#this time with experiments in line weight

[byfawn]

THE CONTRACT

↳ oneshot | 10.8k | lowercase intended

preview: you signed a contract in desperation for money, thinking it was a joke of sorts—desperate times call for desperate measures. but when you're taken by two masked men who don’t plan to hurt you, just keep you, you realize this isn’t a joke anymore.

↳ note: this is a dark romance with heavy psychological elements and morally ambiguous characters. while the ending leans into tenderness, there is a lot of blurred lines. reader discretion is strongly advised. i really held back a lot while writing this because i was not in the mood to have my account flagged again lol. maybe one day i'll get the balls to go full throttle!

↳ content warnings: this fic contains explicit non-consensual elements (kidnapping, confinement, drugging, forced captivity), psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome themes, graphic sexual content (including cunnilingus, spanking, edging, denied orgasm, forced orgasm, overstimulation, anal play, double penetration, breeding, pussy slapping, praise, and degradation), power dynamics, forced feeding, and emotional trauma.

the bright glow of your laptop screen lights up your cramped apartment. outside, the city echoes with distant sirens and the occasional drunken shout, but inside, the silence is deafening. your fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

the eviction notice on on the coffee table stares back at you in big, bold red letters reading final warning. almost as if it was some kind of death sentence. you hoped it would't come to this but hope could only get you so far. the last thing you needed right now was to be homeless in this shady neighborhood during the dead of winter. you've sold everything of value—all of your jewelry, your books, even a good chunk of your clothes. but it wasn't enough. it was never enough.

so there you were, curled up on your sunken couch, scrolling through the darkest depths of the internet. the places people only whisper about in hushed tones. your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts as you click through encrypted forums, each one darker than the last. the air in your apartment feels thick, heavy with the weight of your desperation.

you spent hours working late nights and early mornings but it was never enough to crawl yourself out of the debt that has been sucking you into a blackhole. 

then you see it.

the sanctuary.

the site is sleek, almost too polished—like it was designed to lure in people exactly like you. no flashy banners, no pop-ups. just a single, ominous listing under experiences:

be taken. be kept. no questions. $500,000 payout upon completion.

your heart stutters in your chest. half a million dollars. that kind of money would be life changing. more than enough to wipe your debts clean, to start over, to breathe again. you could finally move out of this shitty hell hole that is a pathetic excuse of an apartment. 

it was probably a scam but what harm would come from just filling out the application. some twisted joke or a phishing site made to prey on the desperate. you weren't stupid, you knew that. but your fridge was empty, your bank account was overdrawn, and the landlord's threats were starting to sound like promises.

but the questions that follow make your skin prickle with unease:

do you consent to full surrender? yes.

are you prepared to give up all rights for the duration of the stay? yes.

are you mentally and physically prepared for an intensive period of isolation, obedience, and environmental conditioning? yes.

do you understand that comfort and care will be provided at the discretion of your handlers, not upon request? yes.

you swallow hard, throat dry as sandpaper. the rules are deliberately vague, the language clinical, detached. it claims that it is a hundred percent legal��and consensual, but something about the way the words sit on the screen makes your stomach twist.

it feels like a game. a dangerous, twisted game—but you're desperate enough to play.

your cursor hovers over the sign button. for a moment, you hesitate, the rational part of your brain screaming at you to close the tab, to walk away. but then you think of your landlord's sneer, the way your stomach aches from skipping meals, the crushing weight of knowing you're one missed payment away from being out on the streets.

against your better judgement, you click sign.

you hold your breathe as you wait for what happens next. the screen of your laptop goes black. anxiously, you ram your fingers against the keyboard in an attempt to bring it back to life. the screen remains black, the shocked reflection of your face staring back at you. 

you can't help but laugh. it comes out nearly hysterical. with everything going on, the last thing you needed was your shitty laptop giving out on you. as you reach to close your laptop, the screen mysteriously flickers back to life with a single message written across it:

leave your door unlocked tonight.

you slam the laptop shut, the sudden silence in the room pressing in on you like a physical force. your pulse roars in your ears, your palms slick with sweat. what the absolute hell did you just agreed to?

fuck, it's too late to back out now. and no amount of prayers or demise can undo what you had just signed off on. for all you know it was probably some stupid prank set up by a group of teenagers who didn't know any better. that night when you went to sleep, you locked the door and triple checked the windows before heading to bed. 

you spent countless hours tossing and turning, you were far to anxious to even close your eyes, afraid that the dark will swallow you whole. you opted for sitting on the edge of your mattress, knees drawn to your chest, listening to the creaks and groans of your apartment building. every noise makes you jump, your heart insistently pounding in your ears. every creak made your skin crawl, quickening your pulse. 

the clock strikes past 2:00 a.m. your eyes sting from hours of fighting off much needed slumber. you had a shift at the coffee shop that started in three hours. but despite your exhaustion, your body refusing to relax. before you knew it, light was softly filtering through the blinds, the dark of the night gone at last. the apartment was quiet and still as it could be as you stretched your sore limbs. staring into the mirror, your eyes were bloodshot and your face looked drained of life.

there was a part of you that felt like an absolute and utter idiot for even believing that something was going to happen. still, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. it wasn't in the apartment itself, or in the air, or the light. it was in you.

you dragged yourself through your shift at the coffee shop, running on caffeine and adrenaline. the hours passed in a blur. you made drinks, wiped counters, and forced yourself to smile at customers who would never guess what you had done the night before. you kept checking your phone, half-expecting a message, a warning, something. but there was nothing. it felt almost as though a weight was lifted off of your chest. 

by the time your shift ended, you were too exhausted to think straight. you walked home in a haze, the cold wind biting at your skin. after a quick hot shower, you bundled up under your comforter and drifted off into some much needed slumber. 

you don't know what wakes you.

maybe it's the shift in the air, the sudden absence of sound. maybe it's the weight of a gaze you feel before you even open your eyes. but when you do—there's a man standing at the foot of your bed.

your breath catches, your body locking up in pure, animal instinct. he's tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly swallowing the dim light from the streetlamp outside. the shadows cling to him like a second skin, but you can make out his face due to his mask, the glint of something dark and unreadable in his eyes.

you don't scream. you don't even move. your lips part, but no sound comes out. 

then instinct finally kicks in.

you lunge for your nightstand, scrambling for anything to defend yourself. his hand snaps out, catching your wrist in a grip like iron. your pulse thunders in your ears as you twist, nails raking against his arm. a growl rumbles in his chest, low and warning.

"none of that," he murmurs, voice rough.

you don't listen. you can't. panic floods your veins, sharp and electric, and you thrash, knee jerking up. a second pair of hands grabs you from behind, locking your arms against your body. "fuck," a new voice mutters, voice thick with a british accent. "she's a fighter."

you writhe, teeth bared, but they're too strong. he reaches reaches into his pocket, pulling out a syringe. the liquid inside catches the light and you thrash against them even harder.

your breath comes in ragged bursts. "no—no—"

"shhh," the first man soothes, almost gentle, as if he's calming a spooked animal. "just a little pinch."

the needle sinks into your neck.

you gasp, the burn of the injection spreading fast. your limbs grow heavy, your vision blurring at the edges. the last thing you see is the second man's masked face tilting as he studies you, his grip never loosening.

"sleep now, little one," the first man murmurs.

and just like that—the world goes dark.

when you wake, its feels like your skull has been hammered in. you could practically feel your heart pounding in your head. your neck still sore from whatever the hell you were injected with. your mouth feels dry and tastes of copper and cotton. when you try to swallow, its like sandpaper grinding against your throat. you slowly start to piece together the reality around you. 

first it's the smell of damp concrete and something metallic. then the cold, seeping through your clothes and into your bones. finally, the pain, a dull throb at your neck where the needle went in.

you blink against the dim light. you're on a mattress, thin and lumpy, pushed into the corner of what looks like a basement. the walls are bare concrete, the only light coming from a single bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. there are no windows.

you try to lift your head and immediately regret it as the world tilts violently. a soft whimper escaping your lips. when you try to stand up, the chain around your ankle yanks you back. your breath hitches. it's thick, industrial-grade, bolted to the floor and connected to a leather cuff tight enough to leave marks but not cut off circulation.

"she's awake."

the voice comes from the shadows near the stairs. the british one steps into the light, holding two mugs. steam curls from them in the cold air. he's changed clothes and is now wearing black tactical pants and a tight gray henley that stretches across his shoulders. his mask remains firmly in place, the familiar skull fabric hiding his features. only his eyes are visible, glinting in the low light as he studies your pain-tense form.

he sets one mug on the floor near your mattress and keeps the other for himself. "drink. it'll help with the headache."

you don't move. your throat burns with thirst, but you won't take anything from him. not again.

he sighs, crouching down to your level. "suit yourself." he takes a sip from his own mug, watching you over the rim. "you put up a good fight back there. surprised me."

"go to hell." your voice comes out cracked, barely above a whisper.

you can tell he's grinning even through his mask. "already there, darling."

the creak of the stairs makes you both turn. the larger masked man descends slowly, his massive frame barely fitting. he's changed into a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. the sight of those thick veins running under tanned skin makes you swallow hard. his face is concealed by that distinctive hood—the fabric obscuring everything except those unsettling eyes that track your every movement.

"she's not drinking," the british one says. there's something possessive in how he watches you, something that curls heat low in your belly even as your mind screams in protest.

the hooded man tilts his head, the fabric shifting with the movement. "she will."

he reaches into his pocket with deliberate slowness and pulls out a phone. your phone. his fingers tap the screen before turning it toward you. the glow illuminates the loose threads of his hood as you see the bank notification—$100,000 deposited into your account.

"first installment," he says, voice muffled slightly by the fabric. "as promised."

you stare at the number until the screen goes dark, reflecting back the shadowy outline of his concealed face. it's more money than you've ever seen.

the british one nudges the mug closer with his boot. the ceramic scrapes against concrete. "now will you drink?" there's a challenge in his voice that makes you want to both obey and defy him, the contradiction tying your stomach in knots.

your hands shake as you reach for it. when you look up, they're both watching you with something like satisfaction, and the heat in their eyes has nothing to do with cruelty and everything to do with possession. it should terrify you. part of you wishes it did.

the hooded man pockets your phone, the movement making his hood shift. for a second, you think you see the shadow of stubble along his jawline before it disappears back into concealment. "rules are simple," he says. the fabric moves with each word. "you stay. you obey. you get the rest."

"and if i say no?" your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

the british one's laugh is hollow. "you clicked the button, love. that was your signature." he steps closer, and you don't pull away when his thumb brushes your lower lip. "we all know what you really want."

the hooded man's hand settles on your waist, large enough to span nearly half of it. his breath is warm through the fabric as he leans down. "this is your life for now," he murmurs, and the promise in his voice makes your traitorous body arch toward him. "be a good girl and accept it."

the bulb flickers as they leave. the lock clicks. outside, wind howls, but inside, you're burning up. you're torn between horror and shame and filled with the aching need they've awakened in you. the tea sits forgotten as you press your thighs together, disgusted with yourself and yet already wondering when they'll return.

the silence after they leave is suffocating. you slump back against the mattress, your fingers trembling where they clutch the mug. the tea has gone cold, but your skin still burns where they touched you. you hate it. you hate how your body betrays you, how your pulse jumps at the memory of rough hands and low voices.

the chain around your ankle clinks when you shift, the sound too loud in the empty basement. you should be planning an escape. you should be screaming. instead, you're staring at the spot where the british one stood, the way he brushed your lips with his calloused hands burned into your mind. perhaps it was the after effects of the drugs that they gave you making you hallucinate?

you don't know how long has passed but you're most certain that it has definitely been a few hours. you're stomach is grumbling, the last thing you consumed was a day or two ago—a croissant and cup of coffee from the cafe. the hunger was gnawing at your stomach and you were starting to feel dizzy. 

 the door clicks open without warning. you jerk upright, chains rattling, as the british one strides in carrying a tray. the smell hits you first—roasted meat, fresh bread, something herbal that makes your empty stomach clench painfully.

"brought you dinner, darling," he says, setting the tray just beyond your reach. steam rises from the plate, curling in the damp basement air. your mouth waters before you can stop it.

you force your gaze away. "i'm not eating that."

he crouches with predatory grace, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet. "oh?" his fingers tear off a piece of bread, holding it up. "smells good though, doesn't it?"

when you don't answer, he tsks. "such a stubborn little thing." the bread brushes your lips. you press them tighter. his other hand grips your chin, forcing your head up. "come now. you'll need your strength."

"for what?" you snap, trying to twist away. his grip tightens.

"for all the fun we're going to have." he presses the bread harder against your mouth. "eat."

you lunge suddenly, teeth aiming for his fingers. he moves faster, twisting your head to the side and pinning you against the mattress. his body presses down, all hard muscle and controlled strength.

"naughty," he breathes against your ear, hips grinding down just enough to make your breath hitch. the bread is still in his other hand. "you want to play rough? fine." he nips your earlobe. "but you're still going to eat."

you thrash violently, nails raking down his arms, legs kicking uselessly beneath his weight. he sighs dramatically. "have it your way." in one smooth motion, he pulls his mask up just enough to reveal cruel, smiling lips and pops the bread into his own mouth, chewing slowly while watching you struggle. "shame. it's really quite good."

your stomach growls loudly. you can feel your face grow heated from embarrassment but your far to prideful to eat anything he offers. you can see his eyes light up with dark amusement. 

before you can react, he's grabbing another piece of bread and chewing it deliberately. you barely have time to gasp before his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth crashes against yours, tongue forcing the food past your lips. you choke, but he doesn't let go until you swallow, his teeth nipping your bottom lip as he pulls away.

your chest heaves, torn between rage and the shameful realization that your body is responding to his dominance. he tears off another piece, chewing slowly as he watches you. you know what's coming. your breath comes faster.

"open," he commands. when you don't obey, he pinches your nose shut. instinct makes your lips part, and he's on you again, feeding you another mouthful with his lips and tongue. this time, when he pulls away, a whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

"that's it," he coaxes, feeding you another bite. each morsel comes with a stroke of his fingers, a whispered praise that coils heat low in your belly. "so good for me."

when the food is gone, he lingers, thumb wiping a crumb from your lip. you bite down hard. he yanks back with a laugh, examining the teeth marks on his thumb. when he finally stands, adjusting his mask back into place, you're left panting, your lips swollen, your body thrumming with conflicting sensations.

"feisty till the end," he muses. "i like that." he collects the tray, pausing at the door. "sleep well, princess. you'll need it."

your can feel the exhaustion of the past two days and a 12 hour shift wearing down on your body. as much as you try to fight it off in fear of one of them coming back down, your exhaustion wins and sleep comes heavy and unwilling. your lips still tingle from the forced feeding, your skin buzzing with the memory of his hands on you. you dream of mocking voices and teeth at your throat, waking in gasps only to find the basement still dark, still empty.

when you wake, it is to the feeling up being watched—a feeling that you have known all to well lately. it's him. the hooded one. he seems to be much gentler compared to the one with the british accent. 

he's seated in the corner, silent as a shadow, his massive frame swallowing what little light filters into the room. you don't know how long he's been there, but the way his head tilts when your eyes meet tells you its been far to long. his gaze catches yours slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring the moment its prey realizes it's caught. 

"you're awake." his voice is low, muffled by the mask, but it scrapes over your skin anyway. he doesn't move. doesn't blink. just stares, those unreadable eyes tracking the way your breath hitches.

you sit up slowly, chain clinking, your muscles stiff from the cold floor. instinct has you crawling backward before you can stop yourself, shoulders pressing into the wall as if that could save you. "what do you want?"

he stands in one smooth motion, the movement too graceful for a man his size. the bucket in his hand sloshes, water dripping onto the floor between his boots. "you need to wash."

your stomach drops. "no."

he doesn't react, just sets the bucket down with a thud and nudges it toward you with his foot. the towel draped over his arm is crisp, white—a mockery of cleanliness in this basement. "you're dirty," he says. 

heat floods your cheeks. "i'm not undressing in front of you."

"no?" his head tilts, the edges of his hood shifting. beneath the fabric, you imagine his lips curling. "then you stay dirty." he crouches suddenly, fingers snagging the hem of your shirt. "unless you want help."

you slap his hand away. "don't fucking touch me."

his grip closes around your wrist like a vice, yanking you forward until your chest nearly brushes him. "fight all you want," he murmurs, dragging your trapped hand under his mask. his tongue flicks out, tracing your knuckles through the fabric, slow, as if savoring the salt of your skin. "you'll give in eventually. i'll ask again nicely. take it off."

"no."

one hand fists in your shirt and yanks. the cotton fabric tears like paper. cold air hits your bare skin and you gasp, hands flying up to cover yourself. it's pointless. he's already grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. his gaze darkens as he drinks in the sight of your bare chest. your nipples harden under his sharp stare and you can't help but squirm. you shouldn't have found this attractive but it had wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs. 

the damp cloth traces your collarbones, slow and methodical, wiping away your sweat. you bite your lip to stop the moan threatening to escape.

"so sensitive," he murmurs, the cloth dipping lower. he releases your wrists and grips your waist, holding you still as he washes between your breasts. your breath comes faster, your nipples pebbling under his attention. "see how your body reacts?"

you squeeze your thighs together, but he notices. of course he does. his knee nudges them apart as he crouches before you. the cloth drags down your stomach, over your hips, leaving fire in its wake. when it reaches the waistband of your shorts, you whimper.

"shhh," he soothes, even as his fingers hook in the fabric. "i'll take care of you." the rip of fabric echoes in the quiet room. you should be ashamed, should fight harder, but his hands on your bare skin feel too good. you melt under his rough hands like putty. you find all the fight that you had slowly simmer down under the gentle care of his hands. 

the water is cool, but where he touches you burns. his fingers trace every curve, every dip, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. when his thumb brushes your inner thigh, you jerk, a broken sound escaping your lips.

"so perfect," he growls, his masked mouth pressing against your knee. "so responsive." his hands slide up your legs, washing away the last traces of dirt, leaving you exposed and trembling.

no one has ever been so attentive to you. not when you were scrounging for food in dumpsters at twelve. not when you burned with fever that left you immobile in that shitty studio apartment with no one to even bring you medicine because you had no one. the first tear falls before you can stop it. 

he pauses. "look at me." when you don't, his fingers grip your chin, forcing your gaze up. his masked face tilts, studying your wet cheeks. "crying?" his thumb swipes under your eye, collecting tears. "why?"

"because you're—" your voice cracks "—you're fucking monsters. and this is the kindest anyone's ever touched me."

the confession hangs between you, raw and ugly. his breathing changes, the mask fluttering slightly. for a long moment, he just watches you shake, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you upright.

was it the emotional wear and tear of the past 48 hours sneaking up on you? or even worse, the lifetime of neglect that you had faced resulting in any kind of attention, good or bad, making you feel seen? you had been numb for so long that the sensation of tear running down your heated cheeks felt foreign. it was almost as if a dam had burst within you. 

his hands resume their work, slower now. the cloth moves down your thighs with unbearable gentleness, washing away dirt and years of neglect. "let go," he murmurs against your knee, his lips brushing skin through the fabric. "just let us take care of you."

you sob when his fingers find the scar on your hip—the one from when you fell through a rusted fire escape at fourteen and stitched it up yourself with fishing line. his touch lingers there, warm and steady, and something inside you fractures.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad, you think wildly, to let them break you. if their hands put you back together after. if they keep looking at you like you're something precious instead of disposable. 

"there," he whispers when you're clean, pressing a towel to your damp skin. his hands tremble slightly as he dresses you, buttoning the fresh dress with careful fingers.

you hate how much you crave his approval. hate how badly you want him to touch you again. but most of all, you hate that when he leaves, the cold feels unbearable—and that the scent of him lingers on your new clothes, wrapping you in something dangerously close to comfort.

the days blur together in a haze of careful hands and quiet commands. the british one that you have come to know as simon comes like clockwork—morning, noon, night—feeding you bites of food between teasing remarks. "open wider, princess," he'll murmur, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip until you obey. sometimes he makes you eat from his fingers. sometimes from his mouth. you always flush, always protest, but your lips part easier each time.

and the tall one that goes by konig is the one who washes you, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they scrub away your resistance along with the dirt. he notices everything—how your breath hitches when his fingers graze the back of your neck, how your thighs press together when he kneels between them to wash your legs. "so responsive," he praises each time, his masked mouth brushing your ear. "such a good girl for me."

 you had lost track of how many days you had been holed up in the basement. how long did they plan to hold you captive? you had wondered if there had been anybody out there looking for you. although, that was highly unlikely given that you're parents weren't in the picture and you had no friends. maybe your manager at the cafe had filed some kind of report, she was a sweet old lady who always checked in on how you were doing because she knew that you lived alone in a shader part of town. 

as the days passed you started to formulate ways you could escape. the first order of business you had to tackle was the stupid chain on your ankle. luckily for you, there had been a bobby pin from your hair that you had kept hidden under your mattress.

you waited until the house fell silent, until even the creaking floorboards above had stilled. then you went to work. the lock was stubborn, but you were stubborn too. the first click made your pulse spike. the second had your hands shaking with anticipation. 

"and what do we have here?"

you nearly jump out of your skin—your blood turns to ice. simon’s voice comes from directly behind you, his shadow swallowing you whole. you don’t even have time to turn before konig’s hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back.

"naughty girl," he murmurs, plucking the pin from your fingers. his mask brushes your cheek as he inhales sharply. "you smell like fear. you should be scared."

simon crouches in front of you, his knife flashing as he taps it against your ankle cuff. "we give you pretty dresses. feed you from our hands." the blade gently slides up your calf, making you shiver. "and this is how you repay us?"

you spit at him, the saliva landing on his boot. "go to hell."

simon’s laugh sends shivers down your spine as he wipes his boot clean with slow, deliberate strokes. "oh sweetheart," he purrs, sheathing his knife with a click that echoes in the silent basement. "you just earn yourself a proper punishment."

konig’s grip in your hair tightens as he hauls you upright, his other hand wrapping around your throat in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse jump but does. "such a bad girl," he murmurs, his masked lips brushing your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. "needing to be taught a lesson."

you thrash against him, nails scraping at his arms, but he doesn’t budge. the hard planes of his chest press against your back, his arousal evident even through layers of tactical gear. simon stands with that infuriating smirk, rolling up the sleeves of his henley to reveal corded forearms that have no business being so distracting. "over my lap," he commands, settling onto the edge of the mattress with deliberate ease.

"fuck you!" you snarl, twisting in konig’s hold. your heart pounds not just from fear, but from the way his fingers flex against your throat, the way simon’s eyes darken as they rake over your body.

konig tsks, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours as he easily maneuvers you face-down across simon’s thighs. the cold air hits your bare ass as konig yanks your panties down in one sharp motion, his knuckles brushing your sensitive skin and leaving fire in their wake.

"such a pretty little ass," simon muses, running his calloused palm over one cheek in a caress that feels more possessive than punishing. "gonna look even prettier all red and marked up."

the first smack lands without warning, sharp and stinging. you yelp, fingers digging into the mattress as heat blooms across your skin. "bastard!" you spit, but your traitorous body already responds, your nipples pebbling against the rough fabric of simon’s jeans.

simon just chuckles, delivering another sharp slap to the same spot, the pain melting into something dangerously close to pleasure. "count them, princess. or we start over." his thigh shifts beneath you, pressing deliberately against your aching core.

"never!" you gasp, but your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction.

the next blow comes harder, making your eyes water even as your cunt clenches around nothing. konig’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as simon begins a relentless rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, each smack louder than the last, each one sending jolts of heat straight to your throbbing clit.

"o-one," you finally crack out in a broken voice, shame curling in your belly even as your arousal grows.

by the fifth spank, your thighs shake—not just from pain, but from the way simon’s massive hand covers nearly your entire ass, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your dripping slit with every impact. the sharp sting radiates through you, mixing with the low throb between your legs until you can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure begins.

"f-fifteen," you choke out after another brutal spank, your ass burning like fire. tears streak your face, but worse—your juices coat simon’s jeans where you grind against him, your body betraying you completely. you’re a sobbing, snotty mess by fifty, but your cunt pulses with need, aching to be filled.

simon pauses, rubbing circles over the heated skin of your ass. "fast learner that we have here," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal. his fingers dip lower, brushing against your soaked folds and coming away glistening. "oh? what’s this?" he holds his wet fingers up for konig to see, his smirk widening.

you whimper, hips jerking away from his touch, but konig holds you firm, his other hand sliding down to squeeze your abused cheeks. "she’s dripping," he observes, his voice thick with amusement as he presses against you, letting you feel the hard length of him through his pants. "such a dirty little thing, getting off on her punishment."

"i’m not!" you protest, but your traitorous body clenches around nothing, your clit throbbing with each heartbeat. the scent of your arousal fills the air, mixing with leather and gunpowder in a way that makes your head spin.

simon’s next smack lands directly on your pussy, the sting mixing with pleasure so intense you scream, your back arching off his lap. "liar," he growls, delivering two more sharp slaps to your swollen lips that have you seeing stars. "your cunt’s begging for more. should we give it to her, konig?"

the taller man hums, his fingers sliding through your folds to circle your aching clit with terrifying precision. "i think she’s earned a reward," he decides, pressing down just hard enough to make you writhe, your hips chasing his touch. "after she apologizes, of course." his thumb flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing a broken moan from your lips. "well, little one? what do you say?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction even as your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching toward konig’s skilled fingers. simon’s hand comes down again, this time on your already burning ass, the sharp sting making your clit throb against konig’s relentless circles. "fuck! okay, okay! i’m sorry!" you sob, the words torn from you as much by pleasure as punishment.

konig’s fingers don’t stop their torturous movements, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "sorry for what, little one?" his voice is rough velvet through the mask, that accent curling around the words in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"for t-trying to escape," you gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand now, your resistance crumbling with each expert stroke. the way simon watches you—those piercing eyes tracking every twitch of your body, the way his jaw tightens when you moan—sends fresh heat pooling low in your belly. "for being a b-bad girl."

simon’s palm lands one final, stinging blow before soothing over the heated skin, his touch almost tender.

"good enough," he decides, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. his eyes darken at the sight of your tear-streaked face, your heaving chest, the way your nipples pebble under his gaze.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "all marked up and still so defiant." the way his voice drops sends shivers down your spine. "we’ll break you eventually."

konig’s fingers push inside you without warning, curling against that sweet spot that has you seeing stars. "she’s close," he observes, though the way his breath hitches betrays his own arousal. his fingers piston in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as you arch off the bed, your body taut as a bowstring. "should we let her come?"

"not yet. the first time she comes, it will be on my cock." simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear as konig’s fingers still, leaving you teetering on the edge. "don’t even think about touching yourself, i will be watching."

