Yandere! Kyojuro Rengoku NSFW Profile

Guessing Game

For Valentine I paired up with @uvobreakmylegs to post an Illumi fic :D This is a long ass fic (which was also the working title of this one) and I'm surprised Tumblr lets me post this in one go. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: A/B/O-setting in college, Yandere! Illumi x Reader, alpha! Illumi, beta! Reader, violence, classism, weird misogyny, non-con, blood, somnophilia, masturbation, 26k words

You sat on your bed with your back against the wall, typing away on your laptop. The small space you’d claimed on your bed was cluttered with textbooks, notebooks, and random bits of your life, all fighting for attention. You were supposed to be focusing on the upcoming group project, texting your classmate, but in a form of semi-productive procrastination, you’d decided to do some readings first, summarizing them in a separate document, trying to forget the bit of anxiety the assignment was already causing you.

The current readings were on the ‘dichotomy of social status in a post-transformative hegemony’ and to be fair you hadn’t really absorbed a single word in more than thirty minutes. 

With a sigh you put away your laptop. You’d read the abstract before class tomorrow. 

Closing your eyes you pushed away some stuff, slid down the wall until your shoulder reached the mattress and curled in on your side, snuggling into the bed for a bit.

…

You turned to your other side, facing the wall. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath, counting to five and holding for seven seconds like you’d once seen someone explain in a yoga video. 

…

With a frustrated exhale you sat back up. You were too stressed to take a nap, and the only thing that would probably work in calming your overactive mind down, would be to actually do a little work or procrastinate with something fun. The dorm had been mostly vacated when you’d made dinner in the dingy dorm kitchen (ramen with an egg to be fancy) so you probably couldn’t even bother anyone to distract you.

A little work it was.

But that left the group project, since you weren’t gonna read a single word more written by Prof. Reima et al. They’d had their shot. 

So all you had to do was grab your phone and send a text to the name that’d been next to yours on the match-up sheet that was posted online earlier today. Just… a little….text.

With an embarrassing fuck yes you were happy no one was around to hear you found out you didn’t have his number and he wasn’t in the class group chat.

Though your happiness was short-lived, since now you were just stressed, with no idea what to do to fix it.

You just really didn’t want to talk to the stranger you’d been assigned. 

You didn’t consider yourself awfully difficult to work with, and part of the exercise was of course to work with different people- with different personalities, and still make a good end-product. Nevertheless, you’d secretly hoped to be matched up with Mariah or Bianca, your dorm ‘neighbors’, knowing you could count on them not to procrastinate till the last minute or hand in shit work. 

Not that you expected this person to be bad, per se, it was just…

You didn’t know him. 

You’d seen him in class, right in the front. He had very long, beautiful black hair that made him stand out from the collection of bed-heads and hoodies up front. The seats next to his were always empty, and when you’d asked around as to why that was, people had confided in you it was because his scent was often strong enough to even unnerve the most confident alpha in class.

Not a problem for beta’s like you, but you tended to follow by example.

The only two words you’d shared with him was a while back when you’d dropped something and instead of picking it up, he’d merely informed you that you’d dropped your keys, even though he was standing next to them. You’d walked back, bent down to grab them and gave him an earnest ‘thank you’, since even if he was a bit weird or rude, at least you didn’t have to call a locksmith or commute back to the classroom to find them. 

He had an awfully intense look about him, like a man who couldn’t be paid to smile, and despite being tall, handsome and meticulously groomed, there was something off about him that would dissuade even the bravest from approaching him (all except that red-head alpha from a year up that you’d seen walk with him a few times). 

But then there was that little ‘A’ at the end of his name on the sheet—a single letter that carried more weight than it had any right to, making you clench your jaw in frustration before you’d even spoken a word to him. He was an alpha. And as a beta in college, you knew exactly what that usually meant.

Betas were rare enough that it was easy to feel out of place most of the time, caught in the social dynamics of a world that didn’t quite know what to do with you. Lacking the keen sense of scent that alphas and omegas relied on so heavily, you couldn’t pick up on intent or emotion in the same way. That made you clumsier, not out of carelessness but simply because you missed social cues others considered obvious. 

It wasn’t your fault, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating when alphas in particular interpreted your missteps as a lack of social intelligence.

The worst part was the fact that you did have a scent. Everyone around could read you like a fucking book, while you had to scramble and try harder just to avoid all kinds of mistakes. 

People could hate you, and you’d be none the wiser unless they’d say it out loud, but you couldn’t get even the slightest bit annoyed without someone next to you turning up their nose and knowing.

You couldn’t even consistently wear scent blockers, since they’d yet to be tested on beta’s and so the pharmacist wasn’t allowed to hand them to you. On important days, in the past, you’d stolen some from your uncle, but after getting a really bad fever after taking one too many, the medicine cupboard had been locked.

So. All in all, not the best hand to be dealt.

With omegas, it was easier. They were generally more forgiving, more open to communicating frustrations once they realized what you were, and their common desire to smooth over conflicts often meant you could find common ground without too much difficulty. But alphas? Alphas were different.

To them, a beta’s inability to respond in kind wasn’t just a gap; it was an absence. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the perception that you were perceived as somehow less to them. They found you annoying, since you couldn’t adapt yourself to what they wanted, and they always tended to get what they wanted.

Added onto the fact that you were biologically utterly useless to them, no heats or hormones that’d match up, and getting along was often a pipe dream.

You’d seen it happen over and over again: discussions where your input was brushed aside, decisions made without consulting you, and the ever-present condescension, always cloaked in well-meaning advice. Even when they weren’t trying to belittle you, the effect was the same. It was exhausting. So you’d learned to temper your expectations, to approach alphas with the wariness of someone who’d been burned before and to try and read body language and social settings like your life depended on it.

Still, it wouldn’t do to walk into this with prejudices, as long as you kept your expectations low to begin with. He seemed serious about school. It wouldn’t be like last time. It’d be fine. It’d be fine. 

You checked how much of your grade was impacted by the assignment and cursed.

Well… off to find this ‘Illumi Zoldyck’ then.

After class, you followed Illumi out of class, calling his name once to grab his attention. He didn’t hear you and walked out, making you have to follow him through the hallway. 

Not having seen him take a corner, you wandered around for a bit, before you saw him and that red-haired creep talk by the coffee machine. You wouldn’t have been so mean to Hisoka, if he hadn’t broken your friend Bianca’s heart, standing her up after she’d prepared to ask him out for weeks and then ignoring all her texts. You sure didn’t get what she saw in him, but decided that in some light, he could look pretty cool with his half-shaven up hair and piercings. 

Before walking up to the both of them, you grabbed your body spray and coated your neck in it, worried your irritation at seeing Hisoka would be noticeable. After putting it away, you walked up to the both of them.

