed Monsignor Quinn’s home, the foundation seemed to creak before you, the sound almost like a weeping in the air. You didn’t cross the street and kept your head forward to pass by it. It was just another house. Just another death. 

The church was dark but buzzed with an energy that made the air feel electric. You could see its indent in the darkness. It was made of white siding sun bleached from hundreds of years under the sun of the South. The smokey-colored brick spires reached out into the dark sky, pointing to the stars. Their elegance had entranced you as a child. Now it just made you feel sick. 

A rectory with a gabled roof and dead bushes surrounding it stood next to the church, just a few yards away. There was no light to be seen, no sign of life. Father Remmick would be asleep in there, sleeping soundly despite his completely taking over your mind and your body. 

As you entered the church, you didn’t make a sound, creaking the door open just wide enough to slide your body through.

You moved blindly down the pews, hands running across the cool wood, hoping it would comfort you. It didn’t. You fumbled around until you found a box of matches and lit the candlesticks at the table behind the altar. It didn’t provide much light, but you could at least see the flickering expression of Jesus on the crucifix before you, He who had died for your wretched, terrible sins.

Knees hit wood, your hands gripping the fabric of your nightdress as you prepared to grovel. But you wouldn’t get the chance to. Not to God, at least.

“Couldn’t sleep, sugar?”

A voice that echoed through the dark like it- he owned it. You stood, turning around and searching the dimly lit dark for him. 

Father Remmick was sitting in the pew furthest from you, legs crossed and arms stretched long behind him. He was smiling; crooked,pointy teeth nearly glowing in the dim light. Your eyes roamed over the clerical that remained against his neck.

Your throat had gone dry. You swallowed hard, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the altar rail. 

“You could say that, yeah.” 

Remmick’s legs uncrossed, spreading out in a way that felt like it couldn’t be anything but disrespectful. His eyes didn’t look blue in this light. They seemed almost amber, gleaming and ever-changing in the flickering candlelight. 

“In peace, I will lie down and sleep,” Remmick said quietly, a teasing little smirk on his face. “For you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”

Your knuckles had turned white against the altar railing, and the sudden realization that you stood before him in nothing but a nightdress made you freeze. You should have felt empowered by his words, but instead, you felt like prey under that violent gaze. You kept your expression blank. 

“Yes, I will perhaps follow those words when I know peace.”

Remmick’s head cocked to the side, like a dog sniffing out a treat. His eyes rolled down your body, stopping at your bruised knees. 

“You troubled, darlin’?”

He didn’t sound concerned, not really. He sounded starved the question dripping off his tongue like drool rolling down a chin. He looked at you with mock-concern, eyebrows just a little too furrowed, his lips just a little too downturned. 

“Have somethin’ you’d like to confess?”

His eyes flickered to the confession booth. Two purple, velvet curtains opened to a small wooden box—one side for the priest, the other for the sinner. 

You didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the throb between your legs, or the puppy-dog shine of his eyes in the candlelight that made them look almost like melted caramel. Or perhaps the way his voice lingered in the room like steam after a hot bath. But you nodded, quicker than you’d meant to. 

Remmick stood on long legs, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to reveal curling veins that traveled along his forearms. He gestured toward the booth, lips curling deviously like he’d won something. Like he was collecting a prize he’d been patiently vying for.

“Ladies first.”

The confession booth was dark, except for the little light that flickered through the intricate carvings on the wood door. The worn leather cushion sank beneath you, full of cracks and creases from years of use. You could hear Remmick shuffling on the other side as you closed yourself in. You could hardly see him through the lattice-patterned window separating him from your booth, just the shadows cast over his face and the bright white of the clerical covering his throat. 

Your hands were tangled in your lap, your leg bobbing up and down under your nightdress. You listened to Remmick’s calm breath as he settled into his seat, closed your eyes for a moment, and envisioned his hands running over his pants, his head bowing in silent prayer. The thought of it made more heat travel down your body, your heartbeat loud throughout your body.

“Sign of the Cross, yes?” 

His voice seemed even deeper, even more irresistible in the dark—something as velvet as the curtain before you. Your hands trembled as you made the Sign of the Cross over your face. 

“Bless me, Father,” you paused, licking your dry lips. “For I have sinned. It has been… far too long since my last confession. These are my sins.”

Remmick was smiling. Hands clasped in his lap, burning eyes staring into the wood of the booth. He could hear every shift you made, every breath coming from your heaving chest and out of your beautiful throat. The throat that pulsed with your heartbeat. The heartbeat that hadn’t left his mind since he’d laid eyes on you. He thought of your blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone and shifted in his seat.

Your chest was heaving, your nails digging into the seat's leather. You pressed your legs together, glanced at what you could see of Remmick’s face.

“Father, I have impure thoughts. I fear that the Devil has his hold on me, making me yearn for…improper things.”

Remmick’s smile curled, teeth sharp against his lip. You were right where he wanted you. Hot, pulsing, panting. His hands unclasped, his palm pressing into the seam of his pants. His head fell back, eyes slipping closed at the pressure against him.

“Improper things?” he asked you, his voice leveled as much as possible, but you caught the hitch. “Do you think the Lord would accept this confession… if you can’t even say what sin you’re thinking of?”

Your throat bobbed as you realized he was right. You were a sinning coward, unable to tell God what He needed to forgive you for. Your hands left sweat marks on the seat, palms raised to grip the rosary around your neck. The marks on your knees from groveling for God had started to sting, as if the Devil himself scratched down your legs. Reminding you of who you thought of and who you wanted to be on your knees for.

“I think of someone… touching me. Their hands against my skin, defiling me in a way that-”

A sound, guttural and desperate, left Remmick’s throat. His hand had continued to press against him, thick tendons and veins straining under his skin. His eyes opened, pupils nearly flooding his entire iris. All that was left was a ring of red on the outside, the color of blood stained on satin white sheets. He was silent, marinating in how you gasped at the sound he’d released. You were so deliciously untouched.

“And who is that you think of?”

The question lingered in the air, heavy and charged with something dangerous. It felt as if the rosary in between your hands were being tugged from your grasp, until you looked down and realized that it was just you releasing it, letting it clatter onto the floor.

The point of no return. Letting the Devil take you by the hand and dance you into Hell. You’d called to God so many times and He’d never answered, but Remmick was here. Real, tangible, beautiful. You dug your nails into your palms, prayed for your soul one last time before diving into the deep end.

“...I think you know, Father.”

Silence, at first. Something that made the air hot, that made your breath catch in your throat. 

The wood groaned as Remmick shifted, his feet scuffing against the floor. You could hear the screech of metal rings against a rod, Remmick pushing the curtain open. 

He didn’t ask for permission. He pushed your curtain open slowly, filling it with his broad frame and slender fingers. His fingers gripped the velvet, and a brass ring around his finger caught the light. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, teeth sharp and bright in the dim light. 

One hand left the curtain, reaching out to touch the lines of your collarbone. He ran his nail up your neck to rest the pad of his finger against your pulse. 

“I do know,” he hummed, applying pressure to the pulse, just enough for you to feel him there. “And I always knew you’d come.”

His other hand flew from the curtain with a speed that didn’t seem human, fingers gripping your hair and tugging your head back to expose your throat. 

“God.” You moaned low in your throat, breath ragged as Remmick lowered himself enough to be straddling your lap, thighs warm and solid on top of yours. He leaned forward, his mouth finding your ear. You felt his tongue run over the shell of it, something long and cold like a serpent.

“Not sure your God is here, sugar.” His voice was low and sweet, rattling the inside of your body. “He woulda saved you by now, right?”

Remmick looked down into your nightdress, lip caught between his teeth. He was quiet as he raised his hands to the fabric, gripping it tightly before tugging. The nightdress split apart as easily as tearing paper, your skin prickling with goosebumps as the cold air hit your naked chest. He looked at you like a sinner did the cross, eyes nearly glowing. He waited; waited for your invitation to touch you, thick drool rolling down his chin like a rabid dog. It dripped onto your chest as you nodded, your hand shaking when you wrapped your fingers around the white clerical collar at his throat. You tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside your rosary. 

“Touch me, Father.”

Remmick was on his knees in a second, tearing away the rest of the ruined nightdress from your body as he nestled his shoulders between your thighs. The only thing that remained between you and him was a thin pair of underwear, lacy trim at the edges that he ran his fingertip over with a twitching smile. 

The pad of his rough fingertip pressed over the fabric of your underwear, firm against your clit. Your body jolted forward, legs falling open for him as the pleasure traveled up your spine. 

Remmick laughed, his head thrown back and mouth open wide.

“So wet for having never been touched, little lamb.” Remmick’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down your smooth legs. “Do you want to be worshipped, as your God is…” He tucked your underwear into the back pocket of his black pants. “Or ruined, like the Devil would do to you?”

“I want…” Your words cut off with a whimper as he pulled his finger from you, only to open your legs wider. “I want what you want, Father…”

Remmick hummed, weighing his options. “Lil’ bit of both then, I reckon.”

His head dove in between your legs like he’d been starved of water for years, and you were the first drop of salvation he’d found. He groaned, deep and low in his throat, that sent a vibration through you that had your hands flying to the dark waves on top of his head, pulling him against you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise as he licked against your cunt, long tongue rolling around your clit like he’d been made to worship it.

“So sweet,” Remmick smiled against you, warm and wet for him. “Like the Lord made you just for me.”

Remmick’s hands left your thighs, palms searching the floor as he continued to suck on your clit, pushing his tongue into you, curling it up in a way that didn’t seem possible. When he found what he needed, he pulled away, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes and your wetness dripping from his lips.

His hand raised, your rosary beads tangled between his fingers. With careful precision, he lowered the necklace against your cunt, the coolness of the beads making you shiver and scratch marks into the leather seat beneath you. As the beads pressed on either side of your clit, your head fell back against the wall, heat traveling up your neck as if the flames of Hell were already licking against your skin. 

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes penetrating and sharp on your face. He could sense your impending release, the way your heartbeat quickened, your back arching off the seat.

“Don’t.” 

Once low and ragged in the dark, his voice had become clear. He closed your legs with one large hand and dropped the rosary beads back to the floor so he could lean forward, pressing his other hand against the wall next to your head. His face was inches from yours, and his breath was hot on your neck. 

“Not yet, darlin’. Not ‘til I say.” His lips found the pulse point on your neck, nipping before kissing tenderly. “The Lord teaches patience, lamb.” 

Remmick’s hand left the wall to grip your hair again, tugging your head back. It made your scalp sting in a way that made you want more, your mouth parting to whimper against him.

“That bein’ said,” A crooked smile - lips baptized in your essence. “I’m bettin’ you sound real pretty beggin’.”

His tongue was long and rough against your cheek as he tasted your sweating skin, a deep rumble in his throat as if he was tasting the sweetest nectar. He stopped at your temple, placing a gentle kiss there. His lips remained there, teeth grazing skin.

“So go on, darlin’. Pray for me to fuck you.”

Your breath caught, your entire body going hot from his words. He laughed against your skin, like he could feel the very chemistry in your body change, the way you grew slicker from his twisted request. The way you knew that you would do it for him. You’d pray to be spread open by him, explored in a way not even God could do.

“Oh, you will do it, won’t you…” 

It wasn’t a question. Remmick knew you’d beg; he knew how far gone you were. He laughed against your skin.

“Doesn’t matter how good of a girl you are… how much you love Him. You’ll give it all up just to get off, won’t you?” 

Remmick pulled back, hands sliding down to hold firm on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you from the seat like you weighed nothing, turned both your bodies around until you were straddling him. Your naked core rested against the rough material of his pants and made your body shiver. He smiled.

“Go on… hands together in contrition. Do it right…” His rough hands grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands flat together between your bodies. When they were pressed together to pray, he let his fingers linger on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers just too long and nails just too sharp against your skin. 

Your lips were dry, and Remmick’s eyes drifted to them like he wanted to lick across them, make them wet again. 

“Heavenly…”

 Remmick hummed in glee already, just from a single word. His head bowed, as if to join you in prayer, his eyes slipping shut.

“Heavenly Father… forgive me for what I am about to ask of you. I know I do not deserve such a blessing as being touched…” Your words faltered as one of Remmick’s hands slid up your thigh, gathering the slick in between your legs. His finger pressed against your clit, and you gasped, hands pressing together tighter. “As being touched by someone so good, so…”

Remmick’s finger pushed inside of you, pressing up to a spot that made your throat close up, the only sound coming out a pathetic squeak of a whine.

“Aww, darlin’, that’s so sweet of you. But you don’t have to lie.” His body leaned forward, his wet mouth pressing against your ear. “Tell your Heavenly Father what I am. What you know I am.”

“I’m…” You continued the prayer, voice deep and rasping. “I’m going to fuck the Devil… and Lord, I beg you to have mercy on my wicked soul.” 

Remmick laughed against the skin of your neck, drawing thin beads of blood with the sharp points of his teeth.

“Are you now? Going to fuck the Devil?”

All you could do was whine at the pleasurable pain in your neck, your hands shaking with the desire to pull them apart, to grab at his skin and his hair. 

Remmick hummed to himself, pulling his finger out of you with a slowness that made you bite the inside of your cheek. His cold hands slid up your arms, pulling your hands apart from their prayer. 

“Get up.” He said quietly, with that same thick, gooey voice he’d had when you’d shaken his hand for the first time. You did as he asked, spreading your legs and backing off his lap. His eyes traveled up your bare body as he stood, towering over you inside the booth. With a firm hand on your hip, he nudged you toward the curtain.

“To the altar.” 

Remmick’s breathing was heavy behind you, his gaze burning holes into the bare skin of your back as you slowly walked to the altar. You looked to the cross just above, and you felt no remorse, not anymore. Whatever God could do to punish you, you were sure Remmick could do worse. Maybe you wanted him to. 

You ceased walking once you had reached the altar, your belly just close enough to feel the cool wood against your skin. Remmick was behind you, his breath hot and wet on your neck. His eyes ran over your skin, from the top of your head to the balls of your feet. The expanse of a human body that he was now free to ruin. That he’d be begged to ruin. 

With one swift movement, he grabbed your wrists, raising them and placing them flat on the altar. Your fingers brushed the closed Bible there as your breath hitched. Remmick made no effort to remove it. He only slid one hand down your body, as soft and languid as a serpent, and pressed down on the arch of your back. 

“Look at you…” Remmick murmured, fingers sliding into your folds, finding you warm and wanting there. Your legs quivered at his simple touch, so his other arm found its spot under your belly, assisting in holding you upright. “So nervous… shaking. You must honor God with your body, little lamb.”

Two fingers entered you, pushing in and out with a torturous speed. Your legs spread wider, your nails scratching into the leather-bound fabric covering the Bible before you. 

“Please..” Your voice quivered as you tried to keep it level. Your head fell against the Bible, leaving sweat marks. “I need you inside me, I need it more than I need God.”

Remmick’s fingers pulled out of you, and you heard the faint sound of his lips licking his fingers clean. He moaned at the taste of you, his other hand pulling the clasp of his belt buckle apart. “Aw, sweetheart, that’s so kind of you.”

By the press of him against you, hot and pulsing, you could tell that Remmick was big. But nothing could have prepared you for the way it felt when the head of his cock began to press inside you, hardly able to breach your entrance. He pulled back, body lowering to press lips against your sweat-slick spine.

“Gotta open up for me, baby.” He said against your skin, running the length of himself against your folds. His tongue was cold and barbed as it ran up the expanse of your back and to the shell of your ear. “Take me all at once, and maybe I’ll make you see Him. Denying yourself would be the true sin…” Remmick tried once again, his cock slowly able to start stretching you, inch by torturous inch. You couldn’t make a sound as your mouth fell open, tears beading at the corner of your eyes from the sheer size of him.

“Haven’t even fucked you good yet,” He groaned as he pushed in. “And you’re already speaking in tongues.”

When he’d bottomed out inside you, pressing deep on a spot inside you that only made a guttural sound escape your throat, his large hand pressed against your belly. 

“Feel all that pain, lamb. You’re just getting used to me… your body will learn quick.” He slid back slowly and pushed back in with just as much resolve. Your legs nearly gave out, hands scrambling for purchase on the lectern as he fucked into you. “Soon, all you’ll feel is me.”

Remmick was right. 

Soon, the only feeling that remained was deep, wicked pleasure. Every thrust of him inside of you felt like another ring lower into Hell, the souls eternally damned there shaking their heads at you as you made the same mistakes they did. But the problem was - you didn’t fucking care.

A whine escaped your throat as Remmick picked up the pace, just a little bit. One hand on your belly, the other gripping your hip so hard you were sure you felt the cold prick of blood on your skin. Every thrust was hitting something inside you that somehow made you wetter, something that had you dripping onto him like some kind of deranged baptism.

Remmick was grunting, getting louder with each thrust into you. He tried to hide with honeyed words, but you felt too good around him.

“So easy, aren’t you?” Remmick was grabbing one of your arms, pulling your hand into his to press onto your own belly. You felt the bulge of him with each thrust in, and the pressure on your stomach made your cunt flutter around him. He groaned, words faltering as you squeezed around his cock. “You…” He nearly whined, hand gripping yours on top of your belly. “Just a few words about your corrupt God and you... you spread your legs for me?”

He laughed, hand leaving your stomach to grab at your hair, tugging until your head reeled back just enough to see him. He was beautiful like this, pupils blown out, and the first few buttons of his clean shirt popped open. Blood streaked down the corner of his mouth from the wound on your neck, and his tongue was unnaturally long as it unraveled out to wet his lips.

“Do you know something, sweetheart?” He asked, dark eyes meeting yours. “Your God isn’t here.”

A whine broke through your mouth as he rolled his hips in a particularly torturous way, hitting the spot in you that he’d found with his fingers in the confession booth. There wasn’t anything you could do but let your body go slack against him, head kept in place only by his grip on your hair. 

“What would your God say, hm?” Remmick asked, pressing into that spot again, making your vision go white. “If He saw you split open for me?”

Remmick released you, and your head fell forward to the altar. He leaned forward, and you felt the cold press of something against your neck, a chain or something of the like.

“Do you still believe in Him?” He asked against the nape of your neck, pressing deep into you. He nipped at you again and lapped the blood up with his tongue with a soft moan. 

“Maybe you should apologize to Him, hm? How does that one go again?” Remmick pulled out, almost entirely. You felt the cold air hit the wetness of your cunt, and you whined at the loss of contact from him.

“Forgive me my sins, Oh Lord,” Remmick spoke, moved both of his hands to your hips, and thrust in with one swift move that made you cry out in shock, in pleasure, in shame. “The sins of my youth.” Another deep thrust, and back out again. “The sins of my soul,” Another. “And the sins of my body-” 

The last push inside of you made you see streaks of color in your vision, your mouth hanging open, and your lips wet with drool. You felt something like a spool form in your stomach, desperate to unravel. It was an odd feeling that you’d never felt before, akin to the feeling of nearly wetting yourself, and it made your face burn with embarrassment.

“Father,” Your voice was gone, raspy and unrecognizable. “Father, I feel…” You whined as the feeling grew, doing everything in your power not to let the spool unravel. “I think I‘m gonna pee… it feels like-” Remmick chuckled, increasing the speed of his thrusts. 

“Oh, my poor baby.” 

You could hear the smile in his voice. He was the Devil himself.

“You don’t even know what your sweet little body can do, do you?”

 And with that, Remmick was reaching around your body, pressing two of his fingers against your clit and rubbing, coaxing something out of you. The more he coaxed, the tighter the spool wound.

And then it snapped.

You didn’t recognize your voice as you came, nails scratching into the altar so hard that the wood began to splinter, piercing the tips of your fingers. Remmick was laughing as wetness coated him, the front of his pants and the fingertips at your clit. You’d provided an entire baptism for him, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.

He pulled out of you, gripping your hips tightly and whipping you around so your back hit the altar. Remmick’s knees hitting the floor and his tongue diving inside of you happened in one action, in one second. He licked up everything you gave him, your essence leaking onto his face and dripping down his chin. 

His cock remained hard, long, and red below you as he sucked on your clit. You wet your lips, a shaking hand lifting from the altar to grip at his auburn waves.

“Touch yourself,” You whimpered, voice coated in overstimulation. “Please… let me see the image He created you in…” 

Remmick’s eyes slid open, peering up at you needily. His nose brushed your clit as his tongue pushed up inside you, and he grabbed at his cock with a strong, blood-covered hand. Immediately, he was moaning, the vibrations in his throat traveling through your entire body and making your head feel airy. His hand was so beautiful pleasuring himself, pulling up and down the length of his cock and making himself leak. His hips thrusted up into his fist, and you found yourself longing to see the muscles that flexed beneath his shirt. 

Your trembling hand scratched at his scalp, and Remmick sighed happily underneath your touch. He wasn’t even eating you out, not anymore, just nuzzling his face into your skin and breathing you in as he touched himself.

“Beautiful…” You whispered to him. “Like an angel.”

Remmick growled, hand tugging on your thigh and yanking you to the floor. Your back slid against the altar as he pressed the head of himself against your cunt. His forehead pressed against yours as he came with a groan. The warmth of him spilled against your clit and downward, and Remmick’s fingers gently pressed into you, making sure it stayed tucked away inside you.

Your body trembled as Remmick pulled his forehead from yours. His thumb came up to brush against your lips, and for a brief moment, he pushed it inside, humming as the pad of it pressed against your warm tongue. He leaned forward, replacing his thumb with his mouth. A small squeak sounded in your throat at the feeling of his tongue pressing against the roof of your mouth, licking away the last of the prayers that stuck there.

Remmick’s lips remained connected to yours as he helped you stand on shaking legs, his hands pulling you up effortlessly by your waist. His hand reached behind him, grabbing the underwear he’d tucked in his back pocket as he’d prepared to stick his tongue between your legs. 

He leaned down, untangling the delicate material and holding it out.

“Step in, sweet thing.” He peered up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Gotta keep everything I gave you inside… keep you close to me.”

Your hand gripped his strong shoulder as you stepped into the holes of your underwear. Remmick pulled them up slowly, leaving soft kisses on your skin as he went. When they were fully up, getting soaked with the mix of Remmick’s and your release, he straightened. His lips pressed against your forehead for a brief, sweet moment.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service.” He said as he pulled back, his voice just as fucked out as yours had been. 

“Front pews. Don’t think you can hide from me in the back.” 

His hand grazed your arm, almost innocently.

 “Or anywhere, for that matter.”

[lovecumdumpy]

Filling the Emptiness

↳ “you don’t have to be perfect. you just have to stay.”

➤ anakin skywalker x reader

➤ oneshot | 7k(?) | angst with comfort | canon-ish au | slow burn | best friends to lovers | HUUGE eating disorder tw | hurt/comfort | emotional intimacy | confession scene | he loves you so bad it HURTS | not very well proofread, dm me ab grammar mistakes if u want

summary ⭑ you’ve been falling apart quietly. training too long, eating too little, keeping your pain wrapped in silence. but anakin has always paid too much attention—has always cared too much to let it go.

The Temple kitchens were always quiet after hours. A few lingering droids hummed about, cleaning the chrome counters and sanitizing the few dishes left behind by late-night Padawans. You weren’t supposed to be here.

You sat at one of the corner tables, arms folded across your stomach as though to keep the gnawing ache from swallowing you whole. A cup of untouched caf sat in front of you, going cold.

You hadn’t eaten today. Not really. A few bites of fruit during training. That was all you had allowed. The rest had felt too heavy. Too much.

“Why does this feel like a punishment?” you whispered aloud, to no one.

“You tell me.”

You jumped.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, cloak rumpled like he hadn’t been to his quarters yet. His eyes—sharp, sky blue, always too intense—were unreadable in the low light. You swallowed hard, guilt blooming like a bruise in your chest. You knew he’d find you eventually.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’ve been looking for you.”

You shrugged, playing oblivious. “I needed air.”

If he sensed through the Force that you were lying somehow, he didn’t give any indication. He merely pushed off where he leaned and promptly made his way over to you.

You straightened up as he approached, trying to appear more awake, more alert. You wanted to look alive, though you certainly didn’t feel like it. You knew your dull, sleep deprived eyes revealed as much, so you avoided any eye contact the best you could.

Anakin took a seat at the table. Not directly next to you, but close enough to spark a nervous warmth in your blood. An effect he often had on you. Though, you subconsciously appreciated that heat now. You were always so cold these days…

“What did you need?”

“I have some… concerns,” he said, voice low.

You resisted the urge to groan. “Concerns?”

You knew what he meant. Of course you did. He didn’t answer immediately. Just studied you—brows furrowed, jaw set.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally asked, “Are you unwell?”

You gave a short, bitter laugh. “Wow. Every girl’s favorite compliment.”

Anakin didn’t smile.

“I’m serious.”

The attempt at humor evaporated from your face. Your fingers curled tighter against your ribs. Your vision wavered—edges fuzzing like your body was deciding it had had enough—but you blinked through it, trained in the art of denial.

“I’m fine,” you said. You weren’t.

“What do you mean?” You knew exactly what he meant.

The weak smile you wore faded as quick as it appeared. Your vision was beginning to darken around the edges again, and you ignored it. Just like before, and the time before that.

You started to shake your head no when he grabbed your flesh hand with his metal one. Your heart jumped, but you didn’t flinch with Anakin. Never with Anakin.

“You were awful during training today.” You lightly scoffed and moved to pull away your arm, but his steel grip held firm. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

You finally gathered the courage to look up and meet his gaze. He stared very intently at your face. Observing, scanning every detail. It made you want to squirm.

He wasn’t going to let this go easily. You knew him. Better than you knew yourself to be honest. Once Anakin was onto something, he was impossible to derail. Your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.

“I’m— I’m on my period,” you stammered, cheeks heating with the effort of the lie. “That’s all.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh,” Anakin said, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer, and for once, it seemed to actually knock the wind out of his focus. His grip loosened on your wrist, just enough that you could have pulled away if you wanted to. You didn’t.

He glanced aside, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. You didn’t think you’d ever seen Anakin Skywalker look… awkward.

“Right. Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck with his metal hand. “I didn’t mean to— I just…”

You watched him flounder for a moment, and in spite of the nausea twisting in your stomach, it almost made you want to laugh.

He was flustered.

“I just noticed you’ve been… off,” he said eventually, softer now, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Didn’t mean to overstep.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t. Really.” Your voice was steadier than before, and you leaned into the moment, relieved he wasn’t pressing further. “Training just hit a little harder today, that’s all.”

He gave a small nod, still clearly uncomfortable with the whole topic. “You, uh… want me to bring you something? From the mess?”

You hesitated. The thought of food—warm, filling, real—made your stomach twist. But the last thing you wanted was for him to start hovering again.

“No, I’m okay. Just needed a minute.”

“Okay,” he echoed, and this time when he looked at you, his eyes had softened. “But if you start throwing training sabers at people tomorrow, I’ll assume that’s the hormones talking.”

You rolled your eyes. “So funny.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips, and for a moment, things felt lighter again. Not fixed, and maybe not safe. But less fragile.

He stood, cloak swaying with the motion, and looked like he was debating saying more. But he didn’t. Just nodded toward the caf. “That’s probably cold by now.”

“I wasn’t really planning to drink it.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He lingered there a second longer, then turned toward the doorway. “Get some rest, okay?”

You nodded once. “You too.”

He hesitated—one foot out the door—then glanced back at you over his shoulder. “And hey… if you ever need anything,” he said, the faintest edge of sincerity in his voice, “I mean it.”

“I know.”

He didn’t smile. But he looked like he might’ve wanted to.

Then he left.

And you were alone again, the silence folding back in around you like a blanket. You stared down at the cooling cup of caf, the bitter smell turning your stomach.

You pushed it aside.

..

Training you had never been boring.

Even when you were exhausted or sarcastic or pretending not to be nervous. Especially then.

Today wasn’t any different—at least not at first.

Anakin stood at the edge of the mat, arms crossed, watching you cycle through the sequence again. Your brow furrowed in focus, bottom lip pulled slightly between your teeth as your saber carved the air.

“You’re still stiff through the shoulders,” he called out, teasing. “You trying to impress someone or preparing for battle with a coat rack?”

You snorted—an undignified little sound that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

“I am relaxed,” you argued, resetting your stance.

“No, you’re tense.” He stepped forward now, his voice easing into something softer. “You’re fighting your own swing.”

“I’m not fighting—”

“You are,” he said, grinning now as he walked behind you. “You’re gripping like the saber owes you money.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t stop him when he moved in closer. He could feel the slight shift in your breath as he stepped into your space, one hand gently resting on your shoulder blade, the other brushing your elbow.

“Alright,” he said, keeping his tone low and measured. “Just breathe. Let me show you.”

You nodded, silent now.

He moved around you, wrapping his hand over yours on the saber hilt. His chest hovered just behind your shoulder, warm and steady. Carefully, he guided your hands through the motion.

“This is all it needs,” he said. “No brute force. Just follow the curve.”

You didn’t respond—but you didn’t pull away either.

And then, mid-motion, he noticed it. Gently, absentmindedly—he brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

There wasn’t much there to cushion it anymore.

Your hand under his felt… thinner. More fragile. And so cold. The ridge of your knuckles more pronounced than he remembered. His fingers brushed along your wrist, and he could feel the tendons shifting beneath skin that didn’t feel like it used to.

He stilled, only for a breath. It wasn’t something he meant to notice—it just registered.

His eyes dipped down briefly.

Your tunic sleeves had slipped slightly. Your shoulder looked sharper than it should’ve. He saw the hard line of your collarbone beneath the loose fold of your neckline. Had your robes always fit like that?

Anakin blinked, once. Let go slowly.

He stepped back without a word.

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his energy, though you glanced at him briefly—confused, maybe. Hopeful.

“Better,” he said aloud. It was true. Your form had improved. But his mind was somewhere else now.

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain. He didn’t want to overthink it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the lighting was weird. Maybe he was tired.

But he knew what he felt.

“Try again,” he said, more distant now. Still calm. But… cooler.

You obeyed.

You went through the motion, saber slicing cleanly through the air—elbow turned just right, shoulder loose. Technically, you’d nailed it.

“That’s more like it,” he said after a pause. But his voice lacked the usual warmth.

You turned, trying to catch his eye—waiting for the usual faint smirk, the little quirk of praise he gave when you impressed him.

It didn’t come.

“You’re letting me off easy,” you said, half-joking. “Should I be worried?”

Anakin looked at you again—your smile just a little too forced, your posture just a little too still.

He forced a smile of his own. “Call it a reward for finally listening to me.”

“You’ll ruin your reputation if you keep being nice.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You laughed, and it eased something in his chest. Just a little.

Still, as you powered down your saber and grabbed your things, Anakin found himself watching again. Not staring. Just observing.

Your sharp edges, your baggy sleeves, the faint way your frigid fingers curled in when you weren’t thinking about it.

It was probably nothing.

Probably.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked as you headed toward the exit.

“Yeah,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Get some rest, alright?”

You raised a brow. “You too, Master Skywalker.”

He rolled his eyes at the title, but didn’t push further.

Once you were gone, he stayed there on the mat a moment longer, running a hand through his hair.

Something didn’t feel right. But not in the way he could name.

Not yet.

..

Wake up early. Earlier than anyone else. Run until your lungs burned and your legs went shaky. Meditate until the noise in your head thinned to static. Tea. Maybe fruit, if you’d earned it. Then classes. Then drills. Then solo saber forms when no one was looking. You pushed harder. Always harder.

You wanted to be smaller.

Not just in frame. In presence. In weight. In need.

You were already quiet. Already careful. But your body still existed—still betrayed you. Still demanded things like rest, food, help. You hated that. You hated being tethered to something so messy.

So you carved it down.

Bit by bit. Breath by breath.

You knew the numbers. Not just in the metrics of weight or calories, but in the feel of your clothes, the sharpness of your joints. The way your knees pressed together more easily. The way your hands looked more like bones when wrapped around your saber hilt.

Some days, the emptiness felt almost holy—like a secret power curled up just beneath your ribs. It made your thoughts clearer. Your movements lighter. Your focus tighter. It was hunger, yes, but it also felt like strength.

Other days, it knocked the air out of you. Your fingers would go numb, your heart would race for no reason, your knees would buckle too easily when you stood too fast. That was fine. That was manageable. It meant it was working.

Because if you didn’t control this—if you didn’t control something—what did you even have left?

You couldn’t stop the war. You couldn’t change the Council’s decisions. You couldn’t stop the nightmares or the pressure or the fact that no one ever really saw you unless you were bleeding for it.

But this?

This you could control.

And you would.

..

Anakin didn’t usually patrol the Temple halls this late. But ever since that last training session—since the feel of your bones under his hand, the way you looked jagged and sharper all around—something in him had changed.

He didn’t look for you, not deliberately. At least, that’s what he told himself. But still, every night, he wandered past the lower sparring rooms or the track facility. Just in case.

You were always there.

Tonight was no different.

You were running again. Not a casual jog. Not a warm-up. This was the kind of running meant to burn something away. Something internal.