"next time you misbehave," simon promises, his teeth grazing your earlobe in a way that makes your cunt clench around konig’s fingers, "we won’t stop at just a spanking." the dark promise in his voice has liquid heat dripping down konig’s fingers. "understood?"

you nod frantically, your entire body trembling with denied release, your skin oversensitive and burning wherever they’ve touched you. konig withdraws his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them deliberately on your inner thigh, marking you with your own arousal. "good girl," he murmurs, the praise curling around you like smoke. "now sleep."

as they leave, the door locking behind them with finality, you collapse onto the mattress. your ass still burns, your cunt still aches, and worst of all—your fingers itch to touch yourself despite simon’s warning. you press your thighs together, biting back a moan as the friction sends sparks through your oversensitive nerves.

curling into yourself, you press your face into the pillow to muffle your frustrated scream. you should be planning another escape, looking for a weakness in routine, trying to get out of the shackle but you find yourself wondering on how they would taste and feel instead.

sleep didn't come. just the endless replay of konig's murmured praise, simon's dark promises. the way they'd worked you over like a shared project, all rough hands and calculated tenderness. you bit your lip until copper flooded your tongue, but it didn't stop the memories—konig's breath hitching when you clenched around his fingers, simon's grip in your hair as he forced eye contact while konig touched you.

the next morning arrives with no relief. you wake tangled in sweat-damp sheets, your body still thrumming with last night's denied pleasure. every shift of fabric against oversensitive skin sends sparks through your nerves, making your teeth clench. you press your thighs together tightly, but the pressure only makes it worse —a constant, aching reminder of their control.

"someone didn't sleep well," he observes, setting down the breakfast tray. the scent of coffee makes your chest tighten with something dangerously close to homesickness.

"fuck you," you mutter, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

he chuckles, perching on the edge of the mattress. "eventually." his fingers trail up your bare leg, pausing at the bruise konig left yesterday. when you flinch, he presses harder, his thumb circling the mark. "hurts?"

you shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"liar." the word is almost affectionate as he reaches for the breakfast tray. "open."

when you hesitate, his free hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your still-throbbing core with terrifying accuracy. "i said," he repeats, fingers applying just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, "open."

you part your lips with a shaky exhale, letting him feed you the first bite. his smile widens as he wipes a crumb from your lip with his thumb. "see? was that so hard?"

konig enters silently, his massive frame filling the doorway. his masked face tilts as he takes in the scene—simon's hand still under the sheets, your flushed cheeks, the way your fingers clutch the blanket in white-knuckled fists. "trouble?" he rumbles, moving to stand behind simon.

"just reminding our girl who takes care of her," simon replies, feeding you another bite. this time, konig's hand joins his under the sheets, his fingers replacing simon's. his calloused fingers drags against your sensitive flesh, making you gasp.

"so wet," konig murmurs, his other hand stroking your hair. "even after last night." his fingers work you with clinical precision, never quite giving you what you need. "do you want to come, little one?"

you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. the answer claws at your throat, but pride keeps it locked behind your teeth.

simon leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "say please," he whispers, "and maybe we'll consider it."

the tray sits forgotten as they reduce you to a trembling mess between them—konig's relentless fingers, simon's filthy words. when you finally break, a whispered "please" slipping past your lips.

simon's fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes them apart, the cool air hitting your needy cunt. his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his smirk before he leans in, tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds. you whimper, back arching off the mattress, but he pins you down with ease, his grip bruising.

"so fucking wet," he mutters against you, lips sealing around your clit to suck lightly—just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to push you over. his tongue flicks and teases, alternating between soft licks and sharp nips that leave you gasping. konig's hand strokes your inner thigh, his other palming himself through his pants, the quiet sound of fabric rustling filling the room.

"please," you choke out, fingers twisting in the sheets.

simon pulls back with a wet sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "please what?" he taunts, dragging his cock through your slick, the thick head catching on your clit. you jerk, a broken noise escaping you. "use your words."

"please—fuck me," you plead, hips lifting desperately.

he doesn't make you wait. with one brutal thrust, he's inside, stretching you to the limit, the stretch burning so good. his hips snap forward, setting a punishing pace from the start, each drive punching a moan from your lips. konig's hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with simon's thrusts, the dual stimulation making your vision blur.

"gonna come?" simon growls, fingers digging into your hips. "told ya the first time you'd come would be on my cock."

you shatter with a sob, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. the orgasm so intense that it hits you like a freight train. simon fucks you through it, his own release following shortly after with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. konig's breath is ragged behind his mask, his hand moving faster over himself until he grunts, spilling over his fist.

simon pulls out with a satisfied hum, thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pressing it to your lips. "good girl," he murmurs, watching as you lick it clean. konig's hand strokes your hair, his touch almost gentle compared to the wreckage simon left behind.

"next time," konig says, "i'm taking your ass, little one."

konig's fingers curl around the cold metal of the shackle, the one that's been clamped around your ankle for weeks—maybe months, time blurred down here in the dark. the click of the lock releasing is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. your skin tingles where the rough iron had been, the sudden absence of weight making your leg feel almost weightless, like you could float away.

the relief is immediate. the constant pressure, the chafing, the way it bit into your flesh every time you moved—gone. you suck in a sharp breath as blood rushes back to the spot, the sensation both prickling and soothing at once. you reach down without thinking, fingertips brushing over the raw, tender skin. it's sore, yes, but god, it's free.

he watches you for a moment, his masked face unreadable, before he hooks an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. your body protests weakly—every muscle limp, every nerve still buzzing from simon's rough treatment—but you don't fight it. you can't.

the basement stairs creak under his boots, each step taking you further from the damp, mold-scented air, closer to something you'd almost forgotten existed. real light, real air. your vision swims as he carries you into the hallway, the sudden brightness making you flinch. it's not even that bright—just a dim lamp flickering on the wall—but your eyes burn anyway, unused to anything but shadows.

he kicks open a door, and then you're being lowered onto something soft. a bed. actual fabric beneath you, not concrete, not that pathetic excuse of a mattress. your body sinks into it, the mattress cradling you in a way that makes your throat tighten. you want to cry. you might already be crying.

konig's hand drags over your bare hip, possessive but not cruel. "rest," he orders, voice gravelly. "you'll need it."

you don't have the strength to answer. the second he pulls the blanket over you, your eyelids give out, heavy as lead. the last thing you feel is the ghost of his touch on your cheek before darkness swallows you whole.

later that evening, you stir to the feeling of large hands sliding beneath you, lifting you with surprising care. your body aches, muscles still heavy with exhaustion, but the pain is duller now—soothed by the deep, dreamless sleep you'd fallen into.

konig's voice is softer than usual, almost tender as he murmurs, "time to get you cleaned up, little one."

you blink up at him, disoriented, but there's no cruelty in his touch, no impatience. just steady, quiet control. the mask is still in place, but his movements are gentle as he carries you down the hall, the sound of running water growing louder with each step.

when he pushes open the bathroom door, steam curls in the air, the scent of something warm and herbal—lavender maybe—filling your lungs. your breath hitches. a real bath. not a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, not the rough scrub of a rag while you shiver on the basement floor.

the tub is already full, water glimmering under the dim light, little bubbles floating on the surface. konig kneels beside it, testing the temperature with his fingers before turning back to you. "can you stand?" he asks, voice low.

you nod, though your legs tremble when your feet touch the tile. his grip tightens just enough to steady you, his other hand sliding around your waist to keep you upright. the care in his touch is almost startling—like he's handling something fragile, something precious.

he helps you step into the water, and the moment it closes over your skin, you nearly whimper. it's so warm, so soft, the heat seeping into your sore muscles, loosening the tension in your back, your shoulders. you sink deeper, the water rising to your collarbones, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel clean.

konig doesn't rush you. he sits on the edge of the tub, one arm draped over the rim, watching as you slowly relax. when he finally reaches for the soap, his movements are methodical, careful. the washcloth glides over your skin, scrubbing away the grime, the sweat, the lingering traces of simon's touch. he's thorough but never rough, his fingers lingering just a little longer on the places where bruises bloom—like he's memorizing them.

when he reaches your hair, his touch turns almost reverent. he tips your head back, cupping water in his palm to wet the strands before working the shampoo through with slow, massaging circles. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a quiet sigh escaping you. it's the closest thing to kindness you've felt in so long, and it makes your chest ache.

"better?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

you can only nod, throat too tight to speak.

he hums in approval, rinsing the suds away before lifting you from the water with effortless strength. a plush towel wraps around you, absorbing the droplets as he pats you dry with surprising tenderness. his hands linger on your hips before he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bed.

the sheets are cool against your skin as he lays you down, but the warmth of the bath still lingers beneath your flesh. he looms over you, his masked face unreadable as he reaches for something on the nightstand—a small bottle of oil.

"gonna stretch this pretty little ass for me," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle. the scent of vanilla and something spicier fills the air as he pours the oil over his fingers, warming it between them. "you'll take it so well, won't you? always such a good girl for us."

his free hand spreads your thighs, exposing you completely. you shiver, but not from cold. there's something about the way he looks at you, the way his voice drops into that rough, possessive tone that makes your stomach tighten.

the first touch of his slick fingers against your rim makes you gasp. he circles slowly, teasing, watching how your body reacts. "so tight," he growls. "gonna ruin you for anything else."

just as the tip of his finger begins to press inside, movement catches your eye—simon, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. his gaze is dark, hungry, tracking konig's every movement. when he pushes off the wall and stalks forward, your breath hitches.

"look at that," simon murmurs, dragging a calloused finger through your folds. "already wet for it." his touch is rougher than konig's, less patient, but it sends a jolt of heat through you all the same.

konig chuckles, the sound low and pleased as he works his finger deeper. "she loves it," he says, twisting his wrist just enough to make you whimper. "don't you, little one? love being stuffed full?"

simon's fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have your hips jerking. "fuck," he breathes, watching konig push a second finger in. "look at her. greedy little thing."

the stretch burns, but the pleasure simon coaxes from your clit makes it impossible to focus on anything else. konig scissors his fingers, stretching you further, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "soon," he promises, voice thick with want, "it'll be my cock. gonna wreck this perfect ass until you can't walk."

simon leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "and i'll be right here," he murmurs, "playing with this pretty cunt while he does."

the plug is cold when konig presses it against your hole, but the way he works it inside—slowly—has you arching off the bed. simon's fingers curl inside you, matching konig's pace, and when the plug finally pops into place, you come with a broken cry, their praises ringing in your ears.

the room is hazy as they pulls away, simon's fingers glistening as he drags them slowly from your soaked cunt. you're still trembling, oversensitive and boneless, but he doesn't let you rest for long.

"open," he commands, pressing those same wet fingers to your lips.

you obey without thinking, tongue darting out to lick them clean, the taste of yourself sharp and familiar. simon hums, satisfied, before reaching for the tray he'd brought earlier. the food is simple but to you, it might as well be a feast.

simon doesn't hand it to you. instead, he picks up a piece of fruit, holding it to your mouth. "eat," he says, voice rough but not unkind.

you take a bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue, and you have to force yourself not to whimper. it's so good, so much better than anything you've had in what feels like forever. simon watches you chew, his dark eyes tracking every movement of your throat as you swallow.

"that's it," he murmurs, grabbing another piece. "good girl."

he feeds you like that making sure you take your time. konig watches from the foot of the bed. you can feel the weight of his gaze. it's heavy, possessive, and it makes your skin prickle even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs.

when the tray is empty, simon sets it aside and wipes your mouth with his thumb, the gesture almost tender. "sleep now," he orders, pushing you back onto the pillows.

you don't have the energy to resist, not when your body feels so heavy, so used. the plug inside you is a constant reminder of their claim, but right now, even that can't keep you awake.

the last thing you see is konig leaning over you, his hand brushing your hair from your face. "rest," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "we're not done with you yet."

escape is the last thing on your mind as you doze off. 

the next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. it had been so long since you'd waken up to the sun. you stir as the door creaks open, konig's broad frame filling the doorway. 

"morning, little one," he rumbles, voice still rough with sleep.

you sit up slowly, the soreness in your body a dull ache now, more memory than pain. the plug in your ass still feels foreign. konig crosses the room in a few strides, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "feel better?" he asks, tilting his head.

you nod, and something in his posture relaxes—just slightly.

"good," he says. "then let's get you dressed."

he doesn't give you a choice, but his hands are gentle as he helps you into fresh clothes—soft cotton pants, a loose sweater that smells faintly of him. when he kneels to slide socks onto your feet, his fingers linger over the fading marks from the shackle, his thumb pressing lightly against the tender skin. 

you had fallen so into routine with the two of them that your old life was a thing of the past. it's not like you had anything or anyone to go back to. at least here, you had a roof over your head and you didn't have to worry about when or what your next meal would be. 

"no more basement," he murmurs, more to himself than you.

"no more basement," you repeat after him. 

then he stands, offering you his hand. "come. you can see the rest of the house."

your breath catches. real freedom—even if it's just within these walls—feels like a dream. konig leads you through the hallway, his grip firm but not restraining. the house is larger than you expected, the floors polished wood, the walls lined with framed maps and black-and-white photographs.

but it's the library that makes you stop.

floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed with books of every color and size. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to touch, to explore. konig notices, of course. he always notices.

"go on," he says, nudging you forward.

you don't need to be told twice. the moment your fingertips brush the spine of a book, something tight in your chest loosens. you pull one out at random, the weight of it familiar and comforting in your hands.

konig watches as you curl into an armchair, your knees tucked under you, the book open in your lap. he doesn't join you, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. but he doesn't leave either.

the silence is comfortable, broken only by the turn of pages. you lose yourself in the words, the story pulling you under, and for the first time in so long, you forget—forget the basement, forget the pain, forget that you're anything but a girl reading a book on a quiet morning.

until konig shifts, pushing off the wall. "simon's back," he says, and just like that, the spell breaks.

your fingers tighten around the book, but you don't protest when he takes it from you, marking the page with a slip of paper before setting it aside.

"later," he promises, his hand sliding under your chin, tilting your face up to his. "if you're good."

the rest of the day goes by in a blur, you even asked simon if you could cook dinner and he agreed although he was wary of letting you use a knife, reasonably so. 

the knife feels heavy in your hand—too much power after so long without any. simon watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes tracking every movement. you can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you focus on the vegetables in front of you, slicing them carefully.

"slow," simon murmurs, stepping closer. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "don't get too excited now."

you nod, forcing your hands to steady. the rhythm of chopping is almost meditative, the repetitive motion soothing. simon hums in approval, his fingers brushing your hip as he reaches past you for a glass. the casual touch makes your stomach tighten.

dinner is simple—pasta, roasted vegetables, a sauce simmering on the stove. it's more than you've cooked in months, maybe years, and the domesticity of it feels surreal. konig appears just as you're plating the food, his mask pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. he inhales deeply, nodding.

"smells good, little one," he says, taking his seat at the table.

simon doesn't say thank you, but the way he cleans his plate tells you enough.

the meal is quiet, the only sounds the scrape of forks and konig's occasional low comment. you eat slowly, savoring each bite, hyperaware of their eyes on you. when you finish, konig takes your plate without a word, stacking it with the others.

then simon stands, stretching lazily before fixing you with a look that makes your pulse jump.

"bed," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.

you obey without hesitation, your body already reacting to the command. konig follows, his presence a solid warmth at your back as you climb the stairs.

your room is dim, the bed neatly made—just as you left it. but you don't get the chance to admire it before simon is pushing you onto the mattress, his hands rough but purposeful. 

"you did good today," simon murmurs as he strips you of your clothes, "so we'll make it good for you too."

the mattress dips under their combined weight as konig settles behind you, his massive frame caging you in. his thick thighs bracket yours, forcing your legs wider. you can feel the obscene stretch of his cock already—hard and leaking against your ass—as he works the plug inside you with slow, filthy twists.

"fuck, look at you," simon growls from between your legs, his calloused fingers spreading your drooling cunt wide. "clit all swollen and begging, and this greedy little hole—" he slaps it, making you jerk, "—dripping just from getting stuffed in the ass. fucking perfect."

konig’s hand fists your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat as he finally pulls the plug free with a wet pop. the cold air hits your stretched rim for just a second before he’s pressing the thick head of his cock against it, spit-slick and relentless.

"breathe, little one," he rumbles, but doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s sinking in, inch by brutal inch. your back arches, a broken scream tearing from your throat as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

simon doesn’t let you recover. he flips you onto your back, your legs hooked over his shoulders as he slams into your cunt in one brutal thrust. the angle is deep, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips.

"that’s it, take it," simon grunts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as konig starts moving behind you. the stretch is unreal, your body stuffed impossibly full, their cocks rubbing against each other through the thin barrier of your walls.

konig’s hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur as he murmurs, "feel that? both of us inside you, owning you." his thrusts are slower, deeper, dragging against your oversensitive rim with every pull.

simon leans down, biting your nipple through the fabric of your shirt. "gonna fuck you so full, princess," he snarls. "gonna pump this tight cunt until it’s dripping with me—then watch as he seals it all inside you."

you’re sobbing now, your body strung tight between them, pleasure and pain blurring into one unbearable wave. konig’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he picks up the pace, his balls slapping against your ass with every snap of his hips.

"come," simon demands, slapping your clit again. "come on our cocks like the filthy little thing you are."

you shatter with a scream, your cunt fluttering around simon as your ass clenches down on konig. they don’t stop—just fuck you through it, their groans mingling as they chase their own release.

simon comes first, his cock pulsing inside you as he grinds deep, filling you up just like he promised. konig follows with a low snarl, his thrusts turning erratic before he spills, his cum mixing with simon’s as it leaks out around his still-hard cock.

for a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the wet drip of their spend onto the sheets.

then konig leans down, plugging your ass again, now filled with his cum. "my perfect little one," he murmurs, pressing a kiss through his mask to your pulse point. "you did so well."

simon just smirks, tapping your swollen clit once more just to watch you twitch. your body is limp between them, every muscle trembling from overstimulation. for a moment, you think they’ll leave you like this—used and sticky and aching. but then simon shifts, his arms sliding beneath you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you whimper at the movement, your oversensitive skin protesting, but he hushes you with a low hum.

"shh, princess" he murmurs, carrying you toward the bathroom. "we’ll take care of you."

the water is already warm when he lowers you into the tub, the heat soothing your sore muscles. konig follows, a damp cloth in hand as he kneels beside you.

"look at you," simon says, dragging the cloth over your stomach, wiping away the evidence of their claim. "so pretty when you’re all fucked out."

you shiver, but there’s no bite to his words—just quiet satisfaction. konig takes your hand, his thumb rubbing circles over your knuckles as simon cleans between your legs, his touch surprisingly careful despite the way you flinch.

when the water starts to cool, konig lifts you, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you back to bed. the sheets have been changed, fresh and soft against your skin. simon presses a glass of water to your lips, his free hand cupping the back of your neck to help you drink.

"slow," he warns, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

you swallow obediently, the water soothing your raw throat. konig climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. simon settles at your back, his arm slung over your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

"you can leave tomorrow if you want, the rest of the money promised to you will be wired to your account," konig murmurs into the quiet, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. the words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected.

you go still against him.

simon’s grip tightens slightly at your waist, but he doesn’t argue. just waits for your response.

the offer is real. you can tell by the way konig’s chest rises and falls, measured and slow, like he’s bracing for something. like he already knows.

your throat feels tight. you think of whatever shitty life awaits you beyond these four wall. you had nothing to go back to. yes, the money would be nice but not as nice as whatever this was. you think of the careful way simon had fed you, the way konig had held you after. you think of the basement—the cold, the dark, the ache of being nothing.

and then you think of this.

the weight of them around you, the heat, the way their touches have started to feel less like a threat and more like...something else. something you don’t have a name for yet.

you press closer to konig, nuzzling into the space between his collarbone and jaw, his mask tickling your nose. his breath hitches, just slightly.

"no," you whisper.

simon exhales against your shoulder, his arm curling tighter. konig’s hand stills on your arm before sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the spot behind your ear.

"good choice, princess" simon rumbles, and you hear a rustle behind you followed by a kiss to your shoulder. you lean over to see that he had taken his mask off, it was your first time seeing him without it. your heart catches in your throat, you hadn't expected him to be that attractive.

konig doesn’t say anything. but when you tilt your head up to look at him, his mask is off, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes and drift off.

the days melt into weeks, then months, then years—each one softer than the last. the basement gathers dust, its door left permanently ajar until one day konig tears it off its hinges and turns the space into a wine cellar. you laugh when simon fills the first rack with cheap beer instead.

their masks stay off more often than not now. you learn the way simon’s nose scrunches when he laughs, the way konig’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he’s fighting sleep. they learn the way you hum when you cook, the way your toes curl when they kiss that spot behind your knee.

mornings find you tangled in their arms, afternoons in the library with your head in konig’s lap as simon reads aloud (badly, on purpose, just to hear you giggle). evenings are spent on the porch, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of gold and violet, their hands never far from yours.

[rori-is-writing]

⎯⟢ Life Line ⟣⎯

⟪ ⟨ Ch 1: Fancy Meeting You Here ⟩ ⟫

A The Pitt Reader X Soulmate AU.

Multi-Chapter | Explicit | Dr. Robby x Fem!Reader | 2,110 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: You had always wondered what it would be like to meet your soulmate...Yet, of all the scenarios you had dreamt up over the years, meeting your soulmate in the ER as your lifeblood poured out onto the floor was not one of them.  ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Age Gap (20+ years), Brief mentions of near-death experience/shooting trauma, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Soulmates

Read on AO3 | The Pitt Masterlist

[ Inspired by @i-mushi's wonderful Soulmate AU, Strings That Bind.

For my dear @wisps-writes-fic. Happy Birthday (yes, I know it's not your birthday but I finished early)! I tried so hard to make this a one-shot and failed miserably. So you're getting a multi-chapter fic. Everyone is very upset about this I'm sure. 😂

I would just like to apologize in advance to all medical professionals who read this. I am not a doctor or any kind of medical professional so my knowledge about medical and hospital procedure is limited. Please forgive me. ]

You had always wondered what it would be like to meet your soulmate. 

As a child you’d always assumed it would be like something out of a fairytale. Some dashing faceless person come to sweep you off your feet and battle the monsters under your bed. And later, when you’d grown into a teenager you had begun imagining more realistic—but still romantic—scenarios. A meet-cute in a coffee shop perhaps. Or reaching for the same book in the library. 

Yet, of all the scenarios you had dreamt up over the years, meeting your soulmate in the ER as your lifeblood poured out onto the floor was not one of them. 

“Oh,” you slur when you lock eyes with the man who upends your entire world.  “You’re taller than I thought you’d be…”

It is a feeling like no other. A reordering of the universe. A wild, giddy elation that is headier than drugs and more shocking than a punch to the gut. Like a piece has finally slotted into place in your chest and you can finally breathe normally for the first time in your life. 

He’s handsome, your soulmate. With wide brown eyes and hair that has just started to go gray around the edges. You wonder what he looks like when he smiles. He’s not smiling now though. In fact, he looks positively petrified. You reach out and touch his cheek, inadvertently smearing your blood across his skin—a subconscious sort of claiming if there ever was one. 

“Hey,” you say, a little delirious, as if scolding a toddler. “Turn that frown upside down.” 

And then the blood loss pulls you into its seductive embrace. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It feels as if it’s only moments later that you see him again, though he tells you it’s been hours. 

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he says softly, an agonized look on his face. He sits at your beside, elbows on his knees, hunched over as if the weight of the world were dragging him down. 

You nod at him, not so sure what to say now that blood loss and copious amounts of morphine are no longer loosening your tongue. 

“We nearly…” he trails off, his eyes haunted by some unseen vision. “…I…nearly lost you.” 

You can hear the terror in his voice. The sheer, unadulterated fear of losing his soulmate only moments after finding you. 

“I’m…glad you…didn’t…” you say, your throat scratchy and raw from from what you assume was a tube that had been shoved down there while you were unconscious. 

You move your fingers across the blanket until they brush against his. He stares at them for a beat. Two. Three. And then, slowly, curls his fingers around your own with a gentleness that breaks your heart. 

“So…” you rasp with an awkward smile. “What’s your name?”

Your question must catch him off guard because he suddenly barks out a laugh, and finally—finally!—you see that smile you were so hoping to see when you first met. Somehow, you think, he is even more handsome than before. 

“Michael,” he tells you, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Michael Robinavitch.”

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You’re not really sure what the protocol for meeting your soulmate is. Are you together now? Should one of you ask the other on a date? Or was it like that one reality show you liked to pretend you didn’t watch where a couple were expected to marry after a week of knowing each other? 

Truthfully, you didn’t actually know all that much about soulmates. They were uncommon enough that you’d never actually met anyone who had one, and the movies made it seem like some fairytale where the couple was swept up into some epic love story where the realities of real life were glossed over entirely. 

Luckily for you, you had more than enough time to figure it out seeing as how you were essentially chained to your hospital bed these days. The one time you tried bringing up going home Michael had looked at you like you had lost your mind. 

“I spent two hours repairing your liver.”

You blink at him, uncomprehending. 

“…Oh…kay? So I’m fine now?”

You certainly don’t feel fine—in fact, you feel a bit like you’ve been hit by a truck—but you figure that little admission won’t help your case so you choose to leave that tidbit out of your argument. 

As if he can hear your thoughts, he shakes his head with a ‘can you believe this?’ look on his face. 

Wow. Rude. 

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so.” 

You realize with slowly dawning comprehension that your new soulmate has a bossy streak a mile wide. 

How charming. 

(Not.)

There are other things you learn about your soulmate in the following days. He likes Italian sandwiches (delicious). His favorite genre of music is dad rock (you prefer bubblegum pop, much to his dismay). But, most importantly, he is a wizened fifty-three to your paltry twenty-five. Perhaps the vast age gape should bother you—and, in some small ways, it does—but instead you find it oddly…comforting. 

It’s just…nice. Knowing that your soulmate is so grounded and knowledgable. That he has his shit together when you yourself still feel like you’re in that wobbly, awkward stage of life where you have no idea what you’re doing. You may feel like a teenager still playacting at being an adult sometimes but he is a real adult. You bet he even has a retirement portfolio. 

(What must that be like?)

On the flip side, you wonder what he must think of you. What does your mysterious, soft-spoken doctor think of having a soulmate just over half of his age? Do you seem naive to him? Childish? God, you hoped not. 

Eventually a week in, you try to suss the information out of him through careful—i.e. blunderingly obvious—questioning. 

“So,” you say nonchalantly as you watch him squint at your chart on the computer monitor. Technically he isn’t your doctor anymore as you’ve long since been moved upstairs into one of the surgical recovery wings…but that certainly hasn’t stopped him from visiting you every day before, during, and after his shifts to check up on you and critique your care team’s work. 

“Mm?” Michael grunts in acknowledgment, still distracted by whatever he’s reading. 

“What’s your type?”