Illumi was saying something, but you couldn’t quite catch it yet.

“Hmm~ Fine. But make sure Chrollo is there.” Hisoka said, a sultry tint to his voice even when making simple plans. His eyes flickered to you and he tilted his face your way in a borderline predatory manner. Dear god, what was wrong with this dude? You tried not to look too nervous, but saw his lips curl up into a smile nevertheless. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, and I’ll give my precious spot over to your new admirer~”

Illumi’s face turned to you as your face scrunched up.

“What?” You said, not having expected that.

“Don’t have to look so mortified.” Hisoka said, walking past you and waving Illumi away. “He doesn’t bite~”

“Ignore him.” Illumi said, as if that wasn’t the weirdest thing to say about a friend ever. “Organisational structures, right?”

A part of you was surprised at his tone of voice. His face was entirely expressionless, but his voice sounded rather casually amused, as if to compensate for how stone-cold he seemed otherwise.

“Yes.” You shifted your weight, trying to ignore how Hisoka still hadn’t walked away but was standing directly behind you. You could smell him, which was impressive considering you generally didn’t smell a whole lot. The little bit that you caught was a horribly sweet scent that would’ve made you believe he was an omega if it just wasn’t so suffocating. Omega’s always smelled comforting, a discovery you’d made recently during a sleepover with Bianca, and this was like walking around a carnival while on really bad shrooms, so the furthest thing from comforting. “I wanted to ask when you wanted to meet to talk about it.”

“Ha ha…” Came the creepy off-putting laugh from behind you, followed by a slow inhale that made every hair on your body stand upright. You looked over your shoulder and took a step forward, kind of shocked by how close he’d been standing. Shifting gears, you held out your hand for the phone Illumi was holding.

This wasn’t much better, since now you were standing a little too close to Illumi. His scent, while lighter, was unfamiliar and odd in its own right, like a musky perfume that needed to settle a little to get rid of the rubbing alcohol smell. Damn. You understood those empty seats now, knowing that if your nose was even a little better you’d also not want to sit next to either of them.

Though it would’ve aided you a bit in navigating this odd social interaction. Scents were often described as a whole separate language in itself. A russian novel you’d once picked up for a literature class had dedicated three whole chapters to the minutiae of the intent behind scents during an exchange between an alpha and omega at a dinner.

All you got from smelling was an indication whether or not someone smelled nice or not.

Having a strong scent was usually considered a ‘good’ thing, especially if you could control it a little, which you still didn’t really understand. How was such a thing controllable, wasn’t it just basic bodily functions? Googling it didn’t help, as you didn’t understand the medical jargon and the only normal articles about it were just on how to increase scent strength in order to be seen as more dominant and successful.

You looked at Illumi’s face intently, finding absolutely no indication of any sort of emotion. Was he angry? Was he annoyed you’d interrupted his conversation with Hisoka? Why was he being so quiet? 

You raised your hand a little further.

“I’ll give you my number, text me.” You said, eager to get out of this situation as soon as possible. Why did alpha’s have to be so weird? Even the so-called standard alpha had so many quirks that it made life quite unbearable for someone like you who didn’t like to be sniffed all the time, despite knowing it was technically normal. “I’m on campus every day next week for my thesis, so feel free to just pick a moment.”

Illumi handed you his phone, already open on the contact screen.

“Busy bee~” Hisoka murmured as you entered your contact information, his voice carrying some blatant mockery.

“Are you done?” you snapped, unable to stop yourself. Hisoka’s eyes twinkled with amusement, and he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine. I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your planning.” He twirled on his heel, sauntering off with an exaggerated sway to his step.

The tension in your shoulders eased slightly as Hisoka finally disappeared around the corner, but the unease lingered. Illumi watched you silently for a moment.

“I’ll text you,” he said simply, as if nothing unusual had happened. “But I won’t meet you here. I’ll send you a location.”

“Hm? Why?” you asked, your tone sharper than intended, but you couldn’t help it. His demand caught you off guard and you were still on edge by that Hisoka figure.

Illumi raised a single, sharp eyebrow, as though your confusion was unwarranted and nodded towards the coffee machine. “The coffee here is horrible. I much prefer the café close to the business district.”

You stared at him, your lips parting in disbelief. Was he serious? You didn’t know which café he was referring to, but the  business district was at least a thirty minute walk. You narrowed your eyes, trying to gauge if this was some kind of test.

“And pay ten times what the coffee costs here?” you asked, your voice edging toward incredulous.

His head tilted slightly, his lack of expression unchanged. “I’d prefer not,” you added, folding your arms in a defensive stance.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s expensive,” 

“It’s really not,” he replied without missing a beat. His tone was so matter-of-fact that you almost felt a flash of secondhand embarrassment for yourself.

You huffed a small laugh, half-joking to break the awkward tension. “I don’t mind, if you pay for my drink.”

“Low on funds, are we?”

Your laugh died in your throat. The way he said it made it feel less like a tease and more like a diagnosis. Fuck.

“...” You stared at him, words failing you for a moment. Then, very bravely and wisely deciding this conversation wasn’t worth pursuing any further, you shook your head and turned on your heel.

“Bye,” you said, the word clipped as you walked away, clutching your bag a little tighter.

As you put distance between you and Illumi, you couldn’t shake the feeling of having lost. You resisted the urge to glance over your shoulder, refusing to let him see how much he’d rattled you. 

“You’re late.”

Illumi was seated at the corner table, wearing a dark red button-up that seemed like it was ironed just before you got in the café. He’d tied his hair in a very low-ponytail, and not for the first time you marveled at how pretty his hair was. 

In comparison to how put-together he looked, you were wearing the same outfit you’d been wearing yesterday, only remembering that to be the case when you were three minutes away from the café. It was hot, and you felt sweaty. 

You grabbed your phone. “You sent me the location twenty minutes ago. This was a thirty minute walk. The fact I made it in twenty-five should be impressive.”

“It isn’t.” He said, already sipping his drink. 

“What? It is a thirty-minute walk.” You were already grabbing your phone to show him.

“No,” He said. “I mean it isn’t impressive.”

Your fingers stopped typing the address to show the route you’d taken. For a full ten seconds you stood there in silence before just sitting down and sinking into your seat. “So. The project.”

You’d promised yourself you’d be cooler this time, and you’d already failed. It wasn’t like you were keen to impress alpha’s, but this was just plain embarrassing. 

For the first time since you’d met him, the edges of his lips inched upward.

The two of you settled into the task at hand, pulling out notes and reference materials. The café buzzed softly around you, the staff cleaning up empty tables and clinking cups creating a soothing backdrop. You worked in silence, focusing on the project with an intensity that kept your thoughts from wandering too far.