Your expression never shifted. Eyes locked ahead, jaw tight, arms pumping in precise rhythm. You looked like you were at war with your own body—and determined to win.

Anakin watched from the doorway. Unseen. Not yet intervening.

He wasn’t sure when this had started, exactly. He just knew it had progressed fast. You used to complain when warm-ups lasted more than fifteen minutes. Now he’d seen you run past exhaustion, run until you limped.

And you were thinner. Not just leaner. Not just “training-season” focused. Hollow. Your features had sharpened. Your robes hung off your shoulders. You folded into yourself when you weren’t thinking. He’d seen your hands tremble when you reached for your lightsaber earlier that day.

And when you missed a step on the stairs yesterday—just a little stumble, nothing dramatic—it had hit him with terrifying clarity.

This wasn’t overwork. This wasn’t coincidence. You were hurting.

And no one else seemed to see it.

..

“Hey, has she been eating with the others lately?” Anakin asked casually, leaning over a stack of flight reports.

Ahsoka raised an eyebrow at him, a little smirk tugging at her mouth. “You’ve been asking about her a lot.”

He didn’t bite.

“I just want to make sure my padawans are taking care of themselves.”

“She’s not your padawan.”

“I didn’t say she was.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “I mean, I see her with tea. Maybe fruit. But no full meals, not with the group. If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

That sat wrong in his stomach.

“She’s… quiet lately, too,” Ahsoka added. “And tired.”

Anakin nodded once and didn’t say anything else.

..

The refresher lights were too bright.

You leaned against the cold sink, breathing slowly. Not from nausea. That had passed. This was the part after—when your body was trying to settle, and your mind wouldn’t.

You hadn’t meant to do it again.

You’d promised yourself—not this week. Not again.

But the portion was too big. And the food sat heavy. And your skin itched with shame just from swallowing it.

So you excused yourself. Casually. Like nothing was wrong. Like it was a normal thing to disappear into the ‘fresher after dinner and run the water so no one would hear.

Now, your throat burned. Your hands trembled faintly where they gripped the edge of the basin. You stared at yourself in the mirror and tried not to look.

Your eyes were bloodshot. Not terribly. Just enough. Your cheeks flushed. Hairline damp with sweat.

You look fine.

You didn’t believe it.

You looked like someone else. Like a stranger you were slowly chiseling down.

You rinsed your mouth, brushed your teeth with slow, robotic movements. Checked your reflection again. Tied your tunic tighter around your waist like it might hide the evidence of… something.

Then you pressed a hand to your stomach—flat, empty now—and exhaled.

There. Better.

You could breathe again.

..

Anakin started showing up more often.

Not in a suspicious way—at least, not at first. He just happened to appear wherever you were. Late in the training halls. In the Temple cafeteria. On quiet patrols that used to be yours alone.

You pretended not to notice.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked casually, dropping his tray next to yours one afternoon.

You mindless nodded and blinked down at your own tray. A mug of tea. A slice of melon, untouched. A handful of dry crackers that you’d only moved around for appearance.

Anakin’s tray, by contrast, was full—nothing extravagant, just actual food. He didn’t comment on your plate. Didn’t say a word about it.

He just sat. Ate. Talked about nothing and everything—Council business, bad dreams, some snide comment Obi-Wan made that he still hadn’t forgiven.

It became a pattern.

Sometimes he’d ask, “You already ate?”

Sometimes he’d say, “I’m starving—hope you’re hungry.”

Sometimes he’d drop off a muffin next to you without comment and walk away.

You didn’t know how to fight that.

So you didn’t. But you didn’t stop running, either.

You pushed yourself harder. Longer sessions. Extra drills. Midnight laps. The ache in your legs became something you needed—proof of effort, proof you were trying.

You were still in control. Or at least, you thought you were.

Until the control slipped.

It happened at the top of the east stairwell—three steps from the landing. Your vision narrowed, the edges turning soft and grey, and then everything went quiet.

It wasn’t dramatic.

You didn’t cry out. Didn’t collapse like some fragile, broken doll. You just… folded.

When you blinked next, you were on the floor.

And Anakin was kneeling beside you.

His arms were under your shoulders before you could speak. One hand on the back of your head, the other bracing your spine. He said your name—sharp, urgent. Too real.

You pushed at his chest.

“I’m fine—just tripped—”

“You didn’t trip,” he said, voice low, furious. “You passed out. You were gone for at least ten seconds.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, the words hollow even to your own ears.

He didn’t let you go. He carried you.

You didn’t protest again.

You didn’t go to the Healers. You wouldn’t let him.

Instead, he brought you to his quarters. Silent. Careful. Laid you on the couch and vanished into the kitchenette.

When he came back, he handed you something warm. A broth—simple, unassuming. You didn’t ask how he knew.

You held the cup with shaking fingers.

“I can’t keep pretending I don’t see it,” he said eventually, sitting across from you, elbows on his knees.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t accuse you. He didn’t even ask. He just looked at you with eyes too kind to bear.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked.

You didn’t say anything back. How could you?

Even you didn’t know.

After it became clear you had nothing to say, he crossed the space between you, knelt again, and took the broth from your hands—setting it gently on the table. Then, slowly, deliberately, he wrapped his arms around you.

You froze. Then melted.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just held you.

And for once, you let him.

..

“If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

It echoed in his head as he made his way down the Temple corridor. His steps slower than usual. His thoughts louder.

The next time he saw Ahsoka, he pulled her aside.

“You said she drinks tea in the mornings,” he said. “With what?”

Ahsoka blinked. “I don’t know. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes crackers or a granola thing.”

He nodded slowly.

Ahsoka studied him a moment. “Okay, Master. What are you actually worried about?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for her eyes to narrow.

“She’s been off for a while,” he said finally. “And I don’t think it’s just stress.”

“You think she’s sick?”

“…Maybe. I don’t know.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “Then ask her.”

“I have. She lies.”

Ahsoka raised an eyebrow again. “And you’re sure it’s food? Not something else?”

He didn’t answer. Because the truth was… he wasn’t sure.

But the weight loss. The loose clothes. The way her steps dragged sometimes. The fact that she barely used her dominant hand in saber drills anymore, like her strength gave out halfway through. The way she disappeared between classes. The paleness. The trembling. The—

He shook his head.

He wasn’t sure.

But he was starting to be.

..

You left the refresher silently. The hallway was empty. Droids hummed in the distance. Temple life moved on around you, untouched.

But as you turned a corner, a shadow peeled away from the wall.

You froze.

Anakin.

His arms were folded, his cloak hanging loose around his frame. His expression unreadable—but sharp. Watchful.

You couldn’t be sure how long he’d been there. He said nothing.

Just looked at you.

You straightened your posture, blinked fast, pretended. “Master Skywalker,” you greeted flatly, voice controlled. Normal. “Did you need something?”

A pause.

His eyes dropped to your hands, your knuckles reddened from where they’d scraped against your teeth. Then your face. Then back again.

Say something, you thought. Call me out. Ask.

He didn’t.

He just nodded once, quiet. “Heading back to your quarters?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Long day.”

Another pause.

Then, softly, “Get some sleep.”

You nodded, pulse pounding in your ears. “You too.”

You walked away before he could say anything else. Behind you, he stayed in the shadows a moment longer.

Watching.

Thinking.

You disappeared around the corner, your footsteps soft against the Temple floor.

Anakin didn’t move. Not for a long moment.

He just stood there, jaw tight, arms folded across his chest like that would hold the discomfort in.

He hadn’t meant to see anything. Hadn’t meant to hear what he thought he just heard. He hadn’t been following you. Not exactly.

He just… happened to be there. Noticed the shift. The rushed exit from the dining hall. The delay in the ‘fresher. Too long. Too quiet.

And when you stepped out, you looked—

Not like yourself.

Your color was off. Eyes too bright, but also dull. Your voice too measured, too carefully normal.

And the Force around you—thin. Stretched. He’d felt it before in others. Sometimes after missions. Sometimes after grief.

But this… this wasn’t that.

This was man-made. Brutal, rigid control. The kind that came from desperation, not discipline.

He exhaled through his nose, the gravity of the reality dragging his heart to the depths of hell. Turning back into the quiet hallway, he didn’t yet go after you.

Because what would he even say.

“Did you throw up?”

“Are you starving yourself?”

“What the hell is going on with you?”

You would lie. Of course you would. Anyone would.

And it wasn’t just a hunch anymore, was it? He thought of your hands again, the way they felt smaller, bonier. The looseness of your robes. The way you drifted around people now instead of moving with them. Half-present.

And the hunger in your eyes, not for food—but for something else. Something colder.

Anakin swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. This wasn’t something he could fix with advice. Or training. Or a teasing comment to break you out of your head.

This was bad. He needed help.

But he didn’t want to betray you either.

He thought of Ahsoka’s voice—“If she’s eating at all, it’s in secret.”

And the part she hadn’t said: That’s not normal.

That’s not safe.

He looked down the hallway you’d taken, long empty now, and clenched his fists once at his sides.

No. This was it. The final straw.

This wouldn’t go on any longer. Not if he had anything to do with it.

..

You walked into the room with half your armor still undone, hair damp with sweat, and a headache pounding behind your eyes. You had run late—your own fault—but you hoped Anakin wouldn’t—

“Where the hell have you been?”

You froze mid-step.

He was already standing in the middle of your quarters like he owned the space, arms crossed, face tight with something way too close to fury.

“I was in the training—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was sharp, slicing through the air. “You weren’t on the schedule. I checked.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re seriously tracking me now?” you snapped. “That’s a little obsessive, don’t you think?”

“You wanna talk about obsessive?” He scoffed.

The gnawing hunger, the ringing in your head, the exhaustion that seeped into your very bones—it pushed you to a boiling point. Frustration spiked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he breathed, hard. Visibly trying—failing—to keep his anger at bay. “It means I’m sick of watching you lie to me every single day!” His voice cracked, raw and furious. “I’m not blind, okay? You barely eat, you look like you’re about to collapse half the time, and you keep telling me you’re fine. You’re not fine, and I’m done pretending like I don’t see it.”

“You’re being dramatic. There’s nothing—”

“I heard you.”

You froze.

His voice was low. Barely controlled. Dangerous. His glare was so intense it took everything in you not to flinch.

“I heard you,” he motioned with a shaking hand, as if to steady himself. “In—in the refresher. I heard what you… were doing,” he said, swallowing like it physically hurt to admit.

You were caught. Like an animal in a trap. The emptiness scraping at your insides fogged up your brain until all you could do was bite and bark like a wounded dog.

Your jaw clenched. “You have no right—”

“I have every right!” he roared. “Because you won’t talk to me! Because you won’t even look at me when I ask what the hell is going on!”

You turned away. “It’s none of your business.”

“I’m your best friend!” he shouted. “Of course it’s my business!”

“No,” you said, spinning on him. “You don’t get to use that card. Being my best friend doesn’t mean you get to police my life!”

“I’m not policing you—I’m trying to keep you alive!”

The room was spinning now. You didn’t have the energy to fight like this. But that didn’t stop you.

“Maybe I didn’t ask for that!” you snapped. “Maybe I don’t want your help!”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. And maybe you had—not physically, but something worse. His jaw worked soundlessly for a second before he stepped back.

“You’d rather kill yourself slowly than let anyone care about you. That it?”

“Better than being pitied,” you spat.

He looked like you’d stabbed him. “You think this is pity?”

You laughed. Dry. Empty. “I think you like having a project. A broken little thing you can fix. Makes you feel needed.”

Nononono—everything was coming out wrong. You didn’t know what words you were spewing anymore, but Maker, you just couldn’t stop.

“Screw you,” he hissed. “You think this is about me? You think watching you destroy yourself has been easy? Every time you lie to my face, every time you pretend everything’s fine when you’re literally wasting away—you think I like this?”

“Then leave!” you yelled, voice cracking. “No one’s making you stay!”

“I stay because I care!” he screamed. “Because I love you, and I don’t know how to not care!”

The words hit the silence like a bomb.

You stared at him, breath gone.

He looked horrified the second they were out. Like he hadn’t meant to say it. Or hadn’t meant to say it like that.

“What…?” You broke the silence, voice smaller than you’d ever felt.

All Anakin could do was look at you, chest heaving.

“You’re not eating,” he said quietly—almost defeated. “You run yourself into the ground. You pass out and pretend it didn’t happen. You’ve lost weight and think no one notices. I do. I see you.”

Your chest tightened like a noose.

“And I don’t know what scares me more,” he continued, voice low. “The fact that you’re doing this to yourself… or the fact that you think I wouldn’t care.”

There was a brief pause.

“I didn’t want you to care like this,” you whispered, voice suddenly high and brittle. “Because it’s embarrassing, Anakin. I’m not proud of this. I didn’t want you to look at me and see—this.”

“What?” he asked, stepping forward. “See you struggling? See you human?”

You looked away, jaw trembling.

“You don’t have to be perfect around me,” he said, softer now. “You never had to be. I didn’t sign up to be your friend just when it’s easy.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. The room swam a little.

He stepped closer. Not touching you. Not pushing. Just there.

“Talk to me,” he said again. “Yell. Scream. Cry. I don’t care. Just don’t shut me out.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. One breath. Two.

And finally, voice breaking: “I don’t know how to stop.”

There it was.

He exhaled, slow and deep, like something in him had finally released.

“Then let me help you figure it out,” he said. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

You didn’t answer. But when he reached out—slowly, gently—and pulled you into a hug, you didn’t pull away either.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt Anakin swipe away a stray tear.

“You… love me?” you asked after a short while of just standing there like that, not daring to look up from where your face was pressed into his neck.

His embrace tightened, his flesh hand resting on your head, holding it to him like letting go might break him too.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

And the way his voice cracked—like the words had splintered something deep inside—was what undid you completely.

“Yeah, I do.”

-

Neither of you moved.

Not at first.

You stayed pressed into him like the breath had been knocked from your lungs—his chest rising and falling against yours, slow and steady, like he was trying to lend you the rhythm of his own body. An anchor.

“I didn’t want you to care like this,” you said again, quietly this time. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just real.

“I know,” Anakin murmured. His hand was still on the back of your head, fingers brushing the curve of your skull. “But I do. I care this much whether you want me to or not.”

You let out a slow breath against his collarbone. It felt like the first real one in days. Maybe weeks.

“It’s hard,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t eat because I feel like I don’t deserve to,” you admitted, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. “And then I do eat, and I feel disgusting. Like I failed at something I can’t even name.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just listened. That was new. You weren’t used to people hearing the words and not rushing to patch them up, to fix, to lecture. But not Anakin.

“You didn’t fail anything,” he said eventually, his voice low, even. “You’ve been surviving. That’s not failure.”

You blinked, and for some reason, that nearly made you cry all over again.

“It’s just always there,” you said, barely getting the words out. “The noise. The shame. I hate it. I hate me.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his hand shifting to your jaw. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“I’m not trying to be dramatic—”

“You’re not,” he said. “But you don’t get to hate yourself in front of me. I won’t allow it.”

A broken little sound caught in your throat. You looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since you walked in. And what you saw wasn’t pity. It wasn’t anger anymore, either.

It was love. It was love.

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

You shook your head, more from disbelief than disagreement. “You’re not supposed to love me when I’m like this.”

“I think I’ve only ever loved you like this,” he said, voice soft but sure. “Not in spite of the pain. But because I know it. I know you. And I still love you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was full—but not crushing. Like something sacred was taking shape between you.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Anakin leaned in, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “Me too.”

You closed your eyes.

And somehow, that didn’t feel like the end of the world. Somehow, you weren’t alone in it anymore.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said again. “You don’t have to be fixed. You just have to stay.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic. Holding him there. Holding yourself there.

“I can try,” you whispered.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And when he kissed your temple, so gently you barely felt it, you realized something else.

You were tired. Yes.

Still scared. Yes.

Still hurt in places no one could see.

But maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to keep carrying it alone.

Not anymore.

And when he held you like that, with no demand, no pressure, just presence, you finally let yourself believe it.

You finally let yourself rest.

a/n: very self indulgent, very rushed pls forgive me 🙏🏽

[chock-and-bates]

I wonder if you had any interest in writing a fic about the soul exchange of Charles after the 2019 Austrian GP and Charles after the 2025 Spanish GP as he is about to see the stewards？Just imagine that Max in 2025（hoping to accept a soft understanding）must face an angry little Charles，meanwhile the Max in 2019（excited to have a fight with Charles）is so confused to hear Charles saying things just like“oh it's nothing special.I can understand Max.”

English is not my native language, I hope I express myself clearly.

i am obsessed with this idea and have, yet again, been baited into writing a rambling 1k word response, a borderline ficlet 🫠 (and your English is great!)

it’s such a fun idea. i took what you said and thought it would be extra hilarious if max and charles were in a relationship by 2025 and then suddenly dealing with the younger, volatile, secretly pining version of their partners 😂

if i was to write a fic, it would go like this-

After the meetings with the stewards, it didn't take either pair very long to understand something was wrong.

2025!Max would be so upset and frustrated, because he was stuck with the prickly, angry demon he had to spend ages convincing to give him a chance, and he is desperate to get his Charles back. Especially when he’s trying to comfort him and 2019!Charles keeps shrieking at him to “stop telling me to calm down, and stop calling me baby.”

But, of course, 2019!Charles is not-so-secretly freaking out because he's always had a lot of confusing feelings for Max but now this older version of him is so soft with him despite being obviously annoyed, and he’s being so comforting but most urgently, he's so hot Charles doesn't know what to do with himself 🥵

On the other hand, 2019!Max is having the time of his life because 2025!Charles doesn't hate him, in fact he’is being so sweet as he explains the situation and asks if Max can help, which he immediately agrees to. Then, he absolutely blows Max’s poor mind when he admits that they’re together in the future, and Max suddenly feels like he could die from happiness.

And, to be honest, 2025!Charles is also having the time of his life as he lets this bizarre situation bring out his inner menace. He decides if he's in this situation he's going to have some fun, because obviously he knows that Max liked him back in 2019, so he decides to reward the younger version of his boyfriend for being so helpful by giving him a taste of the future- by flirting with him, cuddling with him ("Please, Maxy, i miss my Max so much, can you just hold me until i feel better?"), running his hands through his hair, maybe even giving him a few kisses on the cheek because this younger Max is so cute when he blushes and stammers, oh my god.

Only then, when they find out what they need to do to swap them back, 2025 Max and Charles are surprised when 2019 Max and Charles do not want the swap to happen.

2019!Charles would be crying these angry tears as he begrudgingly confessed to 2025!Max that he makes him feel safe and secure, and he doesn't want to go back to a time when he feels so alone, when it's like the pressure of his first season at Ferrari is going to suffocate him and all his Max cares about is beating him and probably isn't even interested in him romantically yet, because why would he, when he's already so impressive and Charles feels like he’s nothing-

2025!Max is flabbergasted that this little demon actually likes him in the first place (he decides to forgive his past self for not noticing, because what the fuck?), but then he gently explains that 2019!Max was absolutely interested in him like that, he just needed time to figure out how to show him in an appropriate way.

And then, of course, 2025!Charles realizes he probably fucked up with all the flirting, because 2019!Max is absolutely despondent. Like 2019!Charles, he's also crying, but his tears are more heartbroken instead of angry, because how is he supposed to give up Charles when he finally had the chance to have him, when he got to feel how sweet he could be and how good it felt to hold him? It feels unthinkably cruel to have this amazing thing ripped away from him, especially when his Charles absolutely despises him.

So 2025!Charles also has to do his own consolation. He promises 2019!Max that 2019!Charles doesn't really despise him, he's just jealous and confused about his feelings. He tells him that they both just need to grow up a bit, but they'll find each other. And he tells him that he’s so grateful he got to spend this time with Max because he really is so amazing and lovely, and he wishes he had seen that sooner.

After the pep talks, the 2019 versions both beg for a kiss goodbye and both are turned down by the 2025 versions, because they know it wouldn't be right.

The swap back happens and 2025 Max and Charles are immediately tangled together and kissing frantically and babbling to each other-

"Don't you ever do that to me again."

"It wasn't my fault, mon cœur! As if I would ever leave you on purpose."

Once they calm down a little bit, they talk about their younger selves-

"You were a fucking menace to deal with, baby."

"You were so sweet! And so cute too!"

And they both agree that they hope they'll be all right and figure things out sooner than their present selves did.

Meanwhile, back in 2019, both Max and Charles are miserable for the first hour after the swap. They immediately separated once it was done, unable to look each other in the eyes, and headed back to their apartments to sulk quietly.

But then Max hears a knock on his door, even though he didn't allow anyone up, and when he cautiously looks through the peephole to see who it is he's shocked to see Charles, so he rips open the door without another thought to see his rival staring back at him, wide-eyed and frantic.

"Did he tell you...," Charles asks, trailing off with a choked noise.

"That we are... that they are together," Max asks, hoping his voice masks how terrified he's suddenly feeling.

Charles makes a small, hurt sound at that, before blurting out "He wouldn't kiss me goodbye."

"He didn't kiss me either," Max responds just as quickly.

They stare at each other for a long, breathless moment-

They'll argue forever about who moved first, but in the blink of an eye they're all over each other, kissing desperately, so sloppy and eager as their hands frantically latching on to one another to hold tight.

This is what they really wanted all along.

And then Max is pulling Charles into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind them as he moans at how amazing it feels to have Charles' sucking on his tongue and he's blindly leading them to the bedroom, so fucking excited to finally have his Charles in his arms.

They don't leave Max's apartment until it's time to travel to the next race- they spend the time bickering and fucking and laughing and talking and realizing how right this already feels.

In only the course of a few days, it is suddenly so obvious to them why their 2025 selves were so desperate to reunited- because there is no giving up someone that can make you feel like this.

—------

This was so fun, thank you for the little prompt! ❤️

[towasdandelion]

HAI DANDELION OF TOWA OTONASHI MY BRAIN GAVE ME WORMS AGAIN BECAUSE OF EPISODE 17 I AM SHAKING. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT BECAUSE I DEFINITELY DID!!!! ND I HOPE EVERYTHING HAS BEEN GOING WELL FOR UUU <3333

the brain worms in question ... are like . Hold on my thoughts are orienting ... so mc gets back from the mission and immediately texts her favorite ghoul (who was NOT on the mission, my ritsu heart is screaming,,, ) about the mission and how she wishes he was there instead because having to pick one of them felt so wrong and she realized it's because she wanted to give the bottle to HIM and not any of them DO YOU SEE MY VISION

in other news i have absolutely been converted to a ren fan ... bro was trying to hide his crush on mc so hard i almost felt bad for him T0T poor guy he makes me so Head in Hands. HARU ND RUI ALSO SHONE SO MUCH <333 and i feel like ive gained a new appreciation for edward ... i even slipped up and called him ed a few times ... oops

if u don't want to write this suggestion u can always just respond to this like a normal ramble ask T0T i don't want to stress u out because you're literally the first person i share my brain worms with LMAO

me when i write you an essay. IM SO SORRY I'LL STOP BOTHERING U BYEBYE THANK U FOR ALL OF YOUR HARD WORK ND KEEPING US FED <333333333 YOURE THE BEST EVER

Hiiii number one Ritsu lover! I loved the new episode of course. I was happy to see three of my favorite ghouls (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) Whaaat not the seaweed hair guy stealing you attention (I'm telling Ritsu) but honestly I get it. Poor guy is so deep in his delusions I honestly don't know what would have to happen in order for him to just admit he fell for MC. At this point Ed suddenly becoming a clean freak is more possible. Speaking of him.. I see a chance for Ed to steal some of your attention too (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ he's not so bad is he? Also you're welcome to always share your worms with me, I don't mind hehe. Especially because they're always so interesting! Now to the main thing, I do love the idea! I do hope I interpreted it correctly though aaaa. I wrote it in a way where it's kinda like a confession moment for MC! Like the ghouls finally get to know she has feelings for them. Does that make sense? I hope so hehe. And I hope you'll like this! Wait, how do I title this?

Telling them they were the ones you wanted to give the bottle to

[Based on Episode 17. Ritsu, Haku, Tohma, Romeo]

Ritsu definitely already had all the important information about the mission. By important I mean things like who were you spending th most time with and so on, of course. He too wishes he was there instead, but your confession catches him a bit off guard. I guess you making heart eyes at him during every study session you guys had wasn't enough of a sign... If you really want to give him the bottle, then he will make it happen by planning a surprise date, trying to recreate the scene from the show!

Haku felt hurt the moment they announced the cast. What do you mean he's not going? He'd play his role perfectly! Well, he wouldn't even have to play.. Luckily for him, there is still a chance to steal your heart. He smiles smugly at his phone, pride filling his chest. You didn't want any of the 6 ghouls. You wanted him. Who is he to reject his dream girl? Be ready for a cute date where you two craft the bottles together! And some making out.

Tohma was feeling a little restless knowing you were gone for 3 days having fun with other ghouls.. but he won't show it at all. He has no right to feel possessive over you after all.. And yet a wave of relief washes over him when you confess to him like that. So his gut feeling was right after all. He won't waste any more time now, wanting to sweep you off your feet! He will use any means necessary to perfectly recreate the scene with you, this time without anyone else present.

The audacity not to invite Romeo to take a part in this mission! With his looks he's basically made for the screen! And having a chance to impress you no less! He will act like it doesn't bother him though. I mean, it's not like anyone can compare to him anyways. When you confess he's the one you wanted to give the bottle to, his ego gets a nice boost. Of course you wanted him. And since he's so nice, he'll give you a chance! Good luck, you have exactly an hour to craft a bottle for him!

[dekariosclan]

Hi! you may have noticed I kind of like Gale 💜

I was asked to create a blog master list, so I’m happy to oblige. Below are links to my design works, my answered asks, fic rec lists, and a few memes.

I’ll have my Ask Button active whenever possible. If it’s deactivated that just means I’m catching up or cannot answer at this time. See the EXTENSIVE list below for previously answered asks!

Thanks for visiting :)

Graphic Designer Gone Wild:

Bg3/Gale Spoof Magazine #1

Bg3 Spoof Magazine #2

Bg3/Gale Spoof Magazine #3

Gale’s Compendium of Puns

Gale and Tav’s Wedding Invitation

Galentines

A Magical Valentine from Gale (different each time you click)

Answered Asks *rules about submitted asks*

How would Gale deal with:

an elf Tav with a long lifespan

a rude salesperson/fast food worker

making amends to Tav after being immersed in research

an ill Tav

a weary Tav who refuses to rest

romantic competition for Tav

a Tav who isn’t doing well emotionally or mentally

jealousy between Tav and Tara

celebrating Tav’s birthday

warding/protecting his tower

Tav teasing him/making him feel flustered

A Tav asking for book recommendations

a pregnant Tav especially one who is trans/gnc

he and Tav adopting & hatching the githyanki egg

18+ Tav sending him a naughty message

companions losing their minds when they see he has abs

Tav confessing they are a Bhaalspawn

the stress of writing/being creative

an overworked/stressed Tav

A Tav who is legitimately angry at him

The neighborhood HOA filing complaints against him and Tav

A Tav who is desperate to keep Gale alive

Celebrating Valentine’s Day / courting Tav

a Tav that previously was in an abusive relationship

Marrying a Tav with little/no family

18+ an anxious Tav who avoids eye contact

What are Gale’s:

flaws

preferred ways to exercise

compliments he gives to others

thoughts on tattoos

thoughts on sharing his home with Tav

things that give him the ‘ick’

motivations for his shadowlands flirting

18+ best and worst things in bed

Would Gale still love Tav if (tldr; the answer is always yes):

Tav was a gnome

Tav struggled with horrible nightmares

Tav had chronic pain

Tav was drunk

Tav gained weight

Tav was plus-size or chubby

Tav had sensory issues

Tav was never desired by anyone/has always been overlooked romantically

Tav had scales

Tav was a Dragonborn

Tav had PTSD

18+ Tav was vanilla/not kinky

Tav was quiet/not a yapper

Tav was ace

Tav was NOT quiet/IS a yapper

Tav had an overbite/is insecure about their smile

Tav was from our world

Tav had stretch marks/physical imperfections

Tav was ‘wild’ / uneducated

Tav wasn’t very confident in themselves

Tav didn’t think they had a good personality

Tav was………a bit gassy

Tav had epilepsy and struggled with seizures

Tav was a vegan or vegetarian

Tav was transforming into a drider

Tav was from a noble line and in grave danger

Various:

18+ Gale may have picked up some Tressym mannerisms

What would Gale’s mother Morena think of Tav

Gale loves Tav much more than he ever loved Mystra

Gale’s shared interests with each of the companions

What type of music does Gale like/what instruments does he play

Dad!Gale watching Tav and their little one

18+ Tav making Gale fail NNN

18+ Gale succeeding at NNN and being rewarded

Would Gale give up his Godhood to be with a mortal Tav

Could Gale ever end up with a Tav who refused his proposal

Can Gale sing

18+ is Gale more of a boobs or butt kind of guy

would Gale put up mistletoe for the holidays

Gale as a girl dad

18+ Why do Gale’s boxers have magic/why are they enchanted

About Gale’s kisses

About Gale’s romance endings

18+ Would Gale enjoy…

how does Gale immediately know Tav is a wizard/sorcerer/non-magic user

‘Early Access’ Gale and Mystra

Fic Recs for Galemancers

18+ General recommendations

Comfy/Cozy fics

18+ Smut fics

Gale Memes

#1

#2

[general-brain-rot]

It's Beebo time again, this time Haunted House flavored!

I love dissecting how magic systems and worldbuilding shenanigans happen, so imagine the catnip of a story I was given when I got to figure out the Detective Beebo timeloop mechanics and some larger possible implications,,,,,,I am in shambles thank you Bwob, anyway, here are some ramblings about the first “organic” timeloop I’ve seen in media as well as what I think the deal is with the haunted houses!

The Natural Volatility of a Haunted House:

While I’m sure the biggest factor for dialogue changing between loops is to give the player more stuff to read/interact with, it is INCREDIBLY interesting just what all of it changes to!

Here’s a list of some noteworthy stuff that changes just from the first to second loops:

+ Right after the first loop, if you interact with the alcohol on the table in the main room Beebo says “I don’t think this is the best place to get trashed”, which is EXACTLY what Angel says after the shared drink in the first loop.

+Beebo suddenly has commentary on the paintings in the main room that he didn’t before, like in ‘Endless Decay’ where he thinks about the cycle of life and death (very on the mind if you just freaking died) where before he just said he wasn’t into it all that much.

+ When Angel bursts in and we get our first taste of what the timeloop has to offer, Beebo remarks that Angel “does seem familiar” thinking they maybe have “talked once or twice”.

+ We get to talk to Coli a little bit in this loop and Beebo immediately thinks “…Why do I feel uneasy?” and while he chalks it up to the class difference, the player knows that it’s likely because he just got dang murdered.

+ When Vivi gets back into the hallway with the switch for the electricity, her new commentary on the windowless room is that it’s “eerie and dreadful” as opposed to how she actually claimed to like the aesthetic the first time around.

+and finally,

the all constant post-loop ghost pain. I’m very normal about this one I prommy.

It’s all of this little stuff that shows even more in depth how volatile the Haunted House is! During Beebo’s deduction in loop 5, he figures it’s because of Ángel “glitching” the loop by being outside when the loop starts at 8pm, but inside the house when someone dies and forces a reset. Ángel keeps his memories and other party goer’s subconscious memories involving him in any capacity start to bleed through to them. Of course, we learn later that touching Vivi’s photobook can return people their memories in their entirety, giving the whole debacle another huge loophole (haha, get it?) for our cast! We also get some indicators, mostly from how loop 4 ends and ending 5’s dialogue, that intense emotions allow fragments of memories to remain in the victim’s minds, such as how Mari and Nina confessing their love for each other made them think to try to find each other in the next loop, or in ending 5 when we see that those who died from Coli have new fears that seemingly sprung up out of nowhere. These are all indicative of what I’ll call an organic timeloop from here out, because from what we learn later about the biology of the house, it’s pretty accurate. The organic timeloop's existence is actually the entire reason this is about to go off the rails about the existence of haunted houses! Speaking of, hey why are the walls breathing?

Biology of the House:

At the end of loop 4, we finally get to the anatomy of the House of Vera as told to us through Nadia, Beebo’s traumatic flashback, and the piecing together of information during loop 5 from Ángel and Beebo together before we mess with the endings. Nadia talks to us about how a house can live, can breathe through its ventilation, can eat those who wander into its doors, can fall ill and can age and can get hungry, has bones and muscle and skin as scaffolding and walls and paint. Once eaten by a house, you can become part of it, and we see this happen in a few different ways throughout the game. With the case of “purpose”, we have Dr. Diaz writing about his senses melding with the house from when he was alive or in endings 9/10 when Beebo gives the House of Vera a new purpose and experiences the same thing. With the case of people being “eaten” by the houses, we see this in Beebo’s flashback to getting trapped in the gallery and we see it now with getting trapped in the House’s organic timeloop. Nadia compares those who reside in a haunted house as “Its cells”, extremely reminiscent of how mitochondria work, having once been their own single celled organism and were eaten by another single celled organism a long time ago, but for symbiotic need the two entities combined and now suddenly you have multicellular life (thank you Lynn Margulis <3). This idea is further strengthened by ending 10 titled “Endosymbiotic Theory” which is the theory that simple prokaryotic cells evolved into more complex eukaryotic cells (essentially the same situation). Nadia goes on to make the comparison to how DNA can tell an organism what to do/be, and that people can give that to a haunted house too, can provide it with a “purpose” with enough emotion. In endings 9/10, we learn that the emotion the haunted houses feed on is grief.