You see the moment the question finally breaks through his focus because he frowns, eyes flicking to the side to stare at you through those black-framed glasses of his. 

(Have you always been attracted to men with glasses? Or is it just him? Much to think on.)

“My…type.” He doesn’t say it like a question, but like he’s parroting the phrase back to you to make sure that is indeed what you said. 

“Yeah. You know, like some guys like blondes, some like brunettes…” you trail off, urging him to pick up where you’ve left off because this isn’t going nearly how you’d expected. Most men loved talking about themselves. Especially about the kinds of women they were into. It was practically their favorite subject outside of sports and the Roman Empire. 

Or maybe that was just men your age…

What did older men talk about anyway? Stocks? Their aching backs? The AARP? 

Michael just stared at you, a furrow between his brows like he can’t quite figure you out, before turning back to the monitor. 

“Can’t say I have one.” 

Now you’re the one to frown. 

“Everyone has a type.” 

He shrugs. “Not me.” 

“Who was the last person you dated?” 

You can see his jaw working, like he’s fighting a smile—or a grimace. “Have you always been this chatty?”

“It’s not like I have a whole lot else to do in here,” you insist. “There’s only so much daytime TV and TikTok I can consume before I start wanting to grill all the nurses about the local gossip.” 

This is, in fact, true. You’ve probably learned more from the nurses about the inner workings of this hospital than even some of the doctors are privy to. 

“Oh?” He asks, amused. “And, pray tell, what have you learned?” 

“I can’t tell you that,” you say gravely. “I was sworn to secrecy. On pain of death.” 

“Death?” Yep, that’s definitely a smile. “That seems a little extreme. Do I have to fight the nurses?”

“No, because I would never give them up.”

“Good, because if it came down to me and the nurses…my money is on the nurses.” 

You nod sagely. “You’re so wise.”

“Years of experience,” he says, and then frowns—as if only just now realizing the age gap between you. 

Ah. So he hadn’t thought about it. Well, in fairness, he has been very busy lately. Poor thing. Taking pity on him, you reach over and pat his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry,” you tell him sagely, suddenly feeling much more calm about this now that you know he’s just as hopelessly in over his head as you are. “We’ll figure it out.” 

He stares at you, long and hard, before finally nodding—like he’s too afraid to voice whatever he’s feeling. 

And later, after he’s left for the night and you’re settling into a doze, you suddenly remember that he never actually answered your question. 

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“Who are you?”

You blink awake to a strange new doctor scrolling through your chart on the monitor beside your bed. A doctor that is, distinctly, neither your usual doctor nor your soulmate. He looks around Michael’s age—middle-aged or close to it—with soft curling hair that is almost as much silver as it is brown. He turns to face you, seeming surprised to find you awake. 

“Doctor Abbot. I’m from downstairs. Robby asked me to check up on you.”

“Robby?” You ask groggily. While you’re grateful for the drugs that knock you out every night, you’re not so thrilled about how lethargic and fuzzy they make you feel every time you wake up. 

“Michael,” he corrects. “Your…well…you know.” 

Yes. You certainly do know. 

“Mm,” you say instead, as good an acknowledgment as any. “Is he busy or something?” 

“Surgery,” he explains simply before turning back to your chart. “It’s a complicated one so it might be a bit.”

“I see.”

You wonder then if this will be what the rest of your life will be like. Waiting around for your more important other half as he saves lives and is late to see you. But almost as soon as you think it you feel guilty. Of course whoever is being operated on takes precedence over you. You don’t get to monopolize the man just because you’re bored and have gotten greedy with his time. 

Ugh, you needed to get the hell out of this place. 

You eye Doctor Abbot then, wondering if he’ll be more open about your care than Michael is. 

“When do you think I’ll be able to go home?” 

His eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t say anything, just scrolls through your chart. 

“It says here they’ll likely discharge you in a week if you continue the way you have.” 

You make a face. “Ugh.”

“I didn’t realize I was such terrible company,” he says, lips quirking into small smile. 

“No offense, but I hate hospitals.” 

“This might surprise you, but most people do.” 

“I just…feel like I’ve been in this bed forever,” you complain, the floodgates finally bursting open after a week of your soulmate’s constant hovering. “I feel useless.”

You can feel tears of frustration beginning to well at the corners of your eyes, which only makes you more upset. You’ve been independent since nearly as long as you could remember. You’re not used to just sitting around. And yet all it had taken to derail your entire life was some dumb fucking idiot with a pile of guns who probably spent way too much time on 4chan or 8chan or whatever other creepy website weirdos like him hung out on. 

It just…it wasn’t fair. 

“Hey,” Doctor Abbot says softly, attention now turned fully to you. His eyes are brown, you realize. Just like your soulmate’s. “You’ll be home before you know it. You’ve been doing real well. Your chart says you’re healing on schedule. We’re only keeping you here a little longer because we need to make sure your liver will be alright once you’re on your own. Okay?” 

You sniff, feeling simultaneously pathetic and reassured. He squeezes your shoulder, a strange mirror to you comforting Michael only the day before.

“We’ll get you through this kid. Just let us help you.” 

You nod. 

“Okay.” 

Next Chapter | Life Line Masterlist

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[afniel]

Oh yeah fully understood on those points. When it comes to looking at symbols and who's using them for what, I tend to approach it all from the angle of not so much, does this make me personally upset, which I don't give much weight insofar as people are totally allowed to do things I don't like, but moreso are they punching up or down. And the Catholic Church is historically (and currently) very powerful, so to me it's like...it is definitely offensive to use those symbols in that way, no doubt, but it's not like, systemically harmful, which is mainly where I'm looking.

And also I think that at this point I'm just very used to the eclectic/syncretic pagan experience anyway, which is that nobody is using any of the symbols normally, and anything could mean anything to anybody, so hanging out for any length of time in that space you tend to get a skin thick enough to be called an exoskeleton or you move on. I stuck around for over a decade. I'm very hard to surprise now.

(Also also I'm ethics [obligation to reduce measurable harm as much as possible] >>>>> morals [local/cultural definition of acceptable vs. unacceptable behavior] to a degree that I think can be a little strange to others, but I'm always running the 'which course of action minimizes real harm' algorithm in the background somewhere. So someone actually can offend the hell out of me, and if the only real harm being done is that I'm annoyed for a bit...yeah, I'll still vouch for their right to offend me, because that's much less harm than censorship, and that actually does feel satisfying as a conclusion to me. I may just be extremely Weird™ though.)

But I'm also coming at this from a personal religious viewpoint that would be downright blasphemous too, so! Y'know. It's easier to be unaffected. And I get that too.

But yeah I really did go to more than one youth rally that harshed the hell out of the otherwise decent vibes by suddenly going, "Hey also your secular music is big-E type Evil, and Satan personally wants you to listen to it because it'll make you go to hell! Listen to these bands instead!" And to be fair the bands they pitched instead had legit cool sounds and I'd have been happy enough to just add them to the rotation (if I could remember who they were, but I was 16 and I'm 41 now sooo I've slept a few times since then. But I'd kill to remember who they had in place of Metallica because those guys shredded)...but the part where the rejection of the 'secular world' often has nothing to do with spiritual growth and is really being employed as an isolation tactic to make people more reliant on their church in-group and more estranged from non-church social contacts...yeah, even as a teen I smelled bullshit.

And just from the viewpoint of someone who has been Christian before and does still very much respect it as a thing, just not a me thing, being afraid of Satan doesn't equate to having a good relationship with God anyway so the whole approach of scaring people with the threat of Satan is kinda fucked. It's not a 2D line with one guy on either end, and having outside perspectives to help you consider your own beliefs ultimately makes them stronger. Even if it was being done with fully good intent, it still isn't gonna be helpful or healthy to convince people that nearly the entire world is out to get them, and the only people you can trust to not gleefully commit you to a fate literally worse than death is this one group. Like there's metaphorical roads to places paved with that kind of intent, and after the life I've lived which basically sums up to 'Local Man Removes So Many Pairs Of Blinders That It's Uncertain How They Even Fit On His Head To Begin With (#4 Will Shock You!),' I am maybe a little too sensitive to anything approaching it.

But yeah for everyone who's reasonable like you and is like, 'I don't get along with this group because they're using symbols with a deep meaning to me in a way that's contrary to my beliefs and that's uncomfortable to me,' there's someone out there going, 'I think all secular music is bad, no exceptions,' and you're like, 'Surely there's one exception. Come on,' and they're like, 'Okay, okay, you got me, my secret guilty pleasure is the Charlie Brown Christmas movie soundtrack,' and you're like, 'They explicitly brought up Jesus's birth in that movie though. Like they actually quoted the Bible. That's not secular.' And they're like, 'Well yes, but it was mostly about the tree, which is a pagan icon, and the music isn't really about Jesus,' and you realize that this is going nowhere pleasant fast.

I think I don't remember the point I'm even trying to make now. Rambling is fun and easy and I think I lost myself in the imagery somewhere. But you get me. We're basically on the same page, even, I just should have numbered my pages better so it was more obvious from the start <- (normal type of things said by a guy who is still, evidently, lost in the imagery)

Was talking to a work friend about music a d he was telling me that someone suggested a band to him but when he listened it was all satanic stuff and he had to nope out.

It was Ghost.

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 25/?)

Ironic, isn’t it? Something engineered to kill now holds the power to heal.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 11K

Warnings: disease descriptions, "death", delusions about dead people, blood and violence, allusion to human experiments, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 24

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Felicia's laughter rang through the room like a broken bell—sharp, piercing, almost dissonant, as if it didn't quite belong. And yet, to him, it was melodic in its own twisted way. It curled around his mind like a lullaby long forgotten, remembered only in dreams. It didn't matter that it was too loud, too strange. It was hers. And for Silco, that was enough.

Her hands, impossibly warm, gripped his with a kind of reckless confidence as they spun across the old ballroom floor. Dust rose with every step, dancing alongside them in the slivers of light that spilled through shattered windows. The chandelier above them hung crooked, glass teardrops long since fallen, like the shattered remains of a memory. In the far corner of the room sat the orchestra—silent, abandoned. 

Violins with snapped strings. Trumpets with bent bells. The cello, split in half like a body left too long to rot. And yet... the music played on. It filled the air, thick and haunting, as if conjured from the walls themselves. It shouldn't have existed, not anymore. But nothing about this moment obeyed the laws of reality. Or time. Or logic.

He let her lead.

It was strange, to surrender. To give up control so freely. But there was grace in her steps, precision in her madness. She guided him like a maestro, like she had done once in another life. His boots scuffed across the floor in perfect counterpoint to her bare feet, and he followed her movements with the focus of a soldier—but in truth, he felt more like a child again. A student learning something new.

And then he saw them—in the mirrors that lined the walls. Not as they were now, but as they once had been.

Silco's reflection met him with a face unmarked by pain. No scar splitting his face, no eye forever burning with Shimmer. His long hair was tied back into a loose bun, the strands soft and careless, with the familiar fringe still falling across his forehead. A face that hadn't yet seen betrayal. That hadn't yet chosen violence. A man who still believed in something.

Beside him, Felicia remained untouched by time. She always would. Time hadn't claimed her—at least not in the same way it had claimed him. She laughed in that mirror too, but it was less sharp, more real. No echoes. Just her, forever young and free.

She looked at him with familiarity deep, unwavering. There was no fear in her eyes. No suspicion. No resentment for the things he had done or the man he had become. Only that steady, knowing gaze—soft and ancient in its understanding. It was trust. It was love, but not the kind that demanded possession or confession. It was love that simply was. Elemental. Unshakable. A bond forged not through romance, but, through shared silence and unspoken truths.

He returned the gaze with a softness that surprised even himself.

Then, with a grace so seamless it could've been orchestrated by the gods, Felicia surrendered the lead. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her fingertips relaxed in his grip, the weight of her presence shifting ever so slightly—an invisible transference of power. It was not submission. It was trust, again. A quiet offering.

Silco moved.

He stepped forward, guiding her now. The rhythm didn't change, but the tempo of his breath did. He led her through the ruined ballroom like it was sacred ground, each movement instinctual, like he had done this a thousand times before. And gods, if the universe would allow it, he would do it a thousand more.

Then, without thinking, he spun her.

It was smooth. Almost too smooth. As if time itself bent to allow the motion.

The lights overhead flickered. A mechanical stutter. The chandeliers sputtered like candles in a dying wind. The phantom orchestra groaned—violins screeched out of tune, brass wailed, the percussion cracked like bones. For a heartbeat, the entire dream trembled.

And then he caught her.

He pulled her back toward him, sharp but certain, and her body collided with his—her back to his chest, her warmth melting into him like it had always belonged there. The lights steadied. The music fell back into its ghostly rhythm. The world, once again, was still.

But something had changed.

Felicia had changed.

He didn't notice it immediately. At first, it was just a flicker—a question unspoken in the curve of her spine, in the way her breath hitched as it touched his neck. But then his hands, still holding her waist, realized what his mind had not yet caught up to.

The frame pressed against him wasn't familiar in the way Felicia had always been—sharp elbows, strong shoulders, always slightly too thin. This woman was softer, more fluid, curved in ways Felicia had never been. Her scent had changed too. Still faintly floral, but not the same wildflower fields from his past. This was headier. Heavier.

This wasn't his friend. This wasn't the girl who once made him laugh when laughter still felt like an option.

This was his lover.

They caught each other's gaze in the mirror.

She stood there in all her ethereal glory, draped in the white dress he had given her on the day of the masquerade ball. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, like it was woven from moonlight and silk, clinging to her with an elegance that felt otherworldly. She looked like something out of a memory that never quite belonged to him—too perfect, too radiant, like a relic of a life he had only glimpsed in dreams.

And beside her—reflected in the glass—still stood the younger version of himself. His clothes were worn, unrefined, almost pitiful compared to her elegance. A street rat in rags standing beside a goddess. But she wasn't looking at his clothes. She wasn't measuring their disparity.

She was looking at him. His face. His eyes. As if trying to see what lay beneath them. There was no judgment in her gaze. Only curiosity and something gentler, almost tender.

He felt it like a knife.

She would have adored this younger Silco. The one still capable of gentleness. The one not yet twisted by betrayal and necessity. He would have adored her too—cherished her with a reverence the older version of him had been too hardened, too tired, to maintain. The older Silco had used her. Weaponized her loyalty. Allowed her to become collateral in a war she never asked to fight.

But this version... this boy, barely hardened by the world... he would have held her like she was something sacred.

His lips found her neck—not in lust, but in reverence. His breath moved slow and deliberate against her skin, drinking in the scent that lingered there. His hands tightened at her waist, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them, no breath that didn't belong to both.

For a moment, he stayed like that—silent, still, suspended in a fragile pocket of time where he was hers, and she was his.

He wanted to stay there. He wanted it more than he wanted control, more than he wanted vengeance, more than he wanted the freedom he had built in Zaun with blood and fear. But the music called them back.

So he moved.

Another spin, gentle this time. He let her turn beneath his arm, her dress sweeping the dust from the floor like a painter's brushstroke. And when she returned to him, their positions mirrored the beginning. Her hand in his. Her body once again yielding to his guidance.

But his leadership didn't last long.

Just as the transition of power had been seamless when Felicia passed it to him, so too was its return—so subtle it could have gone unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention. One moment, he was leading. The next, he wasn't. Her steps grew surer, her rhythm stronger, and suddenly Silco found himself following again. He resisted at first—of course he did. 

Authority wasn't something he gave up easily. It had been torn from his grasp too many times for him to part with it willingly now, not when it had been handed to him so deliberately by Felicia. He fought for it in the only way the dance allowed—subtle shifts of weight, intentional missteps, gentle pressure on her waist, his hand tightening in hers.

But she responded with equal determination.

Their dance became a disguised struggle, a silent war waged through movement and breath. A rebellion masked by grace. There were no missteps, no breaks in rhythm—just the undercurrent of tension that grew between them, pulsing through each turn, each pivot. It was a power struggle painted as poetry. A conversation that required no words.

But in the end, there was only one victor.

Him.

By sheer force of will, or maybe because some part of her chose to yield, Silco reclaimed control. His hands steadied her hips, his stride grew sure once more, and she—whether by submission or design—followed. They moved together in perfect sync, their reflections spinning across the mirrors like memories made flesh.

And then—silence.

The final note of the phantom orchestra rang through the air like a dying breath, reverberating through the bones of the ballroom. It echoed into stillness, and there they stood—centered in the ruins, in the quiet aftermath of music that had never truly been real.

She looked up at him.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, met his with something that felt older than time. Devotion. But it wasn't the kind that lifted or healed. It was the kind that consumed. That burned from the inside out and left nothing behind but ash and memory. A look that meant everything and nothing all at once.

A look that meant love.

Not the gentle kind. The destructive kind. The kind that hollowed men out.

Silco leaned in slowly, the weight of the moment thick in his chest. He didn't know what he was reaching for—a kiss, a confession, a surrender—but it didn't matter. His lips were just a breath away from hers when something shifted.

Her body collapsed.

No sound. No cry. Just her knees giving way beneath her, like the strings had been cut.

He caught her instinctively, arms closing around her as they both crumpled to the ground. Her weight pressed into him—heavier now, limp, wrong. His hand found her back, then lower, searching for the shape of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest. But there was none. Then he saw it.

The blood.

Dark and blooming through the white of her dress like ink spilled across a page. Spreading from the center of her chest in slow, cruel tendrils. A dagger, buried deep, the hilt barely visible beneath the crimson that soaked her.

Silco lifted his gaze, and there—waiting for him in the cracked, dust-veiled mirror—was himself.

Not the version that had danced. Not the boy with soft features and wild hair. No. It was him. The man he had become. Older. Hardened. Scarred. His good eye burned beneath the weight of sleepless nights and poisoned dreams, staring back with that familiar, detached indifference—the same look he gave the world when he no longer had the strength to care.

But that wasn't what chilled him.

It wasn't the expression. It was the hand. The reflection's hand gripped the dagger's hilt.

Not floating above it. Not reaching toward it. Holding it. Firmly. Like it had always belonged to him. Silco's heart stuttered. He blinked, hesitating before looking down, dreading what he already knew. And there it was. His hand. Flesh and blood. Wrapped tightly around the hilt, buried deep in her chest.

His hand. 

His hand thrusting the dagger into her heart.

He had killed her.

Silco awoke with a gasp, the kind that steals all the breath from your lungs and replaces it with fire. His body jolted upright, spine stiff, shoulders heaving. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The world around him—the walls, the ceiling, the cold metal of the room—felt too still. Too real. As if the dream had chased him back into the waking world and refused to let go.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, the sound of his breathing loud against the quiet. He ran a hand down his face, the tips of his fingers trembling. Sweat clung to his skin, cold and damp, soaking the collar of his shirt. His heart was still racing. The memory of the ballroom echoed behind his eyes, the taste of phantom music still on his tongue.

And worst of all—his fingers still remembered the sensation. That damned sensation.

The weight of her. The warmth of her blood. The stillness of her body. The softness of her dress. He could still feel the way her head had slumped against his chest, dead. He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to obey him again. To ground itself in the reality he had carved for himself. But yet...

That dream had teeth.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. It was always her. Always his dove. Twisting her way into the corners of his mind, appearing not as the lover she had once been, but as every version he had failed—as the proof that even in his most peaceful moments, he could not be trusted with love. Not without ruining it. Not without claiming it and breaking it and burying it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, letting the chill of the room settle into his bones. Sleep had abandoned him. Slipped through his fingers the moment he had closed them around that dagger.

Guilt. Maybe that was what this was. The old stories always talked about guilt like a chain, dragging behind you. But Silco knew better. Guilt wasn't behind him. It lived in his chest, in his fingers, in his reflection.

Whatever peace he might've found in sleep—it was a lie. A trap. And like all traps, it had sprung when he was most vulnerable. He stood, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. There would be no more rest tonight.

And that was fine.

The world didn't stop turning just because ghosts came to dance.

[...]

"Do whatever she asks."

That was the command Silco had given Marcus, in response to a particularly desperate letter the man had sent weeks ago. A pitiful plea wrapped in official tones, asking for guidance, for help, for anything—as if Silco didn't already know what the real concern was. As if he hadn't felt it the moment he read her name on the page.

It had been a damn rollercoaster. The memory of that strange encounter with the figure from Noxus still left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was something about that thing—too calm, too knowing—that unsettled Silco more than he cared to admit. And yet, the true storm began only after. That damned meeting was the beginning of the end of his patience. She was there. Close enough to reach and he couldn't do anything.

It took every ounce of discipline not to send a team to retrieve her, to tear down the pristine walls of Piltover and burn them to ash if it meant getting her back. But no—he kept his end of the bargain. So he waited. He watched. And with each passing day, he felt the rot of absence settle deeper into his bones.

Three weeks. Three long weeks since the confirmation. And now he was beginning to understand what people called longing. A pathetic word, really. Poetic, romanticized. But the truth of it was anything but beautiful. It was corrosive. It hurt. He hated how much it hurt.

All he had of her were Marcus's letters—meandering, overly cautious updates filtered through layers of cowardice—and a few stolen reports from the Stillwater guards he had quietly bought. 

When word reached him that she was masquerading as some kind of enforcer, a shadow operating under the banner of the same institution that had once hunted her, he'd known then that he couldn't rely on Marcus alone. So he made sure his own eyes were on her—indirectly, of course. Hidden. Quiet. The way he know to be when survival depended on being unseen.

It wasn't just Piltover that worried him—it was him. Her old master. The one who'd molded her, twisted her into a weapon and that he would do anything to get back what was once his. Silco hadn't forgotten him because he was there, and Silco knew better than anyone that he would not sit idly by. Not once he realized his prized creation had returned, hidden in plain sight.

For now, the arrangement with that Noxian organization still held. Fragile, unspoken, but intact. His dove was alive—safe, even, in some twisted way. That mysterious figure from Noxus, seemed to be playing a deeper game. Silco couldn't tell if the they intentions were strategic, protective, or just the movements of a bored puppeteer with too many strings at his disposal. 

Maybe they wanted the founder of the Institute to look elsewhere—to hunt ghosts in the dark, to chase theories and whispers while the truth remained hidden. If so, Silco could only be grateful. He didn't care how it worked. As long as she remained untouched, unseen, unclaimed.

Silco was many things, but naive wasn't one of them. He didn't trust the Noxians, not truly. But he knew leverage when he saw it. And for now, they were a shield. A necessary evil.

But even with all the politics and paranoia swirling around him, only one thing had him genuinely enraged. One thing that made his blood boil with a fury he could barely suppress. Her. The pink-haired brat. The one who was supposed to be dead.

She had haunted his past like a specter and when she vanished, Silco had made it a point to confirm it. He had demanded blood, demanded proof. Marcus had looked him in the eye and sworn—sworn—that the girl was gone. That chapter was over.

Except it wasn't.

Now, years later, the same child had returned not as a corpse, but a grown weapon. Breathing. Moving. Protected and not by just anyone—but by her. The woman he loved. The only person in all of Zaun, in all of the underworld, who had ever truly seen him for who he was—and stayed. And now, she had wrapped herself around the one thing that should have never come back.

He didn't even know what was worse: that the girl was alive... or that his dove had taken to guarding her like some loyal hound, ready to bare her teeth at anyone who got too close. Even him.

It was betrayal, and it wasn't. He couldn't blame her, not entirely, not after everything he'd done. She was loyal to Vander, then the loyalty passed to the damn pink-haired brat.

Silco had confronted Marcus the moment the report landed on his desk. Threw it at the bastard's feet. Called him a liar to his face, venom in every word. Marcus, for his part, had paled like a ghost, stammered some excuses.

Silco didn't care.

The damage was done. The past wasn't buried—it was walking.

Sending assassins after her would be the equivalent of painting a bright red target across his own chest—no, his soul—and Silco knew exactly who would be the one to pull the trigger if it came to that. His little dove. His sweet, broken masterpiece. If she even suspected that he had anything to do with harming that girl, there would be no begging, no talking her down from the ledge. Not this time. She would aim straight for his heart and she wouldn't miss.

All he could do now was hope. Hope that Violet's body would give in to whatever sickness clung to her. Hope that the illness that had taken root weeks ago would finish what he had started long before. Because as long as she lived, she was a threat. Not to Silco directly—no, he not fearing her fists. But to the fragile, volatile balance he'd built atop lies and broken pieces.

There was still one person who didn't know. One person who must not know.

Jinx.

If she even suspected her sister was alive...

He didn't let himself finish the thought. He couldn't.

She trusted him. Through everything, through the fire and madness and years of silence, Jinx had clung to his words like gospel. Vi is gone. That had been the truth he'd fed her, over and over, until it had become a part of her very identity. He'd ripped out her past, rewritten her pain, and filled the hollow space with purpose—his purpose. He didn't do it out of cruelty. He did it because she needed it.

But if that truth ever resurfaced? If that fragile thread snapped?

Jinx wouldn't hesitate.

Her loyalty ran deeper than blood, more powerful than logic or reason—but it was not blind. Silco knew her mind too well. The chaos, the echoes, the fire. All it would take was a moment—a whisper, a face in a crowd—and the illusion would crumble. And when it did, she wouldn't come asking questions. She'd come with bullets and bombs.

For now, he would let her play her little game. Let her wear the mask of a guardian, let her cling to that hollow hope that she could save the girl. If that was the path—the trial—that thing from Noxus had spoken of, then so be it. Silco didn't believe in fate, not in the romantic sense that she used to whisper about late at night when she still trusted him. But he believed in design. In cause and effect. In inevitable descent.

And if the only way she would ever come to accept the truth of what she was—what she had to become—was through disappointment, then he would allow her that heartbreak. He would let her feel the sharp edge of betrayal, not his, not this time, but the betrayal of her own ideals. He would let her bleed for them.

Because maybe the pain of his betrayal hadn't been enough. Maybe it had wounded her, but not deep enough to sever the last threads that tied her to Vander's lies. But death? Real death—the kind that doesn't leave room for second chances, that doesn't flinch when she screams—that might do the trick. If she had to watch that girl die, to see her own hands stained with the guilt of failure, perhaps then, finally, she'd stop running from what she truly was.

Silco took a long drink of whiskey, the liquid searing down his throat, but it didn't bite the way it used to. The burn barely registered anymore. He couldn't decide if that was a mercy or another kind of slow punishment he'd carved out for himself in her absence.

He'd been drinking too much. He knew it. Everyone around him knew it. But no one would dare say a word. He told himself it wasn't because of her, that her absence hadn't carved a hollow into his chest, that the liquor wasn't just a poor substitute for the voice he missed hearing in the stillness of his office. But lies have a way of curdling when spoken too often—even to yourself.