The two of you decided on a subject pretty quickly, and you both split up for a bit, trying to find sources and ideas online that would make for a good baseline to work from. Illumi sent you a reading he deemed pretty worthwhile, and so you tried to work out what it was implying so you could work ahead.

Illumi pointed out a specific section he wanted to use, his finger lightly tapping the screen as he indicated the passage. You nodded and set out to read it. The text, however, was dense and convoluted. 

You squinted, your eyes scanning the same lines repeatedly, trying to wrestle meaning from the words. Frustration prickled at the edges of your mind, a tight knot forming in your chest. You bit your lip, determined not to show any signs of struggle. The last thing you wanted was to seem clueless in front of Illumi.

‘Within the nuanced framework of matrix organizational structures, as seen in fig 1., the dual-reporting lines and the interdependence between functional and project-based hierarchies create a lattice of authority and responsibility, indicating that in order for managers to navigate the intricate equilibrium between vertical accountability and-’

What the fuck did this mean.

He was waiting for you to respond to it.

You were being slow. You didn’t want him to know. You should just quickly think of something vague to say, and try to read it again. You opened your mouth, to reply something, anything, but nothing came out.

Illumi’s gaze lifted from his own work, his eyes settling on you with quiet intensity. His posture remained relaxed, one arm resting on the table, but his piercing gaze made you feel like he could see straight through you. “You’re confused,” he stated plainly.

It wasn’t a question. The bluntness of his observation made your face heat instantly. You could feel the warmth creeping up your neck. “What? No, I’m fine,” you mumbled, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your notebook. “I’m just... thinking.”

His eyes remained on you, unblinking. “Your scent says otherwise.”

You froze, feeling your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Of course, he could pick up on that. You were mortified, knowing he could sense every flicker of your emotions, even the ones you tried to suppress. Bianca and Mariah pretended not to notice, and your family knew better than to say it this bluntly.

“I—” You fumbled for words, glancing down at the laptop screen. “It’s just... this part is confusing, that’s all.”

Illumi tilted his head slightly. “Is it?”

The simplicity of his statement only made you feel more self-conscious. “I’m just-,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll get it in a minute.”

“You’re not majoring in business, are you?” 

You exhaled sharply. “I’ll get it in a minute.”

He didn’t press further, simply nodding and returning to his work. But the heat in your cheeks lingered, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of being utterly exposed. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus back on the task at hand. Even though the embarrassment lingered, you were determined not to let it derail the rest of the session.

You did grab your body spray again to lather your neck, a move which made both Illumi and the waitress crinkle their noses.

The rest of the meeting went better, and at one point he even nodded approvingly at something you’d written, which made you inwardly cheer. Your scent had probably betrayed you again despite the overdose of perfume you’d used, because his eyes flickered up at you again at that.

“Would meeting again tomorrow work for you?” Illumi said, pulling out his phone to check his agenda. “I want this done before the holidays.”

You hesitated. “Didn’t we just divide the parts?” Usually, one or two meetings were enough, with the rest of the communication handled online. You also had plans to watch a movie tonight, and squeezing in another session seemed excessive. “I won’t have a lot done by tomorrow.”

“I prefer to work on this exclusively like this,” Illumi said. “I don’t like waiting for replies when I’m working on projects.”

“Oh.” You could understand that, but you weren’t keen on trekking all the way to the café again. “That’s fine, but I don’t have time to commute all the way here tomorrow. Is meeting on campus okay?”

“No,” Came the immediate response.  “You can take a cab to my place. This café is too noisy after all.”

You glanced around, noting the nearly empty space. His comment caught you off guard. “...No,” you said after a moment of stunned silence.

“Ah yes, low on funds,” he remarked, sitting so upright that it was hard to tell if he was even leaning against the backrest. “I’ll order the cab then.”

“You do realize you sound insane, right?” You were genuinely unsure. “Just come over to my place instead. No cabs, and it’s close to campus.”

“Fine.”

“And also—oh.” You’d been ready to argue further, but his swift agreement stopped you in your tracks. “Okay.”

“You’re going to meet him again?” Bianca said incredulously. “Didn’t you already meet up twice this week? How much effort are you putting in this thing?”

You shrugged. “It’s going pretty smoothly, and I could use a good grade. Would make up for that horrible excuse of an exam for Global Business.”

“Fair.” Mariah voiced.

“It’s not fair, it’s interfering with girl talk.” Bianca whined, lightly pawing at your sleeves. “I wanna choose the pictures for your dating profileeee~”

“Just because you have a boyfriend doesn’t mean you have to live your single life through me.” You laughed. “You can swipe for me on dating apps next time.”

“Ohhhhh~” Bianca immediately let go. “Deal.”

Mariah held up a hand in greeting, her eyes not having lifted off her book during the entire conversation. “Have fun.”

“Byee.”

You had expected him to sit across from you at your table, as he usually did, maintaining a comfortable distance. But today, he had chosen to sit next to you, his presence a steady, silent weight at your side. His long legs stretched out slightly under the table.

Your heart thudded a little louder than you liked. You tried to keep your focus on the text in front of you, eyes scanning the words, but his proximity made it difficult. The warmth radiating from him was subtle, yet unmistakable, and the occasional brush of his sleeve against your arm sent tiny jolts of awareness through you.

Illumi, as always, seemed entirely unaffected. His eyes moved steadily over the pages of his book, his expression serene, as if the world around him didn’t exist. His fingers, long and elegant, flipped the pages with quiet precision.

You, on the other hand, felt acutely aware of every little detail—the slight creak of the chair as you shifted, the way your knee almost bumped against his when you adjusted your position, the soft rustle of fabric as you reached for your notebook. If he smelled this flusteredness you were experiencing and made mention of it, you’d jump off a bridge.

It’d been three hours already, and the project was good and done for today, but despite having finished, instead of leaving when you’d said you’d finish some other tasks, Illumi had pulled out a book and started reading next to you. 

Distracted from your work, you looked up at him. “Is it any good?”

“Depends on your taste.” He showed you the title. ‘A Bandit’s Secret’ the cover read. “It’s a little full of itself.”

“In what way?”

“It’s good, but the writer knows it a little too well.” He sighed and immediately you felt like he was annoyed you’d interrupted him. Had reading next to you not been a sign he wanted to spend more time here with you? Perhaps you’d read too much into it. “The day he’ll get the Pullitzer will feel like a deja vu with how often he must’ve imagined it already.”

You laughed at that, and Illumi looked at you with a neutral face. Oh, had he not intended that as a joke? Whoops.

Trying to not make more of a fool of yourself, you turned back to your laptop, managing to handle the returning silence for a total of three minutes before you cracked.