This grief is applied to a “heart”, an object within the house that structures the purpose and maintains whatever supernatural ability it has. The House of Vera had two hearts before, first a shield mantle on the wall to ensure it wouldn’t be destroyed or damaged, then the grandfather clock in the hall to ensure that everything within the house would reset once the clock struck 8pm. If the heart is destroyed then the house can no longer read its purpose properly, but interestingly it doesn’t quite die. If you get endings 9/10 then Beebo can give the house a third heart to bring back Ángel and keep him safe, happy, and alive. A haunted house can get another heart and come back with a new purpose. If we want to think about it in organic terms, it’s most likely akin to a heart transplant. We don’t know if there is a time limit between when a heart is destroyed and when the haunted house dies for good since we don’t get to see that explored much in game, but if we assume that there is a time limit given the organic nature of haunted houses, then this fits perfectly with how we already know them to function! A haunted house could survive for a little while without a purpose but would eventually officially “die” if left without that purpose, that heart, for too long.

Another fun thing is that haunted houses lure people in, we’ve seen it with both houses! Now, the art gallery was far more subtle but flashback-Beebo does think about how he “needs to get in already” and is so curious, like a sudden wash of curiosity. Not of needing to find the missing cat he’s being paid to look for, El Wiwi isn’t mentioned at all once he’s at the door, it’s this curiosity instead. For the House of Vera, it’s unsettling how much Beebo’s inner dialogue is about how warm it is inside and how cold it is outside and that he “needs to get inside”, either if you interact with the door to the house or the lamppost outside, he is insistent on going through that door. Both dialogue prompts are laced with this “need”, and the biggest question is why? Well, I’ve got two ideas. My first inclination is that a haunted house might behave like a fruiting plant does, luring a creature to come and eat a sweet fruit for the purpose of spreading its seeds and making more of itself. The other option is acting more like an angler fish would, luring in prey with a bright light or something else prey wants so that the organism can feed itself. I provide these two options because they imply different things, that haunted houses could be either utilitarian or predatory, trying to survive for natural selection purposes or trying to survive out of an active hunger. The first option is much less terrifying than the second, but both are pretty grounded when looking at haunted house behavior. (we'll figure out which one I think it is soon)

For the utilitarian argument, we’ve got some dialogue to work with. Though, we need to take Coli’s arguments with a grain of salt because his pride has overshadowed a lot of the house’s actual mechanics, like how he isn’t actually aware of the memory loophole or what happens in other edge case conditions with people dying on the property. It’s mostly his assumption, but he has been experimenting with this haunted house, so maybe he has some knowledge that the investigations didn’t reveal from firsthand experience.

There are some interesting things that feed a bit into the predator idea though. If the artist from the gallery wanted people to “never want to leave after seeing how amazing their art could be”, then the house could’ve gone about any manner of ways of persuasion to get people to stay and maintain the means of fulfilling its purpose. If everyone dies, then no one gets to see the art, and it feels a little counterintuitive and suboptimal for the organism to just trap them until they die in around four days due to lack of water. For the House of Vera, why does the house claim the inhabitants’ memories when they die instead of leaving them with the knowledge to defend themselves in the future? Wouldn’t that seem like a far more utilitarian and logical thing for the house, with the purpose of giving people another chance to live through lethal events, to accomplish? Well, it would be if all the haunted houses need to do is fulfill their purpose like a script, and not like a life cycle. If it were predatory instead, and it needed to take something from those it ate to maintain itself, then it stops looking like a flowering plant and starts looking more like a venus fly trap, more like a real threat.

Speaking of threatening, I’ve gotta talk about the eyes. Now, the eye imagery could just be for spook points which is already an amazing thing and the effect lands incredibly well, but this gaze feels a bit more important than that. It’s the connection to the divine that intrigues me the most, because we don’t actually know why the hell haunted houses are a thing, the game doesn’t go into it and leaves it vague for the audience to explore. And while the argument could be made that they are some creations born from eldritch means, that’s not what I think is happening. What I think is that this feeling of “divinity” is just an energy so tense, heavy, and powerful that it feels like being hunted by something far stronger than you that you cannot hope to escape unscathed. The connection to the divine is just how the people involved interpret it and it’s not necessarily an accurate reflection of what is really happening. Someone isolated and deeply afraid could look into the eyes of a tiger and think it divine if only for the sheer force of emotion they are feeling in that moment. Also, I think Oliver only makes the “divine” comment because that’s how the doctor described it and he’s grasping for any logic he can in this moment. We never get to see the birth of a haunted house, only the continued existence of two, but we established earlier that a heart is given to a house in moments of intense grief, which may imply that every house is inert in some way and just needs to be woken up somehow. It’s what Coli believes is happening considering the lengths he went to with his factory in order to manufacture a haunted house and considering the research he put in prior to the game’s events, his plan in theory could be feasible. It’s more of a Frankenstein’s monster idea rather than some divine birthing situation, but Coli wouldn’t have gone to such lengths in his factory if he had reason to believe that he could’ve instead prayed to a deity to bring a house to life, he went full mad scientist speedrunner instead because that had to have been what his research had shown him could work. He’s a prideful idiot, but if he’s been using Nadia as his personal diary for his findings for her entire 17 years of life, he’s got at least 17 years of knowledge in this topic to fall back on, and there’s some merit to that.

So, if the house is a predatory entity, then luring people into its walls must do something helpful for its continued existence, and it clearly needs to eat. This is shown by seeing how ruined the art gallery was in the flashback since considering how decently far from civilization it was, there likely wouldn’t be too many people wandering around close enough to even realize it was there. The gallery looks abandoned and trashed, almost emaciated, but not dead. The House of Vera is in great condition though, and it could be because of how popular the house is despite the surrounding village’s low population. This house is a notorious landmark, essentially having been the main hospital for the area for around a century while Dr. Diaz was still around, so the house would have plenty of people to “eat” to keep itself going. But they’re not eating the people really I don’t think, the houses not only need grief to manifest properly, but they also need it to continue to exist. The reason the art gallery doesn’t use any other method of keeping people inside its walls is because while the “purpose” of a house tells it how to be (like DNA), that doesn’t feed it. The house puts the people who go inside under extreme amounts of stress, exhaustion, and hopelessness as dictated by its purpose in order to increase the amount of grief those people feel in order to feed itself on that. The House of Vera doesn’t let anybody keep their memories in order to outsmart any dangers they might be subject to because as long as they keep dying for the first time within its walls, and never get used to the idea of dying, then it can keep feeding on the most intense version of their grief as possible.

The haunted houses are predators, not plants. They may not be able to feel, but they behave in ways dictated solely by the purpose their heart has, and that purpose gives them the means to feed on other people’s grief as long as they are within its walls, as long as the cells continue to produce what it needs to continue living.

So, to recap: While there is evidence for haunted houses to be either more plant-like or predator-like, I’m firm in my belief that it leans more predatory considering that the houses need to eat to survive somehow, they get their “food” by luring people inside using some freaky house magic inclination, and that they get their nutrients from the grief of people that get trapped inside. The people act as its cells and those cells provide sustenance akin to how mitochondria work, the heart and “purpose” tell the house how to behave like how DNA would. The organic timeloop is so volatile because not only are the people exceptionally random variables in this house’s system, but the house is also a complicated living predator that goes to great lengths to maintain itself. The fact that the organic timeloop exists at all is irrefutable proof that the haunted house is what’s alive here. The birth of these predators is extremely up for interpretation, but I believe that Coli must’ve had some reasonable (kinda) idea of how to birth a haunted house through essentially waking up a normal house with intense human grief. Any connections made to “the divine” are just made to truly represent how oppressive the force of the haunted house feels rather than actually being linked to any godly entity.

Aaaaaand that’s the end of my speculation! The haunted houses are fascinating and once I got thinking about why the timeloop even exists if it’s so organic and error-prone, then I got so far in the weeds about the haunted houses themselves that I ended up with like, 3k words of speculation by the end that I needed to make sense of haha. I’d love to hear other people’s thoughts about the houses and I’m excited to see if the currently in-progress train comic that’s being worked on ends up having any commentary on that. If it does and my ideas become definitively incorrect then,,,,,,I will just have to deal with that when it comes.

[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

Tag Game: Scenes I will never forget

Rules: Share 5-10 scenes you can't forget. Not your favourites, the ones that got stuck in your brain for any reason.

Tagged by @dramalove247 here thank you!💜

So when I saw this game, my mind immediately went to pain. Maybe because of the post that originated the game or maybe because it's easier to remember the pain lol (laughing to mask the pain). But then I started to think about shows and scenes and so many scenes live in my brain and not just because they hurt, but also because I felt such joy, or a scene that made me relate in a good way, or made me laugh non stop. So, with that in mind, here goes my list of scenes that I will never forget, no matter how many more shows I watch. I'm gonna keep it QL to make it easier on me but I also started to think about scenes from other asian media, so if anyone wants to tag me again, feel free. But also, don't feel obligated. You know what I mean. Let's go.

Kinou Nani Tabeta

I still get teary eyed just looking at the gifs. Chicken thighs as love. Shiro had me crying throughout most of season 2, but this moment absolutely wrecked me. There's something about Shiro's understated but deep way of loving Kenji that hits harder than any tragic scene ever could.

Love in the Big City

What can I even say about this scene. It destroyed me twice. First when I read it and then actually seeing it. I related too heavily to Young in this scene for reason I wrote about before, so I'll stop there before I start crying and don't stop.

Love for Love's Sake

This show had plenty of scenes that completely wrecked me, so I could've picked several. But this one was a gut punch that absolutely shattered my heart. It was just so overwhelming. And it felt like looking in a mirror.

She Loves to Cook, and She Loves to Eat

Not gonna go into it right now. Everything you need to know about how I feel about this scene and others like these can be found here. It healed something in me to watch it.

At 25:00 in Akasaka

"To get into character." I could hear his heart break into a million pieces. I still get goosebumps just thinking about it. Such an incredible scene and an amazing job by Komagine Kiita.

Life~Love on the Line

This is one of those where you had to be there. Cause I'm not gonna spoil anything. I live here, on this beach. Damn you Akira!

Time of Fever

THE HEATER BETWEEN THEM!!! (*waves at @colourme-feral*) This scene has taken permanent residence in my brain. These two had me in a choke hold for way too long, and this scene was just perfect in every way.

The Untamed

Scene of all time. Suffice it to say that I sometimes go back just to watch this scene. Or to read that chapter in the book. That's the effect this scene has on me. I love Wen Ning so much. The actors were great here. Jiang Cheng just makes me hate him and want to hug him, all at the same time. And seeing Lan Zhan putting the pieces together just ends me. Oh it's so good.

Light On Me

"During the time I couldn't see anything, and I was unaware, Noh Shin-Woo thought about me. He talked to me. The messages that remained unread and his feelings that weren't relayed, came pouring out to me, all at once." AAAAAAAHHHHHH. Confession of all time. That's all.

And last but certainly not least, truly an unforgettable bl moment....

Every You, Every Me

This scene had me laughing so hard. For that whole afternoon after I watched this episode, this scene kept coming back to me and I could not stop laughing. Carrots will never be the same.

And we come full circle, starting with chicken thighs and ending with carrots, proving once again, that food is ultimately the most memorable thing to me. This was hard because I wanted to include so many others that I love and think about and can't forget, but today these were it.

Tagging but as usual no pressure: @thisonelikesaliens @colourme-feral @abstractelysium @troubled-mind @italianpersonwithashippersheart @nabi-unveiled @yannig @theside-b @watchthisqqq @watchingblsnowandforever @littleragondin @he-is-lightning-in-a-bottle and if you see this and want to play consider yourself tagged here ➡️@ 💜

[daragona]

Beguiled | Chapter I:

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | strong language; dark!content; infidelity; angst; smut; manipulation (from the reader and others); obsessive behaviour from our leading men; complicated dad-daughter relationships; power imbalance; time-accurate misogyny and sexist behaviour; political intrigue; etc.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | As the daughter of a great man, you're used to putting great effort into your father's cause. But when you're tasked with getting the Queen and the King's best friend into an affair, you might see more consequences than you bargained for. (Zemo! Reader, Medieval/Tudor! AU)

– Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Your words pass through the wooden trellis between you, nearly lost beneath the languid murmur of Latin prayers coming from the priest on the other side. The confessional is small, stuffy, and you fidget with the hem of your gown as you lower onto the kneeler. – It’s been… six hours since my last confession.

Silence. 

The Latin stops short —cleaved clean by the sound of his head turning, followed by that rumbling laugh you know all too well. – That was awfully quick, child.

You settle on the cushion under your knees, smiling. – I am a very efficient sinner, if I may say so myself, Your Eminence.

His laughter grows louder. – Shall we add presumptuousness to the growing list of sins you seek absolution for, dear girl?

You chuckle, rolling the rosary beads between your restless fingers. – Do forgive, Father, but as my list of committed sins goes—

– Father?! 

You fall silent immediately.

A rookie mistake. One he has corrected you for one too many times. You bite your tongue, bowing your head despite the fact he neither looks at you, nor could see you if he did. – I meant it in the ecclesiastical sense—

– You meant it in the way I know you did. – He scolds. – If you make a habit of—of that word, you’ll say it where you shouldn’t. Even walls have ears in this castle, I cannot afford any scandal. I won’t warn you again.

The moment of grace between you shatters like glass.

– As you wish… uncle.

– Don’t be insolent, now. 

The beads bite into your palm. You correct yourself before your bitterness slips out again. – As you wish, Your Eminence.

– Speak your sins. Unburden your soul to me, that God may forgive you.

There is no burden in your soul. 

You've sinned and you’ve shamed yourself, and yet your conscience is as light as a feather. 

You have him to thank for that—He’s trained you to commit sin without guilt so long as it contributes to his cause. After years of obedience, your soul is as bloodied as his hands, and yet, you feel nothing of it.

– I’ve corrupted myself. – You begin, ashamed not for the crimes you are about to confess, but for the slip up you’ve just commited. – I have given coin as bribe to the Queen's handmaidens, to keep me informed of what passes within the royal chambers. I’ve traded…favors with his Majesty's closest royal guard for the same cause. Not to mention his footmen. – There’s a sound of approval —soft, almost aloof. Your father does not flinch at the thought of you whoring yourself for his intelligence. Maybe he doesn’t mind that you do. To him, it might just be another means to an end, as he so often puts it. Or maybe he simply doesn’t care. – I regret to say, Your Eminence, the news are grim.

Light filters through the screen of his door. You catch a glimpse of his face then, shadowed under the weight of his robes, under the pattern of the screen, under the years of work he's put in to never reveal too much at once. The ruby in his ring catches what little gleam of light the confessional grants. 

For a moment, as you eye him through the trellis, you think there is something in his eyes —interest, perhaps. Pride. Amusement. 

But you can never tell. Not with him.

The only emotions he conveys with any clarity are frustration, anger and disappointment— And before you even speak again, you know he'll feel all three of those as you reveal what you've discovered at last.

– Go on. – He insists, already impatient.

You don’t take much longer: – Their Majesties have once more come to blows over the question of Princess Mary’s betrothal.

He shifts, sitting up too suddenly, the impatience turning to denial at the flick of an eye. – No. No. That is impossible. The deal with Asgard has been—

You don’t wait for permission to speak.

– I’ve gathered from multiple sources that the Queen has yet again caught His Majesty abed with an Asgardian woman. Perhaps the recurrence in his choice of mistress has offended her, perhaps she already disliked Asgardians before. It does not matter. What matters is that the agreement with Prince Thor is thus dissolved in all but name.

His head sinks into his hands, the weight of months of diplomacy crashing down like stone. He had your brother accompany him to the diplomatic visit he used to secure the arrangement with Queen Frigga, and left you behind to report the whispers of courtiers back to him in his absence.

It took him six weeks to convince the woman that the marriage was a good idea. You have no idea what he forfeited so she would accept, but you can already feel his anger, seeping off of him in waves. – God be good… Steven! Could he not be more careful?!

– What King is ever careful?

– Not Steven, that much is certain!

– The guard tells me His Majesty has gathered anger of his own, and now, to spite his wife, he intends to revive the old pact to marry the Princess to the Duke of Carthage.

– Stark?! – His voice climbs. – No. No — he must be losing his mind! That's the only explanation. Carthage is a wasteland! England cannot depend on the mining of iron and the building of machines to keep itself afloat. Steven must know that!

– I have my doubts, your Eminence. – He doesn’t pay any mind to your disrespect, still shaking his head profusely. – The Queen’s handmaiden tells me that Her Majesty dictated a letter to her cousin, King T’Challa, suggesting that a union be made between Princess Mary and Prince Azari of Wakanda.

He bangs his fist against the side of the screen. You shift back, but don't startle, already used to his antics. – To punish me, surely. As is her habit! – He bemoans. – I tell you, girl. She lives for no other reason than to spite me. And after all I’ve done… After all that my predecessor sacrificed to marry her to Steven! I did warn him. The poor man must be rolling in his grave…

– Advising is a thankless job, – You hum. He nods along, oblivious to the double edge of your tone. – It gets worse, I'm afraid.

Your father falls silent again, his eyes betraying outrage even though you can barely see him.

– Well, do go on. 

– One of our friends in Wakanda reports the Queen’s wakandan cousin is due to arrive before the Feast of Saint Michael. In secret. He brings a cleric… and a jewel-studded dowry.

He turns toward the light, as if it might burn the fury out of him. – A clandestine engagement? What does she think this is? A love song?!

– A ceremony, I believe, and she might yet be able to have this come to pass, should His Majesty’s indiscretions find their way to the ears of the conclave.

Your father leans back. You hear the shift of fabric, the creak of the old wood, and can all but picture the way his fingers steeple beneath his chin. – Then it must not.

– Your Eminence?

– The conclave cannot know. Not yet. We are not prepared. After Steven's stunt with the Pope's mistress… We are already on thin ice! – He groans, rubs his temples, looks at you, tired, spent, like a man begging for mercy. – But you would not have left your duties unattended to confess to me a single sin, would you?

You forget that he knows you well. 

Sometimes you wonder how much of what he knows of you is what he sees in the mirror, and how much of it is actually yours.

You wonder if there is anything yours to speak of.

– No. 

– So you have more to tell me.

– I do, your Eminence. But the news are similarly grim.

Your father exhales like a dying man —slow, theatrical, measured. – Then let us have it. The full confession. I’ll not grant you absolution in parts.

– The Asgardian was not alone.

– What?

– She came with others. The guard thinks they were sent as a gift, by Prince Loki. I suspected the elder prince, but neither one of them wants this union, so—

– King Steven entertained all of them?

You shrug. Sometimes it's better to let the information speak for itself than make it worse by over explaining it. – The Queen found four women in His Majesty’s chambers. Two of them sisters. One… a cousin.

There is a long, stunned silence— Not the stunned silence you'd expect from a clergyman hearing of such debauchery. The silence of a man who's trying desperately to think of something that could excuse it.

Your father sits back and groans like a man who’s just been told the world is ending, but not soon enough. – Four?!

You nod.

– The guard told me he thanked them for their “diplomatic service.” – You recall his laughter, and bite your lip so you don't make the same mistake. 

Your father puts a hand over his eyes. – God deliver me from these honey-tongued harlots.

– And kings.

That earns you a sharp glance, but he does not scold, this time. Only sighs.

– He could not keep his belt fastened for a fortnight if the world depended on it. And the Queen, insufferable crone though she is —Lord help us— she’s not wrong to be furious.

You let the silence hang between you two for a moment. 

– Her fury will not die down easily. 

– Of course not. Nothing in my life can ever be easy. – His Eminence rubs his temples. – If the conclave catches wind of this, we’ll have a papal inquest in the middle of Michaelmas. If the Pope doesn’t laugh himself to death first!

– You think his Holiness would find amusement in the prospect of a tri-state war?

His eyes grow grave. His brow twitches. – I think that lecher would find delight in the sight of children dying so long as their blood did not stain his precious garments.

You swallow the words that'd been forming on your lips, though your throat is suddenly dry. – I took the liberty of… removing something. My second sin in these six hours, God forgive.

– What have you done now, girl?

The edge in his voice is sudden and sharp. For a second, you flinch. – Her Majesty’s letter to Wakanda. – You shift the parchment through one of the gaps of the trellis, the wax seal creaking quietly as you roll the paper to push it towards him. – I intercepted it before it could leave the castle. The courier was redirected to deliver a forged copy —vague, flowery, harmless. As is her habit.

Silence.

– You forged the Queen’s hand? – He asks, in a tone that's almost accusatory.

– Her scribe’s hand. – You clarify, as if it made the crime any less fatal. – The only thing of her I took was the seal on the original letter. Which I glued on the decoy with similarly colored wax, from your desk. I hope you don't mind.

A pause. 

For a moment you think some lapse of morality has befallen him, and that he might scold you for your crime.

But it doesn’t take long before you hear his laughter echo against the walls of your little confessional. – Clever girl.

You close your eyes. 

It shouldn’t bring a smile to your face. 

But you can't help it.

– Was I right to do so?

– That’s not the question. – He leans forward, voice low, smile playful. – The question is: can you do it again, should the Queen write another?

You don’t hesitate. 

Your father might fancy himself a wolf in sheep's clothing, but you know for a fact wolves and sheep enjoy flattery just the same. – If I have your Eminence's blessing I can do anything.

He laughs again, low, pleased, approving.

His eyes meet yours through the trellis, gleaming. Whether the gleam is born from pride or merely from catching his own reflection on the likeness of your face, you can never know, but your heart skips a beat regardless. – Then yes. You were right. God will forgive you, my child. As I have.

He looks away, happily fidgeting with the ruby on his Cardinal's ring before looking at you again. 

– The letter, your Eminence.

– Your stolen letter. – He chuckles, bright, amused. Your chest grows heavy. – What of it?

– The Queen asked King T'Challa for absolution. In writing.

He looks at you, the amusement draining from his face as water from a syphon. – Where?

– Third to last paragraph. ‘I come to you, beloved cousin with the hopes that you will ease my heart as well as my worries for my daughter…’

– ‘...and spare me a moment, in private, where I might relay my heart and soul to your mercy.’ – A booming laughter blooms from his chest, mocking as the rest of him. You know better than to feel relief. This is not happy laughter. – What… What is her majesty getting at now?

– She does not say. Only that she has sinned, and wishes to be forgiven in the eyes of God before Saint Michael’s Day. 

– He is not a priest. Why would he absolve her of her sins? – You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He turns to you, and stops cold as you raise your brows. – No. It cannot be. Tell me—

– She perfumed the letter with Lilac.

His eyes widen – Lilac? Why would that be—

– It's the same perfume her mother wore before her execution. 

There's a beat of silence between you. Cold, tense, absolute. The silence of someone walking the plank to their death, or considering to throw the man behind them into the water before begging mercy. – …How do you know that?

– Our court is not the only one in which the walls have ears, your Eminence. King T'Challa's servants whisper. They say that he cannot borne the smell of lilac near him. That his eyes well-up if he so much as senses it from afar. – You laugh, more a scoff than a chuckle. – Apparently, upon one of Crown’s visits to Wakanda, King T'Challa locked himself in his rooms and sobbed as he sensed the perfume from an embrace with the Queen.

That lands. 

It thuds between you like a thrown gauntlet. He closes his eyes, his smile fading completely. – And yet now, she would spritz this perfume over the letter. – He hums. – What for?

– Sentiment? Perhaps she was hoping he'd catch the glimpse of that perfume on the parchment and feel sympathethic to whatever she proposed.

– You think she means to martyr herself.

– Maybe. Lord knows she’s always thought of herself as one. These last few… indiscretions from the King have only furthered her self-aggrandizing humilities.

Your father breathes out through his nose. – She wishes to provoke a scandal. To humiliate him into docility. – He scoffs. Cruel, calculated. – Perhaps she is a woman, after all.

You ignore the comment. 

– She should divorce him into exile. – You say it thoughtlessly. Quickly. Too quickly. Before your brain gets the chance to think it through. You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth.

Your father laughs.

Loudly.

Delightedly.

As if the suggestion was so absurd it merited a moment for laughter alone. – Divorce him? – He intones. – You are not in Sokovia anymore, my dear. Women here cannot demand divorces. They can't command houses. They can't even leave their homes without the presence of a man, lest their royal guards condemn the for witchcraft. – He laughs again, with just as much delight, as if it's humorous instead of daunting. – They act as if we are the uncivilized ones, as if we are the heretics, because of out past. Of our religion. And yet they sack and pillage people's homes over superstitions. Stake them through spears like fowls. Treat their women like cattle and their men like rowdy children, waiting to throw a tantrum…What a land of fools!

You scoff, mouth suddenly bitter. – And yet it's this land you had us abandon home for.

His gaze cuts through the trellis again, eyes gleaming like the last coal in a fire refusing to die. – Watch your tongue, girl. 

You incline your head. 

You didn't lie. Your sentiment is no less true for his disaproval of it. But every bird has to know when to fold its wings, and you only fly when he gives you leave, or when he’s too far to notice. – I apologize, your Eminence. 

He doesn’t hear your apology.

If you hadn't said it he would keep scolding you until he tired himself out, but now that you did, he doesn't acknowledge it.

You sigh, passing your rosary through your hands again, the flowery smell rises to meet your nose as the beads brush against the laced end of your veil, dead and yet still delicate, a lovely ghost.

– Divorce. – Your father scoffs, perplexed at the mere idea. – And what, pray tell, would this fool or a woman do after achieving this fictional divorce? Take her bastard child and retire to a convent? Return to her desolate homeland where nothing or anyone exists without the English patronage? Or flee to some far corner of the continent to write hymns in lilac ink while her former husband beds the last half of the world he hasn’t yet gotten to before marrying some other simpering, forgotten daughter of a random place that might actually give him an heir?!

You don’t answer.

He's speaking to himself more so than to you.

He drums his fingers once against the side of the confessional. A slow, steady rhythm —like something crawling through the walls.

– This is no longer foolishness. – His voice is quiet. That frightens you more than when it was loud. – This is a campaign.

You don’t respond. Your silence is assent.

– If she poisons him in the eyes of the world... if she plants the idea that the sin is his, and not hers… – He trails off. But you know what he’s thinking. She won’t just humiliate the King. She will force him into submission. – Those fools in conclave love her, still. The ones with their cocks in hand and their noses in poetry. They call her pure because she still wears that stupid veil. They call her wise because she weeps instead of speaks. – He sneers. – They would gladly see the King brought to heel. Any ounce of justification from her might warrant a full-on attack on his Majety.

You glance down at your rosary. Let it slip through your fingers again.

The scent of lilac clings to your fingertips as you clasp your hands before yourself. You wonder if it will ever come out.

– If this reaches Rome, – He continues. – and they begin to believe her as a victim... then she will not need to demand a divorce. – He turns. Looks at you as if you are not his daughter, but something nearer to a reflection. – She will be given one.

– I don't think that's what she wants, Your Eminence.

– That's absu— He pauses, looks at you, waits. – You don't?

You shake your head. It still surprises you, how even the cleverest of men can be so foolish. – King Steven has been bedding half of England long before they were married. His infidelity is no secret. If she wanted a divorce, she would have claimed him impotent and gotten it before she fell pregnant with the Princess Mary. But she didn't.

– She didn't…

– She might have thought a child would change him. Or at least subdue him. – You drop the rosary on your lap and pull at your veil. Free from the sheer black fine-linen, you see just that much clearer. – Clearly it didn't. He wants an heir from her, blames her for not bearing any more children, and yet he doesn’t visit her bed. Only his mistresses’. 

He scoffs, but there's no trace of disbelief in his eyes, only ridicule, as if he believes it whole-heartedly even while thinking it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard. – You think she means to punish him back into her arms?

– Misguidedly, but yes.

– Not misguidedly, child. Delusionally. – He barks out a laugh, cutting and humorless. – She might as well leash him and drag him through the halls like a dog. It would be more effective at making him love her again than whatever this pathetic little theater is. – He laughs again, pure venom dripping from his lips. – It's no wonder he doesn’t visit her bed. No man wants to bed a woman he pities.

– But they do want to bed the women they hate. – A beat of silence hangs between you for a moment. The wind outside howls shyly, cut thin through the small gaps between the stained-glass windows of this chapel you sit in. But he considers your words, even if carefully, as if he hasn't yet thought of what you proposed. – She might yet succeed if she can achieve that.

– To the doom of everything I fought for. – He bemoans, almost theatrically. But he raises his head, eyes glinting with something dark, something you know all too well. – We cannot allow this. We will not allow this.

You raise your brows. 

Your mind flashes.

All the destruction he’s set off upon the word after saying these exact words. 

Your mother’s doom. 

Your Uncle’s death. 

The disappearance of the last High Chancellor. 

The Queen of Sokovia, and all he put her through.

A shiver runs through you.

– You cannot mean that, your Eminence.

He laughs again. Colder. Crueler. Careless and smiling like a hound waiting to bite. – Of course I mean it! With her foolishness she will destroy us!

– You said it right: foolishness! The Queen is a fool in love. She means no offense to yours or the King's work, she only wants her husband to pay attention to her! 

Your father scoffs, moving around on his seat, huffing like a steamboat. – Enough that she would send a letter bethrothing the King's only legitimate child to the previous suitor’ greatest enemy?!

– I've collected the letter! It can do no harm now! You can return to her and with it in hand and advise her, intimidate her, put an end to this at once. No scheming needed. No destruction needed.

He growls, shakes his head, eyes sharp as a dagger. – That will not be sufficient.

You're growing desolate. – What would you have us do?! Accuse her of treason?! Drag her through the streets?!

He smiles —that awful, papal smile, all white teeth and rotting calm. – Of course not. – A pause. – I will speak to someone. Or better yet, you will.

You freeze.

– Your Eminence.

– The Duke of Suffolk—

You don't even wait for him to finish, so great is your outrage. – James Barnes?! You have gone mad!

He pays no mind to your insolence this time. – He has returned from Asgard, has he not?

– Barely a fortnight ago!

He smiles coyly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They're too busy staring at his ring as the gears of a plan spin behind his irises. – Just long enough to see the kingdom with fresh eyes. Just long enough to feel unwelcome in it.

– He’s the King’s closest friend!

– Was. – He corrects. – And don’t insult my intelligence —you know better than to pretend there was ever any love there. Not from James's side, at least. He's always envied the King. Almost loathed him.

– No more than he loathes you! – You shout, exasperated.

– He doesn’t have to like me. He only has to want something. Something that belongs to Steven.

– This is ridiculous!

– Hardly so, my dear. You've said it yourself: men will always want to bed the women they hate. And what man doesn't want to bed the Queen?

– Any with at least half a brain!

– Which he has not. – He laughs, low, casual, as if he were not speaking treason. – Good for us.

– Even if he did not have a brain —which, I’m sure, by the way, that he most certainly does— do you truly think James Barnes capable of seducing a woman he isn't able to pay for?!

– He doesn’t have to seduce her, sweet child. You will. In a way. You'll plant the seed in his mind. He'll notice her. Then admire her. Then desire her. And she —poor, humiliated creature that she is— will bask in it. A dangerous, quiet admiration. The kind that ruins empires, or, more likely, Empresses.

You shake your head.

– You cannot be— you want me to… what? Tell them to dance?!

– Not even that. Merely to open the windows and let them notice one another. Whisper here, glance there. Do what you do best! Fan the air. Let the fire catch on its own.

It's absurd.

Outrageous. You can’t even put words to the situation, so unbelievable that it is. – They’ve known each other for years. 13 years, just as long as the King's been married, and I don't think I've ever seen them do so much as talk to one another!

– Then let you be the bridge! – He hums, voice light, eyes bright, as if he’s encouraging his child to ride a horse for the first time, and not to commit high treason. – Gossip lightly. Mention how the Queen watches him when she thinks no one sees. Or say he’s asked after her. The Queen will preen. The Duke will wonder. That is all. Let nature take its course.

You draw a breath, unsteady.

– And when it does?

– Then we let the King see it too. – He leans in, voice like poison wrapped in prayer. – We give His Majesty proof. Desire. Betrayal. His Queen and his closest friend, conspiring behind closed doors. We give him justification. For annulment. For outrage. For remarriage.

Your blood runs cold. – That would ruin her.

– That would save the kingdom. She is a dead end. One daughter. No heir. No fortune. She has become a liability.

You clench your jaw.

– And what of the Duke?