He stared down at the paperwork before him, documents that meant the difference between survival and collapse for half of Zaun. His signature scrawled across them in quick, practiced strokes, efficient as ever. But the truth was, his heart wasn't in it. Not anymore. Not without her sitting across from him, challenging his every word, mocking his seriousness with that glint in her eye that said she understood him better than anyone ever had—and still chose to stay.

Until she didn't.

Silco set the glass down a little too hard. The sound echoed in the room, sharp, final. The whiskey bottle was half-empty, the way it always was these days. He told himself it was just a phase. That once she came back—and she would—things would steady. The world would right itself. She'd see things clearly then. She'd see him clearly.

A sharp knock echoed through the room, its rhythm clipped. Sevika's voice followed immediately after—blunt and efficient, as always.

"Singed requests a meetin." she called from the other side of the door. "Something about the new scientist."

Silco let out a slow breath through his nose, already grateful she'd skipped the small talk. With Sevika, he didn't have to endure the pleasantries or preambles that so many others wasted time with. She spoke in facts, and facts were easier to manage.

"Let him in."

The door opened, the dim light of the hallway spilling briefly into the room before being swallowed again by the ever-present haze that lingered around his office. Sevika entered first—tall, composed, always a presence that demanded attention—and behind her came Singed, quiet as a wraith, moving with that same eerie grace that had always unsettled those not used to him. The doctor held a letter in one hand, delicate in contrast to his gaunt, scarred fingers. His expression was unreadable. It always was.

Sevika didn't move any further once she stepped inside. She lingered by the door, waiting—always waiting—for a cue. Silco didn't speak, merely lifted a hand and gestured toward the worn sofa off to the side. She obeyed immediately, walking over with those heavy steps of hers and settling down without protest.

Singed moved next, taking a seat with slow, measured control. No dramatics. No wasted energy. And then, with the same calm detachment he always wore like a second skin, he dropped the letter he carried onto the desk between them.

Silco let the silence stretch for a few moments longer, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his chair. Then, without shifting his gaze from the now-open letter in front of him, he spoke, his voice low and even, though edged with something sharper.

"If I recall correctly... you once told me you hadn't received a satisfactory response from Viktor regarding our proposition."

There was a beat of stillness, the kind that hung heavy in the air—not tense, but thoughtful. Singed tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, like he was sifting through memories. Then he answered, voice measured and clinical, as always.

"That was accurate... until this morning." He paused, letting the weight of that hang between them before continuing. "A letter arrived. From Viktor himself. He has agreed to join the research."

Silco's brow arched with deliberate slowness, the sharp line of it a clear sign of his surprise. He turned his head just enough to regard the doctor more fully, studying him through narrowed eyes. This wasn't what he'd expected—not in the slightest.

In his mind, Silco had already mapped out two possible futures: one where he'd be forced to coerce the scientist into cooperation, using whatever leverage became most effective, and another where—should persuasion fail—Viktor would simply become another obstacle to eliminate. A regrettable loss, but not an irreplaceable one. That he had chosen to accept, and without resistance, was not a piece that fit neatly into any of Silco's designs.

"Just like that? He accepted without demands? No conditions? No hesitations?"

"None." Singed replied simply. "He offered no terms. Merely confirmed his willingness to collaborate."

Silco's eyes narrowed further, and he leaned back in his chair once more, his thoughts turning inward like storm clouds rolling over the skyline of his mind. He didn't trust easy victories. In Zaun, nothing ever came without a price. Nothing. And people like Viktor—ideologues, dreamers—were especially dangerous when they gave in without resistance. It meant they already had their own reasons. Their own plans.

He glanced again at the letter on his desk, then toward Singed, whose expression remained maddeningly impassive. Silco hated that. Not because he thought Singed was lying—no, the man had proven too valuable, too consistent for that—but because with him, truth could be just as unsettling as deception.

"And you find that curious, I assume." Silco's tone wasn't quite a question.

Singed inclined his head ever so slightly. "I anticipated resistance. Perhaps negotiation. At the very least, a set of stipulations. But there was nothing of the sort. It's... uncharacteristic, even for him."

Silco's gaze drifted to the shadows dancing along the far wall of the office, the low flicker of the chemical lamps casting everything in sickly greens. His mind turned over the possibilities.

What did Viktor want? More importantly—what did he think he could gain by saying yes so quickly?

This wasn't charity. This wasn't desperation. It was something else.

"No one enters a pact without expecting something in return." Silco muttered, mostly to himself, then focused again. "Keep him under close observation. If he starts working, I want records of everything. Research logs, formulas, conversations. I want to know what he's doing and what he's thinking."

Singed gave a slight nod. "Already in place."

Of course it was.

Silco exhaled slowly and turned his eyes once again to the letter. For now, fortune had smiled on him—unexpectedly, perhaps, but undeniably. Viktor's presence could accelerate things. Add legitimacy. Resources. Vision. But Silco had lived too long in the depths of betrayal and blood to believe in gifts that came without strings.

And if Viktor had none...

That only meant the strings were hidden and Silco would find them. Or cut them first.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

Hours before.

The moon hung high, brilliant and full, casting silvery light across the iron bones of the bridge. It felt like it was watching, like it was meant to witness this exact moment—an unspoken rendezvous under its quiet gaze. Below, the river murmured softly, the gentle lapping of waves against stone pillars composing a rhythm, a steady heartbeat to the charged stillness around you.

The wind teased your hair, strands dancing wildly across your face, some catching on your lashes, others brushing against your lips like whispers. You didn't move much, only turned your head slightly toward the voice that had cut through the silence.

He didn't feel like a stranger, even though this was the first time you'd truly seen his face. Maybe it was the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the way his angular features seemed both striking and fragile. 

His skin was pale, like parchment in moonlight, and his eyes... his eyes were what held you. Deep, knowing, like he was always calculating—like you were a variable in a complex equation and he'd just solved it. Those eyes studied you with a quiet intensity, the kind that might have belonged to a scientist observing the final stage of an experiment.

But what truly gave him away was the cane.

He looked at you the same way you looked at him—like recognition had bloomed in some dormant part of your memory, and now it was impossible to ignore.

Then came that smile. Subtle. Crooked. One corner of his lips tugging upward just enough to be noticed, as if he had solved something only he was aware of.

"I barely recognized you in this enforcer uniform." 

He said, voice calm, but with the casual edge of someone who practiced sounding unbothered. There was something peculiar in his accent, too—an intentional mimicry of Piltover refinement, yet it didn't quite cover the undercurrent of Zaun in his tone. It was too clean. Too studied.

You didn't answer right away. You were still cataloging every piece of him, every flicker of movement in his expression. Even his posture was a puzzle. He stood like someone who had never truly relaxed. Not entirely.

"It's good to see you again, Baroness."

That damn title

"That title doesn't belong to me anymore."

He inclined his head slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening just enough to acknowledge your words. He didn't argue. He didn't push. That alone earned him a sliver of your trust.

"Then..." he said carefully, tone shifting to something more thoughtful, almost curious, "How should I address you?"

You spoke it.

Your name.

Just your name.

He repeated it slowly, almost experimentally. The way it left his lips, wrapped in that deep accent smoothed by his time in Piltover, made it sound unfamiliar but... pleasant. Gentle, even. There was a cadence to it you hadn't heard before. Maybe it was the way he rolled the syllables, or the softness he laced into it like a scientist being careful not to disturb a volatile compound.

There was charm in the way he said it. Subtle, unintentional. And yet, despite that, it still didn't compare.

Because when he used to say your name—when Silco said it—it was different. That was something else entirely. His voice wrapped around it like it owned it. He didn't just say your name, he claimed it, gave it meaning, used it like a knife or a promise, depending on the moment. There had always been something dangerous about it when it came from his mouth. Something sacred. Something ruined.

But that chapter was closed. That part of you was buried beneath too many layers to resurface now. Still, the comparison crept in uninvited, and you hated that it did. You shook it off, grounding yourself in the present. In the man in front of you.

"I'm Viktor, madam."

You noticed it then—something you hadn't registered before. His silhouette had emerged from the shadowed edge of the bridge, the side that sloped downward into the darker veins of Zaun, not the glittering arteries that led upward into the polished, proud heart of Piltover. You hadn't questioned it in the moment—perhaps a part of you didn't want to—but now, the realization lingered like a bitter taste at the back of your throat.

Your body acted on instinct. You stepped away from the edge of the bridge, your boots clicking against the steel in a rhythm more determined than you felt. You turned your back to him, not out of rudeness—but as a shield. A silent declaration that the conversation was over before it even began. That this, whatever it had been, had lasted long enough.

You began your walk, heading back toward Piltover. Toward Stillwater. Back to duty. Back to the cold, predictable structure of a world that made more sense when emotions weren't clouding it. Back to Violet....

But of course, Viktor wasn't the kind to let someone walk away so easily. Just as the distance between you grew—enough that your footfalls had begun to echo in solitary rhythm—his voice sliced through the air.

"I know about you."

You froze.

It wasn't a threat, or a boast. He said it like a fact. A line drawn cleanly across the night sky.

Your breath caught for a moment, chest rising slowly as you turned your gaze just slightly over your shoulder. You didn't face him fully—didn't want to give him that satisfaction—but you stopped walking. Silence rushed in to fill the space between his words and your next move. The river below murmured, a steady undercurrent of noise against the sudden stillness in your head.

He hadn't moved. Still standing at the edge where shadows touched his feet, his form half-draped in moonlight, half claimed by the dark. Like he didn't belong fully to either world.

"You know about me?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, but not cold. There was something beneath it. Something careful. "And not the fantasy version where you were Silco's delicate bride."

His eyes found you again, and it was like a pressure against your ribs. Like he saw through the layers you had so meticulously built.

"Immortality is something impossible to achieve through science, but magic was also impossible, and Jayce and I achieved it. Just like you did." Viktor rambled. "The impossible is just a step that humanity is not yet sure how it will achieve, but it will eventually."

You clenched your jaw. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go.

You turned fully to face him now, your boots whispering against the metal surface of the bridge. There was no rush. You weren't sure if you were walking toward a conversation... or toward the end of one. A thousand possibilities tangled in your mind as your eyes stayed locked on his. Was this the beginning of a negotiation—or a murder?

You stopped just a few feet in front of him. "Let me guess... Singed or Silco told you about me?"

Viktor didn't flinch. He simply inclined his head, a small nod confirming everything you had already begun to suspect.

Strangely, you didn't feel anger. Not like you expected to. No white-hot fury or betrayal, just... resignation. Calculation. It made sense. Of course it did. You could almost see the path unraveling behind you, the twisted logic of it all. Singed was a thread that tied too many things together.

Silco had taken an interest in Viktor long before the chaos unfolded between you two. You remembered that night at the gala vividly, how Silco's eyes lingered on the boy with the cane, how he'd spoken of genius like it was a commodity to be harvested.

And now, without you, Silco would be scrambling. Desperate. He'd squeeze whatever brilliance he could out of anyone left standing. Viktor wasn't an ally. He was another tool Silco had picked up in the hopes of creating something... someone... new. Someone like you.

"He's using you." you said softly, not as an accusation, but a truth laid bare between the two of you. "Just like he used everyone else. You're skilled, intelligent... disposable."

Viktor's gaze didn't waver. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched upward, not in amusement—but in understanding. Acceptance.

"I know."

"Then if I were you... I'd run. Get as far away from him as you can. If you know this much about me, it's only because Silco allowed it. As long as you're useful to him, he'll keep you breathing. But the moment you're not—" You didn't finish the thought. You didn't have to. The implication hung heavy in the air. "People who know too much don't get to live long in his world."

There was a long silence, and the sound of the river below seemed louder in its wake. Then Viktor replied, voice soft but unwavering:

"I am aware of that."

Something in the way he said it chilled you. Calm. Almost fatalistic. Like a man who had already considered death and decided he could live with it.

"So that means..." you narrowed your eyes, "You agreed to work for him."

He tilted his head slightly, and for a heartbeat you thought he might confirm it. But instead, with the same unshakable calm, he answered:

"Absolutely not."

"Then why the hell are you still alive?"

"I didn't really accept working for him, but I didn't say no either."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head slowly in disbelief. Not mockery, but something heavier—exasperation, maybe. Or incredulity. As if the mere idea of someone telling Silco they would think about accepting his offer was so far removed from reality that it bordered on suicidal. Silco wasn't the kind of man who tolerated ambiguity. He didn't deal in "maybes." You either belonged to his game, or you didn't play at all.

"I can't tell if that's cleverness or sheer stupidity." 

The words leaving your mouth before you could soften them. Your tone was sharp, laced with something cold and urgent. But it wasn't cruelty—it was honesty. This boy, for all his intelligence, for all his articulate restraint and sharpness of mind, clearly didn't know what kind of monster he was dancing with. 

"Silco isn't patient, Viktor. That man, he doesn't wait for people to make up their minds. He twists them. Breaks them, if he has to." You took a step closer, your boots scraping lightly against the metal of the bridge. "You still have a life ahead of you. A long one, if you don't throw it away dealing with devils like him."

That was when Viktor laughed—but not out of amusement.

It was dry. Cracked. Hollow. A sound that held no real joy, just resignation. He adjusted his grip on his cane, fingers curling tightly around the polished metal, and for the first time tonight, you noticed the tension in his posture. The way his shoulders dipped slightly. The stiffness in the way he shifted his weight. Maybe it was pain, physical or otherwise. Maybe both.

"I don't." he murmured, almost too quietly.

You frowned, caught off guard. "Don't what?"

Viktor didn't look at you right away. His gaze was somewhere distant, past the river, past the spires of Piltover, locked on something only he could see. When he finally turned his eyes back to you, they were no longer calculating—they were honest in a way that made your throat tighten.

"I don't have a long life ahead of me."

And just like that, the night around you shifted.

The cold wind wasn't just cold anymore—it felt sharp, invasive, like it was slicing through the space between you. You stared at him, the weight of those words crashing into you, sudden and unforgiving. That wasn't what you expected to hear. Not from him. Not tonight.

"Oh..." you breathed. It was the only thing that came out, because your mind was reeling, scrambling to make sense of it. Of him. "I'm sorry."

Viktor only shook his head, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. 

"Don't be. My condition it's degenerative, rare and incurable." he explained with the detached cadence of someone who had repeated these facts too many times to too many people, until the words lost all weight. "I've calculated the odds. If I'm lucky, a few more years. If not... less."

"Is it something you were born with?" you asked, your voice softer now, but the weight of the question hung thick in the air.

Viktor didn't flinch. He didn't look away or shift uncomfortably. Instead, he answered with a kind of practiced ease, as if the truth had long ago become part of his identity—woven into his bones alongside the pain.

"Since birth. The condition progressed as I grew. The older I became, the more aggressive it got. Every doctor in Piltover has given their verdict, no cure, only management. A slowing of the inevitable. Nothing more."

The honesty in his voice pierced deeper than you expected. It wasn't just that he was sick—it was the way he said it. Not with bitterness, but with familiarity, like someone who had lived side by side with death for so long it had become a companion. An unwanted one, but one he had learned to coexist with nonetheless. You hesitated. Something pulled at your thoughts, twisting them into darker, sharper places.

What would a man with a fate like Viktor's be willing to trade for the faintest hope of salvation? The answer came before you even finished the question.

"Silco promised you a cure."

It wasn't an accusation. It was a realization. A truth that tasted like metal on your tongue. Viktor didn't hesitate—not even for a breath. The words slipped from his mouth like scripture. Like something he had recited to himself a thousand times before daring to believe it.

"Your regeneration... if studied correctly, with precision, with diligence... it could become the foundation for a universal cure. At least, that's what Singed's early experiments suggested. A form of continuous healing, cellular restoration that resists infection, rebuilds tissue faster than it can decay. It renders you immune to sickness. Even the most violent injuries mend in seconds. And now—" he paused, a flicker of awe, or maybe fear, crossing his features, "Not even death can reach you."

You scoffed, though the sound lacked any real bite. It was more reflex than conviction—an attempt to mask the fact that you were genuinely trying to recall if you'd ever been sick. Not bruised, not scraped—sick. An illness. A fever. Anything beyond surface-level wounds that healed too quickly to be normal.

And the strange part was... you couldn't remember a single instance. Not one.

The more you turned the thought over in your mind, the more unsettling it became. It was as if you'd lived your whole life encased in something not entirely human, something... protected. A body untouched by disease, untouched by what usually haunted people sooner or later. It was a realization that sat heavy in your chest, cold and quiet like the first breath after diving too deep underwater.

But that realization came with another—like a domino falling into place behind the rest. A cure. Not for you. From you. A universal cure. One that could change everything for people like Viktor, like Violet.

"A universal cure..." you said slowly, not fully believing the words even as they left your mouth. "You really think that's possible... from my blood?"

Viktor's eyes remained steady on yours. There was no mockery in them, no exaggeration—just truth, however painful or bold it was.

"Medicine isn't exactly my field." he admitted, one corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile, "But I can't ignore what Singed's early studies suggest. Your immune system respond to infection in a way I've never seen. Not destroy it, neutralize it. Integrate and override it."

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing down on you. "And you think it could help you? Or at least ease your symptoms?"

Viktor paused, then nodded slowly. "I believe it could. If we could isolate the core structure of your immunity, if we could replicate it... then yes. Maybe not a cure completely, but it could be a kind of stabilizer."

The wind picked up, swirling around you like the city itself was holding its breath. You turned your face away for a moment, blinking hard as your thoughts scrambled to keep up with the implications. It wasn't just about you anymore. It was about possibility. And the path forward was tangled, but not impossible.

"Do you really think you can do this?"

"I wouldn't waste my time chasing an illusion. My time is... finite and I can't deny that seems to be... my best chance."

"To survive?"

"To fight." Viktor corrected, firmly. "To fight against my body. Against time. Even if the outcome is already written, I still want to write the middle. I still want to try."

A fair reason in your opinion.

"And how long do you think it would be possible to make a prototype cure?

Viktor tilted his head slightly, expression sharpening with focus as if already turning over the question in his mind, calculating probabilities behind those keen eyes. He hummed thoughtfully, the sound soft but grounding. 

"Hm... depending on how the research evolves, how the cells respond, how the tests go, perhaps a few years. That's the best-case scenario."

Years.

The word struck like a stone in your gut, pulling the air from your lungs. Violet didn't have years. You weren't even sure she had months.

Violet's condition had worsened rapidly in the last few weeks. Her body was giving out, her breathing had turned shallow and uneven, and there were days where her voice was barely more than a whisper. And no matter how hard she tried to hide it, you could see it—death lingering at the edges, inching closer every day. Her fire was still there, but the body housing it was losing the strength to hold on.

"There's this girl. She's in the same situation as you, but I doubt she has years. Maybe months if I'm lucky." 

Your voice cracked slightly, and you hated it. You weren't used to sounding desperate. But here you were—stripped bare by the weight of helplessness.

"If this cure is possible and it could save her... I can't wait years for a prototype. I'll help you. Whatever you need, blood samples, tissue, observation, I'll be your lab rat if that's what it takes. I don't care, just tell me it'll make a difference."

He watched you for a long moment, silent. Processing.

The gears were clearly turning behind that worn, brilliant face, but this wasn't just about science anymore. This was about promises, lives, guilt, hope—all tangled together.

"It's possible." he said slowly, voice almost cautious. "If your body continues to respond the way Singed's research suggests, and if we can collect enough consistent data..." He paused, his expression softening. "Yes. We could accelerate the process. But I can't offer you certainty. Only a chance."

"That's all I need."

You extended your hand toward him, trying your best to appear steady, like this was just another negotiation. But inside, your heart was a storm. Your fingers trembled slightly, and not from the chill of the wind slicing across the bridge. You weren't scared of him. You were scared of hope.

"Do we have a deal?"

Viktor stared at your outstretched hand. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached forward, fingers slightly stiff with effort, and gripped your hand in his. His grip wasn't strong—not in the way you were used to—but there was a kind of quiet resolve behind it. A dignity that had nothing to do with physical strength.

"Deal." he said. Then, after a breath: "In fact... what would you say to starting the sample collection tonight?"

You blinked.

"Tonight?"

He offered a tired but determined smile. "There's no time to waste, is there?"

And in that moment, you saw it again—that flicker of stubborn life inside him, fragile yet unyielding. Viktor wasn't going to let death have the last word. Not without a fight. And now, you weren't going to let it have Violet either.

"Then lead the way, Viktor."

[...]

Viktor's apartment was larger than you expected—but not in the way that screamed wealth or excess. It lacked the ornate extravagance you'd come to associate with typical Piltovian residences: there were no gilded fixtures, no handwoven drapes, no artistic clutter just for the sake of appearances. Everything in this space had a purpose, a function, a reason for being exactly where it was. If you looked at it objectively, it was rather spartan—minimalistic, practical to a fault.

But the lab...

The lab was another story entirely.

It spilled over from what might've once been a dining area, or maybe a sitting room, but now it served only one purpose: to house Viktor's mind in physical form. Organized chaos—that was the only way to describe it. Every surface was claimed by papers, stacks of parchment covered in formulas and theories, some crisp and newly written, others crumpled and speckled with dried ink. Dozens of mechanical parts lay like discarded bones of unfinished creations, alongside delicate tools and wires that snaked across the table like veins of some greater machine waiting to be born.

There were ink pots scattered in illogical places—on bookshelves, on the floor, even balanced precariously on the edge of a half-open drawer. Quills rested beside pliers. A worn whiteboard dominated one corner, filled with complex equations and diagrams, some hastily crossed out, others emphasized with frustrated underlines. Your eyes had scanned it slowly earlier, trying to make sense of it, but the only word you could confidently pick out amid the storm of variables and abstract notation was Hextech.

That word, at least, you recognized.

The faint scent of oil and iron mixed with the delicate aroma of chamomile now wafting from the teacup Viktor had pressed into your hands. You hadn't expected that gesture—a quiet offering, warm and steady—but perhaps you should have. It was exactly like him to care in precise, practical ways.

He was currently moving through the room with an almost impatient grace, searching through one of his old cabinets with the kind of distracted determination that came from knowing exactly what he was looking for and not quite remembering where he had placed it.

You had offered to help, of course. It felt wrong to just sit while he rummaged around on your behalf. But Viktor had simply waved you off with a tired shake of his head and guided you firmly into a worn chair near the lab table before disappearing into his own thoughts again.

So, now, all you could do was watch him.

Watch the way he moved—slightly uneven, but never clumsy. He favored his cane more heavily now, you noticed, and every step was deliberate. He muttered to himself occasionally in a soft, accented rhythm, pulling open drawers and scanning their contents with the frustrated focus of a man whose mind was ten steps ahead of his body.

The walk to Viktor's apartment had been strange, to say the least.

Not because of anything he said—he barely spoke, really—but because of how the world seemed to react to the two of you moving through it together. You were still wearing the Enforcer uniform, and even though your face wasn't exposed enough to give you away, people still stared. They didn't look at you with suspicion, though. No one seemed alarmed or afraid. It was more like... confusion. Like the image of an Enforcer walking beside him—the assistant to Heimerdinger—didn't quite make sense.

And it didn't help that it was still early, the streets not fully awake yet. Vendors were only beginning to open their shops, warm bread smells drifting lazily into the fog. The city wasn't loud yet, but it watched. It noticed.

The walk had been largely silent. Not tense, but purposeful. A handful of words exchanged—he'd mentioned his work under Heimerdinger, how the professor was brilliant, if not occasionally too cautious. You'd nodded, unsure of how much he wanted to share, unsure of how much you wanted to ask. The only other time he spoke was when you arrived at his apartment, where he casually mentioned he'd be writing to Singed soon, to inform him of his decision.

There hadn't been much detail in that either. Just that he'd made up his mind. Viktor, it seemed, was a private man.

Now, in the relative quiet of his apartment, the tea still steaming gently between your fingers, you found your voice again.

You blew across the surface, trying to cool it, though more out of habit than necessity. The question had been resting at the edge of your mind since he mentioned the name Silco, and now it finally broke through.

"If you don't mind me asking." you said, keeping your tone even, "What exactly did Silco offer you? What kind of research would you have been involved in?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. He was still standing near the lab bench, one hand resting lightly on the edge, fingers tapping out an unconscious rhythm against the wood. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes—he was always weighing thoughts before turning them into words.

"Something also related to your regeneration." he said, finally turning toward you. "But not in terms of healing."

You blinked, intrigued—and slightly unsettled. "Then what?"

"Singed was vague. As he often is. But he did mention that Silco was interested in pushing your threshold, extending your limit, as he called it. Increasing the duration and frequency of your regenerative state... to the point where your recoil becomes negligible. Or at least, manageable."

You took another sip of the tea, not because it was particularly good—it had already gone lukewarm—but because the simple act of drinking gave your hands something to do while the storm started turning behind your eyes. Your mind was already racing.

What the hell was Silco planning?

It wasn't hard to guess. He was never the type to invest in something unless it served his own agenda. You weren't naïve enough to believe his interest in your body—your mutation—had anything to do with your well-being. If anything, your escape had probably solidified it: you weren't his asset anymore, and that made you dangerous. Unpredictable. And Silco hated things he couldn't control.

Of course he'd want to replicate you. Build his own army. Shimmered soldiers who couldn't feel pain, couldn't bleed out, who would heal through wounds like they were nothing. Monsters cut from your bones and sculpted in his image of power.

Your stomach turned at the thought.

The tea felt bitter now on your tongue.

You had to get Violet and Powder out of Zaun—soon. Before Silco had the chance to finish whatever nightmare he was crafting in the shadows. Before he built others like you. Worse than you. Before he unleashed something no one could stop.

The clink of Viktor setting something down on the bench pulled you slightly from your thoughts, and then his voice came—quiet, almost contemplative, but not hesitant.

"Why did you leave Zaun?"

You glanced up, startled slightly by how sudden the question was, though in hindsight, maybe it was fair. You asked him something and now it was his turn. You exhaled through your nose and set the teacup down, a little harder than you meant to.

"Simple." you said, voice edged and flat. "The research Singed showed you? The experiments? I had no idea they even existed. I didn't know about the mutation. Didn't know what the hell they did to me until it was already too late."

You poured yourself more tea, even though you had no desire to drink it. You needed something—anything—to keep you grounded.

"They didn't ask. They didn't explain. They just did it. Like I was a lab rat, so I ran..." You took another slow sip, keeping your eyes low, the burn in your throat a welcome distraction. "Seemed like a good enough reason to you?"

Viktor paused mid-search, his hands hovering above the contents of the drawer. Then, slowly, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable at first—those sharp, golden eyes catching the low light like glass—but after a second, you saw something faint in them. A subtle crease between his brows. A flicker of something that might've been pity, but not in a cruel way. It wasn't condescending. If anything, it felt like he'd understood a little more of you than you intended to show.

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter anymore," you replied, shrugging as you leaned back slightly in the chair. "What's done is done. There's no undoing it."