“Did I say something wrong?” Your voice broke the silence, soft but deliberate, as you leaned back in your chair.

Illumi shut his book completely this time with a snap. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know.” You hesitated, squinting at him as though searching for a crack in his stoic armor. “You don’t have an expressive face, and the conversation fell silent, so I worried you got angry at something I did.”

Some people got embarrassed when you straight up tried to ask what was wrong, or they’d twirl around the subject, annoyed you couldn’t just tell what was happening. Some people somehow couldn’t accept that their scent didn’t just carry across the message, despite knowing you physically couldn’t be able to tell even if you wanted to.

Despite that, you preferred outright asking and working things out before things got into a big deal. You’d been once named and shamed for weeks for readily accepting a ‘i’m fine’ from a girl in school, happily talking about your weekend, while everyone around could apparently tell she was grieving and depressed, making you seem like an asshole for just ignoring that and talking about yourself.They all understood but that didn’t mean they didn’t judge you.

Because of incidents like that, you’d come to prefer asking outright. It was cleaner, even if some people bristled at the directness.

“You did not say anything wrong,” Illumi said finally.

“Okay,” you replied, experiencing some silent relief, “but be sure to tell me if I do. I don’t like it when I go home oblivious and weeks later I find out someone’s mad at me.”

“Does that happen often?” 

“Used to a lot. Not so much now in college, luckily.” You picked up your pen again, rolling it between your fingers. “I don’t hang around alpha’s a lot, or new people in general.”

“You don’t have to worry about that with me,” he said bluntly. “I’ll tell you if I feel you need to know something.”

That sounded like he might take some far-reaching liberties with what you needed to know, but fine. As long as the two of you could understand each other. You tilted your head, considering him, before nodding.

“Thanks,” you said, a small smile pulling at your lips. “I appreciate it.”

He didn’t open his book just yet. “Any plans for the weekend?”

A little surprised at his interest in something as menial as that, you recounted your plans, mentioning that you’d probably be spending it all with Bianca and Mariah, to make up for ditching them this evening. 

“She’s gonna swipe for me on a dating app,.” Came out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. That was a weird thing to tell him. Stop, stop, drop the subject. “it’s a whole thing. I think she has done more of the talking on those things than me.”

You didn’t drop the subject.

“Dating apps? What’s the use of that?”

Noooooo-

“...Dating?” You said slowly, pretty sure you were missing a point, before realizing what he probably meant. “Oh, you must not hear about it much, it’s mostly just beta’s trying to meet others like them. It’s not as simple to meet someone for people like me.” You pointed at your nose. “Can’t just tell if someone’s a good match.”

Why had you still not dropped the subject.

“So what’s it take instead?”

“Different for everyone, but most beta’s I know date a long time and decide like that.” You didn’t want to admit that in your lifetime you’d only spoken to a handful of beta’s, all people outside your age range. Your rural middle school once tried to make a hang-out group for beta’s, but you’d been the only girl, and hadn’t really been into playing call of duty, so it wasn’t a success. Still, it’d been a good initiative, since you still followed those guys on social media and they seemed to still be hanging out now and again. “Spending time together, dinners, that kind of thing. It’s very socially exhausting. I’ve tried a few times, but it’s frustrating seeing everyone else just know  when we’re supposed to guess. Or at least, that’s how it seems for me.”

“Hm.” Illumi said, seeming to mull over your point. “I see.”

“So what’re your plans?” You said, eager to have the conversation shift away from your doomed love life. “Wait till some omega’s scent knocks you off your feet and go from there?”

“Something like that.” While you’d prattled on, it seemed Illumi was much better in dropping a subject, as he opened his book again. You were about to die from embarrassment at having overshared so much when he fixed you with a look. “Why are you embarrassed?”

You let your forehead hit the keys of your laptop. “...Nothing.”

Where are you? 

You looked at your phone again, trying to remember if there’d been plans you’d forgotten. The assignment was over and done with, and if the work you’d seen other groups hand in was anything to go by, the two of you’d passed with flying colours. After checking your agenda and coming up empty, you decided to bite the bullet and just ask.

I’m back home for the holiday. Did we make plans? 

You saw the text bubble pop up and disappear a few times.

I’m closeby. Can I pick you up at seven?

You blinked as you stared at the text. He was here? Up north? Had he also gone to visit family? A part of you that immediately wanted to text him a paragraph full of questions is silenced, knowing he’d only reply with ‘limit yourself to yes/no’ if you did that. 

You thought to yourself for a bit. You’d gone home to spend time with family, but you’d been let loose today to do some social calls. Those would be done by seven, and curiosity as to what he was planning was kind of tipping the scales. 

You walked to the kitchen, where your aunt stood pouring some tea for herself.

“Hey, a friend from uni is nearby and wants to meet up at seven, is that okay?”

She huffed. “Don’t have to ask me for permission. Who is it?”

“The weird alpha.” 

“Ah.” Her eyebrows raised at that, and you could just tell she had some thoughts on the matter, but decided to drop them. “Well, don’t say no on my account, but if you need an out, be sure to call me and I’ll pretend to have given you a curfew.”

You scoffed. “I think I’m grown enough to just tell him to take me home.” 

“...Are you?” She held out a cookie for you once you walked past her.

You stopped and genuinely considered it, taking the cookie she offered. “Probably.”

A few hours later, you stood outside the apartment complex, genuinely lost for words when a car stopped right in front of you. Not one with Illumi driving, mind you, but with a driver.

The car door swung open smoothly, almost silently, the kind of automated luxury that didn’t just suggest wealth but flaunted it. You hesitated for a split second, your eyebrows lifting in a mix of awe and unease. Steeling yourself, you climbed in, settling into the plush leather seat that practically enveloped you. Everything about the car—from the subtle hum of the air conditioning to the scent of new leather and faint cologne—spoke of extravagance.

Illumi was already seated next to you, his posture composed and rigid. His long black hair draped neatly over his shoulders, the sharp lines of his suit immaculate. His dark eyes flicked over you.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asked.

You glanced down at yourself, picking at the hem of your oversized sweatshirt that proudly proclaimed Bowling Champion of ’78. The faded letters were slightly cracked, and the fabric smelled faintly of detergent and something musty.

Grinning, you leaned back against the seat. “I didn’t pack enough clothes, so I had to raid my old closet. Vintage, right?”

Illumi’s brow twitched ever so slightly. “Don’t look so happy about it,” he said, his voice sounding the same as usual, but his words carried the weight of disapproval. “You’re going to make a fool of yourself in the restaurant.”

“Oh, is that why you’re wearing a suit?” you shot back, your grin widening as you gestured vaguely at his tailored ensemble.