– Oh, he’ll be broken. But he’ll know why. Everyone will. A man who betrays a King loses his name before his head.

A pause. You want to say no. You want to scream. 

– And if it doesn’t work?

Your father laughs.

– Don't pretend. – He chuckles. – Was it not your favorite hobby? Goading two people that didn’t know each other into suddenly falling in lust?

Your breath catches.

Your eyes go wide.

You were only a girl. A bored, discarded girl in the overly tight-laced court of Sokovia. You only wanted something to do. A distraction. A mission as matchmaker.

You never meant for it to go as far as it did.

Worse, you never knew he was watching.

– You think I don’t know you have experience in the business of ruining Queens?

You try to swallow. It scrapes down dry.

– That was—

– That was—?

– That was… – Your mouth opens and closes, but the words don’t come.

Eventually, your father speaks for you:

– Cruel? Childish? – He hums the words like a lullaby, turning the heavy ring on his finger. The ruby catches the sunlight and sends a flickering crimson stain across your cheek. Like blood. Like accusation. – Yes. But now you have a reason to do it. And it will be better, of course. Since you obviously have the experience.

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is you were good at it. Too good. And if there’s one thing Cardinal Helmut Zemo never forgets are the things his children are good at, especially the things he can exploit.

– That's when I knew, you know? – He looks away, at the gaps of light that bleed onto him through the screen of his door. At the ring on his finger. – That's when I knew you were the blood of my blood.

– Don't— Your Eminence, please.

He smiles —Soft, warm, fatherly— and brings up his hand, pressing his hand to the trellis, and his fingers through the gaps. – Come to me, child.

– Your Eminence…

– Daughter. – He whispers, saccharine, and he knows he’s ended you then, for your eyes water, your mouth hangs agape, and your hands tremble around your rosary. – Come. – Your fingers still shake as you raise them to meet his. – This is what you're good at. Your calling.

– Ruining people?! – You cry. The single first tear you've shed in years falling down your face as he shakes his head and holds your hand.

– Exerting God's justice upon their misdeeds. – He whispers, his breath brushes against your skin like a feather. – I was only a boy when I learned of God's true calling for me. I was a child, clutching dates to my hand and whispering prayers to false icons painted in gold, when at first I saw these. – He grabs the velvet trim of his garments, letting your hand linger there, against the wood, waiting for his. His touch. His words. His point. – This red. A Cardinal’s robes. I was a butcher’s boy, as was he, so he told me. And yet he was a prince of the Church. – He presses his palm flat to the lattice, and you realize —with dread— that he’s no longer speaking only of himself. – He said the world would always mistake softness for sin. And so we must become sharp. Useful. God does not ask for innocence. Only obedience.

You close your eyes.

He waits.

Then, quieter:

– Do you think it was easy? Watching them jeer when I passed with my sack of bones and offal? The stink clinging to my sleeves even when I scrubbed until they bled? Do you think I wanted to become what I am at the cost of my honor, my integrity? I had a soul once, too. – His voice shudders, just enough to make your heart flutter, consumed by a with terrible pity —He knows. He knows— Because he made you this way, too. – I built this, for us. For your brother. For our legacy. For you, my girl. – His voice soft. His eyes are soft. And then it hardens, steadies. Disappointment wrapped in velvet. – I kept you fed, educated, hidden. When they would’ve spat on your cradle. When they would’ve put you in a basket, left you in the church steps and wash their hands of you. When they might have put you to the blade. – You don’t know who he means by ‘they’. Your father's memory of Sokovia is an endless library of hypothetical enemies. You mother, your aunts, your sisters, the nuns in the church you were born in. What matters is he hates them. What matters is that you’re his. – You think I didn’t want to keep you from this, from this palace of debauchery? This life of sin? I did! But I need someone who understands. Someone clever. Someone like me.

– I don’t— You stutter. – I don't understand.

– You do! – He turns to you fully now, his other hand knocking against the lattice, calling for yours just as his eyes are. You meet him without hesitation. – You've always understood. I look into your eyes now, child, and I see myself. The fire, the fury, the drive— He laughs, breathless, staring at you as if you were a newborn again. – the pitiless ambition. You are made in my image.

Your hands stay in his.

The ruby of his ring still bleeds red across your skin, deep and cruel like stigmata.

You should pull away.

You should.

But instead, you whisper. – And what of our souls?

His smile flickers. Not fading, just changing shape. As if you’ve asked a child’s question.

Something simple. Naïve.

Sweet.

– We are already damned, my daughter. You and I both. – He says it like a lullaby, like it should be a comfort. 

You search his face. The elegant lines carved by the sleepless nights, the pitiless ambition he speaks of. – Is revenge not a sin? – It comes out small. Like a last protest. A child clutching at the hem of righteousness one final time before the tide of sin swallows them whole. – Have we not gathered enough of them? Sins? Lies? – You remain quiet for a moment, listening in to the outside world, searching the gap of the screen door for any movement. – Crimes? – You don’t mean to sound so weak. But the words crack under their own weight. – We've corrupted ourselves in almost any way there is, and we've not yet had any reckoning. Will God not turn His face from us?

He holds your hand a little tighter through the lattice.

The answer is gentle. Unflinching. – Our God, my child, is not the blushing Christ of painted chapels and fat English bishops. – He leans forward. His voice is warm, a hearth flame glowing inside a tomb. – Our God is the one who walked in the wilderness, who struck down cities with sulfur and raised kings from ash. – His eyes narrow with something ancient, something fierce. – Our God is the God of the Old Testament. The one who loved Jacob, but hated Esau. Who chose, and punished, and marked His chosen with fire.

He lifts your hand, once more, and places it against the wooden screen —reverent. Steady. – And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes, – He recites, voice like low thunder, – and they shall know that I am the Lord, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.

A breath.

You don’t move.

Because you don’t remember the verse— You’ve never heard it. He’s made it up. And now he looks at you through the screen, the ruby light catching his cheekbone like a brand. – This is not a sin, daughter. This is justice.

Your lips part. But there is no protest left.

Only the echo of your own heartbeat.

And the shape of your father’s hands, still cupping yours, like a vow.

Your heart flickers between your loyalty for him and your fear for your immortal souls. 

You've ruined a Queen before. Your father then went on to crush her, whatever there was left of her, for his benefit—your benefit. Yours and his both.

You look to your clothes.

To the elaborate brown brocade in black velvet accents. The Linen undershirt, with sleeves and collar you took days to fully embroider. The pearls of your earrings, your necklace, your rings— Paid for by the ruin of a woman who was never outwardly cruel to you, only petty. And whom, with your immature anger, you led to her doom.

You think of Queen Margaret, now.

She is no friend of yours, and yet she's always been gracious enough never to sneer upon you to your face. 

You cannot say the same for most ladies at court.

Could you see her to the same fate you saw Queen Yekaterina? The one that haunts you to this day?

– I love you, your Eminence. You know you are dearest to my heart than even the air I breathe. But please, please don't ask me to do this.

Not “I won’t”

Not “I can't”

But “Don't ask me to do it”

Because you know if he does, you will.

And he knows it also.

– Sweet child…

– You're asking me to destroy her.

He smiles. – No. Never that. – A pause, soaked in sentiment, so heartfelt and genuine you almost believe in his mercy. – What I'm asking of you is that you set her free. From the prison of her virtue. From her cold, fruitless marriage. From her crown.

You stare at his hands, still pressed to the wood, still clutching yours. The ruby gleams like an open wound.

Your voice wavers. – And if they find out? What will they say about me? That I'm a witch. That I'm a sorceress.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. With eyes just as kind, he says the cruelest thing he can think of, in a tone as soft and warm as the most expensive velvet. – What do they say now?

It's be an easier question to inquire upon the things they don't about you.

You knew enough english when you left Sokovia, but you learned all manner of insults that never, in your wildest rage, you could imagine, by simply walking the corridors of Hampton Court with your ears peeled.

The insults got cueler when you listened through the walls of private chambers. And even more so when you caught wind of them from behind the ladies’ fans.

– They sneer when I pass, just like they sneered when you climbed the Sokovian court. The same pursed lips, the same sharpened Latin. False convert, they say. Savage. Heretic. Sokovian ape. – Your voice shakes, your eyes water, but you push it through. – The Lords call you Crimson Pig. Serpent. The ladies call us worse. They say I smell of my mother’s kitchen herbs, of frankincense and garlic, like a witch raised in a root cellar. One asked if I’d read my lessons in blood. They laugh when I pray. Bless themselves when I pass. – You exhale sharply. – How is this different?

There’s a silence.

His fingers press tighter through the wood, wrap around yours. Warm, dry, paternal. – We’ll make them kneel. – His voice is soft, coaxing. – We did it before. You remember. When the princes of Sokovia laughed at a butcher’s son with a ribboned cassock. When they said that the scrawny little girl with bruised hands would never master French or canon law. When they turned their noses at the sight of us —until we climbed. Until they had no choice but to whisper their insults while they bowed.

You’re breathing hard now. Your knuckles pale. He is close. The world is only wood and shadow between you.

– We’ll put these perfumed, powdered English swine to shame the same way we did our countrymen. We’ll do it again—to the stiff-backed, fish-eyed courtiers who mock us with gloved hands and kiss our rings in secret.

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

– To the King, who calls me brother in Christ when he sins but mocks my accent when he drinks. – A smile, dagger-sharp. – To the Queen, who says we are witchborn beasts in silks, who spits "Sokovian ape" behind her fan. – His voice dips into a growl. – And to the Duke. Who should be our ally. Who came from nothing, just like us. Son of a groom. Who should know better. But repeats their venom with a grin, as though it were merit and not proximity to the crown that made him noble.

He lifts your hand —still through the lattice— and kisses the side of your fingers like a priest anointing a relic.

It's reverent. Loving. Burning with the rage of someone who spent too long a time being sneered at to let things go. – Let them call us monsters. – He meets your gaze through the trellis. – Let them howl and scoff and rage like wild mutts. We will make them kneel regardless.

For a moment, you remember it—the first time he pulled you from the kitchens, bloodied and weeping after a noble girl had spat in your hair. He did not comfort you. He did not say it would be well.

He taught you to smile.

To kneel.

To pray.

And then to rise.

So your hand stays in his.

And your silence, this time, is not refusal.

You must be going mad.

Because when he whispers it at last, when he delivers the last blow like a pièce-de-résistance to your corruption, you don't fear him. You don’t shrink. You don’t recoil. You lean in, and you agree. Genuinely. Ardently. With your entire heart. – They say we are the unholy family. – He laughs. – So let those pompous english brats know why Sokovia still trembles at the name Zemo.

The words feel colder than the stone floor beneath you. Still, you bow your head and murmur your thanks, your heart as heavy as your conscience is set. – Bless me, Your Eminence.

He smiles, almost relieved. Almost accomplished.

– May the Lord keep you sharp and silent, child. And may your hands remain steady, if ever they must forge a crown. – He signs a cross before the trellis, looking at you with all the love Abraham must have had in his eyes as he offered Isaac up for sacrifice. – Ego te absolvo ab omnibus censoris, et pecatis, in nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. 

– Amen.

He rises, robes sweeping the tiled floors of the chapel as he exits the confessionary, walking as if he'd been the one who was delivered absolution. And you remain kneeling, spine straight, fingers wrapped tight around the rosary —not in prayer, but in calculation.

It falls as you lift your veil to put it back on.

And when you pick it up, there it is. The red spot of light from your father's ring.

You look up.

It’s sitting on the side of the lattice, waiting for you to put it on.

[sambhavami]

Women in Mahabharata - Kunti

T.W. Assault.

Ahalya Draupadi Kunti Tara Mandodari tatha.

She is born as Pritha, the oldest child of Aryaka-Shoora and the sister of Vasudeva, Krishna's father.

The first complication in Kunti's life is revealed on the eve of the war of Kurukshetra, when she says to Krishna these lines:

"Pitaram tava eva garheyam na-atmaanam na Suyodhanam, yenaaham Kuntibhoja-yah dhanam dhoortaira iva-arpita!" [My father did this- I blame neither myself nor Duryodhana, when he gave me away to Kuntibhoja like I was a bag of cash!]

"Baalaam maama Aaryaka-sa tubhyam karindati kandu hastakaam, adadaata Kuntibhoja-yah sakha sakhye mahaatmane!" [When I was young enough to play with a ball at Aryaka's house, he gave me away to Kuntibhoja, to honour his friend's friendship, and became this great man!]

"Saaham pitraa cha nikritaa, shvashura-ishcha parantapa, atyanta-dukhhita Krishna kim jeevita-phalam mama?" [Rejected by my father, tortured by my father-in-law (Bheeshma/Dhritarashtra), bearing such dejection, Krishna, what is the value of my life?]

This adoption should have happened (if it was inevitable) when Pritha was an infant, and not when she is 9-10 years old and already attached to her biological parents. When Pritha is torn away from everything she knows and loves in Mathura, her parents, siblings and friends, and thrown into this unknown land in India’s heartland, into the household of this almost-a-stranger uncle of her, there happens a fundamental shift in her brain. The abandonment issues and the insecurity that bubbles up as a direct result of her father’s actions, casts a long shadow over the rest of her life. This experience sets her up for a long life of mistrust of her surroundings and a razor-sharp survival instinct that often crosses the line right into cruelty.

With a second’s notice, Pritha becomes Kunti, transforming from a girl to a woman, far before her time. The insecurities in her brain are farther complicated when she hears that her father has pretty much wiped her off the family tree, and is parading her younger brother Vasudeva-Aanakadundubhi as his firstborn.

Now, Kuntibhoja is not a monster, he raises Kunti with reasonable love and independence. Still, there always remains a distance between them, thanks to, again, Kunti’s age and awareness during the adoption.

One day, after this, when some time has passed and Kunti is almost a young lady, Durvasa appears at their doorstep. Knowing the rishi’s nature, Kuntibhoja runs to Kunti, imploring her to take up the responsibility of keeping the rishi happy. Now, here comes another complication: Kuntibhoja knows how Durvasa is, and he is still asking Kunti to step in, on his behalf. The question is whether he would do the same, if Kunti were his biological daughter? The question arises in Kunti’s mind too.

Kuntibhoja says, “You’re a smart woman, Pritha, the great Aryaka-Shoora’s daughter, Vasudeva’s sister! Your father has delightedly given you up to me! And yet, you know how women from inferior families are by their nature fickle, so I must warn you to remember your humility!”

How did this dialogue enter Kunti’s sensitive, teenage mind? “Pritha” (and not Kunti), “delightedly given you up”, “inferior families” and “remember your humility”? Is it like this that if Durvasa’s happy then you’re Kuntibhoja’s pride, but if you mess up you are Shoora’s shame?

She responds, “My King,” with all the respect suited to a member of his staff and not his daughter, “Your command to serve this brahmin is beneficial to me as well.” Then she dedicates herself to serving Durvasa, like a son, like a student, like a sister.

Kunti later confesses to Vyasa, “I had many reasons to take offence, but I was silent.” What a terrifying turn of phrase immediately following the descriptors Vyasa gives above!

After a whole year of atrocities, Durvasa is finally satisfied. “Even with so much effort, I cannot find any fault with you!” He says (you were trying to?!). He offers Kunti a boon, but she rejects it, and Durvasa, even more pleased, addressed her as ‘anavadyaangi’ [unparalleled beauty] and offers to teach her a secret mantra, one that would attract even the Gods to her. First of all, why did he look at a 11–12-year-old Kunti and decide that this course of action was appropriate? Also, if we are to try and remove the layer of magic from this mantra, did Durvasa just teach her to flirt?

One day, early in the morning, she wakes up and seeing the rising sun. Curious to test her mantra, she calls upon Surya, the sun god himself. Alternatively, did she just see a person from the Deva tribe, on vacation, just strolling by the riverbank off of her balcony? Either way, once she realizes that the mantra works, terrified, she asks the man to leave.

Surya immediately, tightly grans her hand, and changes his tune, “Once I have come here, I won’t return until you’ve ‘paid’ me. Your father doesn’t know I’m here, so I wish to have a child with you, and you will comply, or else…All my friends are also watching, and I won’t have them make fun of me on account of your rejection! You are still young, and hence I am still talking, otherwise…”

When Kunti realizes that she cannot escape him, she starts negotiating. She wants, for starters, a promise that this incident will remain a secret. When Surya agrees, Kunti asks for his kavacha-kundala for the child. Maybe Surya takes them off, as some sort of a future child support? If Kuntibhoja finds out and then throws her out of the house, then she can at least sell those and raise the child!

The obviously Surya does what he wanted to, and disgustingly, Kunti loses consciousness, and that doesn’t stop him. She only comes back to her senses when Surya has left. Remember, the girl is thirteen still! We should remember that, and how this entire incident played out, before tipping the scales completely in her son’s favour.

Kunti then hides her pregnancy from her father with loose drapes and overall secrecy. She gives birth to the child, alone and silent and scared, with only a young, friendly midwife for company. After this, she puts the baby in a basket, seals it off and sets it afloat on the river Ashva (more likely she probably sent off the midwife to find a good family). She is absolutely broken by this action that she has to take, but she simply cannot keep him and still give him a good life when she herself has almost no standing within the family!

A couple years go by, and Kunti is now known across the subcontinent for (1) her beauty, and (2) more importantly, her religious propensity. Kuntibhoja arranges a swayamvara for her and Kunti is immediately drawn to and ultimately chooses Pandu.

Here, there are a few things to be said. For starters, right before the swayamvara, we see Bheeshma and Vidura discussing Pandu’s marriage prospects. Bheeshma, here talks about Kunti as the ‘Yadavi girl’. Researchers speculate that the Yadavas and Kurus might have had a primary agreement, and the swayamvara was just a farce.

I’ve written somewhere before that Bheeshma and Vyasa are veritably the two sides of the same coin. So, it is not a stretch to see that when Vyasa has an obvious soft spot for Gandhari, Bheeshma covers for Kunti from day 1. Bheeshma tells Karna, many, many years later, that he knew about him from before the swayamvara. He was in fact impressed with the finesse Kunti had shown in handling her situation (and her mantra, obviously), and had decided that she was the perfect candidate to become the Kuru-kingdom’s next Queen.

After the marriage, Kunti still spends most of her time in her religious endeavours (most probably a technique to avoid ‘romantic times’ with Pandu owing to her own trauma relating to the same), and Pandu, who most likely already knew that he couldn’t have kids, spends his time happily conquering around, knowing that his wife is not going to find out about him very soon.

Only, Bheeshma, the ever-nosy grandfather, sympathetic to Kunti’s trauma, thinks that maybe Pandu is intimidated by her sanctimonious personality (and I feel like Bheeshma is also in denial about Pandu’s issues, and only accepts it after the curse incident), and gets him a ‘barbie doll’ in the form of Madri (this is a criticism of Bheeshma, not Madri) to play with, thinking even Kunti will be glad to have an excuse to stay away.

Now, much as Kunti didn’t want to ‘play’ with Pandu, her abandonment issues resurface full-force, aimed at both Bheeshma and Pandu, when Madri arrives in Hastinapura. Only one month after this marriage, Pandu leaves again to conquer kingdoms, comes back and then takes his wives to the forest, gets cursed and then permanently moves out to the forests. In this time, Pandu had called the people who used ‘niyoga’ dogs (maybe from his mother’s experience), but eventually comes back to the same solution.

Pandu takes Kunti out in secret one day and asks if she had any children before their marriage and that he wouldn’t judge only if she let him adopt them. Even with such a free rein, Kunti stays silent about Karna. Perhaps, her fear about not letting her fathers down had morphed into not wanting to let her husband down, by admitting that he hadn’t been her ‘first’. Then, when Pandu tries to convince her to perform ‘niyoga’, she pleads with him (almost begs him) to not make her go through with it. Although she doesn’t share her story with him, we the readers know exactly what trauma is fuelling her terror at this moment.

However, in the face of Pandu’s crestfallen face, she finally tells him about Durvasa’s mantra, but not Karna. She somehow suppresses her trauma in the face of her love for her poor husband. She agrees on the condition that she wouldn’t have any control over the process: when, where and with whom, everything was to be determined by Pandu.

The real process of it was most likely harrowing (at least from my perspective). Since they lived pretty close to the trade route, Kunti probably had to go sit on the road, wait for a person matching Pandu’s list of criteria, and then lure him back with the mantra. Still, she does it, just because she loves him.

First with Dharma, she has Yudhishthira and then with Vayu, Bheema. After this, Pandu decides to up his game, and perform Tapasya before the next child. This time, we see Pandu much more involved in the process, as he, with Kunti, performs tapasya over an entire year, and actually talks with Sakra-Indra, the then king of the Devas, as they make an agreement, and Arjuna is born.

Then, Pandu asks again. This time Kunti, despite her love for him, is annoyed. Already, we can see just how humiliating the previous three times has been for her, never mind the trauma that has been so thoroughly re-invigorated. Researchers go as far as to even discover a kind of a k*nk on Pandu’s part.

Then, Madri corners Pandu one day, accusing him of unfairly favouring Kunti. She refuses to give up her veneer of a don’t-care attitude, and asks Pandu to order Kunti to teach her the mantra, because she wants a son but will not herself bow to Kunti to get it done.

Pandu too, knowing Kunti’s resolve, agrees readily. Kunti too takes some pleasure in being able to finally get a hand above her co-wife who had been so unfairly tied to her so soon after her marriage. She allows Madri to use her formula, but with a warning to her to use it only once.

When Kunti sees that Madri has summoned the twin Ashwini gods, she is furious, and goes to chastise her husband saying a lot of things, among which there are several derogatory quips about Madri’s character (‘ku-stri’).

One day, when Yudhishthira was almost a teenager, Pandu, distracted by the weather walked off into some cave, and Madri followed him, notably, her dress only half-tied. Then, Pandu dies, mid-process, and Madri yells out for Kunti, and warns her not to bring the children.

When Kunti sees Pandu dead, it’s like for some time her brain stops working. When Madri recollects the incident, she admits to Kunti that yes, she had followed Pandu, and been flirtatious. However, it had been Pandu who had ‘attacked’ her. How tragic, that Kunti, in this moment, does not recognize that her life’s primary trauma has just been reenacted here, act for act!

She devolves to blaming Madri. Among other things, she also brings up Madri’s kingdom, which we know, how the MB Aryans had become racist against Madra and Gandhara. The words Kunti uses here to insult Madri will be heard once again, directed at Madri’s brother himself and they will come from none other than Kunti’s oldest son!

 When Kunti declares that she is going to commit sati (not by fire, rather asphyxiation), Madri stops her, saying (1) she fears that Pandu might be unsatisfied without her in heaven, and (2) she would not be able to give the same impartial care to Kunti’s sons as Kunti could give to her twins, and kills herself, right there in front of Kunti.

Then, their neighbour rishis, pack them up and deliver them, alongside the corpses of Madri and Pandu, to Hastinapura. Kunti and her sons are then given a rather modest lodging, and even when Bheema is poisoned we see that Kunti has no one to lean on apart from Vidura, and even he seems unable to really help her out at this time.

Many years later, when the Pandavas have finished their education, Kunti’s first son walks back into her life, and she watches in horror as two of her sons pledge lifelong enmity to one another.

Then, during the Varanavat, we see somewhat the cruel streak in Kunti, where she, with a clear head, knowingly pushes a Nishada woman and her five sons towards a sure death while she herself and her sons run to save their lives. After this, again she slips into her normal compassionate self, where Hidimba finds it more productive to just propose marriage to her, than waiting around for Bheema to clock it, and Kunti too gives her the respect of the Kuru-family’s first daughter-in-law, and designates her son Ghatotkacha as a ‘kuru-putraka’ [a Kaurava child] even though Bheema and Hidimba never technically get married. She also then pushes Bheema before the Baka-rakshasa in Ekachakra leaning on the absolute trust she has on his physical prowess.

Finally, Vyasa comes to herd them off to Kampilya, and leaves for her a hint as to what to do with Draupadi (this is most probably a retcon, but is good for drama nevertheless). When Arjuna and the brothers bring Draupadi to her, without seeing she asks them to all share her. Then, she is quite sorry, and Yudhishthira too primarily releases both Arjuna and Draupadi from this conundrum, but Arjuna himself falls back into it again. But then, after many debates with many people, finally Draupadi gets married to the five brothers and they all return to Hastinapura. Right after the marriage, Kunti hands off the baton to Draupadi as she gives three ‘jobs’ to her new and the first official daughter-in-law: (1) to crown herself the Queen of the Kurus with her husband (Yudhishthira) by her side (2) to crown Yudhishthira as the King of the Kurus by her own authority, and finally (boringly) (3) to produce an heir for this throne. When they go to Indraprastha, Kunti enjoys a rather short-lived retirement as Draupadi happily picks up the mantle of being the annoying voice-of-conscience for the five brothers.

When the Pandavas are about to leave for their 13-year exile, she refuses to speak to them, talking instead exclusively to her daughter-in-law, trying to give her the courage to survive this before returning to Hastinapura to live with Vidura this time. She tells Draupadi to take extra care of Sahadeva (reminds her to feed him and lull him to sleep like she did, pushing Draupadi to take on almost a maternal role with her youngest husband) and then laments that if she had known this would happen, then she would not have come back from Shatasringa at all, and then tries in vain to stop Sahadeva from also going to the forest.

At the end of the exile, we see her first lament to Krishna about how all wives on Pandu’s side, especially herself and Draupadi, have always been disrespected by Hastinapura, and she presents an extremely rousing speech to be conveyed to her sons. She goes as par as to say that by not avenging Draupadi’s insult with enough violence, her sons have disrespected her as well. She says she would not even bless them, and consider her sons dead to her, until the moment that they finally declare war on Draupadi’s offenders.

Kunti also blames Karna equally, and the nicest thing she can think to say about him is that Karna never thinks before he acts.

However, she still thinks to try one last time and come clean to Karna about her past experience. Problem is, that Karna already knows. Even beyond the conversation he has with Krishna some time back, he probably has known about Kunti for quite some time now. Kunti doesn’t know that she hasn’t got the element of surprise that he had been banking on.

When he spots Kunti standing in the sun, he introduces himself with quite some salt in his words, “Raadheyohaham Aadhirathih” [born of Radha, the son of Adhiratha]. It works, and Kunti, with some anger in her voice, recounts her story in short, with much less emotion than she had hoped to imbibe. Karna curses her out, in ornamental language though, and refuses to change sides. Kunti, reading the finality in his tone, embraces him for the first and last time, and leaves with a promise from Karna to not kills the four Pandavas aside from Arjuna. She is however heartbroken as Karna sends her away without once calling her ‘mother’.

When, after the war, Kunti final comes clean to her remaining sons, Yudhishthira, almost out of character, starts lashing out at her, believing that Karna switching sides might have stopped the war. He goes as far as to curse at all womenkind for her decision. Neither Kunti nor Krishna however tell him just now that they had each tried, in their own ways but had been rejected.

After the war, we see Kunti serving Dhritarashtra and Gandhari, almost like a daughter. I feel like, her actions here, devoid of any apparent remembrance of the injustices meted out to her, is the product of a quiet sense of superiority. Perhaps, somewhere subconsciously, she likes that the two people who were the primary reason for her suffering are now so absolutely dependent on her. I do not think that was Kunti’s primary reason though, on the surface, she was probably just following society’s rules of the submission of the younger family members to the elders.

When the ex-royal couple finally leave for the forest, Kunti quietly leads them herself, only breaking the news of her wish to stay on with them to Yudhishthira when they are already in the forest. She apologizes to her son for never having told him about Karna, instructs him to remember his brother, and resolves to atone for it by leading the hard life with her remaining in-laws. Among other things, she warns Yudhishthira to never scold her favourite Sahadeva.

Some researchers posit also that she had taken great offence to how Yudhishthira had insulted her love for her firstborn all those years back, and she wasn’t going to wait around in Hastinapura for that disrespect to escalate, maybe from latter generations too, if not from her own sons.

After some time, not able to stay away, the Pandavas run back to Shatayupa’s ashram again to see his mother, uncle and aunt. Here too, Sahadeva, runs to embrace her ‘like a child’.  He even begs to stay with her from here on, refusing to return to the capital until his brothers physically pry him off. Now, in Vyasa’s and her entire family’s presence, Sahadeva still held in her arms, she again confesses, apologising once more for abandoning Karna, and requests Vyasa to show him once more, this time with the full glory of being a brother of the Pandavas and Kauravas. Vyasa, gives his finally verdict, declaring Kunti completely innocent in the face of her family situation, and uses some magic to bring all the dead back to life for a night. Kunti watches on, with complete satisfaction, as her six sons finally unite on the bank of Ganga.

Yudhishthira too asks to stay with his mother, serving all three of them, and tells Kunti that he is no longer enjoying being Hastina’s ruler (did he ever?). Kunti forcefully sends all of them back, and dies soon after in a forest fire, along with Dhritarashtra and Gandhari.

[technically-human]

After the confession, they still had to run.

[stillwatervoid]

Now nothing’s the same | Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Summary: You know it isn't your Mark the moment he steps into your room. The blood on his suit isn't his. The way he looks at you isn't right. The things he whispers aren't things your Mark would ever say. Yet, you let him stay. And more.

Pairing: Alternate!Mark Grayson x Male!Reader

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, frottage, overstimulation, rimming (R receiving), belly bulging, unprotected sex, spit as lube.

Tags: any Mark variant, Reader is lowkey not okay, and he’s a virgin (so prob unrealistic sex?), Unrequited love (for original Mark), Top!Mark, Bottom!Reader.

w.c: 12.2k  |  a/n: English isn’t my first language. This is the first time I write smut so it probably sucks, but hey, I wrote 12k? How did that happen? Yikes… Feedback is appreciated—as longs as is respectful. Also, I wrote this with no particular Mark in mind, so feel free to imagine your favorite variant! The only exception is Mohawk Mark, since his unique hairstyle would immediately reveal he's not the mainstream version at the very beginning (unless you prefer to imagine the reader being dense and oblivious to that glaring detail...).I guess it doesn’t really matter. IMAGINE ANY MARK! And enjoy!!!

You're here | Part 2

Ever since the news broke about cities around the world being destroyed by multiple versions of Invincible, you’ve been hiding. It’s the only logical thing to do—for someone powerless like you, there’s nothing else to do. You can only wait for the nightmare to end, for the heroes to rise victorious. For Mark to rise victorious.

So you stay in your home, clutching your phone, waiting for something—anything—to change. A day passes, and Mark still hasn’t answered your messages. He’s busy, you tell yourself, burying your face in your pillow to stifle the ache in your chest. Of course he’s busy. How could he not be? His hands are full with the weight of the world on his shoulders—fighting, saving, surviving. The news keeps reporting on the Invincibles’ rampage, updating the world daily. A stupid text message—of course Mark doesn’t have time to reply.

(You try not to think about how Mark has been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same. How you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. But you didn’t, and now nothing’s the same.)

So you wait, trapped within your four walls, your chest heavy with worry for your friends—your hero friends—who are out there risking their lives. You cling to the news like a lifeline, watching as the Invincibles tear through city after city, leaving thousands dead, all while they smile like it’s a game.

So you wait, and pray. Anxiety coils tight in your chest, pressing against your ribs until it feels like you might burst. But eventually, hunger forces you to move. You drag yourself to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fumble with the bread. You barely register the motion, your mind drifting to every terrible, unlikely scenario where Mark—your Mark—doesn’t make it. The thought alone makes your throat tighten.

It’s not good. You shouldn’t be this negative. But there are so many Invincibles, and if they’re anything like the Mark you know, then even the strongest heroes must be struggling. People will die. People you care about. And you try—God, you try—not to think about who, who, who.

Maybe that’s why you don’t hear him.

Not that there’s any particular sound to warn you. No footsteps, no creak of the floorboards. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional rustle of the curtains by the open window.

One second, your eyes are on the bread on the counter, and the next, an unexpected voice brushes against your ear.

“Found you,” he whispers.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering to the counter. Your breath hitches as you turn your head slowly.

(Vaguely, you think about Mark fussing over you like a mother hen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. “You really shouldn’t leave your window open like that,” he’d chide, voice laced with exasperation. “Anyone could get in.”

But you’d just laugh, brushing off his concern. “It’s a sixth floor, Mark. And you’re the only weirdo who does.”

I’ll always leave my window open for you, you wouldn’t say.

I’ll always be waiting for you to come, you couldn’t say.)

And then, there he is.

“Mark?” you breathe, relief crashing over you in an overwhelming wave. You don’t notice the differences—how his suit is wrong, smeared with fresh blood and viscera that drip onto your clean floor. How his eyes are too wide, too unblinking, something wild lurking behind them. You don’t see any of it. All you see is Mark standing there, safe, alive. “Oh my god, Mark.”

You rush to him without hesitation, arms outstretched, wrapping him up in a desperate embrace. You’ve been so worried, so consumed by the gnawing anxiety of losing him, that just hearing his voice, just seeing him, shatters any rational thought.