Your tone was light, but there was a weight in your chest that tea couldn't quite chase away. You looked at him again, deciding to continue the rhythm the two of you had somehow fallen into—a quiet exchange, like peeling back layers without really trying to.

"You seem to know a lot about my abilities." you raising an eyebrow. "But did Singed tell you anything else about me?"

Viktor didn't answer right away. Instead, he let out a thoughtful sound and returned to his task, shifting his cane aside just long enough to reach into a lower cabinet. He gripped a heavy box with both hands, his muscles tensing subtly beneath his shirt. The strain was evident, but Viktor was meticulous in how he carried it—refusing to let the effort show in his expression. Not out of pride, you suspected, but out of habit. Like someone who had spent a long time refusing to be defined by his limitations.

He carried the box to the table with careful steps, setting it down beside you before sinking into the chair just across. Only then did he speak again, fingers running gently along the edge of the box as if steadying himself.

"If you're asking whether I know where your abilities come from, then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you," he said, his voice level, honest. "Singed kept many details from me and unless you decide to tell me yourself, which I suspect you won't, I'll likely never know."

His gaze flicked up to meet yours briefly, not demanding, not accusing—just open. Accepting. He didn't press. That was something you were beginning to appreciate about Viktor: he asked without expectation. And when you didn't give, he didn't punish you with silence or judgment.

He began unlatching the box, and you watched his long fingers work over the metal clasps, each movement precise. You could hear the faint clink of tools and components shifting inside.

And then, unexpectedly—

"You and Silco." Viktor began, his tone still calm but more curious now. "You seemed... close at the masquerade. Was that relationship genuine? Romantic? Or was it simply contractual?"

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift—but only for a moment. He wasn't trying to provoke you. He was just... observing again. Curious. Perhaps trying to understand you in the same way he tried to understand a formula on a page.

You took a slow sip of your tea before answering, the bitterness of it making you grimace. The drink had cooled just enough to be tolerable now, though it still tasted sharp.

"I love him."

The words hung in the air between you. Not soft. Not heavy. Just... there. Viktor's brow lifted, his head tilting slightly, not unlike a scholar reevaluating a hypothesis.

" 'Love'?" he echoed. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say 'loved'?"

"When you scientists finally figure out how to erase feelings, do me a favor and let me know." You setting the cup down with a soft clink. "Maybe then I'll finally get this damn emotion out of me once and for all."

The words hung in the air like smoke—bitter, lingering. You didn't really expect a response. But after a beat, Viktor let out a short laugh. Not the polite, practiced kind. This one was genuine, from somewhere deeper.

"Perhaps not even science can resolve that." he said, a flicker of something warm in his voice. "Human emotions are far more volatile than any second-rate experiment. Unpredictable. Inconvenient. Stubborn."

You couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at your lips. "Stubborn is putting it lightly." You leaned your elbow against the edge of the table, propping your head against your hand, your eyes narrowing just a little with curiosity. "Tell me something then, Viktor. Have you ever been in love?"

He didn't answer.

Not immediately. But you caught the slightest shift in his posture—the way his hands stilled over the open box, his eyes momentarily dropping, like the question had touched something he usually kept buried under equations and theories. And that silence? That silence said everything.

You smiled, half amused, half smug. "Ah, so you have."

Still nothing from him, though the corners of his mouth tightened ever so slightly—either in protest or resignation.

"Oh, come on..." your tone was lighter now, teasing. "I told you who I love. It's not like I'm going to run around Piltover spreading your secrets. Besides, if you're going to be poking around in my bloodstream for some miraculous cure, the least we can do is get to know each other."

There was a pause, as though he were weighing the emotional cost of honesty. And then, with a sigh that felt more like surrender than confession, he finally spoke.

"My research partner." he said quietly. "You met him. At the masquerade."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Jayce?"

He gave a small nod, barely perceptible.

You sat back a little, surprised—but only for a moment. Now that you thought about it, it made sense. The glances they exchanged across the ballroom. The subtle tension, the kind that only exists between people who've been orbiting each other for too long without ever colliding.

"Wow..." you breathed. "Didn't see that coming."

Viktor gave a rueful chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "It wouldn't have worked. It was never... mutual. Not the way I hoped. He's with Councilor Medarda now. Or, at the very least, they're becoming something."

You let out a low whistle, resting your chin against your palm again. "Medarda..." you said with a touch of awe. "Gods, she's gorgeous."

"I know." Viktor replied simply, and though his voice was soft, there was no jealousy there. Just acknowledgment. Like someone quietly accepting that the stars had aligned for someone else, not for him.

But you didn't like that sense of finality. Not entirely.

"You don't know what the future holds." you said, more gently this time. "And you don't know how he really feels about you. Maybe it's not over. Maybe the two of you get to live that cliché, you know, the one where the brilliant minds, best friends for years, suddenly realize it was love all along."

Viktor gave a skeptical hum, but you noticed how he didn't immediately shoot it down. He just stared at the contents of the box for a moment longer before he started taking things out of the medical kit inside. "I don't put much stock in clichés."

"Maybe not." you murmured. "But some of them exist for a reason."

Viktor didn't respond to your last comment. Not verbally, anyway. He simply rolled his eyes in that quiet, exasperated way and let out a short sigh, returning his focus to the task in front of him. He resumed organizing the tools on the table—syringes, vials, gauze, bottles—and you watched in silence as he moved with the same precision he applied to everything else.

He was methodical, almost surgical, in the way he handled the sterilization process. Each instrument cleaned, checked, set down on a fresh cloth in perfect order. There was a rhythm to it—careful, almost reverent. You found yourself quietly impressed, despite yourself. For someone who claimed medicine wasn't his field, he was far too comfortable with the tools of it. Part of you started to suspect that might've been a lie of convenience—or maybe just an old truth that had evolved with necessity.

You were lost in that thought when his voice broke the silence again—low and calm, as always. It took a second to register that he had asked something.

"Hm?" you blinked, turning your eyes back toward him. "What was that? Can you repeat it?"

He didn't look at you immediately—still adjusting a few needles into a tray. But his voice was clear. "The little girl you mentioned on the bridge... She's your daughter?"

There was no hesitation in your reply.

"Yes." you said, the word sharp with certainty. "But I have two. The other one is still with Silco."

The moment those words left your mouth, you felt the weight of them settle into the room like a cold draft. Viktor's entire demeanor shifted.

His hands stilled mid-motion. His brow furrowed, and for the first time since you'd walked into his apartment, he abandoned his careful rhythm. His eyes lifted to yours slowly, something deeper than curiosity flickering behind them—concern. Genuine. Immediate.

"Kidnapped?"

"No, he's her father."

You knew full well what that would imply—especially without context. That both girls were Silco's biological daughters. That you and Silco had once built a life, a family, together. And maybe, in some fractured, bloodstained way, you had. But you didn't correct Viktor. You didn't feel the need to clarify that truth. Let him assume what he wanted.

It was easier that way. Fewer explanations of the troubled relationship with Vander, Silco and the girls.

"When Violet is healed, I'm going to get Powder back and I'll take them both somewhere far from here. Far from him."

You could hear the strain in your own voice now—the tension sitting just beneath the surface like a dam about to break. You didn't want to think about how many times you'd played that plan over in your head, how many nights it had been the only thing keeping you from drowning.

Viktor didn't interrupt. He just watched you, those sharp amber eyes scanning every nuance of your expression like he was decoding something far more complex than an equation.

"Do you have contact with the girl? The one who's with Silco?"

You shook your head, bitter and resigned. "Not since I left Zaun."

The silence that followed stretched long and tense. Viktor hadn't moved. His gaze was still locked on you, but it had shifted—no longer analyzing, now... searching. Like you were a puzzle with one missing piece and he was trying to figure out where it belonged.

And then, without warning, something changed.

His expression sharpened. The gold in his eyes lit up—not metaphorically, literally, like a filament catching fire behind them. You recognized that look instantly. It was the look of a mind clicking into motion.

"I think... I know how to help you reunite with your daughter."

Part 26

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Our boy finally made his appearance! After all these setup chapters, he’s finally stepping into the plot. Keep in mind, this is Act 1 Viktor from Season 1—still "healthy", still sharp, and not yet drowning in existential dread. The Hextech is still in its research phase, so Jayce isn’t exactly the Golden Boy of Progress just yet. Also… what did you all think of Silco’s dream, huh? Next chapter comes with a special narration. Any guesses on who it’ll be?

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[werezmastarbucks]

U N17

U N7 masterlist 12/14

word count: 7708

music: life goes on by agust d

warnings: stalker stalking, violence, Yoongi's pov present. how y/n goes about handling a stalker is the WRONG way bc she's delulu

author's note: enter deus ex machina. if anybody knows how to write it avoiding the trope, hit me (with a shovel)

you don't wear the green tea perfume anymore; switched to something sweeter, fruitier and bolder. you like expensive perfumes that last on you, so that you can sense them yourself; otherwise, what's the point? Yoongi doesn't seem to be smelling different these days, at least not the last few times you've seen him. it's the same home-yanking woody citrus smell. he is very steady.

you leave the window open checking if the mosquito net is stuck tightly. the late June air is so sweet it makes your heart want to sing. Yoongi and Jungkook think alike, sending you messages at the same time. but they are of very different nature. you haven't seen him since May and don't have the impulse, the stay in Seoul was overwhelming and uncomfortable. the sex hit too close to home, and you even got a nasty feeling like he was crumbling a little. every time the train crosses the fine narrow line at the border of Busan, it's like a mechanic voice in your head says,

you're safe now. you're in the safety zone.

and all Seoul troubles fade away. you're strong. you're responsible for your life. you don't need anyone. the light is soft and mellow, sun is shining at the right angle, and the green streets lined up with fruit trees welcome you home. this is you. a hundred years of exhaustion and heartache slip off of you and leak down the drain taking the nightmares with it. all is well and if this was a book ending, it would be short and sweet. all is well in Busan, no zombie apocalypse for now, days long and sunny in the summer, seagulls yelling in the skies and people walk the streets smiling, breezy, their kerchiefs flying away slowly in the wind from the strait.

so no, you don't want to see him. you don't want the darkness that he brings to your mind nowadays. don't want to engage in the exhausting business of trying to find the balance between loving him and coming undone at the seams. you don't want the burden. he is too pretty to look at without getting tired. because he is the closed chapter that you lost the key to. he is the chapter that never belonged to you and yet you are burdened by the weight of a finished relationship that never transpired.

Jungkook says that something big's about to go down. your hands start sweating. it's been in the air for a while.

you pour yourself some lemonade and look around your shoulder at the pear trees outside. they stand in the glimmering evening mist like a picture from a book of tales. you think you're going to be okay now.

you turn on the live where Jungkook is sitting with his hair in the knot on the back of his head and counting until ten.

"you gotta hurry", he laughs, "let's make it ten million before i say ten. run, beautiful, you gotta run".

he is having a lot of fun lately in his fan interactions. he has always been confident and funny, but these days it's like nothing can hurt him. it's a dangerous notion, bordering a delusion, but he has this foundation under him. without having his experiences, you have no idea what it feels like to be this invincible. you think ten million in ten seconds is a bit of a stretch even for him, and he only makes four and pouts, chuckles, embarrassed. people keep coming. he begins with the usual muttering about nothing.

"kind of forgetting how i used to do this thing".

his eyes are reading comments attentively. they are opaque black with the lack of light.

"what i've been doing? this is what i wanted to talk to you about".

he stretches, then rubs his face, the smile not leaving his lips. he is nervous. still has time to change his mind. you are worried, too, but you have natural paranoia that's been riding you all your life, so you usually try not to overpress people with your concerns.

he talks a little more, comments on others' projects, yaps about the city and Jimin, gets distracted, zones out, giggles, goes to pour himself some alcohol. "Yoongi hyung doesn't drink anymore", he cheers the air. you are surprised. people still keep coming, the chat is as usual, a running waterfall of words.

"this is very important to me", he gets serious, "i want to tell you guys because you are my closest people. i know you understand what i mean", he's all business, as serious as he is with the people in his life. Jungkook is very sincere about the fans and always means what he says. in turn, they respect him and fight for him. it's unlike Yoongi who treats them a little like children. a little like loony siblings.

"i think you get that i am not just a boy from Busan anymore. by the way", he gets very close to the screen, making his funny face, brows together, as he checks the viewers.

"anyway, we have been talking with the hyungs about it for the longest time, and we all see how grown we are now, we're like, adults. i actually have been an adult for a while, and our dynamic is a bit different..."

his eyes get concerned as they move quickly, reading.

"we're not disbanding!" he cries out, "we're not disbanding. just... don't jump to conclusions. we're not disbanding. we will be together for a long time. but..."

he sighs, clearly not knowing how to put it. how do you tell that? twenty million people are catching his every word on live. now, twenty-two. he has broken his own record from back when he was even more famous than now. life getting quieter your ass. you realize you're not breathing like he's about to jump off the cliff.

"well, anyway, two years ago my son was born", he just says, simply. and goes quiet for a second, pressing his lips closed too late. there's still a smile in his eyes, a happy smile that is there when he is sharing something important.

"and i am so in love with him. i have a family. my son's name is Taeyang. i want you guys to call him Tae like we do", he bursts in chuckle. the chat becomes the volcanic vent. messages come so quickly it starts glitching and eventually breaks down.

"oh".

his phone buzzes. your shaking hand is lying on the table as you watch him intently.

"oh, my English teacher has texted", his face lights up in a smile. "Kookie Pookie, you're doing great".

he facepalms at himself at reading it out loud.

"oh, wait, you were never my English teacher".

he is having a bit of a breakdown, giggling, his head deep in his hand. his body is shaking with laughter. once the chat is fixed, it's full of pink and purple hearts.

this sends ripples over the internet. half of the world at least is shaken to its core. Taeyang is a June baby, a Gemini. Jungkook tells the fans about it the next day after his second birthday. and it creates a chasm between the past and now. someone leaves. for months, it's unreal being on the internet. some people are having meltdowns, others have parties. all in all, it goes better than expected. for bts, it means a completely new chapter. they have been free for a while now. ever since Hybe started needing them more than they, it, they have been slowly breaking down the stigmas. at first their clawing for the success was desperate and unrelenting. now their journey to independence has been slow, methodical and calculated. a little money on the side here and there, collaborations with artists from other studios, a little bit of disobedience to test the waters, middle fingers from the stage. the stronger ones were in the avant-garde and the others perching them up in the backs. stronger ones meaning Yoongi, Jungkook and Taehyung. now they are the first ones to relax and finally start enjoying their lives the way they want. buying houses with their own money. changing hair the way they want to. date people. you hear Taehyung has a permanent boyfriend he's been dating for almost a year. and yes, he does look a little like Jungkook, but he's way more feisty.

Jungkook is the impatient one when it comes to the parasocial aspect of it. he wants people to accept it and move on. he wants to not lose them over this, and the real ones don't get lost. that's all he cares about. he doesn't show Yuri or Taeyang but only mentions his name, and that's enough to breathe a little deeper. life hasn't been as beautiful for him as it is now, and that is considering he has always thought he was lucky. long story short, Jungkook is very happy. he feels fulfillment. and he definitely doesn't regret grabbing you by the hips on a rainy night in Prague almost ten years ago. he must think of that night a lot. you know you do. you feel connected to him like he is your biological brother.

Yoongi keeps the iced Americano between his knees and removes it as soon as the glass starts warming up. sunglasses keep the hair away from his eyes as he balances things in his hands: bag, coffee, cap, his phone. he checks the calendar and his eyes scan for the empty spots. no need for more than five hours. he's getting restless. summer has been making him jumpy. plane takes only one hour, he can be done in another three hours and drive to the airport and be back in Seoul by three in the morning. he doesn't usually text hi or what's up, just sends the info like you're a colleague:

"29th Friday, 1st of July, 7th of July, 15th of July".

he gets an almost immediate reply. looks at the watch: Jungkook has started his live. by the time he gets out of this car at the store, the world will be a little different for them all. he will probably be met by the long, screaming faces. demanding: and you???

"i'm busy". "i can move things around". "don't".

he must have fucked up by being alive again. sometimes you look at him like you wish he were dead. not in a mean way, but in a regretful way. that's new, and it's a bad sign.

the car trudges down the wide street and he can see the store doors open for him. people neatly lined up behind the purple ribbons stretched up to the entrance. he throws the cap aside and ruffles and grooms his hair to an agreeable shape. he would have cut it all off but he knows you like it this way. so, it's simple.

"you're busy all four evenings?" "yes". "why?" "because i'm fucking busy".

he leaves the car and puts his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. slides the glasses down onto his face and the smile plasters itself, working for him. you might never love him again and he needs to come to terms with it. he has to accept - he is waving his hand shyly, as usual, turning right and left, pauses for a second, bows to them - that this might be the end.

as the space around him warps, reforming itself into a new era of bts, his most precious asset, he is getting used to the reality that, he thinks, you must have lived with already. being rejected stings in a new way, not because he's never been rejected before. of course he was. he was rejected in ways that are intricately cruel, by Riko. Riko, Riko. he needs to stop thinking about her. he hears she's getting married for the third time; outran him there, too. she is an old crust that doesn't bother him anymore, a life lesson in being too kind. he has to go on live streams and say that no, he is single now. there's no one occupying his mind. Jungkook's exodus has set the new rules and the new intimacy for them and the fandom. like a rock cascade, Jimin and Namjoon come out about being in relationships as well, and now they have two new lines: taken and single. it's messier than people think. Jin is pathologically not capable to be in a relationship; he is having too much fun with his life and career, and keeps talking about the fruits. he likes to be admired and nobody can admire him well enough. Taehyung is actually taken but isn't ready to go into details of his life. Hoseok is a gentleman fuckboy enjoying his persistent youth. Yoongi is clinically unavailable, cursed. he doesn't text you anymore and you don't text him and he is trying to draw the lines around him limiting his new environment. he knows life goes on even in radio silence.

until all shit storm of circumstances comes together: on a July day, he has to go back to Daegu because his mother's cousin is dead and Holly is sick; expecting the call from the vet, he keeps the phone on sound, and that's why he doesn't miss a message from you when it lights up on the screen. a call, after weeks of absence, in the sea of dry notifications:

"i need you".

this is how quickly it changes. despair replaces hope, then hope overtakes, it must be a draining existence. he is pondering for several seconds, his eyes targeting the words, until, in the next message you send him something that doesn't sound so simple anymore: a geolocation link.

you're getting your evening portion of lemonade. can't do anything about it, for the last year you've been living a lemonade life. bubble teas and coffee are in the past and now it's the citrus era. it's so nice to walk a couple of kilometers from the designated coffeeshop on a late July evening when the sun simply refuses to set down.

the evening crowd is getting more and more evened out, rare couples are having dates at the tables by the windows, and the rest leaves. you wait in line as usual, music in your airpods, picturing how your night is going to unfold: you want a movie, a bath, to sit by the windows and look at the pear trees like they are your pets. the cat is probably walking around the garden right now, he really likes being outside in the summer and sometimes he even leaves for a couple of days. but he always comes back.

always comes back.

you notice the eyes watching you from the end of the line, and don't hold the contact for too long out of habit. but then your brain slowly puts the pieces together, like it starts clicking. it's happening gradually, taking you on the road of past memories where small and insignificant interactions now make more sense.

Kim Seongjun, you now remember. the last time at Hybe, about a month and a half ago, he looked pretty let down when you said you don't recall his name. you found this reaction peculiar. you must have seen him two or three times. but you were wrong.

the guy who you always bumped into in the corridor on the way to a lesson.

the guy who almost always went to the gym at ten in the evening, always third wheeling there. the sound designer, your brain always said. working out quietly by the wall.

the guy who helped you hang up the congratulations poster on the wall of Hobi's studio when they returned from America with a Grammy. heavy breathing at your shoulder.

they guy who kept noticing you although you didn't notice him, distracted by others. by Yoongi. too distracted to see that he's always there, at the lunch time, when you were leaving, in the foyer. you even rode in the elevator once.

Kim Seongjun. sounding so similar to Jin's full name, but he can't be further away from him. high shoulders like a bull's, thick eyebrows and ears placed on uneven level on the sides of his head. he stopped you at the corridor at Hybe in May. he said, oh, y/n, haven't seen you in a while! his smile died as soon as your face turned into an akward expression. you felt a little guilty, now you understand why. he saw you but you didn't see him. he smelt you once. he knows where you used to rent an apartment.

you turn again to make absolutely sure it's him. yes. the same expressive round eyes, like a squirrel's. looking at you from under the cap intently, not the way strangers peek at each other at a coffeeshop. he's keeping the eye contact, so you raise your brow to let him know it's a problem, then you make your order.

he lingers at the end of the queue, letting people through before him, and turns his head to follow your movement as you walk away from the register. he isn't really going to order anything. you see the last light throwing the dark sunrays on top of the roofs across the street. now is the hour of sunset. in five minutes, the streets will become bleak. you sit by the wall, claiming one of the many unoccupied tables and take out your phone.

you can call the police, but there's nothing to tell them. i think my ex-colleague, who i am suddenly realizing just now might be my long-time part-time stalker, has followed me to Busan. yeah that's him, his offense is that he wants to lick my pussy and take me on a date.

you consider people around as well but something stops you. while the brain is thinking, the hand actually already knows. there's no moment of hesitation as you open a chat and text Yoongi. you keep yourself casual, don't rush your movements, keep your head high to be able to see his blurry silhouette at the register. he turns around and pretends to study the menu screen. you cross your legs, sip a little of lemonade. he isn't leaving but isn't approaching either. he is the ink spot against the colorful interior.

"i need you".

you send him your location. it's a strange formulation but you don't feel like screaming help. nothing's happened yet. your paranoia has been your friend and your enemy. your mind is completely not okay in general and you don't always trust yourself. most importantly, the memories kick in. of discomfort and irritation, of vague fear when you found a bunch of flowers right at the door of your apartment. he's only left you messages three times and there was no way to take it seriously. boss definitely didn't.

maybe it's a coincidence. maybe he just looks a lot like Kim Seongjun. but why is he staring again then? you hope your face is not flushed.

as the memories of that time kick in, so does the habit of searching comfort in Yoongi even when he himself isn't aware of it. Seongjun was there actually, while Yoongi was training you the ways to fight him. it's comical. he must have even heard your conversations about him.

"i think it's Kim Seongjun the sound designer. you remember him?"

Yoongi is taking it slow although you see the messages are being read.

with how the messengers are built nowadays you even see him leave the chat for a minute. he must go to the Hybe app for employees and look for him. Yoongi understands everything without extra explanations.

he doesn't say anything snappy, he isn't sore or sulking.

"you're sure?" "55% sure".

you have no idea what you actually want him to do here. it's not like he's going to...

"stay there. i'll be there in 30 minutes". "??" "i'm at my parents' house".

seems impossible. Daegu is a hundred kilometers away. then he adds,

"do NOT provoke him"

if anyone in the world knows how badly you want to punch someone in the face at least once in your life, it's Yoongi the boxing instructor.

you look at the time on your phone and start counting. still trying to keep your face looking like you're scrolling instagram. if that isn't a sign from above, you don't know anymore. it's seventeenth of July, he's been somewhere around two days ago, so what's happening now? it's like shooting blind and accidentally striking the bullseye.

he is approaching now and you act normal because you never know what people actually want.

it's definitely Kim Seongjun though; he's wearing the same shirt as in May and the same buzzcut with shades on the sides. keeps sharp sideburns that make him look like an anime character. you stare because he simply sits himself down at your table.

"remember me now?"

you're silent. the indignation rises in you and you have to clutch your phone, begging yourself not to explode right here. he scartches his temple with the dry working finger. hands unmoisturized, not elegant and with sweet pink knuckles destined for a piano. your own knuckles recall the familiar awesome pain of the heavy punching bag. even if he is a little late, you promise yourself to get a piece of this jerk tonight.

"Seongjun, isn't it?" you ask, cautious. you pretend, only half-way, to be surprised.

"took you long enough to memorize my name", he mutters. looks like he's feeling the eyes of the whole coffeeshop on him. also paranoid. great soil for going crazy. you don't like the hostility and heat in his eyes.

"well, you did scold me last month, so now i remember".

he nods. staring into you intently. his eyes slip down to the phone in your hand and you loosen your clutch.

"Seoul is far away from here".

"yeah, so?"

he raises his eyes to you. there's no doubt about it now.

"you think i can't stand up for myself?"

Seongjun scratches his neck slowly. either he's lost his job or sound designers don't have to see coworkers because he has this bristle on his neck going up to his chin. dark, spotty like he has tried shaving and gave up. a person in a state of mental distress, you realize slowly. suddenly, the coffeeshop doesn't seem so safe anymore.

you look at your phone. it's been five minutes. there are plenty of ways to keep him away. you could simply press the emergency and the siren will shatter even the windows in this place. the street is getting grey outside, marine birds flying low above the ground.

"i don't want to hurt you. but you piss me off so bad".

you're taken aback.

"do you even know my last name?"

he pierces you with his dark, unfriendly eyes. the kind of glance men used to give you back when they were boys and you pissed off everybody. you used to like to piss the boys off because they are usually stupid. grown men are way less irritating, they don't provoke and don't say silly smug shit - at least the men you actively choose to be in your life.

you realise that you have so few friends, and absolutely nobody in Busan. that your only best friend is Yuri and you don't know if you can still count Jimin as your number two, because you are not his number two anymore, and fairly so. somehow every Bangtan boy, once you leave his life, gets better. Taehyung gets himself into a stable relationship with the right gender, Jungkook becomes a father, and Jiminie follows. Hoseok only got richer these last two years and Jin simply got even more attractive, forgetting that people are supposed to age. Namjoon seems happier than ever without worrying about you all the time. and Yoongi is the only one who is a mystery to you. maybe he is the only one who feels your absence.

meanwhile Seongjun pronounces your last name, your birth date and your Seoul address, and then hits you by reciting your Busan address, too. you have no idea how long he's been here. whether he's looked into the windows of your apartment. you lean over the table. the time is crawling slowly. it feels like it has stopped.

"and what exactly did i do, may i ask, to anger you so bad?"

he meets your gaze bravely, eyes open only half-way. there's black circles beneath, he's chewing on his lips and looking at your mouth as he says,

"think you can do much better than me? been ignoring me forever".

"you should've been more intense", you hiss, not without a twisted joke in your words.

"i've been there and you never noticed me".

now he wants to get romantic. you throw yourself back on the chair. Yoongi isn't writing anything else, the phone is dead silent.

"oh, i know how it feels, believe me", you feel jaded. almost sorry for this awkward guy. he's massaging his hands on the table.

"yeah, pretty pathetic. but now we..." his eyes get glassy like he suddenly feels the pills kick in. "both are free, right?"

your brows shoot up.

"i've always been free".

"no", he says simply. like this piece of idiot is now going to be careful with his words to you, offer you the chance at dignity by not stating what he noticed while watching you for how many years?