“Yes,” he replied, deadpan, as if the answer were obvious.

“Maybe you should’ve told me the dress code for the place then.” You snickered to yourself. “I-”

“Yes, yes, I’m paying, don’t worry about it.”

Wooow…

“Fuck, man. I was gonna say I would’ve dressed up nicer.” You felt the familiar twinge of irritation rise in your chest. Not for the first time spending time with Illumi, you felt utterly mortified, but you bit your tongue. You knew it was just… him. It wasn’t worth the fight, and honestly, you’d probably lose anyway. “What got you in this area?” you asked instead, changing the subject.

“Work,” Illumi said simply.

“Work?”

“I am helping with the family business.”

“What do they do?”

“...Business.” He said after a moment of deliberation. You sensed he didn’t want to talk about it, so you decided to change the subject, feeling proud of yourself for reading his reply so well.

“And you decided to bother your poor little classmate as soon as you were done?” you teased, leaning your head against the headrest.

“Am I? Bothering you?” 

“No, just curious,” you admitted with a shrug, fiddling with the sleek panel of buttons along the car door. There were so many—each labeled with tiny, glowing symbols—that you didn’t even know what half of them did. The temptation to press them all was almost overwhelming.

“I was just surprised when you texted me.”

“I’ve texted you before,” Illumi said, and there was a faint trace of defensiveness in his tone.

“Yes, but never for something like this,” you countered, gesturing vaguely to the luxurious car and the promise of an equally extravagant meal. Then, realizing the conversation was veering into uncomfortable territory, you waved your own words away. “Never mind that. I appreciate the invite. Really.”

The car glided to a smooth stop. You glanced out the tinted window, half-expecting to see the restaurant, but instead, your door swung open with a soft hiss. You blinked, confused, as a woman in a sharp suit appeared in front of you. She moved with practiced efficiency, holding a neatly folded pile of clothes in her arms. Without so much as a word, she extended the bundle to you, her expression professionally neutral.

“Uh—” you started, but she was already stepping back, retreating to the sidewalk like a phantom. The door shut softly behind her, enclosing you and Illumi in the car once again.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” You said, looking lost at Illumi.

Illumi didn’t even look fazed. “Wear it,” he replied matter-of-factly. “The dress code is non-optional. You won’t get in looking like that.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, glancing down at your sweatshirt again. Okay, fine. Point taken. But still—

“...And your driver just had an extra set of clothes, ready?”

“Good personnel doesn’t need to be asked,”

He looked at his phone as he said so, making you realize just how little he thought of the driver’s efforts, like it was completely normal for something like this to be arranged without giving even a single indication. Bianca had once vacuumed your room, just because she’d already been going at it, and you’d been grateful for an entire week. You hoped the driver was paid well, at the very least. Dental, even.

You blinked at him, genuinely stunned. “Damn,” You blinked, looking again at the clothes. “You’re really rich, aren’t you.”

 “That bothers you?”

“Well. No? I guess?” You shrugged, trying to regain the casual tone you’d been holding onto earlier. But it wasn’t as easy this time. This whole situation—being whisked away in a luxury car, handed designer clothes like it was nothing—was excessive in a way that made you feel uncomfortably out of place.

You’d reckoned he was well-off, but this was something else entirely. This wasn’t just a cabin with a boat for the holidays, this was a rented-out ski lodge abroad type rich.

Your confidence wavered as you tried not to dwell on it. A beta from uni, dressed like a walking thrift store sale rack, picked up from a one-bedroom house shared with four people living in it. You’d never been self-conscious about it before, but suddenly felt judged.

You forced a laugh, clutching the clothes against your chest. “I am gonna google you when I get home though,” you joked, feeling like a joke yourself, clueless on how to deal with him.

“Get changed,” he said simply, his tone dismissive as he leaned back in his seat, his focus shifting to the window.

“What? Not in here.”

“Where else? The windows are tinted.”

“Yeah, but you’re still in here,” you shot back, flustered. Your hands tightened around the neatly folded pile of clothes in your lap. It wasn’t just that he was here; it was that he was Illumi. His mere presence was disconcerting enough without the added layer of stripping down in front of him and there was no way he was seeing your mismatched bra that had a little hole in the side of the lace. 

“I don’t see the problem,” 

Your face heated. “That’s uncomfortable,” you said firmly, trying not to sound as mortified as you felt. You couldn’t believe you had to explain this to him. Did the guy really not understand why changing in front of someone—even someone as seemingly indifferent as him—was awkward? It was kind of insulting that he probably saw you as so undesirable, being a beta, that he thought absolutely nothing of it.

For a moment, he just stared at you.

You stared right back, refusing to back down. No way were you giving in on this.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Illumi broke first. “Fine,” he said, with a faint trace of annoyance.

He pressed one of the buttons on the sleek console beside him. Without missing a beat, the car slowed and glided to the curb. You barely had time to blink before Illumi opened the door and stepped out.

“I’ll be up front,” he said over his shoulder, his voice muffled as he closed the door behind him.

Left alone in the backseat, surrounded by the anonymity of tinted windows, you looked at the clothes and realized you couldn’t really get out of this now. 

“What am I doing…” you muttered, shaking your head as you surveyed your impromptu dressing room. With its sleek, (in your mind) futuristic luxury, the car didn’t make the situation any less ridiculous.

You unfolded the clothes carefully, inspecting them. The dress was a deep, dark red, the kind of shade that felt simultaneously elegant and intimidating. It was mid-length, form-fitting but not overly so, and surprisingly, it looked like it might actually fit you. Stockings were included—stockings, of all things—along with a low-cut grey fur coat that was absolutely ostentatious.

The pièce de résistance, however, was the jewelry. A small bag sat in the center of the pile, holding a few shiny silver pieces that looked like they’d cost more than your rent. You sighed deeply, shaking your head again as you held up a necklace to inspect it.

“This is insane,” you muttered to yourself. 

Quickly, you started changing, feeling both grateful and mildly paranoid about the privacy the tinted windows provided. The dress slid on easily, hugging your figure without being suffocating. The stockings were more of a challenge—halfway through wrangling them on, you cursed loud enough for them probably to hear you in the front seat—but you managed.

Finally, you shrugged on the fur coat, its weight settling over your shoulders like a silent declaration of wealth you didn’t actually have. The jewelry was the last touch: earrings, a bracelet, and the necklace, which you fastened carefully around your neck.

Looking at your sweatshirt and pants, you folded them and placed them next to you with a little bit too much empathy for the discarded clothing. 

You’d liked the shirt, at the very least. 

“I look like a prostitute.” You said, looking at yourself in a reflective storefront while walking down the sidewalk. All you were missing was the bold red lipstick.

Illumi very seriously looked you over as he led the way. “Well. I am paying for dinner.”