For a moment, he stiffens against you. But then, his arms lock around you with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too tight, too much, an intensity Mark has never held you with before. That should have been your first warning. But as soon as he hides his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your sensitive skin, you forget about everything that seems wrong. You forget about the blood, the wild look in his eyes, the way his grip feels almost possessive. All you can focus on is the way he inhales deeply, as if he’s been starved of this—of you.

You shudder, heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain, and then he sighs, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating against your skin.

(“You smell really good,” Mark would murmur, crowding into your space, his nose nearly brushing your neck as he inhaled deeply. “Like, really good.”

You’d shove at his chest, face flaming despite yourself. “Christ, Grayson, you’re not a dog. Back off.”

He’d laugh—that stupid, sunshine-bright laugh that always made your pulse stutter—and lean against the lockers with infuriating ease. “Just being honest… Hey, you could tell me what perfume you use. Maybe then Amber would actually like me on our next date.”

Your chest would tighten, eyebrows knitting together before you could stop them.

“Can’t help you there, pretty boy,” you’d say, slamming your locker shut harder than necessary. When he raised an eyebrow at you, you’d flash a razor-thin smile. “Turns out it’s natural. One hundred percent me.”) 

“It’s you…” Mark whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. You hold your breath, trying to suppress the goosebumps rising on your skin, but it’s futile. His voice is low, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He squeezes you tighter, his arms like steel bands around you. “Oh, it’s you.” 

“Mark?” you ask hesitantly, confusion laced in your voice. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

You try to push yourself away, hands pressing against his shoulders to create some space—because you can’t do this. You can’t handle him holding you like this, his voice hoarse and low against your neck, his breath hot enough to make you weak. You’re friends. Only friends. He’s made that much clear, and this—this isn’t fair.

But you barely manage to put a few inches between you before he whines, a sound so raw and desperate it catches you off guard. In an instant, he pulls you back in, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his grip unyielding.

“Mark?” you whisper again, voice trembling.

“Not yet,” he replies, his tone pleading. “Let me hold you one more minute.” 

And you don’t have the strength to refuse him.

Yet, as the seconds tick by and he keeps clinging to you like a child afraid to let go, you can’t help but notice the things you’ve been ignoring.

Why is Mark here? Why would he suddenly show up at your apartment when he’s supposed to be out there, saving the world? Why would Mark—the same Mark who’s been keeping you in this strange, distant limbo for weeks, who barely speaks to you beyond polite conversation, who’s been looking at you with a mix of discomfort, guilt, and something else you can’t quite place—be holding you so desperately right now?

Then your attention drifts to his clothes. His suit, but not really his suit. The blood—the thick, dark blood that, now that you’re truly paying attention, doesn’t belong to him. And it’s a lot, pooling around your feet, staining your floor, soaking your clothes.

A sickening weight settles in your stomach, curling, twisting, nagging at the back of your mind. Your arms go slightly limp around him, hesitation creeping in where relief had been just moments ago. Your brain, which had felt so light, so grateful just a minute ago at the sight of him safe, suddenly flashes back to the news. The destruction. The Invincibles terrorizing the world.

And you wonder.

Finally, he exhales—a slow, steady breath, like someone bracing themselves. Then, he lets go, his hands lingering on your arms as if he’s reluctant to break contact entirely.

“Y/N…” he whispers, a wide grin stretching across his face. It’s an unusual smile, unnatural, amused when it shouldn’t. “Here’s where you’ve been hiding, huh?”

“Hiding?” you ask, unsure. “Well—I can’t really do anything else, can I?”

Mark smiles spreads. But his eyes—there’s something in them you hadn’t noticed before. Wide, almost frantic, something raw burning behind them. The dark circles under them make him look exhausted. His hair is a mess. And yet, his expression softens as he studies you, gaze tracing over every feature like he’s trying to memorize you. It’s so intense, so intimate, it nearly steals your breath away.

“What—What are you doing here?” you ask, glancing away, flustered. “Is it—is it over? The fight?”

He coos, a gloveless hand reaching for your chin to tilt it back toward him with a grip that’s firm, almost possessive. “Oh, it’s over. There’s nothing to worry about anymore,” he says, voice light, too light, too nonchalant for someone who just came from a battle. Mark doesn’t speak like this after a fight—he’s never so casual, so detached.

(Mark’s hands would dig into his hair, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m just—I keep fucking up.”

“You’re not,” you’d tell him, hand pressing warm circles between his shoulder blades. “You save people, Mark. Every single day—”

“Bullshit!” He’d jerk upright so fast you’d recoil, chair screeching against the floor. “More people die than I save!” He’d pace, fingers twisting in his hair. “Stop—just stop telling me I’m not fucking up! Stop trying to—to make me feel better! You don’t understand how I feel!”

Your chest would tighten, fingers curling into empty air where he’d been. “I know I don’t.”

“Then stop!”

“However—” you’d stand up as well, eyes locking onto his as you caught his face in your hands, palms pressing gently against his cheeks. Mark would freeze, his breath hitching, wide eyes locked onto yours. “However, I know the world would be worse without you in it. Just thinking about the possibility of not having Invincible on our side—it scares me. Because you’re the only one strong enough to protect us. The only one who can stand up to the worst threats.”

Your thumb would brush over his cheekbone, touch impossibly gentle.

“And I’m sorry you have to carry that responsibility, Mark. But you’re not failing. Not to me.”

His expression would crumble, his eyes glistening with unshed tears before he’d pull you close, burying his face in your shoulder. His breath would shake, and you’d feel his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt.

Your cheeks would burn, heart stuttering, but you'd swallow your feelings and offer only the comfort a friend should.

“I’m sorry,” he’d murmur, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”

You’d breathe in, closing your eyes. “Don’t be.”)

Your cheeks burn as he tugs you closer by the chin, forcing you to look straight at him. Your hand instinctively reaches for his wrist, but you don’t pull away. You should. But you don’t. Yet, you can’t stand the weight of his stare, so intense, so close, it feels like it’s peeling back layers of you, exposing everything you’ve tried to suppress.

“Nothing to worry about?” you force the words out, trying to ignore the heat flooding your face and the fluttering sensation in your stomach. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he nods, his voice low and steady. Then, without warning, he leans closer again, his face burying into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply like he just couldn’t get enough. “Oh, shit. How I missed this.”

“Mark?” you ask quietly, voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it. His breath is hot and electric against your skin. The warmth blooming in your face spreads down, coiling through your body. “What are you doing? Jesus—this isn’t like you.”

“Oh, really?” he hums, lips ghosting over your pulse. The brush of them—so soft, so deliberate—makes you shudder. “Not even a little?”

“No…” you exhale, shivering when his arms snake around your waist, squeezing hard enough to make you squirm. “No. Mark. What—what are you doing?”

Your hands reach for the counter behind you, gripping the edge tightly, desperate for something to anchor you. But Mark—his scent, his body pressed so tightly against yours, his breath burning against the most sensitive part of your throat—makes it impossible to focus, impossible to think. It’s like everything around you is spinning, and you can’t make sense of any of it.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, his tone amused and teasing, like this is all some game to him.

And that finally makes you scowl, the heat in your cheeks now burning with a mix of anger and humiliation. You inhale sharply, trying to regain your senses, but an ugly feeling of shame and hurt settles heavily in your chest.

You lift a hand and push him, or at least try to, your strength no match for his. Still, he complies, pulling away with a reluctant sigh, an annoyed expression flickering across his face as he finally tears himself from you.

“This isn’t funny, Mark,” you say, glancing away, unable to bear the intensity of his stare. “Stop it.” 

“Stop what?” he complains, his fingers digging into your waist as if he’s reluctant to let you go entirely.

“That,” you snap, gripping his wrists and prying his hands off. “You can’t just—just ignore me for weeks and then suddenly show up and treat me this way. It’s—it messes with my head! It’s not fair, Mark!” your breath comes heavy, your chest rising and falling as you struggle to form the words. Your eyes drop to the floor, and you add quietly, “Just stop.” 

He’s silent for a moment, and you can feel his gaze burning into you, searching, analyzing. His head tilts slightly, as if he’s trying to piece something together.

“We’re not… together?” he asks after a beat, his voice incredulous, like the idea is absurd.

The question makes you flinch, and a fresh wave of anger surges through you.

(“I’m sorry,” Mark would mutter, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding yours. “I just—don’t see you that way.”

You’d glance away, your lips pressed together in a tight line, trying to hold back the sting of rejection. “I’m sorry too.”

“It’s just—there’s someone else I wanna try it with.”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sigh, wanting Earth to swallow you whole and disappear forever. But this is Mark, and you couldn’t bear living without Mark. “We’re still friends, right? This doesn’t have to change anything.”

He’d smile at you, his eyes creasing at the edges in the way you adored. “Yeah—Friends!”)

“Of course not!” you snap, voice rising. “You made it very clear you—you love someone else!”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his overwhelming presence. Was he mocking you? Playing some cruel joke?

But then again, as you pace around the kitchen, trying to hold yourself together, your eyes flicker to his odd suit, to the blood clinging to him, to the confused, almost baffled look on his face. And you think again—why is Mark here? Why, really?

Is he even Mark—

“But Y/N—” he whines, trailing after you like a lost puppy, his voice pleading, “—I would never, and I mean never look at anyone else but you!”

You frown, shaking your head. “I can’t even believe you’re saying this to me right now,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “Did you hit your head too hard fighting those lunatics?”

You don’t notice the way he tilts his head at your words, don’t catch the way his eyes darken, flashing with something unreadable.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then just leave,” you huff, bitterness lacing your tone. “I don’t wanna—humiliate myself any more than I already have. You had your fun. So go away.”

You turn on your heel, heart pounding as you stride toward your bedroom where your phone is charging. There’s a gut feeling gnawing at you, a sensation you can’t shake, and you need confirmation. You need reassurance.

Is the Mark standing behind you even your Mark at all?

Your gut twists violently, but you can’t shake it. The second you step into your bedroom, your hand fishes for your phone, fingers trembling as you scroll through your contacts and press the button.

But Mark hasn’t left. He follows right after you, moving with an easy, unhurried stride, and when he realizes what you’re doing, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.

“O-ho?” he hums, amusement dripping from his voice. “My, my, Y/N, why’re you calling me?” 

His hand moves, effortlessly covering yours, fingers warm and firm over your knuckles. The phone rings—once, twice—and Mark leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, voice low, teasing.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.” 

Your breath hitches. The sound of the third ring barely registers before he plucks the phone from your grasp with unnerving ease. You don’t even resist—your fingers tremble as they slip away from the device. Not that it would have done anything, anyway. The fifth ring echoes into silence, then clicks to Mark’s familiar voicemail. Useless.

The air in the room shifts, heavy and overwhelming. You watch, frozen, as he casually places your phone on your desk, just far enough out of reach.

Then, the moment your eyes meet his, you know.

This isn’t the Mark you know and love.

Mark hums, content, utterly unbothered as he slides back into your arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He sighs, pleased, like he belongs there, like nothing’s wrong.

Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe it’s fear, or disbelief, or survival instincts.

Because you let him.

Your arms fall open, letting him settle more comfortably against you, his weight pressing into you as he nuzzles closer. His warmth, his scent, the way he holds you tight—it’s all too much. And you—weak-kneed, breath unsteady—let him.

“Are you going to kill me?” you can’t help but ask eventually, voice quiet, barely a whisper.

He makes a confused sound in his throat, the vibration brushing against your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “Hmm—not yet.”

Not yet. You should be terrified. Every nerve in your body should be screaming for you to run, to fight, to do something other than stand there, frozen, pliant in his grip. You know he’s dangerous. You know he could snap your neck without a second thought.

Yet—a curious thing happens in your brain.

You’re not afraid. You can’t be.

Because when your eyes settle on this Mark—and he looks exactly like the Mark you know, the Mark you have feelings for—something just… doesn’t click the way it should. Fear doesn’t come. Disgust doesn’t rise in your throat. Dread doesn’t tighten its grip around your chest.

Because he looks so much like Mark. And duh—he is Mark. But not yours, and that alone should be enough to make you want to bolt. Yet—as he nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath tingling against your skin, his solid body pressing into yours with a firmness that feels both grounding and overwhelming, and the way he called you ‘sweetheart’—it all makes you want to give in to him.

The feelings you’ve buried—the ones you’ve shoved down since the day Mark rejected you, since the day you forced yourself to be okay with just being friends—are clawing their way back to the surface, stronger, faster, more consuming than ever.

“Oh yeah, you don’t have to worry though,” he says, his lips brushing against your pulse in a way that feels deliberate, calculated. “It’d be such a waste to kill you so fast. I came here for you, after all.”

His lips trail along your neck, slow and purposeful, and despite everything—despite knowing this isn’t right—you sigh, shivering at the unfamiliar, intoxicating affection. He moves upward, lips ghosting over your skin until he reaches your ear, nipping at your earlobe.

“Mark…” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, body melting under his touch.

“Ohh, I know, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with amusement, dripping with smug satisfaction. You can feel the smirk curving against your skin. “I know everything you like. I know every inch of you. Let me show you.”

Your body betrays you.

Your mind knows better—knows that this Mark isn’t yours, that the weight of his body pressing into yours should send alarms blaring through your head. But when his fingers skim your waist, when his breath fans hot against your skin, when he sighs like he belongs here—your body doesn’t fight him.

It welcomes him.

Your hands twitch at your sides, uncertain, but you don’t push him away.

“I can’t believe this universe’s Mark wouldn’t date you,” he muses, fingers wandering, exploring, curling behind your back before cupping your ass and squeezing. A choked sound catches in your throat as heat floods through you, your knees nearly giving out. “I mean—look at you.” His voice dips, teasing, triumphant. “Barely resisting.”

You bite your lip, swallowing a sound you refuse to let escape.

He laughs then—open, mocking, and so, so cocky. “And here I thought I’d have to fight this Mark over you, but—” his grin widens, wicked and pleased. “I don’t think I have any competition, sweetheart.” His lips brush against your jaw, his grip tightening possessively. “You’re all mine.”

He starts to push against you, forcing you to walk backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress. You fall onto the bed, breathless, your heart racing as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry.

“Just mine, okay?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with possessiveness. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch you—not even him. Not even this universe’s pathetic version of me.” He scoffs, his hands gripping the hem of your t-shirt and tugging it off with a harsh, almost desperate motion. “Loving someone else? When I have you? He’s a fool. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. Y/N—you have no idea how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve—” 

He groans, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes raking over your exposed skin like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can satisfy him. You shiver, a deep blush spreading across your face. It’s too much, too fast, and you feel utterly exposed as his gaze devours every inch of you. His expression twists, a mix of desperation and adoration, as if he’s memorizing every detail of your body, committing it to memory so he’ll never forget. His fingers twitch, hovering over your skin but not touching, like he’s savoring the moment, stretching it out just to make you squirm.

It’s too intimate, too intense, and for a fleeting second, you forget that he’s dangerous.

“Stop staring,” you weakly complain, turning your face away.

“Oooh, oh-ho-ho, yeah, baby, you’re just like I remember...” he laughs, his breathing uneven, his voice shaking with a wild, almost manic energy. “Yeah—I’ll never let him have you. Never let anyone else even look at you. You’re just mine—holy shit.” 

And then he dives.

His lips crash into yours, claiming rather than kissing, his entire body pressing you down into the mattress, forcing your legs open. It’s desperate, feverish—starving. His tongue pushes past your lips, stealing your breath, and you moan into his mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you struggle to keep up with his messy, frantic rhythm. He kisses you with a ferocity that leaves you dizzy. He groans and growls against your lips as his hands roam your body, gripping and groping every inch of exposed skin. His fingers brush against your nipples, teasing and possessive, and you can only take it, breathless and overwhelmed, your mind spinning as he claims you in every way he can.

“Yeah, baby, keep making those sounds for me,” he murmurs against your lips before diving in again, swallowing every breath, every whimper like it fuels him. “So, so good. Fuck, you have no idea—it keeps me going.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers pinch your nipple, hard enough to make your back arch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he grinds his hips down. Your legs part without a second thought, welcoming him, urging him closer until he’s right there, pressing into you, slotting himself between your thighs.

“That’s it, spread wider for me,” he pants, voice dripping with dark approval. “You’re still so good, fuck.”

Your lips burn, swollen and tingling from his kisses, and when you blink up at him through your lashes, you catch the glint in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, the usual warm brown of his eyes swallowed by something feral. That smirk—all sharp teeth and predatory hunger—should terrify you. Because the Mark you know has never looked like this before. This unhinged and unsteady. It’s a sharp, gut-wrenching reminder—this isn’t your Mark. This isn’t the sweet, awkward Mark who you fell for, the one you trusted. This Mark is wrong, a twisted mirror image, and you should be fighting him, shoving him away, clawing your way out even if it’s futile—

But then he leans down and presses the softest, faintest kiss to the tip of your nose.

And your mind blanks.

Because holy shit—Mark, the man you’ve been pining over for months, years, is kissing you. And it feels so good, so intoxicating, it messes with your head, scrambles your thoughts into something dangerous.

You know it’s wrong. You know this isn’t him. It’s like pouring your feelings into a stranger, a shadow wearing his face. But fuck—this Mark grinds against you, slow and deliberate, and you feel him, the hard press of him against you, thick and aching with want.

You gasp, body tensing, startled by how badly he wants you.

“Ohh, baby,” he whines, voice thick with desperate need, like he’s been starving for this moment for lifetimes. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, marking you as his. “Let me—” His hips roll again, dragging his thick length against your own, and you choke on air. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you come, please, baby, please.”

Teeth scrape along your jaw before finding that sweet spot beneath your ear—the one you didn’t even know was sensitive—and you arch off the bed with a broken moan when he sucks harshly at the skin. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—he maps every inch of you like he’s memorized you, like he already knows every single weak spot before you even realize them yourself.

“Please? Please?” he keeps begging, voice so raw, so desperate, so utterly pathetic it makes you dizzy.

And you—you’re still too caught off guard to react properly. Because Mark—your Mark—never looked at you like this. Never even wanted you like this. But this Mark? He’s rutting against you like an animal in heat, his massive cock straining against his suit as he whimpers your name, making your head spin.

It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. Because Mark rejected you. Because you told yourself you’d be fine with just being friends. Because this isn’t even him—just the evil, dangerous version of him.

(Mark would slip into your open arms, his body heavy with exhaustion.

“I just—I’m scared,” he’d admit, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Scared of turning into my father. Scared of hurting people. And after everything with Angstrom…” his voice would trail off, fingers twitching against your back like he’s afraid to hold on too tightly.

You’d run a soothing hand along his spine, grounding him. “What do you mean?” you’d ask, gentle, coaxing him to keep talking.

“He—he talked about me like I was a monster,” Mark would whisper, voice tight. “Like there’s a version of me out there who destroyed everything. A version of me who’d kill everyone I love. A version of me who’d… destroy you.”

A slow, quiet exhale would leave your lips. “But you’re this Mark,” you’d remind him. “You’re my best friend. And you’d never do that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, slowly, Mark would sags against you, burying himself deeper into your warmth.

“Yeah,” he’d murmur, barely more than a breath. “Never.”)

But when you move—when you grind up into him, your body answering before your mind can stop it—he makes a noise, something between a groan and a sob, and it’s so wrecked, so full of relief it makes your stomach twist.

Your arms loop around his neck, dragging him closer, pressing your bodies so tight together you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your own. And when his teeth sink into your throat, sucking so hard you know it’s going to bruise, a sharp, broken sound escapes your lips.

The room burns around you, filled with the obscene sounds of his desperate whines and your shaky gasps, the slick friction of fabric between your joined bodies.

“Yeah—” you gasp, nails raking down his back as pleasure coils tight in your gut. “Fuck, Mark, just—Do it. Do it.”

He groans, deep and guttural, a sound so full of possession it sends a sharp pulse of heat down your spine. Then his teeth sink into your neck again—hard enough that you know he’s breaking skin. And when his tongue licks the wound, sucking the blood like he owns you—you know he’s got you.

Your mind fractures into white-hot static as every rational thought—the blood crusted on his suit, the madness in his eyes, the thousands he’s slaughtered, the fact this isn’t your Mark—dissolves into primal need. Nothing exists but the electric pleasure coiling tighter in your gut with each desperate grind of his hips.

“Mark,” you sob, voice breaking as your body arches against him of its own volition. Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer. “Oh god, Mark. Fuck. Mark.”

A guttural snarl vibrates against your throat as he claims your mouth again, his tongue pushing past your lips in a violent mimicry of what his hips are doing against yours. The growing dampness between your thighs should shame you, but all you can focus on is the delicious friction, the way his teeth scrape your bottom lip when you moan too loud.

But it’s still not enough.

Not with these fucking clothes between you, not with the way you’re both rutting against each other like wild animals, frantic and insatiable. It’s maddening. You need more.

Your nails claw at his back, at his suit, needing to feel his skin the way he’s feeling yours.

“Get it off,” you manage to gasp between feverish kisses. “Please, Mark.”

With a dark chuckle that sends shivers down your spine, he rears back just enough to grip his suit’s collar. The fabric shreds like tissue paper beneath his strength, revealing sweat-slick skin you immediately map with trembling fingers. His pupils blow wider at your touch, chest heaving as he crushes you back into the mattress.

“Oh yeah, Y/N...” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as his fingertips trace the dark marks blooming across your neck like bruises. Proof that you belong to him. “Bet this universe’s Mark never made you feel this way, did he? Never touched you like this?” his grip tightens suddenly, making you gasp. “I’m the first, aren’t I? The only one who’s ever had you like this?”

You whimper, nodding without thinking, legs locking tight around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him there.

His grin stretches, wild and triumphant. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down with agonizing slowness—down your neck, across your heaving chest, brushing over your sensitive nipples, gliding down your stomach... Until, finally, his fingers settle between your legs, pressing against the thick, aching bulge in your sweatpants, squeezing just enough to rip a needy moan from your lips. “Look at you,” he breathes, eyes wild with possessive hunger. “So fucking perfect for me. So ready to be mine. Does your Mark know what a desperate little thing you are? How easily you fall apart under my hands?”

His smile tilts, both awestruck and predatory. Then, he leans in until his lips brush yours, his hand working you through the fabric with rough, perfect strokes that have you trembling.

“So hard just for me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “He could never make you feel like this. Never touch you like I do.” His teeth graze your bottom lip. “He could never compare. I’m better, I’m stronger—”

He peppers kisses along the corner of your mouth, your flushed cheeks, tender and teasing, a sharp contrast to the way his pace quickens—faster, rougher.

“—I could make you feel even better,” he purrs, pressing his lips against your ear, voice so low, so filthy it makes you shudder. “Make you scream my name, so loud and clear, maybe the other Mark could even hear you.”

Your breath stutters, a deep moan slipping from your lips, body twisting under his touch.

“Ohh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he chuckles, breath warm against your neck, teasing, taunting. “You’d love to let him watch. Love to let him see you break for me. Let him realize what he’s lost—what he’ll never have again.”

His voice dips lower, sinking into something darker, something twisted.

“You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?”

Your body jolts, heat flashing through you in a violent rush, shame curling in your stomach like a vice.

“N-no—!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face burning with humiliation. “No, I wouldn’t—”

But your body betrays you. Trembling, surrendering, completely giving in—your hips rut desperately against his hand, your pre-cum soaking through the fabric, staining it.

“Liar,” Mark breathes against your swollen lips before crushing them again in a kiss that’s hot, rough, and bruising. “I can feel how much you want it. How much you need it.”

His thumb presses cruelly against the head of your cock, rubbing slow, torturous circles through the fabric, making you see stars. Your whole body jolts, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat.

“Maybe I should drag him here,” he whispers, grinning against your lips. “Make him watch as I fuck you so good, you forget he’s your Mark Grayson. Make him see how perfectly you take me—how you were always meant to be... ours.”

You shake your head frantically, words lost between your ragged gasps. “No—”

But your back arches, cock throbbing obscenely against his palm. The more he whispers these filthy fantasies, the harder you get, hips stuttering, desperate and eager, seeking more, more, more, as his words sink deep into your brain, filling you with something forbidden, something wrong—something you like.

The pressure builds unbearable. His fingers move with ruthless precision, stroking, squeezing, dragging you to the edge, pulling sounds from you that should be humiliating—but you can’t stop.

Then you think about it. About your Mark. The one who’s still out there, fighting, struggling, exhausted and worn down. You think about what would he think. What would he do if he saw you like this. You imagine your Mark’s confused face watching—the horror in his eyes as he sees you come apart under his doppelgänger’s touch, moaning and whimpering like some cheap slut desperate for any version of him.

“Mark,” you sob as waves of shame and pleasure crash over you. “Mark, Mark—”

Mark exhales a breathy chuckle, eyes dark with fascination. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s it, baby. I’m here. I’m right here.”

And then it hits you.

White-hot pleasure blinds you completely as you spill in your sweatpants like some untouched virgin, his name tumbling from your lips in a broken prayer. Your body arches violently, convulsing as your legs clamp around his waist like a vice. Your hands claw at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, to this moment, to reality itself.

“Jesus…” he exhales, almost in awe, his grip tightening possessively. “My god… so perfect.”

You’re reduced to a trembling, gasping mess—shaky legs, toes curling, vision whiting out as the aftershocks rip through you. Mark watches it all with a smug, hungry smirk, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch, every quiver like he’s trying to memorize it, to brand it into his mind.

“Yeah—let it out, Y/N,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “I did this to you. I made you feel this good.”

(“Does that feel good?” Mark would mutter into your ear, his hands still working awkwardly at the knots in your back.

You’d groan, face mushed into the pillow. ”Yup. Feels good. Really good.”

“I still can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he’d grumble, brows pinching together.

You’d stifle a laugh, eyes fluttering shut. ”You lost the bet, Grayson. Now keep massaging my back. My muscles are still wrecked from all the damn work you put me through covering you at Uni.”

“William never complains.”

“Because William sucks at covering! The only reason you’re not suspended is because I’m just too good at lying—Oh! Yeah! Right there, don’t stop,” you’d sigh, melting into the mattress. ”Oh my god, yes…”

His hands would freeze, fingers pressing hesitantly into your skin. ”…Can you stop making those sounds?”

“What sounds?” you’d murmur, half-dazed.

Mark would be quiet for a beat, then resume with a sigh. “Never mind. How about this? Does that feel good?”

“Mmmh, holy shit—yes!”)

Finally, you sink into the mattress, chest rising and falling in desperate, uneven breaths as your climax wears off. Your head falls back against the pillows, glazed eyes barely tracking Mark’s movements. His fingers leave the bulge in your sweatpants, moving to your waistband, fumbling briefly before tugging your sweatpants and underwear down, inch by inch.

“Just let me take care of you,” he mumbles, dazed. “Always gonna take care of you.”

The cold air bites at your oversensitive cock as he yanks it free, his pupils blown wide as he stares at what’s his. Before you can even process the exposure, Mark flashes you a wicked grin before his lips wrap around your cock, hot and wet and devastating. Your hips jolt, body convulsing at the sensation. His tongue swirls, savoring, exploring, a deep groan rumbling in his throat as he tastes you. The overstimulation is unbearable, electric. A strangled, pathetic cry rips from your throat as your hands fly to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, trying—failing—to push him away.

“Mark!” you jolt, thighs snapping shut around his head, trembling, squeezing, clutching. “Oh my god. Oh my god—oh my god. No—”

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles through him, vibrating against your cock and making you yelp. His hands pin your thrashing hips down, holding you there, making sure you take it.

“Mark—”

“Mine,” he snarls between filthy, wet sucks. “Gonna taste every fucking drop.”

The overstimulation borders on painful as he works you ruthlessly through your sensitivity, your cries growing increasingly broken. And yet, somewhere beneath the overwhelming pleasure, a traitorous part of you preens at being so desperately wanted.

Wanted. By Mark. Not your Mark, not the one who’d gently rejected you, but a Mark all the same. A version from some twisted reality who’d torn through dimensions just to claim you. And it sickens you—the satisfaction curling in your gut, the twisted pleasure of knowing that somewhere, in some reality, Mark has always wanted you. Craved you. And if he’s here, willing to ruin you, to unravel you with nothing but his mouth, then who are you to stop him?

His tongue works you over with filthy precision, hot and wet and perfect in ways you’d never dared fantasize about. You writhe beneath him, sheets twisting in your fists, as your gaze drops to where he’s sucking you off—Mark Grayson, on his knees for you, eyes close in joy. The sight alone punches a broken noise from your throat.

“F-fuck—!” you arch violently, tears spilling as pleasure crests into near-pain. “Fuck, I can’t—Mark, please, I can’t—!”

Finally, he lets you go with a slick, obscene ‘pop.’ He pants, breath heavy, lips red and wet as he leans over you. You’re gasping too, your chest rising and falling in erratic bursts, your body trembling like you’ve run yourself into the ground.

Mark watches you, gaze trailing over your flushed skin, your wrecked, tear-streaked face. And then he grins.

“I love you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough. His thumb swipes at the wetness on your cheek. “Love it when you cry.”

(“I hate when you cry,” Mark would say, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ”I hate it even more when it’s me who made you cry.”

You’d slap his hand away, face twisting into a scowl. ”Shut up, Grayson. How dare you—how dare you act upset.” Your voice would shake, anger sharpening every word. ”You can’t even say sorry. Can’t even fake an excuse for why you’ve treated me like this, ignoring me for months… And don’t try to deny it—William noticed too!”

He’d wince, eyes darting away. ”I can’t—I can’t say it.”

“That you’re sorry?” you’d scoff, disbelief dripping from the words.

Mark would bite his lip, shaking his head desperately. ”No! Of course not. It’s—the reason.”

“The reason you’ve been pulling away?” you’d snap, swiping the back of your hand across your wet cheek. Then, it would hit you—heart lurching. ”Is it… because I confessed? I thought we were past that. That we’d still be friends no matter what…”

Your voice would crack, gaze dropping to the floor.

Mark would flinch, shoulders slumping in defeat. ”It’s part of the reason.”

“I don’t understand,” you’d murmur, voice breaking. ”You said it didn’t matter. You promised it wouldn’t change anything.”

“I don’t understand either,” he’d admit, hand scrubbing roughly through his hair. ”Just—just give me time. I need to… figure some things out.”

“You won’t even tell me?”

Mark would press his lips into a tight line, guilt flashing across his face as his gaze caught on your tear-streaked cheeks. ”I can’t.”)

A helpless sob rips from your throat as he surges forward, capturing your bruised lips in a desperate, feverish kiss. He moans into your mouth, deep and needy, and you can taste yourself on his tongue—hot, salty, intoxicating. The realization only makes you burn hotter.

Then, a moan rattles in your chest as his free hand trails lower, fingers teasing where you’re most sensitive. Your gasp is sharp when one presses against your entrance.

“W-wait—” you huff, shaky hands pressing against his broad shoulders. “No… I’ve never—never done this…”

Mark freezes, his expression shifting from surprise to something terrifyingly euphoric. “Oohh, Y/N can you get any more perfect for me? My god—not even in my universe were you a virgin.” He chuckles, low and dark. “Were you saving yourself for him? Hoping he’d finally see you the way I do? He’s such a fool—But I will make you feel good. I’ll make you feel so good.”

As he speaks, his hands roam, gripping your thighs with an iron hold before pushing them up—forcing you open, leaving you vulnerable beneath him. Your face flushes with embarrassment and arousal, your hands instinctively gripping the sheets tightly at the sheer obscenity of the position. He flashes a playful grin, his breath warm against your ass, causing you to gasp and breathe unevenly.

“What— What are you doing?” you stammer weakly, squirming uncomfortably, peering down with shame as Mark leans over your hole, a wide smirk across his face. You realize a second too late was he’s up to. “Wait, wait—Oh my god!”

Your back arches, mouth letting go a deep, throaty groan and your eyes rolling back when Mark inserts his tongue, licking and lapping at the inner walls of your hole, sucking and nibling and kissing. Your head throws back against the pillows, skin burning so hot you swear you’ll melt into the sheets. The sensation is overwhelming—Mark’s hot tongue delves between your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm, licking and probing with obscenely wet sounds that make you squirm uncontrollably. You writhe in delicious contradiction, torn between pulling away and pressing deeper into his merciless mouth.

“Mmh, look at you—” Mark pants between greedy licks, his voice thick with arousal. “That’s it. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You’re beyond responding, your hips stuttering and your asshole clenching and unclenching with the unfamiliar, yet intoxicating sensation. The pleasure is so intense you bite your lip raw trying to contain the filthy sounds fighting to escape. It’s useless, though, because Mark keeps eating you out and it only takes a few minutes of this sweet torture until you start whimpering and mewling like a little whore.

“F-fuck—!” the curse tears from your throat as your toes curl and back arches off the bed. Your cock stirs back to full hardness, dripping pathetically against your stomach. “Fuck—Mark, my god! Don’t stop, fuck—Oh my god—”

You’ve never been touched like this before—it never even crossed your mind, not even in your wildest fantasies. But damn, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Who would have thought that being pleasured like this could feel so incredibly good? You might just climax right then and there with Mark’s warm, skilled tongue working its magic, and you’d die happily. Your erection is unbelievably hard, leaking pre-cum onto your stomach, but you don’t dare touch yourself because you’re too busy gripping the sheets for stability.