"four years you worked there".

"i thought it was longer. what took you so long? could've come here and chop me in pieces a while ago", you poke him, then continue sipping your lemonade.

Seongjun shifts in his place.

"you're not the center of the universe".

your hand lies on the table.

"wait, you're telling me i am not even my own stalker's first choice?"

he gets flustered. angry. his brows crawl down to hood his eyes. square jaw gets tense. he didn't like that word. you feel the adrenaline kick you in the head stronger than a shot of vodka would now. you can't stop yourself.

"you're telling me you've been cheating on me with other girls?"

his nostrils flare.

"why aren't you responding to me?"

Seongjun's voice gets down an octave, resembling a rumble. a very different rumble, brutal, with less nuance. he is way too manly. he is way to big for you... you notice this too late. he's a big dude. used to measure people in Jungkooks, he has about 0,9 Jungkooks in him. he doesn't have the strength in his back though, slouching. his neck is exposed nicely. you know you're taking too much upon yourself but there's nothing else to do. it's been twelve minutes.

"don't call me that".

"call you what? a stalker?"

the corner of your mouth twitches.

"what else do you call a guy who leaves pathetic messages on the whiteboard and sends flowers saying he wants to lick my pussy?"

he knows you're mocking him. even his stupid face takes the expression of confusion. like he's saying, are you dumb? you won't even call for help?

he has no idea you have the unhinged inside of you, that's been waiting for its turn your whole life. every girl has that. not every girl is unlucky enough to get a chance to let it loose.

he takes a deep sigh like he is finding his patience.

"let's get to a clean slate".

"oh?"

he nods.

"you won't even choke me or anything?"

Seongjun is taken aback.

"why... why would i choke you?"

"um, because that's what stalkers usually do in movies", you finish you lemonade in one big gulp. the ice clinks inside.

Seongjun chuckles, dropping his chin down.

"i did want to hurt you before. do awful things to you. you were so arrogant".

you literally used to sing little songs to people at Hybe when you were in a good mood. and crash into closed doors. for some reason you hate it when people get the wrong impression of you. it makes you grit your teeth not to let a whole lecture come out of your mouth.

"but i am a better person now".

"honestly you look worse than before".

his eyes rise again. it's a rollercoaster. you don't know what you're doing. the frustration that you felt back then is coming back. the audacity to treat you like a sex object, immature pickup lines circling around, only one thing bothering his imagination. and the tone of voice, like he knows you.

"what? see, i remember you. i remember you used to go to gym with us".

"with you".

"with us, that's what i said".

he crashes his fist on the table, and the glass clinks again. a couple smooching over at the window turns to you and looks. you nod at them and motion to Seongjun.

"crazy stalker".

maybe they will-

the hit comes so quickly the world tilts upside down in a fraction of a second. see, that's the problem, if you do stupid shit, you get hit with a table.

for a moment, you can't breathe. a girl shrieks shortly somewhere; it's bells in your head. you have to come round quickly, your brain is on high alert, so your hands start getting you up before the vision returns. the head hums like a metal tube once and starts working again. face is burning. it's like getting out of bath and cracking your skull all over again.

the sling bag heaved up high on your chest actually saved your nose, pushed onto the table like a tit, and not letting you hit it all the way. instead, you feel the burning cut on your forehead, whether it's actual of perceived. blood is trickling down. suddenly, it's a whole different genre of a scene. your eyes open wide as you jump onto the table. instead of fear, rage kicks in. life has fucked you enough. Yoongi always told you to run away from the fight. to keep your head low. that you need to be smart, not hard. but guess all his advice got punched out of your head because you've had enough with these Korean men. hierarchical, patriarchal, smug, dismissive, condescending. you put your knee on the table and launch yourself at Seongjun who is more than ready for you. the cashier is a small girl, not bigger than you, who is hiding behind the register. the guy who is still in the coffeeshop by this time, together with his girlfriend, is a typical local: doesn't get involved. most people don't. they are too scared to get hit with a lawsuit should the fight be happening between spouses.

Seongjun, instead of catching you, pushes you away and then, as you fall on the floor from the table, laughs, grabbing your neck. but now there's finally a window for action: you're at his feet. you punch him in the nuts as hard as you can and, once his hand drops, you get yourself up and start running. phone is left on the table.

"call the police!" the girl by the window screams at her boyfriend. you sway from side to side, the blow on the head still clutching you violently. push the door and yank yourself into the empty, dark street. this is the household district and all action is happening at the center of the city. this is why you like this coffeeshop. there's nobody here at this time.

step by step, the blood is loud in your ears, adrenaline shaking the eyeballs, only keeping you dizzy instead of giving you energy to run. Seongjun is right behind you, slamming the door shut and following you.

sometimes running away seems hard. you run away often. metaphorically mostly. maybe you should've invested into running on the treadmill instead of just walking at the elevation. your feet carry you as best as they can, but Seongjun doesn't have a concussion so he can walk a straight line. the blood is sipping into your eyes and drops from the tip of the nose. his hand on your shoulder, pushing you aside and banging you into the metal surfacing of the shop closed for the night. your foot gives out and the ankle twists, knee bending onto the asphalt and of course catching your body from falling face down, but it scrapes the skin badly. it's like he is not a real human but a scripted villain; but then again you are not surprised because cheesy villains always have the real life prototypes.

it's getting pretty sticky, you think. the street is quiet and beautiful, the lights already lit and giving the illumination to the purple wisteria trees on the sides. you don't wanna die here. you shake your head, hands on the ground, as you steady yourself. Seongjun's hand is on the back of your neck possessively, and your nasty character kicks in again. one thing you probably value more than your life is your pride. it's an unpleasant and persistent instict that always complicates things when they need to be simple. nobody has the right to grab you by the neck unless you want them to. your arm flies up to grab him, but he slaps it away, and you play submissive for a moment, trying to open a window for escape. you can hear him breathe heavily, like he did during the waiting at the Grammy party. seems like you should've known, but it's an illusion of retrospective. you can taste the asphalt even though your face is not on the ground; thick, sweet and salty air of Busan summer is making you stronger, keeping you in an adequate mood, not letting you panic just yet. you fall on your stomach to startle him a little and he can't really see you well as he's bowing above you.

"look what you are doing", Seongjun murmurs. his voice drops a tad, he squats and his grip on the neck loosens. you don't think about Yoongi, can't let your brain lose the focus even for a second; you know he's far away, and it's somewhat a relief because you don't actually want him to get caught up in this. you behaved incredibly stupidly just now, letting your anger disproportional to your skill take over. let him mourn your stupid ass and move on.

as Seongjun bends his knees to squat, he loses about 50% of his balance, and you kick. he almost falls forward, catching himself on the ground, and you crawl violently, scraping your skin on the rough asphalt, from under him. burning sensation kicks you awake and you jump up and start running again, but get blinded by the lights. you can hear him rush after you immediately and head for the car, because it's better to be run over now. it gets a little windy, easier on your burning face. you fly towards the light like a moth, taking a little to the left to circle around it, and your heart drops to quiet when you see Yoongi emerge from a dark green Hyundai. your eyes adjust to the contrast of light and darkness. you move on, crashing into the side of it, the metal door meeting you as another hard, unwelcoming surface, and finally fall on the ground in a lump. Yoongi steps around you, eyes focused on Seongjun behind your back, as he raises his arm. heavy, cracking blow follows, and Seongjun gasps breathlessly, collapses on the road like a cardboard copy of himself. Yoongi ouches quietly, shakes his whole arm like he got zipped.

you pant so hard that everything is doubled. hands clutching your knees, palm dirty and stinging over the open cut, you feel the nasty pain but your brain fails to register what exactly is bothering you. people finally come out from the coffeeshop, and a scared female voice calls:

"i called the police".

"great", Yoongi replies breathlessly, "they can revoke my license right away".

he really did make it in thirty minutes. roads were empty, and he was going two hundred, he said. in a 120 maximum zone. his hand is rubbing his neck absent-mindedly. you force it to make your way to the police first to be done with Seongjun and make sure they won't let him walk in two hours after you leave. you can see Yoongi through the open door behind the officer's back, sitting by the wall on the hard iron chair, phone hanging from his other hand. no idea what he's thinking about. he's pretty. he's getting prettier by the minute since he knocked Seongjun out with one punch an hour ago. your head aches like hell, the spot at the roots of the hair pulsating where it hit the table. all things considered, you look worse than you feel. scraped knees hurt much worse now, plus, the shock starts kicking in. not even the scare that Seongjun gave you, but the strange vulnerability at being manhandled so aggressively. being pushed and punched like that, you like your whole self and feel sorry for yourself for being hurt. you keep answering the same questions over and over, almost automatically, stealing glances at Yoongi to keep you calm. his phone rings, and he starts staring somewhere away, in the direction of the reception. he gets angry. they did warn that, without extra evidence that Seongjun had stalked you like, years ago, in a different city, he will be let go until further notice, depending on how this case develops, if it even does. Yoongi's words ring in your ears, and you have to bite on your lips, thinking of the tone of his voice as he said,

"you know i can murder someone and pay my way out of it?"

you hate that you totally forget to not care about him now. now he is the safest, pushing his hair back in a familiar motion, sighing with his cheeks, knees spread apart, the assaulting fist working open and closed. he had said, fighting should hurt. you move your eyes to the officer's face mouthing words at you. you're finally done. suddenly tired, you feel like you have no capacity to argue, pressing the folded cloth a nice lady had given you, wet with cold water, to your head.

"home".

he sniffs, irritated.

"you might have a concussion".

"home", is all you can muster. adrenaline is gone, and pain reigns all over your body. you can't handle another couple of hours in a brightly-lit hospital, surrounded by more people asking questions, administering injections or whatever, you don't want it.

he opens the door of his car with a swing, this is the angriest you've seen Yoongi, ever. his jaw actually moves sideways like Namjoon's. he looks away, doesn't press it further. incredible how, when you're in the presence of an adult, he lets you choose, actually.

"what are you mad about?"

he tilts his head forward and pouts angrily. your leg is shaking, the little nasty pain in the cut is worse than the dull big pain in your head. Yoongi makes you take two pills of a strong painkiller. he keeps blowing on the knee that he's cleaning; no idea how you scraped it that bad and managed to get so much dust into. it must be the dry, rainless street and all that crawling around.

"nothing".

you hiss and notice tragically that he reacts every time; dabs become lighter. he dabs and rubs the cut the way people usually work on his face. it's fun noticing things like that, where he learnt them.

"you'll just tell me i am victim blaming you".

you chuckle through another huff.

"i did provoke him. hard".

"why'd you do it?"

"i don't know, maybe i am dumb".

his eyes study your face for a while, somber.

"or something worse".

he leaves the knee to rest for a while and gets to your hand. the inside of the palm is less injured, but also grey with dirt.

"and shoulder?"

"stop fussing", you ask. his brows shoot up. you see he takes it as an opportunity to release a little frustration.

"you think i'm overreacting? you're bleeding from your head".

"still?"

you raise your other hand to the head and touch the pained spot. a little bump starts forming and you reach for the bag with ice resting on the mirror shelf.

Yoongi suddenly sighs. he lets go of your palm midway, clutching the pad in his fist as his elbows rest on your knees. he drops his head on them. this is him finally exhaling for the first time tonight. hiding his face in your knees, his shoulders go up and down with deep regret. you want to apologize out of habit but you know there's nothing to apologize for. you're just glad he was there on time. your injured hand lies on the back of his head you used to know so well. remember every instance when he had dyed strands of hair peeking out here, now it's all natural black-brown. it's nice against the scraped skin. you still can't take what happened worse than the physical damage; you know the ptsd will kick in later, and the fright of being stalked might never settle. maybe it's just how you are; you've felt so cosy and protected while living in Seoul, you were surrounded by such loving people that you completely lost your caution. take this one: teleported from another city and ended the fight just at the right moment. and you are more concerned now about how his hair feels under your hand than about the concussion. you've had concussions before. you've never fallen in love with the same person twice.

Yoongi helps you into the bath where your body relaxes and the small abrasions sting, fresh, burning you, and keep you awake. the uneven ache at the top of your head is lulled down by painkillers. you think you're hearing the baby pears ring in the yard and tell him about it.

"pears?" he asks, eyes wide open, "ringing like bells?"

you give a small grin,

"it's probably just in my head".

Yoongi puts one hand on the edge of the tub, and his pink knuckles tense. they are slightly redder from the punch. he gets in your face.

"look to the side. now to the left. do you feel sick?"

you feel sick of his care. you don't mind him near, quite enjoy it, but his voice is too concerned. he lost his usual cool, and you know if the roles were reversed, you'd be even less collected, fretting around him. you shake your head no, something in his hand keeps drawing your glance. his phone rings and you can see it's his mother.

"Holly's sick", he says suddenly.

"how bad?"

"he's old", Yoongi replies, serious. he wipes one hand on the towel, still clutching the edge of the tub like it can slowly drift away from him. you sink deeper into the water, gritting your teeth, flinch with pain. he speaks with his mother quietly and you keep looking at his hand. it makes you angry. but more powerfully, it knocks the ground from under your feet. you'd rather still be in Seongjun's clutch than realize this now. it takes a specific life and death circumstance to shake the whole snow mountain awake. this is the hand that has the death grip on your throat. you've achieved nothing. nothing has been solved. he jumps out and does you a favour, and the timer is kicked back off to zero. all your effort, all the feeling of freedom, the determination to feel happier, gets smothered by this hand. his voice is a low, comforting rumble jumping off the walls of your bathroom. you move and place your forehead to his knuckles, close your eyes as tears release themselves onto his skin. it's all pointless; you love this hand too much and a little break just meant this love has grown and transformed into a deeper feeling. whatever that means. there's no escape, he feels and looks like a husband, sitting with one knee up, silver rings in his ear tugging on the tired earlobe.

Yuri snuck away from Jungkook for a moment, wrapped in her wedding dress like in a beautiful, sugary spider web, getting lost in her long veil and the flying sleeves. there's bright youthful blush on her cheeks, she's coming undone in front of him and understandably needs a second to gather herself. your bridesmaid dress is silky and yellow, her favourite colour. the color of Jungkook's voice.

he is striking, effortlessly magnetizing. you rest your eyes on him while Yoongi is a blood spot, making you anxious.

"you think it's fate after all?" you ask her quietly. someone snaps a pic of you two, huddling together, gossiping. Yuri doesn't drink so she has a glass of zero per cent champagne in her hand.

you feel too insecure to admit you acted completely blindly, acting out the delulu until trululu scenario you manifested for each other.

"because i'm starting to believe it".

she sips and nods.

"yea, i believe in fate", she sounds drunk. this is the most deliriously happy you've seen her. all exes are forgotten. all rainy days kicked to the side. "her name is y/n".

the picture of that moment is still in the favourites folder on your phone. the moment when Yuri called you fate. meaning, you are inevitable. you were inevitable in Jungkook's life span. your will to marry your best friend into wealth and exciting life was unavoidable. you always acted like that was the intelligent, highly-calculated plan you've had all along, and not a drunk fluke, a sudden enlightenment and a funny prank. "look who i picked up at the bar, lmao"

now the real fate has smacked you on the teeth. you think it's inexplicable otherwise, other than by fate. life really went on, huh. it released you of the shackles of anxiety about him. look, you withdrew from Yoongi and just continued living, and the parasite of love didn't vanish but retreated into the depths of your mind, like a shadow enemy or a habit. it's a bit tragic and very pretty to think about, how badly you wanted to survive and did it, changing at your own volition. it's such simple words that carry this genius truth: life goes on.

"it's okay", he says. Yoongi thinks you are finally coming to grips with the reality of what happened, finally feel the fright. you move your head slowly on his palm, gathering his little warmth.

"no, it's not okay", you whisper. Komangi the cat enters the bathroom and rubs his body against Yoongi's thigh.

it was never going to be okay, because Yoongi is beyond okay. he is the dream. the looming inevitability of your life.

the sleep hammers you into bed. you can't even move to find a more comfortable position, just switch off almost immediately. the last thing you see is the love of your life drawing the curtains, knowing that the sun will rise in several hours and burn your faces, like it did before.

taglist: @ktownshizzle , @benyhime , @ryryvna , @amarawayne , @mar-lo-pap , @lili-spots , @kiki-zb

[steelart]

my pen has still not been confiscated so it’s halsin’s turn in the ongoing turn-everything-into-Hades fever dream

others: the dark urge (OC); minthara (bg3), karlach (bg3), shadowheart (bg3), gale (bg3), lae'zel (bg3), astarion (bg3), wyll (bg3), kotallo (horizon)

[psilliguykai]

Happy [depending on your timezone belated-] 2nd birthday CCCC!!

I gotta eep now, but I might add some more thoughts tomorrow ^^

For now, thank you CCCC for being my intro to Chonny Jash, and thank you cj for all the awesome community and inspiration and joy you’ve brought me and so many other people. Your music and characters will always hold a special place in my Heart [haha] <33

[keeskiwi]

Alphadon is an opportunistic omnivore, and this little esk looks too much like a snack.

[skrunksthatwunk]

household enemy to the yyh watchthrough number one is the olympics. it's taken us a week to get two episodes into the gamemaster fight

[cheapcheapfaker]

[figureitoutinthemorning]

…Shout out to my aunt for getting me interested in tarot??? (My mum thinks she and I are both ‘…weird’ but I think that’s code for ‘I see you’re having fun and while it’s harmless, I think it’s odd.’ Big talk coming from a woman who leaves crystals to ‘charge under the moonlight,’ but there we are.)

Look. I’m self aware, right? I know how all this sounds. But even if it is entirely rooted in projection and confirmation bias (and yeah, it’s like 99.99% interpretation, and to some extent you’ll always see what you expect to see) there’s definitely something to it, at least for me. And I think it’s fun!

(I was worrying about creative stuff/singing/that sphere of things, so I was shuffling the deck and asking, ‘Can I get a general vibe on this, please?’ And the Queen of Cups fell out of the deck. Just jumped out and landed on the desk.)

[somarysueme]

So, tattoo shop AUs are really popping off lately and personally I love it. What’s more romantic than bleeding for art? Nothing!

But as someone married to a tattoo artist, I have been experiencing some mild She Wouldn’t Say That regarding tattoo culture. So here’s a few quick tips that may help inform your AU. With a grain of salt for my mostly-second-hand knowledge:

NO ONE REPUTABLE SHOP WILL TATTOO A DRUNK PERSON. EVER. or even a person they suspect of any kind of inebriation. This is not just for Regret reasons, but also because alcohol is a blood thinner. If someone is on an acute dose of blood thinners, you generally do not want to stab them dozens of times per second.

Maybe this is regional, but in my experience most tattoo places don’t call themselves parlors anymore. It has a kind of seedy vibe. I see shop or studio a lot but rarely parlor.

Most tattoo artists are hot, yes, but none are as hot at my wife

Tattooing janks up your hands. Sometimes in a RSI way but definitely in a changing-gloves-every-five-minutes-fucks-up-your-skin way.

Artists themselves are rarely if ever employees of the shop. They will be independent contractors who pay the shop either a cut of their sales or rent on their station like a hair dresser. They are also (usually) responsible for taking care of their own supplies, tools, etc. except for the stencil printer. What kind of dweeb would have their own stencil printer?

There is always a line for the stencil printer. Always.

Artists generally spend orders of magnitude more time working on art, replying to emails, doing consults, etc compared to time with their needles in skin.

A typical schedule for an artist might be: wake up at noon and guzzle half her body weight in coffee, one appointment from 1-4, and another from 6-9. Home to eat one (1) real meal at 10 pm. Drawing until 5 am. This is good for her actually and good for our marriage and she’s so healthy all the time.

An ideal shop receptionist needs to be friendly, knowledgeable, and encouraging. They also need to be willing to get out the baseball bat that is kept behind the counter.

If a shop has to choose between “good people skills” and “will promptly rebuff Nazis and the obviously inebriated” the later is often a more important consideration.

At any given moment in any given shop there’s going to be at least one apprentice or someone bumming around hoping to be taken on as an apprentice. They spawn on tic and this feature cannot be disabled.

Again I can not overstate how hot my wife is

[storytellerdannie]

I am SO obsessed with the relationship insights we got this video. Dan explaining how he’s always walking a fine line between mental breakdown and productivity and any surprises or unexpected challenges can push him into breakdown so that’s why he’s a planner vs Phil saying he shields Dan from everyday stressors (I think back to him answering sponsor emails and dealing with their taxes) until it’s the right time to share them with Dan possibly to minimize the stressors of it all like how Phil played down his food poisoning to jet lag cause he wanted Dan to have a peaceful day and not to worry, but also the contrast of Dan being the one builders talk to because he’s involved in the details of what they are doing and him going to the reception to deal with the hotel staff and not get charged for the pontoon experience. They are both pulling their weight in the relationship, but they are also both trying to help the other out in ways you can only do when you have been with someone for so many years AND they are still working it out!

They started the video talking about the importance of communication which goes to show you, yes they are perfect for each other and yes they are obviously in love BUT they are also devoted to making it work through all those little things you have to navigate as a couple in everyday life. I would honestly find it so fascinating if they just talked about their mundane daily routines, let alone any insane pontoon experiences.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Part One + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ mdni, sexual content, dacryphilia, daddy kink. Reader is neurodivergent.

Simon Riley is a simple man. 

Now. 

Cobwebs cleared, shattered shards of glass painstakingly swept away, lacerations stitched and glued back together. He's climbed the mountain of his mind and descended down the other side. Hurdles jumped, skeletons dragged into the light and then cut down. 

Guess that's what happens when you finally decide you want to live, instead of exist. 

At least he figured it out before he died. 

He's old now, older, signature sore back and creaky knees worse then they were ten years ago, sciatica pain when it rains, headaches whenever he's spent too long looking at paperwork (should be wearing his glasses, but can only bring himself to do it at home.) He's even soft around the middle a bit. 

Still, there are some things that never change, some things that are amplified by time. Skill, focus, dedication. Thirst. 

The thirst is what keeps everyone in line, keeps everyone's head down after a salute, eyes shifty and hands clenched. He still strikes fear. He doesn't mind. 

It's how he got here. How he ended up standing in front of a team, his team, tackling a debrief. It's only given him more of what he know nows he craves, the aspect of control that was so long missing from his life, taken from him by others, by their actions, their decisions. Now he has it in spades. He learned to indulge it, practice it, hone it, and when it reared its head in other aspects of his life, he didn't shy away. He embraced it, experimented with it, figured out what he liked, what he didn't, what he truly needed. Chewed on it, for a while. 

A casual fuck here and there, fine, but not enough, not nearly. 

He's built a house after all. 

It's all spilled over though. Run away from him and out of the base, infiltrated his home, crawled across town- 

and set it's sights on something it can sink it's teeth into. Something it won't let go of. 

Daddy's girl. 

"C-captain Riley." Your hands press to your stomach, anxiously wiping away smatterings of batter and flour, and he tries to screw his mouth into a flat line to hide his smile at the hitch in your breath. 

"Hi sweetheart." 

"What can I... what can I get for you?" He sweeps over the case, eyeing the piled high pastries and bagels, muffins and quiches still warm. 

"Just a coffee today." You nod, lip tugged between your teeth, hand practically shaking as you reach for the stack of cups. When he was a younger man, he wouldn't have patience for this, or you. Wouldn't see the bright side to this, these moments he shares with his girl at the bakery, his nervous little fawn he's finally coaxed to look him in the eye for more than ten seconds at a time. Being in your forties will do that to you, he guesses. 

Time heals more than he ever thought possible. 

"Black?" 

"That's right." He indulges himself as you turn around, tracing your curves, the swell of your ass in your leggings. You wear an apron at your waist religiously, cinching it tight, hips and thighs and everything else perfectly framed. He loves those leggings, and hates them every time he catches an overzealous prick leering at you over the counter. 

"Do you um, do you want room for cream?"  The answer is always the same, but you still ask, and he doesn't mind. 

"No, I'll just take it as is." He eyes the pan of raspberry sweet rolls sitting on the counter, cream cheese icing slowly melting across the top. They're his favorite, but he's putting on too much weight, and with the next mission around the corner, he can't afford to be too soft. You look up at him shyly, gesturing to the giant buns. 

"I made your favorite." Fuck. He can't. He shouldn't... but he can't stomach the idea of dimming your glow, killing you excitement, the eager look on your face as you wait for his approval. 

"Y'know what... the boys are always complaining I never bring them anything. I'll take the whole pan." Your eyes turn to saucers. 

"The wh-whole pan? Really?" You brighten into a sun, glowing with pride, and he rewards you with a smile. 

"Is that okay?" 

"Of course!" You blurt, half panicked, "of course I just... okay. Let me-" You go to put the coffee cup down in front of him, but the bottom nicks the edge of the counter and like everything has turned to slow motion, he watches as steaming hot liquid comes flying from the top, half splashing, half spilling all over his uniform. He catches it before it rolls off the end, but the damage has been done, and tears line your lashes. 

The woman waiting in line a few feet behind him snorts. His vision turns red and he whirls on her with a glare, satisfied when the color drains from her face and she runs off. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so s-so-sorry,” you’ve come around the corner with paper towels, trembling like a leaf as you stare at the stain on his jacket, wide eyed and frantic. 

“It’s okay, it was an accident.” 

“N-no, your uniform,” you croak horrified, “I ruined it, I’m so sorry.” You hiccup a little, trying to suck in some air while you succumb to panic, and he takes your hands in his, squeezing gently, trying to ground you. 

“It’s alright baby, it’s okay,” you don’t even notice when he calls you baby, too preoccupied by your rapidly dissipating oxygen. “Hey, look at me,” he soothes, ducking into your line of sight, grabbing your attention. “Good girl, you’re alright.” 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shrinking in on yourself, curling your shoulders forward. More tears, and the sight of them sends blood rushing through his body, uncomfortable pressure starting to build in his cock. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” The shop is mostly empty, the woman behind him gone, and he takes the opportunity to usher you past the counter and into the kitchen where there’s a stool waiting just inside the door. He guides you up and holds steady. “Everything’s okay, I promise.” The paper towels come free from your tension filled grip, and instead of using them on the stain, he presses them to your wet cheeks, blotting away your tears. You lean into the touch, so trusting, so easily his, and he wonders what else you’d let him do. He’s hard against the teeth of his zipper as he thinks about hoisting you onto the table, spreading your legs to find what you’ve been keeping safe for him there. 

He doesn’t have many things to care for these days, outside the team, his ultimate responsibility. Keeping a special ops unit alive, planning and executing, cutting through political bullshit is more than enough, but it’s all rough and heavy handed. 

He needs something to nurture. 

You blink at him as he finishes and tips your chin back, ignoring the way your lips part in awe. “That’s better.” 