You laughed loudly and slapped his shoulder. “Fuck off.”

The restaurant had been unlike anything you had ever experienced. Its grandeur had overwhelmed you from the moment you had stepped inside. The towering ceilings, gilded chandeliers, and the soft hum of a string quartet had all contributed to the sense that you didn’t belong there. 

You were glad Illumi had insisted on changing clothes, since you were sure you’d be shot like a lame horse if you’d walked here in the bowling sweatshirt. 

Still, you’d have felt more like yourself.

Beside you, Illumi had moved with his usual composed elegance, utterly unbothered by the extravagance surrounding him.

Your table had been positioned near a massive floor-to-ceiling window that showcased the glittering city skyline. The twinkling lights outside had reflected in the crystal glasses and polished silverware on the table. 

When the waiter had handed you a leather-bound menu, you had trailed the spine, making too loud comments wondering if it was real leather, making a couple across from you giggle behind their wine glasses.

“Don’t mind them.” Illumi had said, surely because your discomfort was tangible in the air. 

The words on the menu had been foreign. Each dish had sounded more elaborate than the last, and the descriptions had only added to your confusion. You had glanced at Illumi nervously, hoping for some kind of guidance, but couldn’t manage to make eye contact. 

Before you had gathered the courage to ask for help, he had closed his menu and spoken to the waiter in his usual calm, measured tone. His words had been efficient, a series of dish names that you couldn’t repeat if he asked you to. When the waiter had turned to you for confirmation, you nodded wordlessly, trusting Illumi to have chosen something appropriate.

When the food arrived, it was a collection of dishes that not only looked beautiful, but tasted like the cook had poured his heart and soul into every last bite. You’d probably been a bit too loud in your enjoyment of the food, but the waiter had given you a happy looking smile, so at least someone seemed to appreciate you.

“Do you enjoy it?” he had asked, his voice cutting through your enjoyment of the dessert. You nodded, murmuring an agreement, seeing him clap his hands in joy, before adding on a robotic sounding “I’m glad.”

On the one hand, it was really nice to be given so much attention.

On the other, you still didn’t know why the fuck Illumi had invited you out to eat to a place so outrageous. Some type of classist guilt? A thanks for the good grade that was not even made public yet? It was fun, for sure, but why?

You couldn’t figure it out, and that feeling remained until you got home.

As the door clicked shut behind you, the smile you’d been wearing immediately slid off your face. Your shoulders slumped as you let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.

“Language,” your aunt’s voice called from the living room, sharp and automatic. She appeared a moment later, a pair of reading glasses perched low on her nose and a book still in hand. She stopped when she saw you, her eyes widening as they took in your appearance.

“What are you wearing?!” she exclaimed, her hand coming up to adjust her glasses as if she needed to see you more clearly to make sense of it. “Where’s your sweatshirt?”

You glanced down at yourself, suddenly hyper aware of the extravagant outfit. For a second, you considered explaining, but your brain was too fried to come up with a coherent response.

“I think I left it in the car,” you blurted instead, your words disjointed as you tried to process the whirlwind of the night. “Sorry. I’ll, uh... I’ll ask for it back.”

Your aunt raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “But seriously, why are you dressed like that?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you stepped further into the house. “Illumi picked me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice casual. “Apparently, his plan for tonight was to go out to eat.”

Your aunt gave you a look, the kind of pointed, knowing look that only someone who had raised you could pull off. “And?”

“There was a dress code,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the outfit. “They got me clothes within, like, three seconds, and I—” You trailed off, glancing down at yourself again. The whole evening still felt surreal, like you’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s life for a few hours. “It was fun, there were like ten courses but... what the fuck?”

Your aunt didn’t reply immediately or scold you for your swearing. Instead, she picked up her phone from the side table, sliding her reading glasses back into place with a deliberate air.

“What’s his last name?” she asked, her tone entirely too calm.

“Please don’t google him,” you said, exasperated despite having thought the same earlier the evening, holding out a hand as if that would somehow stop her.

“You come home looking like a movie star after meeting with a boy,” she said, wagging a finger in your direction. “I wanna know the details.”

“It’s not like that,” you said firmly, already anticipating where her mind was going.

Your aunt gave you another one of those looks, her eyebrows raising in mock skepticism.

“It’s not!” you repeated, dropping your hand to your side with a sigh. “He’s an alpha, remember.”

She tilted her head, her expression softening slightly. “And? That doesn’t mean you can’t have a perfectly nice time with him. You see new types of couples on tv every single day. I even saw two omega’s get married on the news last week.”

“It’s just... not like that,” you said again, though your voice lacked the same conviction this time. You rubbed at your temples, trying to figure out how to explain the situation without getting into the absurd details. 

Your aunt hummed thoughtfully, clearly not convinced but thankfully choosing not to press the issue further. Instead, she set her phone down, crossing her arms as she studied you for a moment.

“Well, complicated or not,” she said finally, “you look amazing. Ridiculously overdressed for my living room, but amazing.”

You snorted, finally cracking a small smile. “Thanks, I guess.”

“And next time,” she added, her tone turning teasing, “maybe put on some lipstick before meeting this Illumi fellow, you know, just in case he’s taking you to the Oscars.”

“Noted,” you said dryly, though you couldn’t help but laugh a little, before holding up your hands to your face. “Nooooo- Don’t take pictures!”

“Put those hands down, I want to send this to your dad.” Your aunt snickered to herself. “He’ll get a laugh out of it.”

“Noooooooo-!”

After finally wrangling the stockings off—another heated and mildly humiliating struggle—you tossed them onto the pile of borrowed clothes on the floor with an exhausted sigh. You sat down heavily on your bed.

Your phone buzzed softly on the nightstand, and you picked it up, staring at the screen as if it might offer some answers to the swirling thoughts in your head. With more deliberation than was probably necessary, you opened the notes app and began drafting a text to Illumi.

You erased the first attempt. And the second. The third message sat on your screen for a while before you rolled your eyes at yourself and deleted that one too.

“What am I doing?” you muttered under your breath, rubbing a hand over your face.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you forced yourself to settle on something simple, neutral. No overthinking, no analyzing every word—just a straightforward message.

I had fun :) Thank you for inviting me!

Your thumb hovered over the send button for a fraction of a second longer than it should have, but you pressed it before you could talk yourself out of it. The message sent with a faint whoosh, and you immediately locked your phone, dropping it onto the bed beside you like it might combust.

Sliding under the covers, you pulled the blanket up to your chin, trying to let the comfort of your bed lull you into some semblance of relaxation. But even with your eyes closed, your thoughts refused to quiet down.