But then Mark pulls away, and you moan and whimper with need, trying to tighten around him in an attempt to draw him back.

Mark smirks and chuckles, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment at your own lewdness.

“God, baby, you’re so perfect for me,” Mark rasps, pulling back just enough to loom over you. His lips glisten with your taste, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Look at you—already falling apart just from my mouth. Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart? Think that pretty little hole can handle my cock?”

You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of pleasure—but Mark’s hips have been moving restlessly the whole time, fucking the air with desperate, instinctive thrusts as he devoured you. Now, as he looms over you, you can feel him, hot and throbbing, grinding against your thighs through the thin fabric of his suit. And fuck—he’s massive. Even through the material, you can feel the sheer size of him, the way he twitches with every needy thrust. And yeah—his mouth has left you slick, loose, ready to be filled—but shit. Viltrumites have monster cocks, and it scares you.

And yet—and yet, as Mark moves against you, teasing, testing, making sure you feel the sheer girth of him even through fabric, all you can feel is hunger, a desperate need.

So, huskily, with glazed eyes, you whisper, “Yes, Mark. Yes.”

He doesn’t make you beg twice. One hand tears the remaining suit away like tissue paper, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, and already leaking. The flushed tip bobs against your thigh, leaving a sticky trail as your breath catches.

“Fuck, Y/N—” Mark’s voice breaks as he strokes himself, his wild eyes drinking in every tremble of your body. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How many nights I dreamed of this moment. You—here, with me again.” His breath shudders, his grip tightening. “Had to find you. Had to make you mine again. I missed you. I missed you.”

His feverish rambling sends your pulse into overdrive, and for one fleeting moment, you wonder about that other life—what version of you could make a man this desperate, this feral with need? What was their relationship like? How did it end? How did Mark end up here, in your universe, searching for you? But then Mark’s strong hands are spreading your thighs wide, his body settling heavily between them, and all coherent thought evaporates in a rush of dizzying arousal.

Shit, shit—Mark Grayson, the boy you’ve been in love with since eighth grade, is about to fuck you. And shit—that thought alone makes your cock ache, your hole clench with anticipation, even as your mind screams that this isn’t your Mark. Your real Mark is probably fighting for his life somewhere. Maybe even dying. And here you are, letting his evil counterpart have you—willingly.

That makes you a horrible friend. You’re disgusting. A traitor. You’re giving in to every dirty fantasy you’ve ever had, every longing you’ve buried for years, all because this Mark—the wrong Mark—looks at you with the hunger you’ve always dreamed of seeing in your Mark’s eyes.

It’s sick. It’s twisted. You’ll never be able to look your Mark in the eye again. Guilt twists in your gut, heavy and suffocating.

You should stop.

You should have never let it go this far.

But then—

“Shh, baby, I got you,” this Mark whispers, shattering your spiraling thoughts. His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he lines himself up. “I got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You shiver, heat flushing your skin as his cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and real. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, locking behind him, pulling him in.

Mark groans, deep and satisfied, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he grins down at you.

“Fuck, yes,” he hums appreciatively, running possessive hands along your trembling thighs. “You’re so good, Y/N. So good.”

His fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises as he drinks down every gasp, every shudder of your oversensitive body like a man starved. And just when desperation coils in your gut—when the teasing pressure at your entrance becomes unbearable—Mark sheathes himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck—!” your cry shatters the air as your body bows taut, back arching off the bed. The stretch burns, his thickness forcing you open in ways that make your vision whiten at the edges. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He’s massive, painfully so. You can feel every ridge, every vein as your body struggles to accommodate him. It’s too much—you’re certain he’ll split you in two.

And yet... The fullness is intoxicating. It burns. It aches. But it also satisfies something deep within you, a primal need you hadn’t even realized was there. Tears prickle at your eyes as you clench the sheets, overwhelmed by the sheer reality of Mark Grayson buried inside you.

“Fuck...” Mark’s voice is guttural, dripping with satisfaction as he bottoms out. “God, you’re tight.” His hips grind deeper, wringing a broken whimper from your throat. “Taking me so perfect—fuck, you feel incredible. Like you were waiting just for me.”

And then, slowly, oh so fucking slowly, he begins to pull back out, dragging a wrecked moan from your lips. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid, something to hold onto as he sets a rhythm, each movement sending heat curling through your veins.

“That’s it,” Mark pants against your neck, his breath scalding as he inhales your scent like an addict. “Just like that… you’re perfect. Nobody else could take me like this.” His teeth graze your pulse point possessively. “Only you. Only mine.”

The next thrust is deeper than the last, stealing the breath from your lungs and making your hips jolt up instinctively, a surprised sound catching in your throat.

“Oh god, Mark,” you whine, nails digging into his back, voice breaking on a breathy moan. “Ah—ngh—fuck—”

The agonizingly slow drag of his cock has your vision swimming, pain and pleasure blurring into one overwhelming sensation. He’s so thick, so long, so heavy inside you. Every time he pushes in, it feels impossibly deeper, stretching you, filling you—until it makes your stomach bulge slightly, a small bump appearing in the flat plane of your abdomen.

Mark groans, eyes going wide, his hand settling at the base of your belly. “God, look at you,” he breathes, awed. His fingers press into the bulge, tracing the outline of himself inside you. “Fuck, I’m buried so deep in you. Right here, Y/N—you feel that? That’s me claiming you. Oh-ho-ho, goddamn, look what I do to you.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin even as awe colors his voice. He punctuates each word with a punishing thrust, fingers digging into the visible outline of himself inside you like he wants to brand the shape of his possession into your flesh. And you can’t look away either—because holy shit, this is the first time you’ve ever felt anything like this, and it’s almost too much. Too intense. Too consuming.

Tears streak down your flushed cheeks as your legs tremble violently. The initial pain has melted into overwhelming pleasure, your body adjusting to his impossible size with desperate, shameful eagerness.

“More,” you rasp between gasps, arching up shamelessly. “Faster. Harder. Please—”

Mark chuckles darkly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna make you feel good. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

The dark promise in his words should terrify you. Instead, it sends another pulse of white-hot pleasure straight to your aching cock. Then he moves—harder, faster—tearing the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless and reeling. Your body clenches around him, every nerve alight as a broken whimper escapes your lips.

“Mark—Mark—” you mumble his name between gasps, unable to form anything else. “Mark, ah—Mark—mmh—fuck—”

A sharp cry rips from your throat as Mark shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that sends a violent shudder through your entire body. Heat surges down your spine, forcing you to arch off the bed, toes curling, every nerve alight with raw, electric pleasure.

“Fuck! There! Mark—ngh—fuck!” you moan, biting down on your lip so hard you taste the faint tang of blood. Mark growls, his movements deep and unrelenting, each thrust pressing you further into the mattress. The bed creaks beneath the force, your skin burning where his grip tightens. “There! Keep going! Fuck, it feels so good—Mark!”

Then—through the haze of heat, through the sinful sounds of skin against skin, of your wrecked moans and his low, animalistic groans—something intrudes. A sharp, buzzing vibration. Your ringtone.

Your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, flickering toward your desk—just a few feet away, where Mark tossed your phone. You’re aware the screen glows, the sound ringing in the background, before another brutal thrust wipes all coherent thought away. Let it ring. Nothing matters except the way Mark’s splitting you apart, remaking you as his with every snap of his hips.

The phone rings and rings… then stops. And you don’t even notice when it goes silent, too preoccupied with the drag of Mark’s cock inside you, the way your nails sink into the broad expanse of his back, leaving behind deep, angry marks.

“Perfect,” Mark rasps against your ear, his voice wrecked and reverent, “Taking me so fucking good, Y/N. Made for this. Made for me.”

Your thighs shake violently around him, toes curling as his filthy praise reduces you to nothing but lustful moans and pleading whimpers.

Then—your phone starts ringing again.

This time, Mark notices.

He stills inside you with a low snarl, his body tensing as he straightens slightly, casting an annoyed glance toward the device. But when he reaches for it—his cock still buried deep inside you, making you whimper—his expression darkens with wicked amusement as he reads the caller ID.

“Well, well,” he purrs, looming over you once more, planting one hand beside your head while the other dangles the phone just inches from your flushed, dazed face. “Take a look at this.”

Your stomach drops at the familiar name flashing on screen. It’s Mark—your Mark—calling you.

“Should we answer it, baby?” he muses, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smirk. “Let him hear what you sound like when you’re properly fucked?”

“No—!” you gasp, wrecked and breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach for the phone, desperate to snatch it from his grasp. “Mark—”

But he’s quicker.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, lifting a single finger in mock reprimand, effortlessly keeping the phone out of reach. His other hand tightens around your hip, keeping you pinned. “You need to get your shit together first, Y/N. Wouldn’t want him to know what you’re doing, now would you?” His eyes gleam with wicked delight. “With that pornographic little voice of yours—so wrecked, so needy for my cock…” He leans in, his breath fanning over your ear. “I bet he’d figure it out immediately.”

A shudder rips through you.

Your vision blurs—tears welling at the edges, cold fear twisting deep in your gut. But worse—worse—is the way your body betrays you. The way you clench around him involuntarily at the thought. At the sheer humiliation of it.

Of your Mark listening on the other end. Unaware. Oblivious. As his variant fucks and ruins you.

“See? I know you,” he murmurs, his voice syrup-thick with satisfaction as he strokes your cheek with unnerving tenderness. His free hand cups your face, his thumb dragging over your lips. “I know exactly what kind of fucked-up little thing you are.”

His grin widens as he watches your lips tremble, your breath coming in quick, uneven pants.

“I’m glad you’re the same here as you were in my universe, Y/N. I adore you like this.” Then, his tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around something dangerous. “Now—try to keep him distracted while I take my time with you, yeah?”

Before you can react, he thrusts—sharp and sudden—just once, but it’s enough to steal the air from your lungs. A strangled gasp escapes you, body reacting on instinct, pulse hammering as he stills once more.

Mark leans in, his breath hot against your parted lips, his amusement dripping with warning. “Otherwise, he’ll keep calling,” he murmurs. “And I don’t want him interrupting us.”

Your stomach twists in knots of anticipation and dread. The phone is still ringing, still just out of reach—Mark’s name flashing on the screen, a second away from being answered. And all the while, this Mark remains inside you—hot, solid, pressing deeper with each second of silence.

“Okay...” you breathe, forcing air into your lungs. “Okay.”

Mark’s smirk turns predatory as he brushes a featherlight kiss to your nose before tapping the answer button, offering you the phone back—and as soon as you grab it and press it to your ear, he immediately resumes his slow, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

“Y/N? Y/N!” The real Mark’s voice—familiar, concerned, kind—crackles through the speaker. He sounds breathless, frantic. “Are you okay? You called and I couldn’t answer but then—but then I called back and you didn’t pick up, and I’m—I’m worried—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, fighting so hard to keep quiet. But the Mark above you doesn’t make it easy, his hips moving with cruel precision, his smirk deepening as he watches you struggle.

“…Y/N?”

“I’m here,” you choke out, voice miraculously steady despite the way your body arches into each thrust. The not-yours-Mark’s eyes glint with dark amusement as he increases his pace. “I’m... okay.”

Your voice wavers. You can’t help it. A shaky sigh escapes when he ducks his head to nip at your throat, his hot breath raising goosebumps across your oversensitive skin.

“Thank God,” your actual Mark exhales, the relief in his voice almost painful to hear. “Listen, Cecil just— he lost track of a variant. Said he was heading your way, Y/N.”

The not-yours-Mark stills inside you, his expression shifting to something dangerously intrigued. “Oh?” he murmurs against your pulse.

“Y-yeah?” you blurt too loudly, praying the real Mark didn’t hear him.

Your fingers dig into the sheets as the not-yours-Mark begins moving again with renewed purpose, each thrust calculated to wring helpless sounds from your throat while you struggle to keep your breathing even.

“Yeah,” your actual Mark replies through the phone, his voice strained. “I’ll—I’ll come your way. Or the GDA will pick you up, but—it’s dangerous to stay in your apartment! Please, just—just leave. Right now.”

You choke back another gasp, barely holding yourself together. No—you can’t let Mark come here. You can’t let the GDA get involved either. The humiliation would be unbearable—agents witnessing you like this, being taken apart by the same monster who probably leveled cities and slaughtered thousands before claiming you in your own bed.

“No!” you blurt out, voice cracking under the weight of too many emotions. “No, nngh, fuck—you can’t!”

You’re losing control. This Mark—the wrong Mark—is hitting your prostate with every brutal thrust, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on your neck while his fingers twist your nipples mercilessly. Stars explode behind your eyelids as another lewd groan escapes you. Virgin or not, there’s no way you could stay quiet under this assault. You realize with dawning horror that he doesn’t want you quiet—he wants you loud, to moan, to let your Mark hear you. To let him know.

That yeah—he’s here.

And yeah—he’s fucking you.

For a moment, there’s only silence on the other end of the call.

Then finally, Mark speaks again, slower this time. “This—this isn’t negotiable, Y/N,” he says, though there’s something off—a hesitation, a shift in his tone as your breath stutters audibly. “Are you… okay?”

No. You’re not okay. You’re overwhelmed, wrecked by pleasure more intense than anything you’ve ever known, losing your virginity to a twisted version of the man you love. Hot tears of shame spill down your cheeks as a sob tears from your throat.

“...Y/N?” Mark’s voice sounds distant now. You can barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, over the slick sound of skin meeting skin, over the obscene, broken whimpers falling from your lips.

“Mmmh, fuck,” you gasp as the pressure builds unbearably inside you. “Fuck—Mark—”

“That’s it, baby,” not-your-Mark whispers in your ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “You wanna come, don’t you? Wanna scream my name?”

The dam breaks. “Yes! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your voice shatters with each punishing thrust. Dignity forgotten, you arch desperately against him, meeting every movement as you beg mindlessly. “Mark—I can’t—oh god, please, please...!”

The line goes silent for an agonizing moment, the static crackle carrying more weight than words ever could. You squeeze your eyes shut, shame and guilt and disgust warring with the pleasure coiling tight in your belly—but it’s too late now. Far too late.

“Y/N...?” his voice comes through the receiver—your Mark’s voice—strangled and low, thick with realization.

Your stomach drops. He knows. Oh god, he knows. He fucking knows.

Not-your-Mark lets out a pleased hum against your neck, his fingers lazily plucking the phone from your trembling hand while his hips snap forward, forcing a needy moan from your lips. The wet sound of skin on skin is unmistakable. There’s no way your Mark could mistake what’s happening.

Not-your-Mark’s eyes glint with something wicked as he presses the phone to his ear, smirking.

“Too late, dickhead,” he says, just as breathless as you, his voice dripping with smug victory as he punctuates each word with another brutal thrust. “He’s already mine.”

Mark’s furious roar bursts through the speaker. “You—!” you close your eyes, mortified, tears falling down your cheeks because this is the moment Mark realizes you’re a horrible friend. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YO—”

But the sound is cut off with a sickening crunch as not-your-Mark’s fingers tighten, phone shattering, fragments falling like dust.

“Oops,” he pouts mockingly, tilting his head with feigned innocence before his expression darkens. His hand snakes around your throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to claim. “Now where were we, sweetheart?”

When he slams back into you, you arch off the bed with a broken scream, your legs spreading wider of their own volition. He chuckles darkly, hands sliding under your thighs to fold you nearly in half, opening you up so completely that each thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he growls, pace turning erratic as his control fractures. “Look at you—taking me so perfect. Tell me. Tell me how much you love this. How much you love taking my cock.”

“I love it,” you gasp without thought, your mind obliterated by pleasure. “Fuck—I love it. I love you.”

A deep, guttural moan tears from his throat, his grip on you tightening as he nods frantically. “Yeah? Love me? Fuck— I love you too, baby. I love you so fucking much.”

And you know he’s not your Mark. You know your real Mark is probably flying at full speed right now, minutes, or even seconds from bursting through your window. But Christ—hearing those words, in Mark’s voice, from his lips, with his face twisted in raw, desperate worship—it makes you dizzy. It makes you happy.

“I love you,” you say again, fingers twisting into his dark hair, dragging him down until your panting mouths brush. “I love you. Always have—fuck—since—since before you even got your powers, Mark!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Ah—fuck, yes!” The words dissolve into moans as you kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips sliding messily against his. “When you were such--a nerd! Loved you since we were kids. Love you now. I always will—”

He groans, swallowing your words with a feverish kiss, his hands squeezing your cheeks until your mouth falls open, surrendering completely. Tongues tangle, breath mingles, and he moans right into you—

“I love—” he pants, his movements growing erratic. “I love you, Y/N. Fuck—Gonna take you home with me. Gonna keep you forever. Steal you from that idiot...make him see what he threw away—”

Then—suddenly—his hand wraps around your cock.

It’s been untouched this entire time, leaking wildly against your stomach, and the moment his fingers curl around it, a sharp, broken whimper escapes you. Your hips jerk helplessly, legs trembling as pleasure rips through you.

“Fuuuuck,” you sob, shuddering against him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I’m gonna—”

“I got you, baby,” he growls, stroking you faster, fucking into you harder. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Gonna take you away. Gonna own you!”

And God help you—his words don’t sound like threats when you’re drowning in white-hot ecstasy. In this moment, you’d let him drag you through dimensions, would beg him to claim you completely—because he wants you. He loves you. He craves you in a way you’ve always ached to be craved. And right now—you’d let him take you. You’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Ah—ah, Mark—” Your body locks up, stomach tightening, hole clenching around him as the pressure on your cock becomes unbearable. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

“Yeah, baby, let it out,” he growls against your lips, his hand working your cock in perfect sync with his punishing thrusts. “Come for me. Now.”

You shatter with a strangled scream, body jerking violently as you spill across your stomach in thick, hot stripes. Your vision whites out, every muscle locking and spasming as pleasure tears through.

Mark groans like a man possessed, his thrusts faltering as your hole flutters and clenches around him. “Fuck—fuck—” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep, and then he’s coming too, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. His grip tightens as he grinds himself deeper, prolonging every last spurt, wringing every aftershock from you until you’re trembling and spent beneath him.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is lie there, trembling, as he keeps pumping into you, dragging out your orgasm until you’re sobbing from oversensitivity. His hips grind against yours, forcing every last drop into you like he’s determined to make sure you remember this.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss, your body limp and wrecked. Sweat and come cling to your skin, your chest heaving as aftershocks wrack through you. Every inch of you is marked—bruises blooming where his fingers, his teeth, his lips claimed you.

You barely register the mattress dipping as he lays beside you, his arms wrapping around your exhausted frame. A soft, lingering kiss presses to your forehead, his voice a soothing murmur against your damp skin.

“Shh, shh, Y/N,” his fingers trace lazy circles against your back. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything.”

Even in your dazed, post-orgasmic haze, you understand what “everything” means.

It means your Mark—your universe’s Mark—is on his way. It means a fight is inevitable. It means blood, destruction, the clash of two forces that look the same but could never be. And when that moment comes, you’ll have to face him—face the shame that will devour you whole.

Because how dare you?

How dare you moan his name for someone else? Whisper desperate I love yous to the wrong version of him? Come undone beneath a man who wears his face but isn’t him?

And after you told him it was fine—that you were fine—staying just friends. After you swallowed every aching, desperate feeling just to keep him close. But in the end, you gave in. You let temptation pull you under. You let yourself have him—or the closest thing to him. And now, there’s no taking it back.

You know you’re wrong.

You know time is running out.

And you know that when he says he’ll take care of everything, this Mark intends to kill your Mark—just as your Mark wants to kill him.

But your body betrays you—mind foggy, muscles lax with satisfaction, the afterglow pulling you under. As consciousness fades, this not-quite-Mark draws you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. His breathing steadies, his solid frame surrounding you in deceptive safety.

(And vaguely, you think about your Mark. About how he’s been pulling away from you, slowly but surely. How, ever since you confessed your feelings and ruined everything, he hasn’t looked at you the same.

“I promise I’ll tell you,” he’d say, a week ago, his eyes avoiding yours in a way that pains you. “I promise I’ll tell you the truth. All of it. And—”

Then he’d looked up, and something in his gaze pinned you there—fervent, almost feverish.

“I’ll—” he’d stop himself, cheeks coloring faintly, and yet he wouldn’t relent his steady gaze. ”I’ll tell you the reason I’ve been acting like such an asshole to you. And I hope...you can forgive me after.”

“Why not now?” you’d ask, puzzled, fingers curling into your palms. ”Why not when I’m asking you, Mark? Right here, and right now.”

He’d flinch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening them again. ”Just—gimme one more week,” he’d rasped. “One more week and—I promise I’ll tell you everything. I’ll—confess everything.”

And as he’d turn around, his broad back to you as he’d take off—not before glancing at you with troubled eyes, an intensity in his eyes you can’t quite place—you’d only guess he’s gonna say he hates you. That he’s gonna say, now once and for all, he can no longer be your friend.

And how you should’ve kept your heart locked tight, your love buried deep, just so you could keep him close. How you should’ve never, ever opened your big mouth and let your feelings spill out.

But you did, and now nothing’s the same.)

“I’ll take care of it,” Mark murmurs again as you drift away, his voice a dark promise. “Never gonna lose you again. Never.”

The last thing you register before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek.

And in the final flicker of consciousness, a single thought drifts through your mind— You wished Mark had told you the reason.

Now, he never might.

[sinner-as-saint]

drag me under

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader 

Run-through: After what has to be one of the most exhausting and exasperating meetings he’s ever had with the Bishop and Mother Superior, Father Charlie desperately needs a quick release. It was wrong, he knew and he’d repent for it later. Except, what he thought was going to stay as a secret between him and God ends up involving a third witness – you. 

Themes: smut, explicit language, mentions of infidelity, degrading kink

Fuck. He was close. 

He’d shut himself inside the confessional booth a few minutes ago because he absolutely needed to get his mind off certain things. Those meetings always left him feeling like a damned pressure cooker, and he always needed to let out some steam after. 

All that arguing, and having to keep his cool and maintain composure when all he wanted to do was yell and tell them all that he was right and they were wrong. It had to be the generational gap, but sometimes he felt like he was being tortured with how much his mindset differed from those of his superiors. Why couldn’t they just let him do things his way? 

But he pushed all that aside for a moment. Just a moment, that’s all he needed. Fist wrapped around his throbbing cock, his spit and precum giving him just the right amount of lubricant, his head thrown back against the thick wood as he worked his fist up and down his cock, as fast as he could. 

He tried to keep his gasps and moans as quiet as possible. It was late in the afternoon, there wouldn’t be anyone around during this time, but just in case. A groan left his lips anyway, and he bit his lip immediately after. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck… 

He could hear how fast his fist moved, the friction was almost just as good as how he remembered sinking into a warm body felt like. Almost, not quite as exhilarating though. 

Fuck! 

A few more tugs, a couple more unrestrained moans later, and he came with a loud sigh. Spilling all over his hand, gasping for breath as he blinked a couple times, already feeling his thoughts flowing much easier. His all black suit, his collar around his neck didn’t feel as tight and constricting anymore. 

He quickly cleaned himself up with a handkerchief he’d have to put in the trash later, he sighed one more time as he made sure to fix his clothes and was about to walk out of the booth when he heard a timid, soft, almost hesitant voice ask: 

“Are you done, Father?” 

He froze. 

Shit. 

He cleared his throat. It sounded like a young woman on the other side. He tried to look but the screen only allowed him a partial view of your face. Okay, okay, don’t panic. He could still get out of this situation. Maybe you didn’t hear what he was doing. Maybe you’d just gotten in here. Maybe you were too naive to even know what those sounds were. 

He cleared his throat again, “How, uh, how long have you been waiting for?” He tried his hardest to sound apologetic for making you wait. 

A moment of silence. Then you replied, “Long enough.” 

That voice. He knew that voice, didn’t he? 

He said your name out loud. A pause then, “Is it you?” He asked. 

A sigh. Then, “Yes, Father.” 

Ah. He let out a quiet breath, relieved. 

He had no reason to worry if it was you. You were what he called a lost little lamb, too innocent for her own good. He knew your family. They were nice people who frequented the church, and lately your parents had been worried about you since they found out that you had a troublesome boyfriend who was nowhere near the god-fearing type your family wanted you to date. 

He also knew that you, unlike your parents, were not seen very often at church. He saw you here and there, sometimes at charity events, or sometimes at the tennis court with your mom. But never in the confessional booth. 

Father Charlie sat up straight, looked ahead at the wooden door and asked, “This is your first confession?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“And what would you like to confess?” He asked, knowing he was going about this all wrong. No signs of the cross, no ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned’, but he was impatient and… intrigued. What could a shy, timid girl like you have to confess?

“I… I slept with my boyfriend.” 

He couldn’t help but turn towards the screen. He watched you as you fidgeted and squirmed. “Did you?” He didn’t recognise his own voice. 

“Yes, Father.” You answered. “But that’s not all.” 

“Oh?” 

A trembled sigh left your lips, then you said, “While we were, um, when he was...” You struggled to speak. 

And Father Charlie felt weirdly interested all of a sudden, so he urged, “It’s okay, you’re safe here.” He cooed gently, using the soothing voice he always used with everyone. “Use your big girl words, come on. When he was, what?” 

“Father, I cannot say it.” Your words sounded heavy with shame. 

So he urged you even further, “Like I said, you’re safe here. Now tell me. When he was, what? On top of you? Fucking you? What happened, did he hurt you?” 

“No,” You said quickly. “No, he was… gentle.” 

Father Charlie raised an eyebrow, “And?” 

You let out a shaky breath and confessed, “I wanted him to…” You trailed off, “I know it’s wrong to want these kinds of things, but I didn’t want him to be gentle. I wanted him to be rough. To make it hurt.” 

Another shaky breath left your lips, and this time Father Charlie felt like he was the tormented one. He frowned as he looked down and noticed that he was hard again. Shit. 

He cleared his throat again. “I see.” 

But you were quick to add, “It’s wrong, isn’t it? To want things like that? Isn’t it, Father?” 

There was a strangely innocent desperation in your voice even as you referred to sinful things. The kind of innocence he wanted to take into his hands and crumble it into pieces but also preserve it at the same time. 

Fuck, he was hard. And it was painful because you were right there. 

“Depends,” He answered, “What other things do you find yourself wanting?” A small, quiet gasp left your mouth. Father Charlie caught himself smirking at the sound of it. “And don’t lie. I can’t help you if you lie.” He noticed movement on the other side of the screen. Maybe your hand touching your neck out of nervousness. 

“I… I like being told what to do. I like authority. I like…,” You gasped, as if not believing you were actually saying all this out loud, “I like it, I mean I like the idea of men being mean to me, in bed. I want them to take what they want from me, with consent of course. But I don’t want them to be gentle about it.” 

Oh fuck. 

“That’s, uh…” He found himself at a loss for words. His cock was making his trousers tighter. His hands were shaking with the need to grab and feel a warm body. Preferably that of a shy young woman who thought she should be ashamed of her desires. “Yes, that’s not right.” He did his best to sound stern and disappointed. 

A soft sound came from the other side. Sounding a lot like a sniffle. “I’m sorry, Father.” You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “I should go.” 

It all happened too quickly. The sound of the door opening, the sound of you trying to rush and get out. Before he knew it, he was out of the booth as well and stopping you from leaving. Your wrist in his hand, his chest heaving, tears down your face, a shocked look in your eyes. 

“Did I say you could leave?” He asked, looking down at you and noticing the way you didn’t even fight him. Aww, a lost little lamb indeed. 

“No.” You whispered, going along with the movement as he walked you backwards until your back hit the nearest wall, beside the booth. 

“You’re disobedient,” He noted, “I should punish you for that.” 

“Yes,” You mumbled, like you were ready to be punished for your sins. 

“Yes, what?” He chided. 

“Yes, Father.” 

And oh, how he would’ve loved to have you on your knees in front of him. To have his cock in your mouth. To make real tears stream down your face, ruining your makeup. But he didn't have too much time. 

He stepped closer, trapping you between the wall and his hard body. He noted the way your eyes remained fixated on his white collar, those teary, innocent eyes. You didn’t even know the treasure you were. 

“Look at me,” He ordered. 

You did. Unable to look away once you did. 

“You’ve been a bad girl, you know that, don’t you?” He asked. You nodded at him. “And I need to punish you, because I need to make sure you’re good from now on, don’t I?” You nodded at his words again. “Good,” He whispered, then grabbed both your hands and placed them on his shoulders as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours. 

He fucking that little gasp of surprise that left your mouth as he kissed you, hot and messy. His hands reached down and bunched your dress up before he slipped his hand in between your legs.

He chuckled into the kiss when he felt your flimsy underwear. “See now, good girls don’t wear things like this. You understand?” He whispered, running his knuckles along your wet folds and smearing your arousal around through the thin fabric. “I’m gonna have to take it off, okay?” 

You nodded again. 

And he did, he slid your underwear down until it fell to your ankles. He watched as you stepped out of them and he immediately slid his knee in between your legs, followed by his hand again. “This is all part of your punishment,” He whispered into your ear, and watched how you shivered upon feeling his warm breath. He slipped his two fingers into you with ease and smirked against your skin as he felt your arousal coating his fingers, which he curled inside of you, hitting all the spots which made you gasp and moan.

You whimpered and closed your eyes, sighing and moaning when he leaned down and nibbled on your skin around your throat. He chuckled, sliding his fingers in and out of you, “See what a little slut you are? Cheating on your boyfriend, and letting me touch you however I please,” He scoffed, “Is this what you came to do? Was this your intention?” 

You bucked your hips against his hand impatiently. “Please,” You murmured. 

He pulled his fingers out, and messed with his belt, undoing it and the zipper on his trousers until he pulled his cock out. “Please what?” He asked, rubbing his wet fingers along his hard cock, “Huh? What do you want?” 

You looked up at him, pleading with your eyes. 

“Oh?” He taunted, “You want this cock? Huh?” He leaned in and grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks together, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke in a lowered voice that sent shivers down your back, “Does this little slut need a cock in her?” 

“Yes,” You murmured, unable to take it anymore. 

“Yes, what?” He growled. 

“Yes, Father.” You quickly corrected yourself. 

He smirked, smug. Then he lifted you up until you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your back against the wall, and the two of you partially hidden by the booth. His cock briefly brushed against your wet folds in the process and you moaned out loud. 

“Shh,” He reminded you, “Quiet.” 

“Please,” You whined, eyes shut. “Please, Father…” 

“Shut up,” He hissed as he aligned his throbbing tip with your entrance. “Shut your needy little mouth up.” 

You moaned as he pushed himself into you. Stretching you out as he went. His nails digging painfully into your skin as he held you by your hips, and yours sliding into his hair as he filled you up nicely. 

“So fucking wet for me…” He whispered against your cheek as he rocked in and out of you. “I bet you’re not this wet for your little boyfriend, huh? Does he feel this good? This big?” He chuckled. “Does he know you let random men fuck you?” 

You were a mess, moaning and whimpering when he began moving in and out of you. His cock reached places that had you whining out loud. 

“Shh,” He hissed again, “Shut up, you little slut. Shut the fuck up.” He groaned as he fucked you. He kept an eye on your surroundings, just in case someone wandered in. 

But you kept moaning like crazy so he did the only thing his lust-filled brain could think of, he brought out his soiled handkerchief from earlier and shoved it in your mouth, and slapped his hand over your mouth. “Yeah, that’ll shut your filthy mouth up, huh? Is this what you wanted? Your boyfriend doesn’t fuck you like the needy little whore you are, does he?” 

Your moans sounded muffled now, and he fucked you relentlessly, earning more and more muffled whines and moans and whimpers out of you each time his cock stroked your walls. He loved the way your eyes rolled back when he fucked you harder, reaching deeper. 

He pounded into you as fast as he could, your back slamming into the wall with each thrust. “Filthy girl.” He sped up into you again, making you cry out. “So fucking desperate, aren’t you? You couldn’t help but spread your legs for me, huh? Even for a man of God? You couldn’t help it.” He taunted. “What else would you do for me? Would you come here everyday and let me have you? Hmm? Would you let me fuck your needy little pussy like your boyfriend can’t?” 

He knew you couldn’t answer him, so he chuckled and continued as he felt your walls clench around his cock. Fuck, he had missed this. He’d missed making a beautiful girl lose control while he was inside her. He knew you couldn’t think right, he was so fucking deep inside you that all you could do was whine and cry, and let him take what he wanted from you. Which is exactly what he did. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you harder and faster against the wall. 

His hand left your mouth, making sure his handkerchief remained nice and snug in there, and reached down until he wrapped his fingers around your throat, he squeezed just enough to make your eyes widen. “Yes,” He goaded you, “You like that, don’t you? Your messed up little head likes this,” He taunted. “It’s filthy in there, isn’t it? You think about these things at night? When you touch yourself before going to bed? Is this what you’ll be thinking about from now on?” 