“Thank you.” The two of you breathe in tandem, silenced and walking a tightrope until you cough. “I should uh… I should go, get those rolls packaged?” He nods, and you manage a very small smile before dipping your gaze to the ground and running off to the front. 

“When did you know?” He rolls the cigar smoke around in his mouth and John cocks his head. 

“When did I know what?” 

“That you were ready,” he gestures to the house, where John’s wife Grace sleeps soundly, “for this? For her?” There’s a glint in his Captain’s blue eyes, a knowing smirk on his face. 

“I just did. At some point, life becomes more than the job, but the mission stays the same. Lead, decide, control. Keep them safe, complete your objective, give what’s needed, get it for yourself. It’s no different.” The idea is tar, sticking to every surface in his mind, gumming up his synapses and creating hallucinations so intoxicating they’re hard to believe. 

You, curled up in bed asleep with nothing but a pair of panties, or cradled between his knees in the bath as he works a chunk of batter free from your hair. You with your legs spread, knees pushed towards your ears, pussy ripe and waiting for him, only him, for the rest of his life. Hands and ankles tied together like a pretty little present. You, sitting on the couch with your thighs slung over his lap, nose creased with a little wrinkle as you thumb through a book. 

John chuckles. “Found one then?” 

Simon only nods. 

He slips through the door just before closing, little bell at the top announcing his arrival to an almost empty space. There’s someone at the register, counting cash, and she smiles at him with all her teeth. 

“We’re about to close but there are a few things left, or I could make you a tea?” The case is pretty barren, a few bear claws and croissants, a muffin or two. Stragglers. 

Next to it, a bouquet sits in a vase. They’re fresh, healthy, and the hair on the back of his neck stands. 

If someone is buying you flowers, he’ll kill them. Dump their corpse in a pit and piss on it. 

The girl clears her throat, and he shakes his head. “No, but thanks. ‘M here to see…” you push through the kitchen doors with two metal sheet trays in your hands, and freeze.

He knew you’d be surprised, caught off guard. It’s like catching a feral cat. Trying to earn a street dog’s trust. Like he’s crouched on the sidewalk, hand extended, food waiting in his fingertips. 

A fisherman, with bait on the line, patiently waiting to hook his prize. 

The incident last week has thoroughly spooked you, pushed you back inside your shell, eroded a lot of the groundwork he painstakingly laid, the foundation he’s been building, and the only time he’s been in since then, you ran into the kitchen as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

The clock has turned back to the time when you were so gun shy, you’d turn to stone at the first sight of him, hands clasped together so tight he knew they hurt. 

It’s no matter. He’s a patient man now, a far cry from who he used to be, and he’s willing to wait for the things worth it, willing to put in the work to fix it.

His body disagrees. A river of need runs consistently runs through him, wild and turbulent current thrashing in his blood, white water rapids trying to flood his lungs. His cock is heavy at night as he imagines you bent over the butcher’s block, leggings ripped open, gooseflesh cascading from the small of your back down, empty little hole clenching on nothing, begging for a fullness only he can give. He dreams about your tears, salty sweet drops soaking your cheeks as the crown of his cock bulges in your throat, as he takes your air and gives it back, over and over again. 

Ruin you, rearrange you, remold you until you only ever fit him. 

He’ll give you what you need, he’ll take away what you don’t. 

He’ll decide. 

The girl at the counter looks at you, then him, small smile pulling on her lips. “I’m going to get this deposit ready,” she announces to no one since you’re not paying her any attention, barely registering she’s disappeared as you stare at him. 

“Hi… u-um hi, Captain Riley.” You put the pans down onto the counter but miscalculate the distance, and they clatter with a resounding smack, one that makes you wince. Your chest expands with a long, deep breath, and you look away from him to the floor. “Can I get you something?” 

“No, I’m jus’ here to see you.” You jerk, gaze snapping from the floor to his face. 

“Is th-this about your uniform? Did you get it dry-cleaned? I can pay you back for-” You rush out, half panicked and cut off when his hand fits to the space between your shoulder blades with just enough pressure to move you forward. He leads, steering you to one of the little tables by the window, urging you down into the chair before taking his place on the other side. 

“You’re not paying my bloody dry cleaning bill. I’m here to see you, sweetheart.” You’re vibrating, practically rattling in your skin and he wants so badly to soothe you, tuck you into his chest and push the outside world away, but it would be too much, too soon. You’re not ready. 

“See me?” He nods. 

“Why did you run from me the other day?” 

“I didn’t I was just… I was busy.” He didn't expect the truth, not right away. You're always trying to hide your vulnerable spots. 

“Try again. No lying this time.” There’s about one eighth of his usual authority in his voice, the captain’s edge he’s honed over the years, and your lips part with a sharp, small intake of breath. 

“I thought maybe… I thought you might be upset or something and I didn’t want…” you trail off with a shrug, and he’s not surprised. He knows his reassurances from last week weren’t enough. His sweet girl is afraid of her own shadow, you need more than just a few words and your tears wiped. 

“I’m not upset.” He leans back against the rickety wood. There are a million things he could say, do. A million different pieces he could pick apart right here, right now, peel your layers back and put you on your knees with your cheek on his thigh, his hand patting the top of your head. 

“Daddy’s not mad, sweetheart.” 

You’re watching him, waiting, looking for him to give more, heal this wound, but he’s cautious. A gas pedal to the floor will only get him the kind of chase he doesn’t want. Not yet. “You understand me?” 

“Yes,” you whisper. You’re hesitating on something, holding back, but he doesn’t try to drag it out, choosing to wait, to give you the time you need, the space he knows the rest of the world doesn’t allow. “Did um… did they like them?” He cocks his head. 

“The team?” 

“Mhm,” your leg bounces under the table. You’re so fucking cute he could smother you. 

“Yeah baby, they loved them.” You beam, blooming into a pretty, perfect flower, vibrant and colorful, rare as they come. 

“That’s good, I’m so happy.” You wiggle a little bit in the chair, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Fucking hell. He wants you on his lap instead, wiggling around as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock, fingernails biting into his chest as he stretches your pussy, toes curling as you struggle to take him. “D-do you want to take some home?” 

“You have some left over?” You shrug sheepishly. 

“I’ve uh, been making them every day. I thought if you were mad at me, maybe they would… make it better.” Oh baby.

“No. You never have to appease me like that. You never have to appease anyone like that, sweetheart.” 

“Right. Okay.” You look relieved, a little bit of heaviness lifted from your shoulders, and then you give him a small smile. “But do you want to maybe have one… now? W-with me?” His sweet little fawn, navigating the world on new trembling legs, taking chances when she feels brave. 

He pulls your hand into his and strokes his thumb back and forth across your knuckles, setting up a slow, soothing rhythm. “Of course.” 

[sv3t1ana]

Thinking about Husband!Sukuna who just lets you do whatever the fuck you want now.

There was a time when he protested. A time when he had pride, pride in being a man, in being a fearsome king, commanding respect wherever he went.

But you?

You were relentless. So utterly, absurdly relentless that at some point, he just stopped fighting it.

He had never been a man of many words, and marriage hadn’t changed that. It was only a week ago that he sat comfortably on his throne, heavy head resting in his palm as he drifted off to sleep, until he was interrupted by the sudden weight (or loss?) on his chest.

A lesser man would have panicked, but your husband? No. He merely took a long inhale, an even longer exhale, and cracked one eye open to find your tiny, mischievous hands cupping his pecs like a scientist.

“They don’t really move like mine,” you mused, experimentally bouncing the firm muscle in your grasp.

He didn’t know if the subject of this experiment was his breaking point or whatever nonsense idea had wormed its way into your head this time.

Your expression was serious, too serious, as you moved in front of him, gripping the hem of his robe as if a scholar prepped for a dissertation.

“May I remove this?”

His eyes, half-lidded with the dull exhaustion that only centuries of being a king could bring, slowly trailed to meet yours. His lips pressed into a flat line.

You took his silence as consent.

And soon enough, his shirt was discarded, leaving him bare from the waist up as you squinted in intense concentration, leaning in close to his chest.

It was pathetic, really. The size difference. Your husband was a mountain of a man, yes, his frame large enough to dwarf yours entirely. And yet, there you were, fingers struggling to span across his tits as you earnestly attempted to jiggle them, as if you could replicate your own softness on his ironclad frame.

At one point, you had both of his pecs squished together, testing them like some critical judge at a livestock competition.

“Wow, you’re a lot different than me.”

Oh, his lovely wife. His lovely wife, who was genuinely comparing her milk-producing breasts to those of a war-hardened king.

Oh, the patience he had for you.

And despite the sheer disrespect you continually brought upon the honor of Sukuna, the King, the Conqueror, the Lord of Curses…

He still let you.

And it never stopped.

Because right now, right this very moment, he was balls-deep inside you, your knees pinned to your chest as he fucked you senseless, guttural moans echoing in the grand chamber as he pounded into your dripping cunt.

The nights the lord would bed his wife was always the same, multiple orgasms, a sore throat, bruises painting your skin like a lover’s signature, and the brutal satisfaction of a man who knew he could ruin you.

There couldn’t have been a worse time, a worse thought, and for the first time in his life, Sukuna wished, prayed, for something to be different about his wife.

“W-wait, ‘Kuna- fuck- wait-!”

Because he never wanted you in pain, never wanted you to feel anything but pleasure despite the sixth climax of the night barreling toward him, he reluctantly halted.

Oh, may the lords above grant him the strength.

Because you, thoroughly fucked out, hair knotted, sweat glistening across your body, brought your trembling hands forward,

and groped his fucking tits.

Like he was some toy for you to hold onto.

“Okay, continue.”

He stilled. In shock? In horror? In spiritual agony?

Slowly, he tried to thwart at your hands, momentarily lifting one from under your knee, but-

“No, I said continue.”

That’s right. Your wish was his command.

So he continued. And every time his cock rammed deep into your walls, every time you moaned so sinfully, your little hands squeezed tighter.

It was almost comical, your soft, delicate fingers clutching at his immovable chest as if this was your god-given right.

With a grunt, he muttered, “Why must you do this?” His brows furrowed, thrusts becoming punishing.

Through your breathless whimpers, you somehow managed, “Ngh- I just- oh, god- like them.”

His cock twitched at your honesty.

His breasts flexing in tandem.

And when your shaking fingers dared to pinch his nipple…

Oh, that was when the real fun began.

“Fuck, don’t- fuck-” He spat through gritted teeth.

Neither of you could ignore the way his back arched the tiniest bit, the way his thrusts faltered for a split second as your fingers toyed with him.

You were too far gone to form coherent sentences, let alone fucking laugh, but your lips curled in amusement, jaw slack as the wet pat-pat-pat of his cock slamming into you filled the air.

“You think this shit is funny?”

His hold on you shifted. With inhuman ease, he lifted your legs, pressing them together straight up in the air, holding your feet in a single massive hand while his other gripped your thigh in a vice.

The new position devastating.

His thick cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you, punching deep into your cunt, the head kissing your cervix with every pump.

It was enough to wreck you, your body shuddering as your next orgasm tore through you like divine wrath.

And Sukuna, normally composed and always in control, was panting.

As you both lay side by side afterward, spent and breathless, a singular, intrusive thought carved its way into your little head.

“...Can I be big spoon tonight?”

He didn’t respond, simply sighing and rolling onto his side. Letting you attempt to wrap your arms around his impossibly broad back.

Oh, his lovely, sweet wife.

Your hand reached down, fingers splaying, grabbing a handful of his ass.

A slow, agonizing inhale.

Then a measured, exasperated exhale.

“...No more tonight. Please.”

You couldn’t see his face, your own buried between his shoulder blades.

But maybe, juuust maybe, someone, somewhere, could say there was the barest twitch of a smile on his lips.

[rowarn]

EXPERIENCE (m.)

könig x inexperienced!reader

tags: age gap, acquaintances to lovers, afab!reader but gn

cw: loss of virginity, cunnilingus, fingering, hand riding (hear me out), pussyjob, talking u thru it, praise, pet names (liebling, little one), size kink/difference, handjob, reassurance/encouragement kink, wet&messy, konig is uncut hehe, squirting

note: konig is in his 40s and reader is in their 20s!

;in which you live in the same building as a really hot, older, military man

9.5k

When you met König, you never expected the harmless interactions to ever evolve into anything substantial. He lived somewhere in the same apartment building as you did, though you didn’t know where exactly. Most times, you would find him in the elevator or cross paths with him in the lobby. 

You knew he was in the military, most of the people living in the building were. It was close to the nearby base and had rent for a damn good price. The way he carried himself, back straight and body seemingly always at attention gave him away. 

He was massive, standing much taller above you with broad shoulders and thick thighs. A lot of the time he was wearing a hood over his face, mostly when he was coming or going from work – which was seemingly all the time. 

On the few occasions that you caught him without the hood, you could tell it was him solely by his build. There was no one else in the building who looked anything like that. 

He was handsome, in a rugged, tired kind of way. He was a lot older than you were expecting him to be – probably in his early to mid forties, you guessed. He had salt and pepper hair, fine lines etched onto his face, and stern eyes from (no doubt) many years in the military. 

You had never properly spoken to him before. Hell, you didn’t even know his name. You greeted him when you saw him and smiled in passing when you made eye contact. Occasionally, he would respond in an accented voice that you longed to ask about. 

The event that changed everything was a fun little night out you had with your friends. You had maybe had a bit too much to drink before finally conceding at your friends’ behest to call yourself an Uber. 

By the time you reach your apartment building, you’re still very buzzed and starting to feel a little nauseous. You stumble to the elevator and impatiently slam your thumb on the button over and over again, losing count as you do. 

“It’s not going to come any faster,” an accented voice drones next to you, nearly making you jump out of your skin. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” you wheeze, hand over your racing heart.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings then,” he says, “Especially when you are intoxicated.”

You huff through your nose, growing annoyed at the prospect of being lectured. The elevator grants mercy and dings before slowly opening. There's a rowdy group of men inside who quickly walk out of the elevator, seedy eyes immediately finding their way to you, scanning your body up and down as they pass by. 

You feel that nauseous pit in your stomach twist as you finally step onto the elevator. Nothing to ruin your jovial mood from a nice evening more than a group of leering men. Living in an apartment building filled with soldiers, it wasn’t unusual to have them stare at you – didn’t mean you liked it. 

You cross your arms over your chest as König steps on, the elevator creaking and groaning under his immense weight. 

“What floor?” he asks softly, glancing at you over his shoulder as he stands in front of the button panel.

“3,” you mumble, leaning against the back wall. You watch him punch in the 3 but not anything else, making you raise a brow, “You live on 3 too?”

He shakes his head but doesn’t say another word. You narrow your eyes at his back, if he feels you looking, he doesn’t give it away. The elevator is plunged into silence aside from the quiet sound of the shaft moving up and up until it dings and the doors slide open. 

He steps out first, standing in the threshold to keep the door from closing as you push yourself off the wall. Your head swims for a second and you stumble past him, keenly aware of his eyes on you. 

You wander down the hallway, glancing over your shoulder to see him slowly stalking behind you. His arms hand limply by his sides, his fists clenched into fists but he remains a respectable distance. 

“Why are you following me?” you ask, unable to hide the nervousness in your tone, “You said you don’t live on this floor.”

“Young recruits are tools,” he supplies simply, “I am making sure you make it to your door without any problems.”

That causes you to hum and for a little flutter in your stomach to manifest. You brush it off and pause at your door, pulling your keys out so unlock it. You push it open and step in, letting it hit your back to keep it from closing as you turn to look at your companion.

“Thank you…um…” you clear your throat and look at him expectantly. 

“König,” he supplies simply, arms tucked behind his back, making him look even wider. 

“König…” you repeat, feeling the words on your tongue, “Interesting name. Where are you from?”

“Austria,” he replies almost mechanically, “I will be going now.”

You don’t get to say another word before he’s stalking away and down the hallway, heavy footfalls practically rumbling the ground beneath him. You slowly close your door and lean against it, hand placed over your racing heart – when did that start up? 

You blame it on your inexperience when it comes to men. You’d had a couple boyfriends, pretty standard for someone in their 20s. Your problem was none of them were ever good enough. The over-zealous types who wanted their dicks sucked as gratitude for paying for dinner. Then would turn around and either give you the most lackluster head of your life, barely any foreplay before trying to shove his dick into an unprepared hole. 

You had never given them the chance, once they showed they were only interested in their own pleasure and would more than likely not even think about touching your clit or angling for your g-spot, you stopped them and kicked them out. More often than not, you woke up to a break-up text because of course you did. 

So that was how you were still a virgin and more or less, at this point, given up on dating. You’d been single now for the better part of 6 months and had no intentions of giving any men your own age a shot at it. 

But…you hadn’t considered an older man. Like König. 

At that thought, you pushed yourself off the door and kicked your shoes off, intent on taking a shower to hopefully wash these drunken thoughts out of your head. So he’d been nice and walked you to your door, no questions asked, so what? Didn’t make him any different from men your age. 

As you made it to the bathroom, you felt your stomach finally churn for the final time and found your head buried in the toilet. You cursed yourself for not listening to your friends, who apparently knew your own limits better than you did. 

The next time you see König is just a few days later. You walk into the apartment’s gym on the ground floor, and there he is – sitting lifting weights. You pause when you see him, feeling that traitorous flutter in your chest you were sure you puked out that night you had learned his name. 

You watch the way his biceps flex, bulging so large you’re sure not even two of your hands could wrap around the girth of it. There were some scars littering his skin, most of them white and raised from age but a few that still had that new tissue pink color. You also noticed some fading tattoos encircling his forearms. Fuck, he was hot. 

You hung your head and scampered over to the treadmill, intent on getting your cardio up. 

As you run, you notice a group waltz in, laughing and shoving each other. You glance over at them, rolling your eyes when some of them make eye contact and nudge their buddies. They lean in close and whisper to each other with shit eating grins on their faces and you find frustration building up so you try to ignore them. 

“Quiet,” you hear an accented voice snap, full of authority, “You are disturbing everyone.”

The rowdy young men quiet down immediately and clear their throats, “S-Sorry, Colonel,” one of them utters.

‘Colonel? Is that high ranking?’ you find yourself wondering, making a mental note to look that up later. 

Either way, König manages to make the gym peaceful once again and you finish your workout with no other hitches. 

You grab your towel and dab at the sweat on your face and neck as you swiftly make your way out of the gym, completely unaware of the shadow following closely behind. 

You slow to a stop at the elevator, punching the button to call it as you sip on your water bottle, mindlessly going over what else you need to do with your day. The shadow behind you remains stagnant, still and silent as it lurks behind your unsuspecting form as the elevator opens and you step on. 

He follows, hefty weight causing the elevator to groan as usual. That gets your attention and you jump, placing a delicate hand over your racing heart just like you had before, eyes wide in shock at his appearance.

“You’re doing it on purpose now!” you whine at him and he has to fight back a smile at it. 

“I told you that you needed to pay more attention to your surroundings,” he replies smoothly, pressing the 3 button for you before pressing 5 for himself. 

“How is a guy as big as you able to be so quiet?” you ask softly, making note of the floor he lives on. 

“Years of training,” he gives a quick response that you hum at. There is a beat of silence before he finds himself speaking again, “You never gave me your name.”

He sees the way you look at him in surprise and he almost wishes he could rip the words from the air as soon as he says them. He doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea that he actually wants to get to know you. 

But you smile softly and give him your name with a kind nod of your head before the elevator grants him mercy and dings at the arrival on your floor.

“See you around, König,” you say as you step off. 

He doesn’t respond. 

Once back in the safety of your apartment, you find yourself going through the entire interaction in your head over and over again. Your heart races as you think back on him. 

It's as you’re making dinner for yourself that you finally have the coherent thought of revelation that you may have a crush on König. 

The revelation is almost enough to have you groaning out of frustration into the quiet sanctity of your apartment but you manage to refrain. But you can’t deny you don’t quite know what to do about it now. You had sworn off of men but…that was men your own age. König was…older than you, surely at least 15 years your senior, possibly more. You figure it couldn’t hurt to ask him out for some coffee one of these days. 

Except, the next time you see König is almost 2 weeks later. You don’t see hide nor hair of him at all. It definitely puts a damper on your confidence and you almost think your crush was just a fleeting little thing and for that you’re grateful for. 

Until the elevator opens one day and there he is. He’s wearing his hood but his eyes look even more exhausted than usual – beyond the general tiredness that comes with age. You carefully step on, joining him in the downward descent to the lobby. It’s just the two of you and feel that fluttering in your chest start up again and your hands begin to sweat. You scour your brain for something to say — anything to start up a conversation after so long of not seeing him.

“Haven’t seen you around,” you mutter softly. He hums softly in acknowledgement but doesn’t supply much of a response beyond that, “Where have you been?” you try again.

“Deployed,” he finally responds after several seconds of silence. 

You can’t find any way to respond or keep the conversation going but it’s sure that he has no intentions of doing so anyway. Still, it surprised you that he had been deployed, you hadn’t considered that. It made sense now that you thought about it. 

The elevator opened and you both stepped out. He walked much faster than you, beelining out of the apartment and you briefly considered letting him go but another part of you wanted to stop him and ask him out. 

You cursed to yourself and jogged forward, calling his name. He stopped in his tracks at the sound of you calling for him. He looks down at you over his nose, a burning gaze that makes your nervousness spike. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good time after all. 

“What?” he snaps, clearly impatient.

“Oh um…” you clear your throat and slow to a stop, “N-Nevermind…”

He huffs through his nose and resumes storming out of the apartment. You find yourself sighing deeply, following his lead. When you get outside, he’s nowhere to be seen and you once again find yourself wondering how a man of his size is so good at not being seen. 

A few nights later, the weekend rolls around and you find yourself standing in that damned elevator with him once again. He’s maskless and it gives you pause before stepping on. 

It’s silent for a few seconds before he says, “I am sorry for the other day.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, “Um…what do you mean?”

“I was not polite towards you,” he answers, casting a soft gaze towards you that makes your heart flutter, “I took my bad mood out on you and I should not have. So…I am sorry.”

“Oh…” you clear your throat and give him a smile, “it’s alright, König. I shouldn’t have bothered you with something silly.”

He frowns at you, “Something silly?”

“It’s nothing,” you assure him, smiling kindly at him. 

He wants to ask you what you mean but the elevator door opens and you step out, making him realize that you reached your floor. You wave your goodbye to him as the doors close and he lets his head fall back with a sigh once he’s alone.

Yet another bad day weighed heavily on his shoulders when you came waltzing into the elevator, bright eyed and happy. His fists were clenched behind his back and he did his best to avoid looking at you, hoping you would take the hint and not speak to him like you usually did. It hadn’t been but a day since he had apologized to you for making an ass of himself in the lobby and he didn’t want to do the same thing so soon after. 

But then you say something that sends it all crumbling down.

“Hey…” you start, fidgeting your fingers in front of you, “Would you like to get coffee sometime? Maybe lunch?”

You ask it so sweetly and softly. For some reason, that grates on his nerves even more than anything.

“What?” he snaps, cold and sharp in a way that makes you visibly freeze. 

You look up at him like a deer caught in the headlights, “Um…w-well, I just…it’s…I would like to…”

Your nervous babbling only serves to piss him off even more as his glare narrows down on you, making you shrink in on yourself where you stand. Suddenly, the elevator feels much smaller than it had ever before – even with him filling most of the space as usual. 

“You want to go out with me?” he spits, his accent growing stronger with every venomous word that he can’t seem to stop from spilling from his lips, “I am twice your age, what the hell makes you think I would want to date you?”

You swallow thickly around the lump forming in your throat and bite back the tears that threaten to form. He hears you sniffle and promptly snaps his head to look at you. Under the ugly, yellow light of the elevator he can see the tears trickling down your cheeks and he suddenly wants to slap himself into the next decade. 

He wants to open his mouth so badly and apologize for being so cruel to you. He knows he could have told you no in a much softer way rather than making your feelings seem like something revolting or stupid. But the elevator doors open and you’re slipping out before he even has a chance. He decides not to chase after you. 

It’s for the best, he assures himself. 

It only takes a few days before he’s vehemently regretting not stopping you then and there. 

It happens on a Friday night, the elevators are closing just as a hand jumps between them, sending them opening again. You step on, giggling in a way that tells him you’re just a little inebriated. You freeze when you see him standing there, maskless and cold gaze as he watches you tug a young man into the elevator behind you – clearly a little drunk himself. 

You pointedly stand in front of König, keeping your back to him to show that you’re not even willing to look at him. König feels his heart clench painfully in his chest before it’s replaced by a wash of anger as he watches the young man paw at you. He slips his hand down your back to grope at your ass, making you giggle breathlessly before you’re batting his hands away with a little bat of your lashes. 

König wishes he had an excuse to step off the elevator at the same time as you – anything to prolong his time with you. He’s never felt the desire to cockblock someone more in his whole entire life. 

But he doesn’t move. He just watches you step off without a single glance in his direction before you’re vanishing around the corner and the elevator doors close silently, leaving König alone with his thoughts. 

You couldn’t believe you brought this guy to your apartment. You especially couldn’t believe you were letting him strip you of your clothes and paw at your body like some kind of mindless dog. You had sworn to yourself that you were not going to fall into this trap again – a 20-something year old guy buying you a drink, complimenting you a little, teasing and groping you in the club until you caved and brought him home. It wasn’t your first go around – and it always ended the same way.

But you were drunk and you needed to get your mind off that stupid, giant Austrian military man that lived in your building. And wouldn’t you know it, he was on the elevator as soon as you got in. It was almost enough to sober you up, your wounded pride and feelings still so prevalent even after a few days of nursing the hurt. 

You could only hope that this would relieve you of your hurt feelings. 

Unfortunately, you quickly realized that this was a mistake. 

As soon as he started groping you, spreading your legs and trying to stuff his cock inside you without so much as a single finger of prep – you knew this wasn’t going to happen.

You tried to lead him, thinking maybe he was a little too tipsy to actually think about it.

“How about a little prep, hm?” you ask softly.

He pauses what he’s doing and you can practically see the gears turning in his head, “Oh…you’re one of those…”

He says it in disgust and you feel yourself bristle in annoyance, “One of what?”

“You want me to eat you out, right?” he scoffs, rolling his eyes, “That shit’s gross, c’mon just let me stick it in, already.” It was that moment that you felt any minute desire you had to have sex evaporate. 

You don’t even bother walking the guy out, leaving him to limp to the elevator in shame with a hard cock and blue balls.

It takes you a few days to find it in yourself to crawl out of your apartment. The only reason you actually do leave is because you’re in need of food – your little supply of ramen has depleted and you have to bite the bullet. 

After your little shopping trip at the nearby convenience store, you find yourself waiting for the elevator when a dark shadow looms over you. You feel a pit of dread in your stomach as you smell the musky, sweet scent of his cologne. But you don’t dare acknowledge his presence. 