You reached for your phone again, checking it out of habit, but the screen was empty of new notifications. Of course, you thought. Illumi wasn’t exactly the type to send quick replies. You placed the phone face down on the nightstand this time, determined to let it go.

You closed your eyes again, but instead of the darkness bringing rest, it only conjured up vivid flashes of the evening.

It’d been fun.

You’d been awkward at first, but once you’d managed to get him to talk as well, the conversation went really really well. He’d explained all the dishes, let you have the cookie they gave with his coffee, and he’d actually laughed aloud at one of your jokes, which had made you so giddy, even the waitress seemed happy for you when she’d refilled your glass.

Though perhaps she was just good at her job, because you’d seen her smile even more brightly at the tip she’d been given.

The way Illumi had smiled at you, faint but real, his lips quirking just slightly at the edges as he watched you stumble through your thoughts. The teasing remarks the two of you had exchanged over the dinner table. How he’d caught you before you slammed into the pavement when you’d stumbled out the restaurant, a little tipsy after all the wine courses.

Your heart fluttered uncomfortably in your chest. When you’d gotten home, you could still catch his scent clinging to your skin and hair, and by the raised eyebrow your uncle had given you when he’d come home, so had the rest of the world.

What was it saying?

It was too embarrassing to ask your family that, but you needed to know so bad. Was it saying ‘I’m in love’ or was it saying ‘I’m just messing with her’. Could it even be that specific? Did he smell something about you tonight? Had you been accidentally screaming into his face that you were kinda…maybe… perhaps getting a little fond of him?

“Fuck,” you groaned, your eyes snapping open. You grabbed a pillow and pressed it over your face, muffling the sound of a frustrated scream.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Illumi was an alpha from a completely different world. A rich alpha like him would marry some socialite omega the second he was out of college. Not someone who was supposed to linger in your thoughts, who made you second-guess your damn texts.

Classist guilt.

Or gratitude for your hard work.

That’s all it was.

You tossed the pillow aside, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe this was all just a result of the weirdness of the night, some hormonal bullshit happening because you were deprived of romance your entire life.

Yeah, that’s all it is, you told yourself firmly, though the flicker of doubt, or hope, remained.

Your phone buzzed softly again. You glanced at it, your pulse quickening for a split second before you saw it was just a news alert.

“Of course,” you muttered, flopping back onto the bed with a groan. You turned over, determined to sleep this time. 

But even as you closed your eyes again, the scent remained.

To your secret excitement, the dinner hadn’t been the last time you’d see Illumi that holiday, as when you very nervously invited him the next day to go to the movies (you knew you were being stupid and delusional, but you couldn’t stop yourself), he agreed. Annoyingly, he didn’t let you treat him to the tickets, and instead rented out an entire movie theatre, claiming he couldn’t stand hearing others speak during films.

(The two of you talked throughout the entire film.)

“Did you bring my sweatshirt, by the way?” You asked when the final scene had concluded.

“I didn’t bring it.” Illumi said. “I didn’t think you’d want it back.considering the new outfit.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you giggled, the sound playful as you leaned back in your seat. “Enjoy your new pillowcase.”

Illumi, who had been idly following the credits, froze mid-motion. His head snapped in your direction, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. It was as if you’d just said the most outlandish, unthinkable thing in the world.

You blinked at him, your smile faltering under the weight of his gaze. “What?” you murmured, your voice quieter now, unsure of what had caused such a reaction.

“How—” Illumi started. He paused, visibly gathering his thoughts, and blinked slowly before continuing. “Ah. You were making a joke.”

There was something about the way he said it—so serious—that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. “...Yes?”

“I didn’t realize.”

“No, I get that,” you said, your laughter subsiding as you studied him. He still seemed oddly tense, his shoulders stiff and his gaze lingering on you for just a beat too long. “Are you really using my sweatshirt as a pillowcase?” 

“Of course not,” Illumi said, his reply clipped. His gaze shifted away for a moment, his fingers brushing idly over the sleeve of his perfectly pressed shirt, flicking away a rogue piece of popcorn. “I thought you’d said something else entirely.”

“What else could I have possibly meant by that?” you asked, your curiosity piqued despite yourself.

He settled on a vague, “It doesn’t matter.”

You raised an eyebrow, his evasiveness only making you more suspicious. Still, the idea of Illumi doing something as absurd as using your old sweatshirt as a pillowcase didn’t fit with the hyper-controlled, almost clinical image you had of him.

Though that image also didn’t fit with him wanting to spend more time with you, but you were taking that for granted.

“Okay,” you said, shrugging it off. There was no point in overthinking something so silly. He’d promised you to tell you things if you’d said something off, or done something wrong, so you were choosing to trust that he was just being embarrassed about misspeaking, in the most Illumi way possible.

Still, the image of him carefully tucking your sweatshirt over a pillow, of all things, was too funny to fully dismiss, especially since the thought tickled an utterly delusional part of yourself that liked the idea. You bit your lip to stifle another giggle, the thought lingering in the back of your mind as you went and grabbed your things.

It seemed that Illumi really liked your company, which was exciting. 

You still weren’t sure whether you like liked him, or just had a itsy bitsy crush, but he wasn’t doing well in dissuading you from believing it was mutual from the way he sought your attention. The only thing holding you back from going all in was a bit of anxiety you still had surrounding the whole situation. It almost seemed too good to be true.

But until the other shoe dropped, Illumi had invited you to a party.

A party.

Oooohhh.

You’d been to your fair share of gatherings, hang-outs and get-togethers, but a party was a world apart. And if the things Illumi and you had done so far was any consolation, it’d be an entire thing of itself.

That thought lingered as you found yourself left to your own devices, standing a bit awkwardly near a graffiti-covered wall. 

The party was set in an abandoned warehouse, its massive interior dimly lit by strings of mismatched fairy lights and the occasional flicker of neon strobes. The air buzzed with a low bassline that vibrated in your chest, the makeshift dance floor at the center already packed with a thrumming crowd.

To the sides, smaller corners offered a semblance of privacy, filled with groups leaning in close to talk over the noise. The smell of sweat, beer, and smoke hung in the air. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like dancing or mingling—far from it—but the unfamiliar faces of the place left you hesitant. You didn’t know anyone here except Illumi, and, as if to prove all your anxieties right, he’d vanished to find someone within three seconds of arriving, leaving you.

This brought back some annoying memories of similar events, and any sort of crush you had on Illumi was put on hold until you’d get an explanation. You didn’t like to be left alone, certainly not at events you would’ve otherwise never gone to. Were you supposed to just talk to some random people? What if you imposed on the wrong group? 

You’d sink through the floor, but at the same time, standing here, not knowing what to do with yourself was also a hell in and of itself. You tugged at the bottom part of your dress, suddenly feeling like you’d overdressed a bit. Everyone looked a lot less birthday party and a lot more techno club in Berlin. 