Your body shuddered, trembling in pleasure. He looked down and noticed the slight cleavage of your sweet little dress. Fuck, he wished he had time to really peel it off your body and have you crawl around naked just so he could look at you. He was sure he could spend a lot of time just looking. 

“He doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?” He chuckled, his body moving expertly against yours, “No, how could he? He’s just a boy. He wouldn’t even know what to do with a dirty girl like you.” He leaned in, whispering against your wet cheek, “This is what you needed. I’m what you need.” 

Your mind was a foggy mess already, and he could tell by the muffled by wanton moans that he could still hear that you were so, so close. 

“I bet he doesn’t even come inside you, does he?” He scoffed, “I think he’d be too scared to do that.” He pulled away and looked into your eyes. “But you want me to come inside you, don’t you? Remember, it’s all part of your punishment. You wanna be a good girl and take all of it, don’t you?” 

You nodded quickly, more tears streaming down your face. 

“Go on then, you little slut. Come for me. Come all over this cock like the needy, desperate whore you are.” He let out a strained moan, “I said,” He spoke, menacingly, “Come for me!” 

Your body tensed up, legs tightening around his waist, hands tugging at his hair, before you let go and came undone around his cock. Walls clenching around him, nails scratching his neck and a loud muffled moan erupting from your mouth as he made you come hard. 

Father Charlie groaned as he came shortly after, spilling inside of you. And fuck, even he could feel how much he filled you up. 

He pulled the now wet cloth out of your mouth as you both felt his warm cum dripping down your inner thighs. He replaced the handkerchief with his fingers, gliding two of them across your tongue, in and out of your lips as he said, “You’ll come back, won’t you?” He whispered against the corner of your mouth as you caught your breath while sucking on his fingers. “Now that you got a taste of what it’s like, you’ll be back as often as you can just to let me fuck you again. Won’t you, little lamb?” 

—

a/n: call me sister megan bc i’m frothing–

[flopsxii]

tokyo revengers boys with their crush (aka you!) <3

feat. sano ‘mikey’ manjiro, ryuguji ‘draken’ ken, hanagaki takemichi, baji keisuke, matsuno chifuyu, hanemiya kazutora, mitsuya takashi, inui seishu && kokonoi hajime

notes: first time writing for so many characters and some for the first time :0 i hope it isn’t ass!!! sorry if some characters i haven’t written for before are ooc and inaccurate! ALSO I HATE SQUID GAME BUT TRANS BADDIE.

— i will release a part two soon :)

sano ‘mikey’ manjiro

ꪆৎ i think mikey would be somewhat upfront with you about his crush. of course, he wouldn’t outright confess until he knew you shared the same sentiment. however, he’d make it fairly obvious that he thought highly of you and how he loves spending time with you over anyone else.

ꪆৎ he’d definitely ‘kidnap’ you from classes, begging you to leave because it’s an “emergency”, but really he just wanted to spend time with you. you’d scold him after, reminding him about the importance of school, but he’d just stand there with a love struck smile on his face. it didn’t matter wether you were lecturing him or ignoring him, being in your presence was enough to bring him happiness.

ꪆৎ his crush is blankly obvious to all of toman and probably other gangs in the near vicinity. no one dared to talk to you in a negative way, a bonus of having mike’s affections. and suddenly, if anyone was mean to you, it didn’t happen anymore… sometimes you wondered why but mikey would shush you immediately. “maybe they just realised that bringing down such an amazing person was a reflection of themselves, y/n-chan!”

ꪆৎ would love it when you accompany him on foodie ‘dates’, rides on his motorbike and even accompanying him to toman’s meetings. it genuinely shocked everyone when mikey would interrupt himself to stick his tongue out at you just to make you giggle. truly toman’s royalty!

ꪆৎ also would most likely pitch up at your house at random points of the day. even as ‘friends’, he’d want to nap together and just hang out alone where he wouldn’t have to maintain his reputation as the ‘invincible mikey’. with you, he could just be manjiro.

ꪆৎ in terms of confession, i think mikey would let it slip out when he’s most vulnerable. either when he’s super sleepy or just generally having a rough time. small whispers of how much he appreciates you and likes you would fall from his lips. once he realised what he had done, it was most likely too late to take it back. he just hoped you shared the same feelings.

ryuguji ‘draken’ ken

ꪆৎ unlike his best friend and captain, draken would keep his feelings to himself and it probably would stay that way for a while. it’s not because he doesn’t wanna be with you, in fact, it’s the opposite! he’d most likely think that a relationship with him would come hand in hand with people jeopardising your safety. so more likely than most, he’d stick to being your friend (a very close friend) until he knew you’d be safe.

ꪆৎ probably would trail behind you whilst you’d go shopping, a unreadable expression on his face but instead, his mind was overwhelmed by the thought of you! how adorable you looked as you pointed out cute things, making a mental note of items to buy you for your birthday.

ꪆৎ definitely would be the first one at your door if you came down with any sickness. even if it was a common cold! he’d remind you that sickness could get worse if left untreated and you should ‘stop denying him and just accept his help.’

ꪆৎ he’s immensely protective over you, even if he doesn’t necessarily need to be. other toman members would try and remind draken that he doesn’t need to be worried over your safety, after all the whole of toman would take care of you!

ꪆৎ i also feel like draken would be the type to pick you up and drop you off before and after school. even if the walk was 10 minutes and under, he’d remind you it could be dangerous alone! it’s purely just an excuse to spend more time with you even if he does act like it’s a chore.

ꪆৎ would probably confess to you if there’s imminent danger towards you or it would slip out without him realising. he’d definitely have to take a couple moments to compose himself if it was the latter, a furious blush erupting over his cheeks causing you to giggle.

hanagaki takemichi

ꪆৎ he’s so so shy around you! however, no matter how much he makes a fool of himself in front of you, he just can’t stay away. it’s like he’s in a constant state of fluster whenever he’s in your presence.

ꪆৎ definitely walks you to and from school, holding your hand if you initiate it first. he would probably also try carry your school books for you, even if you remind him that your arms work just fine. he just wants to help you in anyway he can!

ꪆৎ would also 100% feel awful when he sees the sad expression on your face whenever he turns up with new bruises and cuts covering his face. his heart would break when you graze your fingers over the wounds, asking a meek “do they hurt, michi-kun?”

ꪆৎ also the type to try show off to you whenever he can but fail miserably. although, if he sees that amazing smile, the humiliation he feels is always worth it! even if he ends up hurting himself, he won’t mind if you make sure he’s okay after. maybe a hug wouldn’t hurt also…

ꪆৎ speaking of hugs, he’d probably malfunction the first time that your arms wrap around him. even if you were doing it out of worry for his wellbeing, he cherishes the moment for the rest of his life.

ꪆৎ he doesn’t confess… it’s actually you who tells him how you feel. it’s a heartfelt conversation you two share after you see the boy beaten to a bloody pulp so that his friends would be alright. his loyalty and tenacity being one of the few reasons why you adore him so much!

baji keisuke

ꪆৎ honestly, he’s the definition of whipped. even chifuyu is surprised when he sees how baji acts in your presence. it’s so impossibly clear how much baji likes you to anyone else in the room, except you!

ꪆৎ he’d probably start fancying you if you helped with his studies and actually persevered with him despite how difficult he tried to make it. initially, he’d deny your help, grumpily saying he can handle it and to leave him alone. however, when you sit across from him and start reading through your notes and helping him correct his wrong answers, he’s floored. any other person would’ve left after his shitty response but you stayed.

ꪆৎ would act like your best friend but to anyone else, they view you as baji’s partner (albeit unofficially). is fiercely protective over you and if anyone makes you upset (even a little bit) are met with baji’s anger and very soon after, his fists. of course, you lecture him for jumping into action without consulting you but the fact he cares so much makes your heart beat impossibly faster.

ꪆৎ would definitely invite you over to his house to hang out, just so he could have some time alone with you. even if it’s just you reading and him silently laying beside you, it’s almost heaven to baji. if it was heaven, you’d be spilling your undying love for him but he thinks he wouldn’t be so lucky.

ꪆৎ would also end up sometimes bringing you to toman meetings if he absolutely has no other choice. but you’d stick by his side the whole time and if he’s not available for some reason, chifuyu is there to stand in!

ꪆৎ much like takemichi, you’d have to confess to baji first or you’d be playing cat and mouse with him for the rest of eternity. even his mum knows how he feels but he’ll deny every accusation. however, she’s just happy her hot headed son has someone he cares about and she’s so happy it’s you!

matsuno chifuyu

ꪆৎ chifuyu is definitely the type to crush on his best friend! someone he shares such a deep bond with and trusts on an immensely deep level. i doubt he’d fancy someone he knows on a surface level, he doesn’t know them well enough. however, he knows you inside and out, it never feels awkward around you (despite the constant blush on his cheeks that he hides everytime).

ꪆৎ he’s definitely protective over you, along side baji who will take care of you if chifuyu isn’t around. if he sees anyone hassling you, he’s the first to jump in and defend your honour!

ꪆৎ he always invites you round to his house just to see you cuddle peke j. furthermore, he’ll take you to the zoo, aquariums or just pet shops to hang out since you both share the same sentiment towards animals. it’s one of the reasons he’s fallen so hard for you.

ꪆৎ his mum adores your ‘friendship’ with her son, she’s never seen him so happy (in a romantic way!). she will buy food specially for you to share and even sometimes drop devious hints in your ears about her sons feelings; you don’t take it seriously at first.

ꪆৎ he probably doesn’t initiate physical contact with you too much, it makes his brain overload. but, the option is there… he will without a doubt wrap you in a bear hug; savouring the feeling for as long as possible.

ꪆৎ chifuyu is definitely the type to try reenact scenes from his favourite mangas then make a complete fool of himself. however, he doesn’t know that you appreciate him trying nonetheless, no matter how silly he looks doing so.

ꪆৎ following his shoujo manga’s ideology, he’d confess in a subtle but heartfelt way. i think either using peke j as a messenger, a small note tucked into his little collar. or he’d tell you up front and be as sincere with his words as his silly brain would allow.

hanemiya kazutora

ꪆৎ it’s likely that no one knows that kazutora has a crush on anyone, most of all you. i think he wouldn’t interact with you that much in public, instead opting to spend time with you in private when he could truly be himself.

ꪆৎ the amount of times kazutora has to cover his raging blush on his cheeks each time you hang out is insane! he never knew that compliments he hears on the daily about his appearance could make his heart beat so fast, until they came out of your mouth.

ꪆৎ he definitely visits you if you have a job, sneaking in and surprising you with a huge smile on his face! he’s also the type to stay until your shift ends and make sure you get home safely, wether you ride on his motorcycle or not.

ꪆৎ he may also sometimes slip you unexpected gifts, only small ones though that have sentimental value. maybe it’s cinema tickets from the time you dragged him out after his release from juvie.

ꪆৎ he doesn’t want you involved with any gang activity so it’s quite unlikely that you find out he’s still involved with that stuff. however, he would tell you flat out if you heard any rumours about him and would reassure you that he’d keep you seperate.

ꪆৎ it’s unlikely he’d confess, liking things how they are, no matter how much he wishes your relationship could progress. either he’s worried you’d see him as a monster, due to things he did in the past and in the present or he just wouldn’t know how to say it so it’s better left unsaid anyways. it would have to be you to lay your feelings out for him to see and decide what to do next.

mitsuya takashi

ꪆৎ i think mitsuya would be one of the most upfront about his feelings on this list without saying it directly. toman can clearly see the sentiment he shares for you, even girls in his class and sewing club know that he’s essentially spoken for!

ꪆৎ he loves inviting you along to his days out with his sisters. not only because he loves spending time with you but also because the two girls adore you as much as he does! one of his favourite photographs is the four of you on one of your days out, a scarf he made wrapped around your neck.

ꪆৎ speaking of clothes he’s made; mitsuya definitely surprises you with new pieces every so often. even if you’d try refuse, telling him he should try sell them as they’re just that good, he’d remind you that he’d much rather see them on you and wants no payment in return (no matter how much you insist).

ꪆৎ gentleman mitsuya always gives you a ride no matter where you need to go! even if you mention in passing that you’re going shopping in the coming days, he will insist that he’s your ride! after all, he can’t stand by whilst you lug heavy bags home.

ꪆৎ once mitsuya is certain about your feelings reflecting his, he’d be direct with his words. “i have feelings for you, y/n-chan.” a simple statement that gets the biggest weight off his chest. he can only hope you accept his confession…

inui seishu

ꪆৎ you’re most likely a childhood friend to seishu, i find it unlikely he’d fancy a classmate or a passing stranger. perhaps, a childhood friends sibling? that way, he’s able to determine wether you actually like him for who he is.

ꪆৎ alongside kokonoi, he trusts you immensely. i highly doubt he’s able to form romantic feelings for anyone without the formation of trust. you’re his confident and he’s yours, and it has always been that way. at this point, seishu is unable to see himself confiding with anyone else the way he does with you.

ꪆৎ when he first started gaining feelings for you, i think he probably would give you the cold shoulder, not understanding how he feels. but, he’ll make things right with you once his minds less foggy!

ꪆৎ if you don’t exactly share the same interests, such as how he’s very interested in motorbikes and mechanics, he will try very hard to get into your hobbies so you can spend more time together. however, it means an immense amount to him that you’ll sit there and let him ramble about his favourite bike that shinichiro worked on, even if it was so long ago.

ꪆৎ he would probably confess when everything has settled down in his life. that includes his involvement with gang activity. he would hate to put someone so close to his heart in jeopardy. however, if you can’t wait, you could always confess yourself…

kokonoi hajime

ꪆৎ it would take him a long, long time to actually acknowledge his feelings for you. he would probably feel like moving on was a betrayal to akane but there came a point where he couldn’t ignore those feelings anymore.

ꪆৎ he would treat you amazingly, even if he’s battling with the thoughts inside his head about you and akane. he’d offer you money if you needed it (you will most likely hand it straight back), buy you gifts and happen to forget the receipt…

ꪆৎ even after several talks that you like spending time with him because of who he is and not what he can do for you, kokonoi still finds it hard to accept. he probably will see some resemblance to akane in that sense and would probably think she’d want him to be with someone like you.

ꪆৎ one of his favourite things about you is that even if he isn’t in a sociable mood, you will still sit with him and enjoy his company. not to mention he’s floored by how amazing you look everytime he sees you!

ꪆৎ he also loves going on day trips with you and seishu, finding every different place the three of you visit special.

ꪆৎ his confession would be sincere and precise. he would lay his feelings out and would promise to treat you amazingly and of course, take care of you in anyway you’d need.

[kajibunny]

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ we're just friends! (or are we?) w/ the wind breaker boys ✧⋆⭒˚｡

✿ featuring: hajime umemiya, jo togame, haruka sakura, hayato suo, ren kaji ✿ fluff, mutual pining, hidden feelings (aaaa), suggestive for suo, a lil angst (with comfort) for kaji ✿ a/n: i guess by now everyone can tell that i’m very into the friends to lovers trope ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა~♡ it’s def my fav!!! and these wb bois are all perfect friend material, and ofc boyfriend material too! enjoy, cuties! ✿ wc: 2.3k

— you have a closely intimate friendship to the point that everyone around you thinks you two are dating, though you know you're not lovers (yet), but are definitely more than just friends.

ʚɞ umemiya 

— sharing hello and goodbye kisses with each other.

ꕤ you and umemiya are the definition of 'affectionate', as your love languages both consist of physical touch. but maybe with each other, a little bit too much for just friends.

ꕤ the word "boundaries" did not exist to the both of you once you were within arm's reach of each other. you and umemiya give each other hello and goodbye hugs, sometimes cheek and forehead kisses, as a greeting, right? to be friendly. though he doesn't seem to do that as often to other people, or at all, even. just to you. only to you. 

ꕤ he also loves cuddling up to you whenever he takes a nap on the rooftop, inviting you to join him in picking out some veggies that you two could make a meal together with.

ꕤ while you two were cooking together, you definitely gave off a 'married couple' vibe with the way you held the ladle up for umemiya to taste, the way he had pressed his palm to your back whenever he needed to pass through, the way he fed you with his own spoon and giggling while complimenting how delicious your cooking was, the way he wrapped his arms around you and hummed while he helped you wash the dishes. anyone who saw would have immediately bid their congratulations and would think you two are newlyweds.

ꕤ hiragi took one look at the both of you appearing all lovey-dovey, and the confusion of whether you two were dating or not made his stomach scrunch up in pain. 

ꕤ umemiya calls you such adorable names when referring to you in conversation, too. his tiny bean, his ray of sunshine, his cherry blossom, it was always "his", as if you belonged to him. he was openly affectionate with you and was not afraid to show it.

ꕤ many guys also took a liking to you, but never attempted to even make a move or confess, because they were already under the assumption that you were umemiya's, seeing you two playing with each other's fingers and comparing hand sizes like you were made for each other. but how could that be, you and umemiya were just friends, weren't you?

ʚɞ suo 

— you get a special seat (on his lap).

ꕤ suo just can't seem to keep his eyes and his hands off of you. you always have to be within his vicinity, or he's not sure how he'll be able to stand it. 

ꕤ he sees you at the corner of his eye, after you have made your way back from the restroom. you and the other bofurin first years were at an izakaya, and the moment you returned, all of their eyes were glued to you and suo, as if they already knew something was going to ensue. you two have been friends for a long time, but the way you acted towards each other felt like you two have been lovers for a long time.

ꕤ suo was always up in your space, whether its pulling random pranks on you, inviting you to go out then paying for everything even though you tried to stop him (nothing can stop suo), visiting your home and leaving an endless supply of tea enough to last you a whole year - his excuse being it's there for whenever he comes over, and multiple instances which all prove that suo was no doubt a very clingy friend. not that you minded, anyway. you were used to suo and his antics.

ꕤ he had his ways of persuading you too (he is the master of negotiation, after all), and you just couldn't resist him, as you loved being around suo just as much. 

ꕤ this time, he took advantage of your short absence and made himself comfortable in your chair, and wouldn't even move an inch. "hayato, that's my seat!" you exclaimed. "hm?" suo tilts his head. "you can just sit on my lap, then." he smiles, with that damn mischievous smile you know all too well. you tried to get him to move by gently pushing him back and forth but suo seemed to not have a care in the world. 

ꕤ you can't tell whether suo is serious or joking sometimes, but nirei and sakura seems to have their doubts that you two are "just friends" as you both claim.  "are you sure the two of you aren't dating?" nirei asks you. sakura blushes and lets you know his thoughts, too. "y-yeah...! you two are unusually close!" you always reply to them with an astounding "no!" but suo just laughs and does not affirm nor deny any of their claims. 

ꕤ suo pulls you in close, making you sit on his lap regardless of your little outburst, and you weren't sure if it was hot in the izakaya, or if it's just you, but you certainly felt warmth overcome your body while it was pressed flush against his, his arms wrapped around your waist nonchalantly. "hayato!" you protested, trying to squirm your way out of his grasp, and pushing away all intrusive thoughts about his and your bottom halves being so close together, only separated by thin pieces of clothing.

ꕤ nirei, the most observant of the bunch (next to suo), points out that you even call suo by his first name, and that's another one of the reasons why you two seem like you're dating. 

ꕤ with suo, everything seems to be a mystery. but in suo's perspective, it's all clear. he loves you, whether it's as a friend or as a lover, that's for him to know and for you to find out. 

ʚɞ togame 

— leaves everyone on read except you.

ꕤ togame just doesn't understand why people need to type out what they want to say, aren't calls more personalized? he didn't understand at all, until he met you.

ꕤ you were, to put it directly, a chatterbox in all forms. you loved to talk, regardless if it's chats, calls, or in person, you just yapped your heart out to him everytime, and he lives for it. he wouldn't miss a second of you opening your mouth and giving him a taste of your innermost thoughts. he absolutely adored talking to you, because it was you, and you were special to him.

ꕤ the shishitoren guys thought it was so funny and adorable whenever togame picks up his phone so quickly because he thought it was you calling, then scowls when he realizes it isn't, and immediately silences it and shoves it back in his pocket. this caused him to set a different ringtone just for you, so he could pick up on the very first ring.

ꕤ you were also the first reply he ever sent via sms, a simple "ok" to your long message talking about how you thought it was amazing that he won the town's annual eating contest for many consecutive years in a row and that you were totally ready to challenge him next year by stuffing your face with okonomiyaki and invited togame to join you and have some with you so you could keep an eye on the competition. he found your personality totally amusing, his face immediately lighting up with a gentle smile whenever you sent him messages.

ꕤ anyone who sees how happy he is while he rereads your texts over and over would interpret that as togame being totally, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you.

ꕤ he doesn't actually reply to anyone at all ever, but he wanted to share all his firsts with you, he just couldn't help it. you were captivating, witty in your words, and very very charismatic, bombarding him with the cutest and funniest messages everyday. of course, he doesn't mind at all and is always looking forward to them.

ꕤ you two stay on calls for longer than eight hours at a time talking about how each other's day went, and yet you wonder why people always think you two are dating. normal friends don't stay up until the break of dawn chattering for hours on end, expressing all the things they like about each other, do they? at least togame knows he wouldn't do it with anyone that wasn't you, as he valued his precious sleep time dearly, but as time went on, you became more precious and more dear to him than his sleep time ever could.

ʚɞ kaji 

— play fighting like an old married couple.

ꕤ kaji is the type to never go down without a fight. needless to say, that also applies to you. but your fights with him were different, more banter adjacent, more affectionate and playful. only lasting for a few minutes.

ꕤ kaji had a huge soft spot for you, as even though you did irritate the heck out of him sometimes, somehow he still could not stay angry or annoyed at you for more than one second. he just couldn't resist the way you crossed your arms and huffed with your cute little frown. he thought you were the most adorable angry little thing he's ever seen and wanted to pinch your cheeks out of cuteness aggression and frustration, but he would never say it to your face.

ꕤ one time, you two had a heated argument because he said he could hear you just fine but wouldn't bother to take off his headphones. you argued that it was impolite and that you won't talk to him at all anymore if he does that again, and you two were at each other's throats, giving one another a piece of your mind, until kaji mutters a 'sorry', and you began to sob uncontrollably and let him hold you in his arms while he stroked your hair to comfort you because you two couldn't stand the intensity and tension of being angry at each other for long.

ꕤ you had your less serious fights too, like when you made him a bento box for lunch and you two had a picnic together with his vice captains. you fed him the food with your chopsticks, kaji teasing you by saying "it's bland." and you reasoning out that kaji was 'as salty as his tastebuds'. kaji then asked you if you wanted to have 'a taste of his fists', which ended up with kusumi and enomoto snickering in the background wishing that the both of you would just date each other already.

ꕤ whenever you two argued, your faces were so close to one another's that you were just a few centimeters shy from kissing, the tip of your noses touching. kaji had to hold himself back, a lot. like an insane amount. friends didn't want to kiss and make out with their friends, right? but kaji did. and you did too.

ꕤ his way of apologizing is by suddenly leaving a lollipop with you. he puts them in your bag, or places them in your pocket while you weren't looking. it was his little peace offering, one that you treasured and collected, accumulating dozens of them by your bedside table. kaji would gladly give up his last lollipop for you, and no one could argue otherwise.

ʚɞ sakura 

— blushing wildly whenever you two are around each other.

ꕤ you and sakura always looked like you two were having a blushing competition. the littlest touches and the most minimal contact had both of your cheeks heating up in response.

ꕤ it was like sakura's blushing was contagious. ever since you two became good friends (if you could call it that, though it seemed to be more than that at times), being around him triggered a whole bunch of embarrassing and hilarious but sweet situations.

ꕤ you once dragged sakura off to his very first cherry blossom viewing in the park, and needless to say, with both of you being a chaotic (but cute) duo, it kind of felt like you were on a wild rollercoaster ride with him. 

ꕤ you took a stolen photo of sakura while he was mesmerized by the falling pink petals. you thought he looked adorable, but sakura thought otherwise. he was a blushing mess and told you to delete them, but you said they were cute and that you were going to make it your wallpaper. 

ꕤ sakura chased after you, and tripped over a stray cherry blossom branch, leaving you two in quite a suggestive position, sakura on top of you, pinning your wrist down with his hand. your cheeks were as pink as the cherry blossoms, and tried as you might, you couldn't keep your eyes off his lips. friends don't observe their friends with wanting eyes, do they? 

ꕤ suo and nirei instantly noticed how huge of a klutz you were around sakura. they also noticed how curious sakura was about you, always (not so subtly) asking nirei how much he knew about you, or your likes and dislikes, then asked him not to tell you that he asked about you. but suo told you instead, because they were your biggest supporters and cheerleaders (and biggest shippers, of course) after all. 

ꕤ on sakura's birthday, they made you hold the cake and surprise him, which was a huge mistake, because before it could even reach him, you slipped and fell over him. luckily, sakura had good reflexes and was able to catch you before you completely toppled over. some of the smushed cake ended up on his and your face, which you tried to wipe off as you apologized, but sakura dipped his finger onto the icing that got on your cheek and licked his finger. "t-the cake's not bad, i guess..." he looked away from your smiling face as you greeted him happy birthday in a sing-song tune.

ꕤ suo, being a menace, greeted sakura happy birthday as well as gave him a 'best wishes to the happy couple' greeting card, that sakura threw back at him like it had a virus on it. 

ꕤ sakura definitely had a memorable birthday that year, but now that he thought about it, all of his memories that were memorable to him had one thing in common: you were in all of them. you, the greatest gift he could ever ask for on any and every occasion. 

© kajibunny 2024 / all rights reserved

[cloudyluun]

Easy Money | sugar daddy!harry

Summary: What started as a simple transaction—a way to make some quick cash—turns into something far more complicated when Harry refuses to keep things strictly business. He spoils you, adores you, falls for you. But when he finally confesses his feelings, you remind him this was never supposed to be real. The only problem? Somewhere along the way, it became exactly that.

Wordt Count: 8k

A/N: This was a very special request from one of my absolute favourite readers (you know who you are 😉). I had way too much fun writing this, so if you find yourself blushing, looking away from your screen, or needing a cold shower—just know, that was entirely the goal. Enjoy, you little troublemakers. 

Warnings: 

Smut (and a lot of it)

Sugar daddy arrangement turning very real

Power struggles in bed (both of them want control and it gets heated)

Dom!Harry / Bratty!Reader dynamics

Lots of teasing, dirty talk, and tension so thick you could choke on it

Angst & emotional turmoil (Harry catches feelings first and it hurts)

Over-the-top romance (he spoils her, worships her, and claims her)

Explicit language

Mentions of financial struggles

Soft, clingy aftercare that will make you feel things

Read responsibly. Or don’t. Just don’t blame me when Harry Styles takes over your brain. 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Your phone buzzes with another notification from your bank. You already know what it says before you even look, but the sinking feeling in your stomach urges you to check anyway.

LOW BALANCE ALERT

You sigh, thumb hovering over the notification before swiping it away. As if ignoring it will make the problem disappear.

It doesn’t.

Bills are due. Rent is due. Your student loans are a monster looming over your shoulder, their presence suffocating no matter how much you try to ignore them. Every paycheck disappears the second it hits your account, and no matter how many shifts you pick up or how much you cut back, it’s never enough. The math simply doesn’t math.

You’ve tried everything.

Taking extra hours at work? Done. You’re already stretched thin, running on caffeine and sheer willpower.

Side hustles? Tried. You’ve scoured every "easy ways to make money" list on the internet. You’ve filled out mind-numbing surveys for pennies, signed up for focus groups that never picked you, even considered selling pictures of your feet, only to chicken out the second you realized you had no idea where to even start.

Asking your parents for help? Not an option. The thought alone makes your stomach twist with shame. You’re an adult. You should be able to handle this.

But you’re drowning.

And tonight, after another long shift, after tipping your last few dollars to the bartender in a desperate attempt to pretend you have your life together, you lie in bed, scrolling through your phone, searching for something. A solution. A miracle. A quick fix that doesn’t exist.

Your searches grow more desperate. How to make money fast. How to pay rent when you’re broke. How to get a sugar daddy—

You pause.

The words stare back at you from the search bar, your heart skipping a beat as you realize you actually typed it. You weren’t even thinking. Just letting your thoughts spill out onto the screen, every insane idea passing through your exhausted brain.

But now the idea is there.

And worse—it isn’t immediately repulsive.

It’s not like you don’t know what a sugar baby is. You’ve heard the stories, seen the jokes. Older, rich men paying younger women just to be in their presence. Some arrangements are physical, sure, but plenty aren’t.

And it’s not like you’d actually do it.

…Right?

Your finger hovers over the search results, heartbeat picking up. You tell yourself you’re just curious. Just looking.

Twenty minutes later, you’re staring at the App Store. A bright pink logo sits on your screen, the words SUGAR DADDY APP – FIND YOUR ARRANGEMENT TODAY! flashing below it.

You chew on your lip, pulse thrumming in your ears.

This is insane.

This is absolutely insane.

But what if—

What if it’s just casual meetups? Just talking. Just dinner. Some of these girls are getting their rent paid just for going on dates. What if that could be you? What if this is the answer?

What’s the harm in looking?

Before you can second-guess yourself, your thumb presses download.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. The app opens, welcoming you with a sleek, luxurious design; gold accents, elegant fonts, a promise of “mutually beneficial arrangements.” The signup process is shockingly easy. You pick a username, upload a picture (nothing scandalous, just a cute selfie), and fill out your bio.

“Young, fun, and a great conversationalist. Looking for someone who appreciates good company. Nothing serious.”

That should do.

Messages start coming in immediately.

And it’s exactly what you expected.

Older men with awkward, borderline sleazy messages. Some are direct, offering money in exchange for explicit favors. Others try to be charming but still give off a transactional vibe. None of them make you feel… good.

You sigh, already regretting this. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe you should just—

MATCH!

A notification pops up at the top of your screen. You glance at it, ready to roll your eyes, until you see the name.

Harry.

You blink. That’s… different.

You click on his profile, expecting the same thing you’ve seen all night. But your breath catches.

He’s young. Well—not young, but younger than the rest. Late thirties, maybe early fourties. Sharp jawline, green eyes, a dimple that softens his otherwise serious expression. Dressed in a crisp, expensive-looking suit, but his tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves, a contradiction that instantly intrigues you.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here.

But then again… neither do you.

Your pulse quickens as you stare at his profile, your fingers hesitating over the keyboard.

What do you even say to someone like him?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitation creeping in. A simple hi feels too basic. A joke might come off as trying too hard. But before you can overthink yourself into oblivion, a new notification pops up.

Harry sent you a message.

Your stomach flips. You exhale, steadying yourself before clicking to open it.

"Didn’t expect to find someone like you on here."

You blink. That’s… not what you expected. There’s no awkward proposition, no sleazy opener, no immediate offer of money in exchange for something degrading. It’s casual, almost intrigued. He follows up before you can reply.

"Not complaining, though. You look like you have good taste in wine."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It’s charming. Simple. Not overdone. And weirdly enough it works.

Your eyes flicker back to his profile. It really is almost too good to be true. His pictures look professional, but not in the this was stolen from someone else’s Instagram way. They’re polished but natural. He’s sitting in a sleek black car in one, leaning against a marble bar in another. His bio is short, to the point.

“Successful entrepreneur. Generous. Looking for good company, good conversation, and good wine.”

There’s no cringey flexing. No desperate attempt to lure someone in. Just confidence. And it makes you nervous.

Still, you answer.

"I do. But I don’t let just anyone buy me a glass."

A beat. Then:

"Let me take you to dinner and prove I’m worth it."

Your stomach knots. You tell yourself you should be skeptical, that this is exactly how people end up in shady situations, but… there’s something different about him. He doesn’t reek of desperation. He’s not trying to corner you into anything. If anything, he almost seems amused.

Still, you’re cautious.

"That depends on the restaurant."

His response is instant.

"Le Jardin."

Your breath catches. That’s not just a restaurant. That’s the restaurant. The kind of place that has a six-month waitlist and a menu with no prices because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Before you can even process it, another message pops up.

"I’ll pay you $3,000 just to show up."

You sit up so fast your vision tilts.

Three. Thousand. Dollars.

For dinner? For a couple of hours of your time?

Your heart pounds. Your rent is barely half of that. That kind of money would give you breathing room, let you live for a moment instead of just surviving.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. Your brain is screaming at you to say yes. But a small part of you hesitates.

You’re not stupid. You know nothing comes for free.

"And what do you expect in return?" you finally ask.

His reply is simple.

"Dinner. Conversation. That’s all."

You swallow. You want to believe him. And against your better judgment… you do.

Your fingers shake slightly as you type out your answer.

"Alright. I’m in."

You set the phone down, staring at the screen as the reality of what you just agreed to sinks in.

You tell yourself it’s just transactional.

No expectations.

No strings attached.

So why does it already feel like something else?

You shove that thought aside as you get ready.