He doesn’t give you long to ignore him, however, before he’s talking to you.

“How was your little date?” he asks, voice dripping in a tone of condescension that immediately puts you on edge. 

“What’s it to you?” you hiss, still not daring to look at him. 

He scoffs, “You went and found yourself a little toy to play with awfully fast. Seems your interest in me wore off quickly, no?”

That gets you to finally turn around, meeting his cold, indifferent gaze with your hot, teary one. You miss the look of surprise that flashes over his face.

“What is your problem?” you snap, “You rejected me, what the hell do you care what I do? And for your information, the date was shit. He was shit, like I should have expected any difference. God, I really am a fucking idiot,” you find yourself rambling, a lamenting spiel that you can’t seem to stop no matter how badly you want to, “Just like every prick before him, he was selfish and revolting. I thought I could finally get fucking laid and just call it a day but no, my stupid standards are too high and I find myself asking out the hot older guy in my building only for him to find me revolting!”

By the time you’re done ranting, the doors open and you storm out of the elevator, angrily gripping your bag of groceries. König is frozen where he stands, watching you leave as the doors slowly close – almost begging him to put his hand between them and stop them so he can chase after you. 

But he doesn’t.

It’s creeping up on midnight when there’s a knock on your apartment door. You’re curled up on the couch, watching some random show that you weren’t really invested in but couldn’t be bothered to change. 

The knock makes you jump, startled, but get up nonetheless. A quick peek in the peephole tells you exactly who it is before you even open it. 

You briefly consider not opening it period but find yourself opening it before you actually settle on a decision. 

König stands in front of you, a bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand, looking comically small. The sight is almost enough to get you to crack a smile. Almost.

But the residual hurt from the last few interactions you’ve had with him is enough to keep you stoic. You raise a brow and you practically see his confidence falter. A pang of guilt goes through you at the sight and you step aside, waving him in with a quiet huff. 

He closes the door behind him softly, kicking his boots off as he watches you wander into the living room. You take a seat on your couch, covering yourself with your throw blanket once again as you watch him wander in, gazing around at your decor before finally settling on you. 

“Um…” He clears his throat nervously and places the flowers on your coffee table, “I think that we should talk…”

“Should we?” you quip back.

He sighs, broad shoulders heaving with the movement before he takes a seat beside you, taking up a hefty amount of space on your small couch. 

“I want to apologize,” he says softly, folding his hands in his lap, “When you asked me out…I-I should not have spoken to you like that.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest, “If that’s all this is about, König, then you can go. I-I don’t really want to hear a half-assed apology about the way you rejected me. You’re not interested, let’s just move on from it. I’ll get over it.”

He shakes his head quickly and curses under his breath, a word you don’t understand – German, your brain supplies, helpfully.

“You are wrong,” he says, “I do not want you to get over it because I am interested.”

The gets you to perk up, eyes wide, “What do you mean? You said you–”

“I know what I said,” he mutters, “I am…twice your age…”

“So you mentioned before…” you reply.

“I do not think…you should be with someone old like me,” he continues softly, “You should be with someone your own age. That is what I thought. It is not that I don’t find you attractive; I think you’re sweet and lovely. But it's just…our age difference…”

“König,” you stop him from continuing, “I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

“I understand that but…” he trails off, casting a sideways glance across the room, away from you.

“I’ve tried dating men my own age, König,” you say, “It always ends the same – I send them home blue balled.”

He huffs out a laugh through his nose and finally sets his gaze back on you, “Why do you do that?”

“I don’t plan to…” you begin, running your hand along the soft fabric of your blanket, “it’s just that...I bring them home and then we start getting into it and it fucking sucks!”

“Sucks..?” The question is soft and drawn out. 

“He wants to fuck my throat and won’t even give me his fingers before trying to stick his dick in,” you spit, angrily glaring at the tv as you remember all your shit encounters, “I’ve never even let one of them go all the way.”

“You’re a virgin…?” he asks.

You shrug your shoulders, “I guess. I mean I’ve had shitty oral and stuff but…”

“I see…” he trails off, shifting in his seat, hands still folded in his lap, “Well, I would like to take you out for a date after all.”

You find a smile spreading across your face faster than you can stop it. You jump to your knees and throw your arms around his shoulders with a squeal of happiness, “Really? You mean it?”

He laughs breathlessly, a husky little sound that makes your heart race, “Does this weekend work for you?”

You eagerly nod your head and lean in. You catch the way his eyes widen briefly before your lips meet. You think he’s going to pull away from you but instead he cups the back of your head and deepens the kiss. 

You feel a shiver go through you at the feeling of his big, strong hand holding you there in the kiss. You couldn’t keep yourself from getting wet even if you wanted to. 

With your hands pressed against his firm chest, you toss one leg over his lap and find yourself seated on top of him. He breaks the kiss at that, hands migrating to your waist where he mindlessly strokes his thumb over the skin exposed by the way your shirt rode up.

You lean down and kiss him again and he groans against your mouth. You grind down against him in response to the throb that makes your pussy clench around nothing. You whimper into the kiss when he suddenly stops your movements with a firm grip. 

“We shouldn’t, liebling,” he whispers softly.

“Why not?” you whine, settling in his lips. You briefly realize that you can feel something hard beneath you and that makes you start dripping in your panties, “Don’t you want to?”

“I-I do…” he assures, “I just…want to properly court you…”

He couldn’t get any sweeter if he tried. Still, you quip back with a teasing little smile, “Wow, you are a lot older than me, huh?”

You feel giddy when the sweet look in his eyes melts away into something darker. One hand clasps the back of your head before he pulls you in for a much rougher kiss. You keen as you feel the way he exudes experience – the kiss like nothing you have ever experienced before. 

The way he moves his lips and slips his tongue into your mouth to taste your mouth, it’s not gross or too much the way it sometimes is with men who don’t know what they’re doing.you find yourself moaning into the kiss before you even realize it. 

He pulls away at that, a heady look in his pretty, blue eyes. You find yourself briefly lamenting the loss of his mouth but that thought disappears quickly when he moves to begin peppering kisses along the length of your neck, making sure to nip at your jaw and kiss your shoulder. 

He tugs the hem of your t-shirt down just a bit so he can have access to your collar bones, nipping and kissing there as well. Your head falls back as you surrender yourself to him completely. 

“Oh,” he coos softly, lips brushing against your ear, “You are just so sweet for me, aren’t you, little one?”

You practically whimper at his words as his hands slip under the hem of your shirt, fingertips barely grazing your skin. You squirm in his lap as his touch tickles you on his way up to your breasts, skirting over your ribs before fully cupping them in his roughened palms. 

You sigh into the quiet room, arching your back to press deeper into his hands. His thumbs graze over your nipples and you moan. 

Sure, you’ve had guys grope your tits before but it had never felt like this. The mindless squishing and squeezing was replaced with soft cupping and gentle brushes over your nipples until they hardened followed by pinches and flicks that left you absolutely dripping in your panties.

He takes mercy on you quickly, one hand sliding down your body to slide under your sweatpants and beneath your panties. Your hands grip his shoulders, blunt nails biting into them when one broad finger slides down, the sticky noise of your folds separating enough to send heat rushing to your cheeks.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers in a tone so soft you almost think it wasn’t meant for you, but then he tacks on, “Do you hear it?” 

“Y-Yeah,” you whimper, embarrassment flooding through you at the sticky, clicking noises that come along with his prodding, “N-Never been this wet before, König…”

That causes him to pause, blue eyes gazing at you through his eyelashes, “Is that so..?” You desperately nod your head, slowly beginning to rock your hips against his hand, but he doesn’t move again and you whine, “Has anyone ever made you cum on their fingers?”

“J-Just me,” you answer breathlessly without a second thought. 

He hums thoughtfully and after a second, he begins moving his hand again. This time he introduces more fingers, spreading your folds apart with his index and ring so he can pet your hardened clit with his middle. The feeling makes tremors run through your body and he huffs a laugh, “I guess I will show you what it feels like then, yeah?”

He doesn’t give you a moment to think let alone answer before his middle finger is sliding into you. The one digit alone is enough to stretch you, given how massive he is in whole. He crooks his finger forward and a moan rips from your chest when he hits that gooey little spot inside you. 

“A-Another, please, König!” you beg shamelessly.

“Shh,” he hushes, shaking his head, “Let me work you open on this and then you can have more.”

You practically wail in despair, letting your forehead drop forward onto his shoulder. You suddenly wish you had rid yourself of your clothes so you could see the way his hand worked against you. All you could see now was the faint movement under your pants but the mental image of that thick finger inside you, slick with your juices was enough to have you clenching desperately around him. 

After a moment, he adds a second finger and you feel like you’re in heaven. The stretch is phenomenal and his palm bumps against your clit every time he sinks them into the last knuckle. 

However, before he can set a rhythm to really start getting you off, he stops. You angrily lean back and glare at him – the sight has his lips quirking up.

“Ride my fingers,” he orders you, leaving no room for arguing.

You can tell he’s not going to give you anything unless you take it for yourself so you sit up higher on your knees so you can have the clearance to move. Your hands remain on his shoulders, clinging to him for stability as you clumsily begin to rock your hips. The only time you’ve ever done these movements is when you tried humping your pillow once after seeing it in some porn. It didn’t really do much for you so you never tried again. 

König can tell your movements are clumsy and it makes his cock throb against his thigh. He helps you along, crooking his fingers just right to grind the tips against that sweet little spot inside you. It makes you moan beautifully and he files the noise away. 

His other hand comes up to grip your hip, steadying you as you continue to hump his fingers. You’re growing more and more frustrated as you quickly realize that you’re not able to make it feel as good as he had earlier. The tearful little gaze you give him has him breaking, using the hand on your hip guiding you into more seamless movements. 

“Like this, liebling,” he directs softly, “Grind down like that, mhm, give that little clit some love, yeah?”

You become increasingly breathless as you work yourself higher and higher under his expert guidance. He can feel your juices dripping down his wrist, the snug hold around his fingers growing even tighter with every little rut of your hips. 

“You’re so precious,” he coos, feeling the way you clench up at the sound of his voice. Your body is so honest, telling him what you like without you having to say anything, “You’re going to cum, I can feel it. Be good and give it to me, yeah?”

You surge forward and desperately kiss him, one hand reaching down and gripping his wrist. It takes only a few more, desperate thrusts of your hips for you to topple over that edge. Your body trembles on his lap and you cry out in pleasure. 

He moans alongside you, watching with rapt attention as you cum all over his fingers just like he told you to.

You slump against him as you come down and he pulls his hands out of your pants. He presses a kiss against your temple in silent praise, hands rubbing your back to soothe you through the aftershocks that run through your body.

You lean back and meet his gaze, an opportunity he takes to slip his cum-soaked fingers into his mouth. At that, you surge forward and kiss him, running your hands down his body to pull at the button of his jeans. He grunts into your mouth, brows furrowing at the release of pressure when you tug the zipper down.

You’re absolutely speechless when you finally pull his cock free. He watches in poorly concealed pride as you gawk at the length in your hand. You give him a slow and tedious tug, watching the foreskin roll over his head, forcing a bead of precum from the tip. 

“You’re so…big,” you whisper breathlessly.

“I know,” he grunts, unable to hide the ebbs of pleasure you give him as you play with his cock.

“Cocky,” you tease softly, continuing with your soft touches. 

“N-Not cocky,” he whispers, licking his suddenly dry hips, “Just aware of my size.”

You drop your eyes back down to his cock, hot and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don't even touch each other when wrapped around him. Precum drips from the tip, leaking down the side to meet your palm and aid in the movements. 

He leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes and furrowing his brows. It wasn’t often that he got to indulge in someone else’s hand. Your palm was so soft, much softer than his own, and delicate in your inexperience. 

He reaches down with one his hands, wrapping around yours to make you squeeze tighter, “Just like that, little one, that’s how I like it.”

You could have drooled as he said it. His hand dwarfed yours and the sight made you clench around nothing, more slick leaking into your already ruined panties. 

“Let me see you, liebling,” he whispers breathlessly, fingers hooking on the hem of your top.

You release his cock to lift your arms, letting him tug the fabric over your head. His hands are on your tits immediately, mouthing at your nipples without wasting a second.

“So pretty,” he coos with his mouth full, rolling his tongue over your nipple before nipping the bud with his lips.

He switches to the other one, wrapping his mouth around it, sucking sharply before pulling back, taking your nipple with him before releasing it with a pop. You watch with lidded eyes as he drools all over your tits. His cock flexes and twitches against your thigh as he plays with your tits.

Suddenly, with a firm grip on your waist, your whole world flips and you find yourself on your back on the couch with König on top of you. You lick your lips at the sight of his big, broad form hovering above you, caging you in as he leans down to kiss you again.

You sigh contentedly into his mouth, threading your fingers through his short, messy hair, using the grip to pin him against you. He lets you kiss him to your heart's content, only pulling back when you need air – a string of spit connecting your lips that breaks when he leans back between your thighs. 

His fingers took into the band of your pants, tugging them down, taking your panties with them until you’re completely bared before him. He’s still completely clothed aside from his cock that rests against his abdomen, occasionally twitching as his eyes rake over your nude body.

“Tell me, liebling,” he says, strong hands running up the length of your thighs, “Has anyone ever eaten you out?”

You clumsily nod your head.

“Was it good?” he asks, biting back a smile when you shake your head.

“Guys always think it’s gross or something…” you whisper softly.

He hums softly, “That is because you’ve been messing with stupid little boys.”

“You gonna eat me out, König?” you ask him, biting your lip in a poorly concealed excited grin.

“Would you like me to?” as he asks, he slowly spreads your legs open. The position causes your folds to spread apart, opening you up for his greedy eyes.

You feel your breathing speed up as he kisses down your body, starting with your lips and ending right above your clit. You feel the little bud twitch in anticipation as he tongues the skin above it, giving you a sneak peek on what is so close to it. 

“Tell me,” he says.

You whine, “Y-Yes, I want you to eat me out, König!”

He chuckles softly but doesn’t bother teasing you anymore. He meets your gaze and moves his tongue lower finally, sliding the flat of the muscle of your clit. You gasp and toss your head back into the cushions, eyes rolling back as he noisily slurps at your cunt. 

“O-Oh god!” you wail, hiccuping out noises of pleasure that you can’t seem to quiet.

König is in heaven. It’s not every day that he gets the opportunity to eat such a pretty, inexperienced little cunt. Your reactions to everything are so strong and loud. Your pussy is loud too, squelching in the room, making an intoxicating melody with your moans. He moans against you, swallowing down everything your messy little pussy drools out for him.

“Th-That feels so good, König!” you sob, kicking your feet mindlessly against his back as he captures your clit in his mouth, suckling at the bud, “You’re so good, so good, oh god!”

Never in a million years did you think being eaten out could feel this good. The mindlessly, halfhearted licks and kisses you had received in the past did nothing to prepare you for what it felt like to really have a man’s tongue on you. 

He pulls away suddenly, giving you a moment to actually breathe, “You taste so sweet, liebling.”

“König…” you whimper, looking up at him with lidded eyes, “Please, please don’t stop.”

You tug at his hair and attempt to pull his mouth back down on your pussy. You don’t care how pathetic and desperate it is, he has given you a taste of pleasure you’d never experienced before.

He has the audacity to laugh at you, brushing your hands away so he can sit up straight again. He scoots closer and you realize then that he is not planning to continue and it practically draws a sob out of you. 

“We can focus on that another time, liebling,” he promises, making you clench around nothing, more slick dribbling out for him to see, “You are so messy, you know that? Never had someone make such a mess all over me before. You must really enjoy being eaten out, huh?”

You feel your face burn hot with shame at his words, shyly hiding your face away. He smiles softly at that, “Nothing to be ashamed of, liebling…I love it, I do.”

“Really?” you quiver out the question and he nods his head.

“Yes, little one,” he coos, “I’m glad that I can make it feel good for you.”

You practically feel hearts in your eyes as he says that. You don’t think you’ve ever had a man tell you that he actually cared and enjoyed your pleasure. That was the final nail in the coffin for you – you really should have been going after older men all this time.

He disrupts your thoughts by suddenly stripping his shirt off. Your mouth goes completely dry at the sight of his bared skin – firm muscle, hair speckled all over his torso, and numerous scars from untold stories of his time in the military. You take note of the faded tattoos that become visible on his pecs and biceps; you’d always noticed the tattoos on his arms but you’d never really been given the opportunity to look. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whisper.

He pauses while ridding himself of his jeans and smiles, “Thank you, little one.”

When he’s completely bare to you, you slowly rake your eyes down the entirety of his newly exposed body. His cock hangs heavy under its own weight, glimmering at the tip with his precum. You’d never been with a guy who was uncut but the sight made you drool. 

“Now, liebling,” he says suddenly, getting your attention. He scoots closer, spreading your legs as wide as he can before laying the hefty weight of his cock against your cunt. It’s hot and throbbing and your entire body trembles at the sight, “You have to understand something.”

“What..?” you ask, breathless and unable to look away from his cock. 

“I am not like those little boys you were running around with,” he explains, hips slowly beginning to rut against you, length parting your folds and rubbing over your clit, drawing a sweet little moan from you, “I don’t stick my cock in a tight little cunt and blow my load, do you know what I’m saying?”

You shake your head, too lost in the sight and feeling of him practically fucking the outside of your pussy. He doesn’t stop the mind-numbing rolls of his hips, letting you get lost in the feeling of him stroking over your clit, saturating him in your cum. 

“That means,” he sighs, reaching up to grip your throat, forcing you to look at him as he leaned over your body, sandwiching his cock between the two of you, “I don’t cum easily, liebling. I am a grown man, I will fuck you until you cannot cum anymore. Are you prepared for that?”

The fact this man was so confident in his abilities in bed has you clenching around nothing again. You were sure the guys you almost slept with would never have been able to have the pure confidence that came from König. He knew what he was doing – he knew how to make you cum and he was going to use that experience well. You knew his age played a factor in how long it would take him to cum and you couldn’t wait to experience it.

“I want it so bad, König,” you beg softly, “Please?”

“Very good,” he praised, “You’re so good for me.”

He finally gripped the base of his cock and you watched excitedly as he pressed the tip against your entrance. You reached down and wrapped your arms around your knees, pulling them back for him so he could comfortably begin pressing into you.

The stretch is beyond anything you’d ever felt before. You knew his cock was big but watching the bulbous tip press against you and slowly spread you wide open was something else entirely. It burned in a way that had you wincing, furrowed brows making your face pinch up, making König pause. 

“It’s okay, little one,” he whispers, bringing a big thumb up to roll over your hard little clit, “Just relax for me, don’t clench up or it will hurt more.”

“I-It’s so big, König!” you wail helplessly, tearily staring up at him as he methodically works you open on his cock.

“I know,” he assures, still stroking your clit with the pad of his thumb, “But you can take it.”

You tearfully nod your head and do your best to relax your body, letting yourself sink into the couch. 

“Good, liebling, very good,” he coos, “Just let me in, nice and slow. Doesn’t it feel nice? The little burn of being stretched open but the pleasure of having this pretty little clit played with? Just lay back and enjoy it, little one.”

He’s right, of course. The burn aches, yes, but the pain and pleasure mixes the more he rubs your clit. You clench around him, an involuntary reaction that causes the head of his cock to finally pop in. Your eyes widen as you watch your cunt swallow it and with a perfectly timed tap against your clit, your back arches and you’re cumming.

“O-Oh König!” you squeal, eyes rolling back into your head as you cum around the head of his cock and nothing else.

“Oh, that’s good,” he grins, “That’s perfect, little one.”

As you come down with a tremble in your thighs, you finally fix your gaze on him once again.His eyes are lidded and pupils are blown so wide you can’t even tell they’re blue anymore. 

“That looked like a good one,” he comments almost flippantly before he rolls his hips forward, “Now you’re nice and ready for me.”

You choke on a gasp as he rolls his hips forward, fitting half of his cock inside your still spasming cunt. Your cum coats him in a slick sheen that aides in allowing him to pull back and slide back in, settling on fucking you on half his cock.

Your mouth falls open and you watch as a thick, milky ring forms around that fat middle part of his shaft, “M-More, König! Please!”

He knows you want all of him, want to know what it’s like to feel all of him stuffed deep inside you. But he knows you’re not quite ready for that yet, fucked out of your head from the intense orgasm he had just given you with ease.

“Not yet, liebling,” he coos, keeping his pace slow and steady, “Let’s work you open a little bit more, yeah?”

“No,” you whine, “Please, I want it all, König.”

“Aww, I know you do, little one,” he pants, already feeling dizzy from spearing you on his cock, “But I know what’s good for you, just listen to me and be good, okay?”

“Okay…” you pitifully whimper, sinking back into the couch. 

You abandon your hold on your legs, letting them rest around his hips limply now. He continues moving like that, inching deeper and deeper into you with every thrust. Your cunt makes embarrassingly loud squishing noises the move he works his hips against you. 

Before you know it, you’re watching with wide eyes and an open mouth as his pelvis presses against yours. Your eyes roll back in your head and your toes curl in pure pleasure as you finally experience the entirety of everything König has to offer. 

You’re speared wide open and the head knocks against your cervix painfully but the little bit of pain only makes the pleasure that much sweeter. 

“There we go, little one,” he coos sweetly, “I’m so proud of you, took all of my cock so well.”

He’s so big that he presses against every sweet little spot inside you without even trying. But, oh, his experience is crystal clear in the way he moves. He may be naturally gifted with a nice, fat cock but he knew how to use it.

Seamless, rhythmic thrusts had your brain going fuzzy before you even knew what was happening. You wouldn’t have been able to be quiet even if you wanted to. You knew you would be absolutely horrified to face your neighbors later because it would be impossible for them to not know you got fucked real good. 

Suddenly, König leaned over you, resting one forearm above your head to hold his weight off of you. The position caused his pelvis against your clit every time he sunk balls deep. Sticky strings of your cum stuck to his skin but he didn’t seem to even notice how wet you were.

But, oh, he did. He was absolutely obsessed with the way you creamed and gushed around him. A nice, pliant little pussy that was more than eager to swallow every inch of his cock.

The change in position had you grappling onto him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you wailed into his shoulder. Every mind-numbing snap of his hips hit that gooey, tender spot inside you that had your entire body twitching from the pleasurable stimulation. Your nails bit into his back and he briefly thought about the prospect of his recruits seeing them. 

“Are you going to cum for me?” he whispered in your ear, pressing a sweet kiss underneath your ear.

You nod your head, “Y-Yes! You’re gonna make me c-cum again, König!”

He chuckles under his breath, “I know I am, little one. I’m going to make you squirt.”

“C-Can’t,” you heave, twitchy legs kicking against his back.

“Yes, you can,” he assures, leaning away to sit up once again, “I can make you squirt, trust me.”

The whine you emit pitches into a squeal when he presses his palm against your lower stomach. You reached down in a panic to grab his wrist, not used to the strange feeling of him pressing down while he fucks you. 

“W-Wait!” you wail.

“Wait for what?” he asks, but doesn’t slow even a bit in his movements.

“F-Feels weird!” you gasp, hiccuping as you squeeze his wrist. 

“I know,” he grunts, brows furrowing at the feeling of you clenching around him, “It’s supposed to. Just lay back and let it happen, liebling. I’ve got you.”

Your whole body trembles and your jaw drops as you meet his gaze, a look of wonder crossing your face as you feel an orgasm like you’ve never felt before crash over your body. It’s long, drawn out and almost painful from how good it feels. You squeeze tight around him, your clit twitching and pulsing, completely untouched as he makes you squirt. It splashes against his abdomen and drips down his thighs. 

“There we go,” he laughs, a sound that sends a flush of embarrassment to your face, “See? I told you you could do it.”

“König…” you slur, feeling as if you’ve been fucked completely braindead.

It finally dawned on you that you would never, ever be fucked by anyone as good as König has fucked you. The first cock you’ve ever been stuffed full of and he made you squirt with terrifying ease. You were completely ruined, no dick would ever be able to compare to his. 

He sees the way your gaze turns completely enamored, looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. He grins, sharp canines poking out as he leans down again, kissing your temple.

“What is it, baby?” he coos, “Dick so good it’s got you in love?”

You keen at the pure condescension that drips from his voice. But he’s not wrong, you can practically feel the hearts in your eyes as you gaze up at him.

You have no idea how long you’ve been pinned beneath him, speared open on his cock while he fucks you absolutely stupid. You notice the change in him quite suddenly. His deep, concentrated thrust changed into something less calculated, messy almost. He loses his rhythm and falters in his pace.

“I’m going to cum, liebling,” he grunts, tone pitchy and gruff, “Where do you want it?”

“Inside!” you immediately cry, not missing a beat. He sees your eyes light up at the prospect of being filled up completely by his cum. You’re so sure it’s going to be a lot, you want to feel it drip out of you as a reminder that he had claimed you.

“Is it safe?” he huffs, but you can feel his cock twitch inside you at the idea of cumming inside you.

You desperately nod your head and he allows himself to fall over that edge. He teeters on his knees before collapsing with his hands on either side of your head. He no longer tries to thrust, settling for desperate, deep grinds that stirs his cock within your walls. Your eyes roll back in your head at the feeling, another orgasm washing over you before you even realize you’re that close.

“Oh, fuck,” König gasps, voice breaking as your orgasm sends him over the edge.

You’re panting and whimpering, trembling as you feel the heat of his load filling you up. His cock twitches with every spurt of cum. It’s the best orgasm he’s had in a long time, his balls throbbing with every pump of cum his cock spits out. 

It oozes from around the tight seal you have around him, dripping onto the couch. He’s trembling by the time the intense orgasm comes to an end. He opened his eyes, not even realizing he had closed them, to see you sleepily staring up at him with a dazed smile on your lips.

“Mein Gott…” he huffs out, lowering his body to press his lips against yours sweetly, “That was incredible, liebling.”

You beam under his praise and wrap your arms around his neck, “It was, wasn’t it?”

He chuckles and strokes his thumb against your cheek, “Let’s get cleaned up, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” you agree.

The care he gives you afterwards is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. He wipes your body down gently, careful not to rub your skin too hard. He stands with you in the shower, towering over you as he lathers your exhausted body with soap. 

“Can we do that again sometime?” You ask softly when he crawls into bed beside you – which you were shocked about, but didn’t complain.

He raises a brow and chuckles, “Yes, liebling. But not right now, I could not go another round so soon.”

You giggle and snuggle into his broad chest, practically preening when he wraps you up snug against him. You sigh softly and speak up again, “Can we…still go on that date..?”

He’s quiet for a moment before you feel a kiss on the top of your head, “Of course, liebling. I would love to.”

You smile to yourself and close your eyes, content to fall asleep wrapped up in his arms. The last thing you feel before you succumb to sleep is another soft kiss against your head. You realize, sleepily, that you’ve never felt more cared for by a man in your life.

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