You’ve never been to a place like Le Jardin, never even been within walking distance of it, but you know what kind of people dine there. The rich, the powerful, the ones who don’t check price tags or worry about overdraft fees. You’re not one of them, and it makes your stomach twist as you stand in front of your closet, trying to figure out what to wear.

You settle on a sleek black dress—nothing too extravagant, but elegant enough to blend in. You keep your makeup simple, your jewelry minimal, but when you step in front of the mirror, something about your reflection feels different. Almost like you belong in this world. Like you could make someone believe it, even if only for one night.

The car Harry sends for you pulls up right on time. The driver is professional, dressed in a crisp suit, and doesn’t say much beyond a polite, “Miss?” as he opens the door. The ride is smooth, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows, and the entire time, your fingers twitch in your lap.

You tell yourself this is just a dinner. Just a business transaction. Just easy money.

But then you step into the restaurant, and your breath catches.

Le Jardin is breathtaking. Soft golden lighting, high ceilings, waiters gliding between tables like they’re floating. Everything about it screams exclusivity, like you’ve just stepped into a world not meant for people like you.

And then you see him.

Harry.

He stands as soon as he spots you, and for a second, the air shifts.

You were prepared for him to be attractive—you’ve seen his pictures, you knew what to expect—but this? This is something else entirely.

He’s tall, broad, the tailored lines of his suit clinging to him in a way that makes your mouth dry. Dark curls, sharp jaw, green eyes that flicker with something unreadable as he watches you cross the room.

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk, not a cocky I-have-you-right-where-I-want-you grin, but something softer. Something that makes his dimple crease and his eyes warm.

It’s almost disarming.

He pulls out your chair before you can even reach for it. “You look stunning,” he murmurs, his voice a low hum that slides down your spine.

You blink at him, thrown off. You expected arrogance, maybe a smooth line or two, but instead, he sounds almost… genuine.

You let him push in your chair, smoothing your hands over your dress as you settle in. “I try.”

He chuckles, a quiet thing, and as he takes his seat across from you, you realize he hasn’t stopped looking at you.

Not in the way the other men on the app did, like they were already calculating what they’d get out of you. No, this is different. It’s like he’s trying to figure you out, like he’s curious.

The waiter appears, offering an expensive bottle of wine without asking if you’d like to see the menu first. You don’t even know how to pronounce the name, but Harry just nods, thanking the server before turning back to you.

“So,” he says, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced together. “Tell me something about you.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Anything.” He shrugs. “Something that’s not in your profile.”

You hesitate. You could give him something basic, something easy. But for some reason, you don’t want to.

“I hate tomatoes,” you say, watching for his reaction.

He blinks. Then laughs. A real, full laugh, his head tipping back slightly.

“Alright,” he says, still smiling. “Not what I expected, but I respect it.”

The conversation flows effortlessly after that. He asks questions—genuine ones—not just about you, but your thoughts, your opinions, things that have nothing to do with the arrangement. And he listens. Really listens. Holding eye contact like he’s hanging onto every word.

The food arrives—meals you can’t even begin to describe, flavors so rich you feel out of place eating them. But Harry makes it easy, never letting the moment feel intimidating.

At one point, he cuts a bite of his dish and lifts it toward you.

“Try this.”

You don’t even think twice. You just let him. Let him feed you, his fingers brushing the corner of your lips as you take the bite.

It doesn’t faze you.

But him?

He’s gone.

It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second longer than necessary—but you catch it. And for some reason, it makes you smile.

Dessert comes, and he reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, absentminded motion, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

The look in his eyes is something you can’t quite place.

You don’t hesitate.

You nod, lips curling slightly.

You’re getting paid, after all.

That’s what you tell yourself when the gifts start rolling in.

At first, they’re subtle. A bottle of perfume left on your doorstep, the kind you’d never splurge on for yourself. The packaging alone screams luxury, sleek and weighty in your hands. You hesitate before opening the attached note, curiosity bubbling in your chest.

“Reminded me of you. - H”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. You spritz a little onto your wrist, inhaling. It’s warm, sensual—notes of vanilla and something darker, richer. Expensive.

And then it doesn’t stop.

A few days later, a box arrives. Big this time. Too big for just perfume. You tear through the pristine wrapping to find a designer handbag nestled inside, the leather buttery soft beneath your fingertips.

Your first thought is: What the fuck?

Your second thought is: How much did this cost?

You barely have time to process before your phone buzzes.

Harry: Saw this and thought of you. Hope you like it.

You blink down at the message, at the bag, then back again.

Is this normal? you wonder. Is this what this arrangement is supposed to look like?

You send back a single text.

You: You’re insane.

His response is immediate.

Harry: I like spoiling you.

You don’t know what to do with that, so you just… let it happen.

At first, it’s funny. It feels like playing a role, stepping into a world you don’t belong in. You make jokes to yourself every time another absurdly expensive thing lands in your lap.

Then come the texts.

They start out simple, routine check-ins that could easily be brushed off.

“Morning, love. Hope today isn’t too stressful.”

“Made it home safe?”

“Sleep well?”

But then they start happening like clockwork.

Every morning, without fail—

“Good morning, darling.”

Every night—

“Sleep tight. Dream of me.”

You laugh when you read that one, shaking your head. It’s charming. Ridiculous.

And then there are the touches.

He kisses your forehead when he greets you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When he hands you a drink, his fingers brush yours, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. When you walk into a room together, his hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady, like he’s guiding you, claiming you.

The thing is… you don’t encourage it.

But you also don’t stop it.

Because—if you’re being honest?—it’s kind of cute.

And, really, what’s the harm?

You meet up with him again. And again. It becomes a pattern, slipping into your life with alarming ease. Lavish dinners, expensive outings, stolen moments where he looks at you like you’re something rare, something fragile.

Then, one night, it happens.

You’re seated across from him at a dimly lit restaurant, the hum of soft jazz filling the air. Your wine glass is half-full, your plate mostly cleared, and he’s been watching you all night—watching in that way he does, like he’s memorizing you.

And then, almost absentmindedly, he stirs his drink and murmurs, “Didn’t like being away from you today.”

You barely register his words at first, too focused on the way he swirls the amber liquid in his glass.

But then he looks up.

And there’s something there.

Something warm, something vulnerable.

“Missed you,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You snort, reaching out without thinking, patting his cheek lightly. “That’s adorable.”

He huffs out a laugh, but he leans into your touch like a man starved, like it means something to him.

And that’s when it hits you.

Like a freight train, like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You’re in it for the money.

He’s in it for love.

You know it now. You’ve known it for a while, haven’t you? If you really take a second to think about it, you’d realize that every expensive gift, every lingering touch, every look of pure, devoted affection was leading up to this.

You should’ve seen it coming.

Maybe you did, but you ignored it. You chose to believe that this was just fun for him the same way it was fun for you. That he was playing along with the fantasy, indulging in the illusion of something deeper—just because he could.

Because it was easy. Because it was nice.

Because it meant neither of you had to be alone.

But Harry?

Harry was never playing.

And tonight proves it.

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. You knew it would be.

With Harry, everything is excessive. He likes to spoil you, to spend absurd amounts of money just to watch your reaction. It’s fun for him, you think.

But this is different.

This isn’t just extravagant. This is romantic.

The entire penthouse-level dining room is bathed in golden candlelight, the glow flickering off the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the entire city. The table is set for two, an elaborate spread of silverware and delicate wine glasses that you already know you’ll be too nervous to touch. The scent of fresh roses lingers in the air, overwhelming but intentional.

It’s the kind of setup someone arranges when they’re about to propose.

The thought makes something uneasy curl in your stomach.

Harry has been off all evening. Not in an obvious way—no, he’s still charming, still soft-spoken, still perfectly polite.

But he’s quiet.

More than usual.

His touches have been different tonight, too. Deliberate. Lingering. When he pulled out your chair for you, his hands skimmed over your shoulders, his fingers trailing against your skin like he was memorizing the feeling. When he handed you your wine glass, he let his fingertips brush over yours, his touch slow, like he needed it. When you made a joke about the ridiculous amount of forks in front of you, he didn’t just laugh—he looked at you like you’d just hung the moon.

And the way he’s looking at you now?

Like he’s about to say something you won’t be able to take back.

You should stop this.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve spent so long pretending that this—whatever this is—can exist in some untouchable space. That as long as you don’t acknowledge the shift, as long as you don’t name it, it will stay the same.

But you were wrong.

And Harry?

Harry is about to prove it.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of music in the background, the flicker of candlelight making shadows dance across his face.

And then—

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body locks up.

The words don’t register at first, like your brain is physically rejecting them.

Because, no.

No, that’s not what this is.

That’s not what this was ever supposed to be.

You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, something hot crawling up your spine, your throat suddenly too tight, your hands suddenly too still.

You blink.

He’s still looking at you.

Still waiting.

Like this is the moment everything changes. Like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Like this is the moment he gets you.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

You inhale sharply, your pulse roaring in your ears, the weight of his confession settling onto your chest like a ton of bricks.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you, holding you there like an anchor. Like he can sense that you’re about to run.

You swallow hard.

“Harry…”

The smile on his lips falters. Barely.

But you notice it.

You notice everything.

The way his fingers twitch. The way his eyes search yours, desperate. The way his jaw clenches, like he already knows.

You have to do this.

You have to say it.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve him open.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve yourself open.

You take a breath.

“This isn’t real.”

It’s quiet. A whisper. A tiny, fragile thing.

But it shatters him all the same.

You see it.

The way his entire body stills. The way the warmth drains from his face, his hands slipping away from yours so slowly, so painfully, like he’s forcing himself to let go.

Like he doesn’t want to.

But he has to.

His throat bobs.

His eyes flicker, something shifting in them—something soft breaking, something hopeful dying.

“Not real?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like it physically hurts him to ask.

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

Because what do you even say?

What could you possibly say to fix this?

To fix him?

To fix the way he’s looking at you like you just ripped the ground out from beneath him?

You weren’t supposed to mean this much to him.

But you do.

And that’s the problem.

The problem isn’t that he loves you.

The problem isn’t that he confessed.

The problem isn’t even that you saw it coming and did nothing to stop it.

The problem is that when he looks at you like this—like this—you don’t want to stop it.

His hands are still cradling your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. Like if he just holds you tightly enough, he can will you into feeling the same way he does.

And maybe he can.

Because something about the way he’s looking at you now makes something deep in your chest ache. Makes something warm coil low in your stomach, makes your fingers tremble against the tablecloth.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t still be sitting in this candlelit penthouse with him.

You should say something sharp and final, put an end to whatever this is before it gets worse. Before he gets hurt. Before you get hurt.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because his eyes are flickering over your face like he’s memorizing you. Because his lips are parted, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

Because when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, wrecked.

“It is for me.”

It knocks the air right out of you.

It’s not pleading. It’s not even a question.

It’s just fact.

And you feel it—God, you feel it.

He has never been playing.

Not once.

Not for a second.

This was always real for him.

And now?

Now, it’s real for you, too.

You should pull away.

You should.

You should tell him you’re sorry, that you never meant to let it get this far, that you never meant to make him fall for you.

But instead—

You tilt your chin up, let your gaze lock with his, let the tension between you thicken and twist until there’s only one way this ends.

“Then make me believe it.”

It’s barely a whisper. But he hears it.

You know he hears it.

Because his entire body reacts—his grip on your face tightening, his lips parting, his chest rising with a sharp inhale.

And then, before you can think, before you can breathe, before you can stop yourself—

His mouth crashes onto yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s desperate.

It’s months of lingering touches, of stolen glances, of suppressed feelings exploding all at once.

His hands slide from your face to your jaw, tilting your head up, angling you the way he wants, the way he needs. His lips move against yours with a hunger you’ve never felt from him before, all-consuming, his body leaning forward until you have no choice but to grab onto his shirt, fisting the fabric in your hands to keep yourself steady.

You gasp against his mouth, and he groans, deep and guttural, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

And maybe you do.

His hands are everywhere now—sliding down your neck, tracing your collarbone, curling around your waist as he yanks you toward him. The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, pulling you up with him, pressing your body flush against his.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging, and he growls, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you’ll feel it tomorrow.

You don’t care.

You don’t care about any of it anymore.

Not the arrangement.

Not the money.

Not the way you told yourself this wasn’t real.

Because right now, with his lips hot and insistent against yours, his body pressed against you like he needs you to breathe—

It is.

It is real.

And you want more.

“Harry,” you murmur against his mouth, your fingers tugging at his shirt, nails scraping down his back.

He groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “Say it again.”

You shiver.

His voice is different now. Lower. Rougher.

More possessive.

You lick your lips, tilting your head, letting your nose brush against his. “Harry.”

It’s all he needs.

He moves fast. One second, you’re standing by the table, and the next, he’s walking you backward, his grip firm but gentle, like he’s guiding you, like he’s making sure you want this.

And you do.

God, you do.

The backs of your legs hit something soft—one of the long velvet couches lining the floor-to-ceiling windows—and then he’s pushing you down, following you without hesitation, his hands bracketing your hips, his body pressing you into the cushions.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, kissing, nipping, claiming.

“You have no fucking idea,” he rasps against your skin, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You arch beneath him, your breath stuttering.

“How long I’ve waited for you,” he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingers dragging over bare skin.

Your nails dig into his back.

This is different.

This isn’t just sex.

This isn’t just fulfilling an arrangement.

This is him showing you what he means.

This is you finally admitting what you want.

“Then show me,” you breathe.

He does.

Harry doesn’t hesitate.

He surges forward, claiming your lips again, this time slower, deeper—like he’s savoring you, like he’s tasting something he knows he’ll never get enough of. His hands tighten on your body, strong fingers splaying against your ribs, dragging up, up, up, until his thumbs are teasing along the sides of your breasts, just enough to make you arch into him.

A low groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he kisses you harder, as his tongue sweeps against yours in a kiss so deep it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

And then he’s moving, lifting you effortlessly from the couch like you weigh nothing, like you belong in his arms. His grip is strong—possessive—one hand on your thigh, the other curled around your back as he carries you across the room.

His lips never leave yours.

His kisses are slow now, teasing, dragging, pulling soft whimpers from your throat that he swallows like they belong to him.

He walks you straight to the bed, laying you down like you’re something precious, something breakable.

But you’re not breakable.

And when he starts to pull away, you don’t let him.

You grip his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him back down until he’s hovering over you, his body caging yours in. His breath is heavy, uneven, his eyes blown wide and desperate.

“You want to take your time?” you murmur, fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt, sliding them through the fabric one by one, teasing.

His jaw clenches.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, voice low, rough. “For months.”

Your lips curl.

“So why are you still dressed?”

Something snaps.

Harry growls, yanking his shirt off in one swift motion before his hands are back on you, slipping under your dress, pushing the fabric up, exposing skin he’s been dying to touch.

“You think you’re in charge?” he mutters, mouth against your throat, kissing, nipping, dragging his tongue over the spot that makes you shiver.

A smirk plays at your lips.

“I know I am.”

His fingers tighten on your hips. “Not tonight.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s got you flat on your back, hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head as he stares down at you, chest heaving.

And fuck, he’s beautiful like this.

Eyes dark, lips swollen, hair falling into his face, body hard and tense against yours.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs, voice thick with need, his fingers tracing over the pulse point in your wrist.

“Good,” you whisper back.

His lips crash against yours again, hungrier this time, rougher.

He’s not just kissing you—he’s devouring you.

And you let him.

You moan into his mouth, rolling your hips up, grinding against the hardness pressing between your legs, and he hisses, his grip tightening.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he groans, dropping his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “D’you have any idea what you do to me?”

You smile, slow and teasing, tilting your head, lips brushing against his jaw.

“Show me.”

He does.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, caressing, exploring.

He strips you slow, torturous, dragging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, pressing soft, lingering kisses to every inch of exposed skin.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, his lips brushing over your collarbone, his hands palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers, making you gasp.

“Harry,” you whimper, arching into his touch, nails dragging down his back.

He groans, sucking a mark onto your skin, his tongue flicking over it, soothing, before he starts moving lower.

His mouth trails over your ribs, your stomach, his fingers sliding under the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slow, too slow.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.

You squirm beneath him, breath hitching. “You.”

His teeth graze your skin. “Be specific.”

You bite your lip, staring down at him, the way he’s kneeling between your legs, eyes dark and hungry, waiting.

You reach down, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly. “I want your mouth.”

A smirk tugs at his lips.

“Good girl.”

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, fingers tightening in his hair as he licks, sucks, devours you like he’s starved.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

His tongue moves slow, deliberate, teasing, and when you let out a breathy moan, he groans against you, gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he eats you like he’s trying to ruin you.

Like he’s claiming you.

Your thighs tremble around his head, pleasure building too fast, too strong, and he knows, because he presses his tongue against your clit, flicking, sucking, driving you insane.

“Harry—fuck—”

“Come for me,” he rasps against your skin, voice rough and commanding, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you do.

You unravel beneath him, your body arching, pleasure washing over you in waves as you cry out his name, your fingers tight in his hair.

He works you through it, his mouth never leaving you, softening the strokes of his tongue until you’re panting, trembling beneath him.

Then he’s moving, crawling back up your body, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he pushes his hips against yours.

He’s hard, straining against his pants, and you reach down, palming him through the fabric, making him groan.

“Your turn,” you murmur, eyes dark, wicked.

His breath hitches.

You flip him over, straddling his hips, pinning his wrists to the bed, watching as his pupils dilate, his breath stuttering.

“You like that?” you tease, rolling your hips against him.

His jaw clenches. “You have no idea.”

You smirk. “Then let me show you.”

And you do.

You roll your hips against him, slow and deliberate, feeling the thick press of him still trapped beneath layers of fabric. His breath shudders, his fingers twitch where you’ve got them pinned, but you don’t let up. You grind down again, watching his jaw clench, the way his body tenses beneath you, all muscle and restraint.

“You like being underneath me?” you tease, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle, feeling the way his abs tense at your touch.

His eyes darken. “Don’t push me, love.”

You lean down, just enough for your lips to ghost over his, barely brushing, teasing, taunting. “Or what?”

His breath hitches. Then he growls.

A low, dangerous sound that sends heat pooling between your thighs.

He bucks his hips, trying to shift the power, but you press down harder, hands splaying over his chest, keeping him pinned.

“Fucking hell,” he grits out, head tipping back against the pillows. “You’re a tease.”

You smirk, rolling your hips again, slower this time. “And you love it.”

His hands flex against the sheets, his muscles straining beneath you like he’s dying to grab you, flip you, take back control. But he doesn’t. He lets you have it—for now.

“That’s it,” you murmur, leaning down, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses over his throat, nipping lightly at his pulse point. “Be good for me.”

He groans, his fingers twitching, desperate to touch.

But you don’t let him.

You grab his wrists again, pressing them firmly into the mattress, locking him in place as you start moving properly, rocking against him, dragging the thick outline of his cock right against your soaked panties.

His breath shudders.

“Jesus fuck,” he rasps, eyes fluttering shut for a second, chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

You roll your hips harder, the friction sending pleasure shooting through you, and when he lets out a strangled moan, you smile.

“Poor baby,” you coo, running your tongue along the shell of his ear. “Does it feel good?”

His jaw clenches so hard you think it might break.

“Y’think you’re in charge, hmm?” His voice is thick, rough, dangerous.

Your lips curl as you grind down again, harder this time. “I know I am.”

Something snaps.

In a blink, Harry moves.

One second, you’re in control—the next, you’re not.

With a low, feral growl, he rips his wrists free, grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back so fast your breath catches. Before you can even react, he’s on you, pressing you into the mattress, his body heavy, his hands rough.

“You think you can tease me like that?” he murmurs, eyes dark and dangerous as he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

You inhale sharply, shivering at the sudden shift, at the way he’s towering over you, at the raw hunger in his eyes.

“Maybe I wanted you to break,” you whisper, testing, teasing, pushing.

His grip tightens.

“Fucking hell, you’re a brat.”

You smirk. “And you love it.”

His lips crash against yours.

It’s rough, desperate, all tongue and teeth, like he’s punishing you, like he’s claiming you. You moan into his mouth, arching up, pressing your body to his, feeling the hard lines of him against your softness.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, spreading you open beneath him as he grinds against you, letting you feel how much he wants this.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, rolling his hips harder, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. “You feel that, baby? Feel what you do to me?”

You whimper, nodding, your head spinning, body thrumming with heat.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck, sucking hard at your pulse point, leaving marks. Claiming you.

“Yes,” you breathe, hands clutching at his back, nails digging in. “I feel it.”

“Yeah?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, dangerous. “You ready to stop playing, then?”

Your breath hitches.

You smirk. “Make me.”

His eyes flash.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, threatening. “You’re gonna regret that.”

His hand suddenly fists in your hair, tilting your head up just enough for his lips to hover over yours, breaths mingling, tension thick and electric.

“As much as I love watching you think you’re in charge,” he murmurs, his voice thick, deep, commanding, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

A shiver racks through you, but before you can respond, he moves.

In one swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, pressing you down into the mattress, his hands everywhere—gripping your hips, running up your sides, ghosting over your ribs like he’s savoring every inch of you.

“My turn,” he breathes, dragging your wrists above your head, holding you still as his mouth finds your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your heated skin.

You try to shift beneath him, to gain some control back, but his grip tightens, fingers wrapping around your wrists, pinning you down completely.

“Be good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing down your back, teeth grazing over already-sensitive spots.

You whimper, squirming, desperate for more, but he takes his time, teasing, torturing, his touch featherlight as he drags his fingers down the curve of your spine, over the swell of your ass.

“You’re too fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, mostly to himself, squeezing your hips, dragging you back against him so you can feel exactly how hard he is. “Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this.”

Your breath stutters, body burning, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“Harry,” you whimper, rolling your hips back, silently begging. “Please.”

He groans, low and dark, his restraint snapping.

“Yeah?” he taunts, lips ghosting over your ear as he presses his chest to your back. “You ready for me, baby?”

You nod frantically, arching against him, needing, aching—

But he still makes you wait.

Dragging his hand between your thighs, he strokes you with maddening slowness, gathering your wetness on his fingers, groaning at how ready you are.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Dripping for me already?”

You whimper, nodding. “Harry, please—”

Finally, finally, he aligns himself with you, pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, waiting—

“Look at me.”

His voice is commanding, leaving no room for argument.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes—dark, hungry, wild.

He watches you, waiting, holding you there in the moment, making sure you feel it before he gives you what you want.

And then—

He thrusts in.

A strangled moan rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you open, deep and overwhelming.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he buries himself inside you, his grip bruising on your hips, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he grits out, his voice rough, ragged, vibrating against your skin. His head falls forward, his forehead resting against the nape of your neck, breath hot and uneven. “You’re so—shit, you’re so tight.”

You arch beneath him, back bowing, body tightening around him in response, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness of him inside you. It’s almost too much, the way he splits you apart, the way he holds you still, like he’s savoring the feeling, savoring you.

Your hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white as you try to ground yourself, try to keep from losing yourself completely.

He must sense it, the way your body trembles, because his grip softens, fingers splaying over your stomach as he kisses your shoulder, slow and tender.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice strained but gentle. He noses along your skin, pressing his lips to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

His free hand finds yours, threading his fingers through yours against the mattress, grounding you, anchoring you to him.

He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him before he moves.

And then—

Then he ruins you.

The first thrust is slow, deliberate, pushing deep, making your breath hitch, making your fingers tighten around his.

Then another. And another. Each movement calculated, precise, dragging against every nerve ending inside you, pulling you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips.

His rhythm starts slow, deep—like he’s savoring the feeling of being buried inside you. Like he wants to take his time, to make you feel him, make you remember this.

But it doesn’t last.

The control snaps, his patience evaporating like steam off your overheated skin.

He growls, the sound primal, desperate, as his hands shift—one gripping your hip, the other pressing against the small of your back, keeping you in place as he pounds into you.

The bed shakes beneath you, every thrust sending ripples through your body, pleasure licking up your spine like fire.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours, lips brushing but never quite kissing, too lost in the moment, too consumed by the way your body wraps around him.

You can barely breathe, barely think, all logic drowned out by the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, filling you, wrecking you.

You meet every thrust, grinding back against him, chasing your high, needing, aching—

He notices, because of course he does.

“Yeah?” he pants, voice rough, strained. “You want it, baby? Want me to fuck you like this?”

You nod frantically, gasping, moaning his name, nails digging into his forearm, marking him, branding him.

He growls at the sting, his hand tightening on your hip, holding you still as he drives into you, faster, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the dimly lit room.

And then—

Then he shifts, pulling out just enough before slamming back in at a new angle, hitting deeper, stroking against that one spot that makes you see stars.

You cry out, arching, body tightening around him, pleasure slamming into you like a tidal wave.

His hand moves from your hip to your thigh, gripping, hitching it up, opening you wider, letting him sink in even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

“That’s it,” he pants, lips brushing against your temple, damp with sweat. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, desperate circles.

It’s too much. The pressure, the stretch, the overwhelming intensity of it all.

Your body locks up, toes curling, back arching as your orgasm hits, crashing over you in violent, shattering waves.

You tremble beneath him, gasping his name, clenching around him so tight that he lets out a broken moan, his movements stuttering, losing rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck—”

And then he’s gone, head tilting back, mouth falling open as he lets go, spilling into you with a guttural groan, his entire body tensing before he collapses on top of you.

The only sound in the room is your combined panting, heavy and uneven, the sheets tangled beneath you, bodies still pressed together, skin damp with sweat.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, pressing one last, lingering kiss there before he whispers, voice hoarse and spent—

“Mine.”

The word settles between you like a slow-burning flame, flickering, catching, spreading.

His breath is still uneven, chest rising and falling against yours, his weight a comforting anchor rather than something pressing you down. His arms stay locked around you, like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t plan to.

And for the first time, you don’t want him to.

You don’t move. You can’t move.

His fingers start tracing slow, lazy patterns along your spine, light and absentminded, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

His touch isn’t just post-bliss reflex. It’s deliberate.

It’s different.

And you feel it.

You feel it in the way his body stays molded against yours, in the way his lips linger at your temple instead of pulling away, in the way he wants to stay close—like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

This was supposed to be an arrangement. A job. A transaction.

But the way he’s looking at you now?

It’s anything but.

You shift slightly beneath him, just enough to see his face, to meet those green eyes that are softer than they should be, searching yours, waiting.

And he knows.

Of course, he knows.

Harry’s always been able to read you better than you’d like.

His fingers drift up to your cheek, thumb brushing against the curve of your jaw, his touch gentle—so unfairly gentle for someone who just ruined you minutes ago.

You should get up.

You should remind him of the rules, of the terms, of the fact that this was never supposed to mean anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—

You don’t want to leave.

You don’t want to pull away.

And that realization knocks the breath out of you faster than anything else ever could.

Harry’s eyes flicker down to your lips, back up to your eyes, something vulnerable creeping into his expression before he speaks.

"Tell me you feel it too."

His voice is low, careful, but there’s an edge of uncertainty underneath. Like he’s terrified of your answer.

Like he needs it.

You open your mouth, hesitate—because this is the moment. The moment where everything changes. The moment where you either run, or you jump.

And you jump.

You don’t answer him with words. You don’t have to.

Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him down.

And you kiss him.

Not because you’re supposed to. Not because it’s part of the act.

But because you want to.

Because you don’t want this to be about the money anymore.

Because it isn’t.

Not anymore.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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[togament]

suo. sakura. umemiya. togame. pt. 1

"...and the biggest fattest one too. How'd it take him so long to figure it out? What did it take for him to finally realize?"

𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, general cute stuff really. There isn't much to warn about :o!!! gn!reader, Togame is tall and awkward and cute and and--, Ume's precious as always!

𝐒𝐔𝐎.

✦ when he’s doting on you way more, putting your wants over everything else.

He's attending to your every need even before you realize you even need it in the first place. Need tissues? He's already pulling them out of his bag. Got a migraine? He's already handing you a water bottle and an ibuprofen. He does it so naturally too like it's second nature to him.

✦ when he uncharacteristically gets heated when someone tries to harm you.

Listen. He's usually so, SO calm even in the most intense situations, always ready to analyze before acting--a real brain over heart typa guy. But when he finds you being cornered at an alleyway? He's sprinting towards you to beat whoever's planning on hurting you without even thinking twice. Someone's bothering you in town? He's shadowing you, protecting and keeping watch.

✦ he catches himself being flustered, blushing and folding at the sight of you.

Suo rarely shows any intense emotions. If anything, it's always just a slight smile and a little teasing remark here and there. But around you though? He's smiling widely, cheeks blushing. It's hard to hide sometimes. Goodness. He needs to keep himself in check, he often thinks. He doesn't want you to find out yet. Not yet.

────────────────────────────────────────────

𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀.

✦ when he looks for you FIRST whenever he achieves something, whenever he's having a bad day--for literally EVERYTHING.

his immediate thought is you. Every time. When he sees the hybrid tomato plant you both grew from seed blooming, he's immediately sending you photos. When he's having one of those nights, tossing and turning in his sleep, thoughts keeping him awake, the only thing that's tethering him down to earth is you.

✦ when he sees you get along with the family that he built for himself.

Ume is never subtle when it comes to this. My god. He's blushing, tripping over his words, movements ever so stiff--it's very unusual to see Ume in this state. He's just so happy to see you interacting with everybody, loving each member as much as he does. He can't just swoop you off your feet and kiss you right? Not right now. Not when he's been silently pining for you for years.

✦ when he realizes his thoughts about his future always has you in it.

He often talks about his future with others, what his plans are after he graduates, where he wants to go, what restaurants to go to. Everyone notices how his thoughts always seem to gravitate towards you, always easing you into his plans with a pensive little, "Hm. Y'think they'd like to go here too? I heard them talking about the spot a couple times!", "Maaaan I wanna go here with them soon. Should I just book the tickets? Surprise them? Yeah I think I should!" Everyone's just waiting for a confession at this point, really.

────────────────────────────────────────────

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐀.

✦ when random things remind him of you.

he could be on their daily patrols, passing by some shops and his mind would drift off to you and how you would look in the shirt he passed by, how your face would probably light up at the taste of the anpan they're selling down the street. Goodness you never leave his mind. Day dreams about it sometimes. Suo and Nirei has caught him multiple times doing so. Always ends with an extremely flustered Sakura.

✦ when he thinks he hears your laughter or your voice, his head snaps towards the direction of the sound.

just like the above! But it's your voice. Nirei thinks Sakura's just on guard by how often he looks around quickly but Suo points out Sakura's reddening cheeks and they immediately know he's thinking about you again. Wants to fish his phone out of his pocket with trembling (and blushing) fingers to ask you where you are. Y'know... Just in case you run into trouble.

✦ when he gave you the other half of his food (he hasn't taken a single bite yet)

Sakura sometimes eats for at least 5 people so to have him offer half of his food to you when you're out eating is saying something. His hands are blushing and trembling as he's trying his best to steady them, slicing a portion of his food to place it on your plate. Of course, you give him the other half of your food too. Of course he's a blushing mess.

────────────────────────────────────────────

𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄.

✦ finds every excuse possible to be close to you. (Subtly.)

Ever noticed how Togame always seems to bump into you at spots you and your friends frequent? How he so happened to pass by the Furin school after your classes are dismissed? Gosh you're his first real crush so he doesn't know what to do with all these feelings. He wants to see you and see you often. He awkwardly and adorably tries his damndest not to seem too obvious when he's trying to see you more to strike up a conversation but his blushing (and tall frame) doesn't help his case.

✦ when he always talks about you to the old men at the public baths he frequents.

Togame's a quiet guy. He rarely ever yaps, always getting cut off mid-sentence since he talks so.. SO slow. But when it's about you, his normal 0.75x speaking speed goes up to a full 1.0x or even, dare I say, 1.25x. He's smiling ear to ear, voice with an uncharacteristic shine to it while he's playing shogi with one of the old men. They already adore you before they even meet you. They often give Togame advice too--bring you your favorite flowers, they suggest. Take you out for a festival date, they suggest. "Soon," Togame responds, scratching the back of his neck, "M'nervous though. I can pull it off ri--" "Of course you can, kame-kun." he looks at the old men with the softest, most lovestruck eyes they've ever seen. Soon. He'll make his very first move.

✦ has caught himself staring at you from afar, smiling to himself like a damn lovesick puppy.

...on multiple ocassions, might I add. You could be yapping away with the Bofurin members, talking animatedly about the most mundane things, arms flinging to and fro to get your point across, snort laughing and head thrown back. Togame's just sat just outside the group, ever the introvert. Face propped on his hand, heart practically melting. He doesn't realize he's doing this before Choji points it out. Loudly. He's immediately looking in the other direction, blush creeping up his neck as he struggles to keep the smaller Shishitoren member in check. While he's preoccupied, it's your turn to stare back at him, hiding a blush behind your hand. Suo notices this and points it out. Now the both of you are flustered messes.

a/n: tried my hand at a new layout!! eeeee inspired by my favorite perfume house but we're not opening that can of worms right now, lest I yap. ANYWHOSIES thank you, dear reader, for getting this far. I am smooching your forehead tenderly with consent.