These events were hard without a group of girls to surround you.

To your utter elation, before you could grab your phone to check the time in an attempt to look like you were just waiting for someone instead of being a wallflower, a man with long white hair approached you. He was wearing a cool yellow coat that seemed reflective in the strobe light that sometimes turned on.

“Are you having fun?” he asked, his voice warm. “A friend of mine just pointed you out.”

“Huh? What for?”

He pointed at himself, puffing up his chest as if proud of it. “Beta.”

“Oh!” You immediately smiled widely, leaning forward a bit to catch his words better. “I haven’t actually met another since going to college! It’s nice to meet you.”

The two of you introduced yourselves and made some small talk. His name was Kastro and he was an art major, which was why you’d probably never met (beta’s couldn’t distinguish each other themselves, so others often made an effort to push them together. It could be awkward, but you appreciated the friend that had pointed him towards you).

“Are you having fun?” He asked, to which you nodded, since that was the case as of this moment. “Came here with anyone?”

“I don’t know if you know him.” You said, before realizing that made it sound like you had a boyfriend. “My friend Illumi invited me.”

“Illumi? Illumi Zoldyck?” He repeated. “Damn.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How so?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing.” He said, waving his own words away. “You hear things. Plus he hangs around with someone I can’t stand.”

“Hisoka?”

“...Yeah.”

“I also don’t like him.”

Kastro smiled widely and bumped your shoulder with his. “Match made in heaven, then.”

There was a flicker of excitement in your chest at his words, a small flutter that made your heart beat a little faster. It had been some time since someone had shown this kind of obvious interest in you (perhaps the first time even), and he was actually a beta. You did like Illumi, but you were still eighty percent sure he wasn’t into you like you wanted him to be. Just as you were about to respond, Kastro gave you a quick wink and excused himself, mentioning he was going to grab another drink-

for you both.

“Okay.” You said to an empty space as he walked off, your eyes following his yellow jacket.

As you saw him disappear in the crowds, you thought about it a little more. He’d been handsome, and seemed nice, but was this okay to do? Did you even want to be flirting right now? Before you could dwell on it too much, a familiar presence loomed behind you. Illumi’s voice, low and soft, brushed against your ear as he leaned over your shoulder.

“He’s not interested.” Illumi said. “Don’t bother.”

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say—or even how long he’d been standing there.

This was awkward.

Part of you felt caught, having sorta flirted with someone else, despite not actually being with Illumi at all. His bluntness in his delivery didn’t make it seem like he minded a whole lot. Okay, so that was another sign your interest in him wasn’t mutual. Perhaps.

“Oh… oh.” You said, deflating and before realizing how sad it would be to say, you let out an unsure sounding: “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Part of you wanted to repeat your ‘are you sure?’ but Illumi looked in the direction Kastro had left in with some distaste, so whatever scent he must’ve picked up must’ve been bad. Had Kastro even been a beta? Maybe he was an alpha pretending to be like you just to make fun of you? It wasn’t something you wanted to believe, but you trusted Illumi, so you’d ask him later, when you weren’t so prone to cry.

Well. That was a shame. You smiled at Illumi, grateful for the intervention.“Thanks. I might’ve made a fool of myself if you hadn’t said anything.”

“Why don’t you come meet some of my acquaintances.” He said, already grabbing your hand and leading you to a bunch of wooden pallets that served as seating spots for a group of people you’d seen in passing. With a bit of sourness in your mouth you realized Hisoka was there, talking to some black-haired man that if you remembered correctly you’d had a class with on ethics. Chrollo, if you had to guess.

A half-smile bloomed on your face as you let him lead you. “Most people call them friends, Illumi.”

Illumi scoffed. “They’re not.”

On the way to a lecture that you hadn’t really prepared all that well for, when rounding a corner, you bumped into a familiar person. Your face immediately dissolved into a cringe when you looked up at Hisoka.

He’d been at the party too, meandering through the crowd and turning up whenever it was most inconvenient. You’d stood outside talking to a woman called Pakunoda (a tall blonde woman with lean features majoring in psychology who’d been interested in your experiences) while she’d been smoking a cigarette and Hisoka had turned up out of nowhere, obviously listening in on the conversation. 

When you’d addressed this, he’d just held up his hands in a peace symbol, mentioning that he was interested in the woman that was taking up so much of Illumi’s time. 

You’d not had an answer for him, but luckily Pakunoda had, stubbing out her cigarette and mentioning needing to go to the toilet, pointedly looking at you to come and accompany her. 

He still made you so uncomfortable, which wasn’t aided by the fact that he was looking down at you now with that god-awful closed-eyes smile.

“Don’t make that kind of face,” He said, sounding way too pleased with himself. “It almost looks like you dislike me.”

“Something tells me that’s what you’re going for.” You said bluntly.

“How cruel, and here I thought we’d be friends, now that you’ve gone and gotten so close with Illumi.” He sighed dramatically, still blocking your way. “Me and him have been such good friends for a while now, so I’d hate to put him in a difficult position. Can’t we start over?”

You should ask Illumi about Hisoka, you realized. The fact that they were even hanging out was kind of weird to you. By now you’d changed how you felt about Illumi completely, but Hisoka still gave you the creeps. It made you think less of Illumi, in some way, and in a weird twist, also about yourself, for even being considered friends-once-removed. 

“What do you want?” You asked simply.

“Why must I want something? Can’t you see I’m merely trying to help a friend?” He brushed past your shoulder and you shivered. “Byee~”

Taking a deep breath, which freaked out a nearby omega who probably thought you were smelling her, you closed your eyes and tried to calm down. This day wasn’t going all too well so far. You rubbed the inside of your eyes and walked on, eager to forget this interaction had ever happened, despite knowing you’d grill Illumi on why the fuck he was hanging out with Hisoka almost as often as with you.

You’d agreed to meet Illumi near one of the quieter corners of campus, where the paths curved toward a secluded seating area bordered by neatly trimmed hedges. As you approached, you spotted him leaning against a low stone wall, a striking figure among the casual, lively crowd.

Illumi’s black slacks and fitted shirt were as impeccably tailored as ever. The sun caught the faint sheen of his dark hair, which fell in perfect curtains around his face. He didn’t seem out of place exactly—just untouched, like he existed in a world just slightly removed from everyone else’s.

You slowed your steps as you got closer, your heart giving a faint, involuntary flutter when his eyes shifted to meet yours. For a moment, he said nothing,then, he straightened, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“You’re late,” he remarked.

“By two minutes,” you replied, stopping a few steps away. “Don’t be dramatic. Do you want to walk with me for a sec? I left my coat in the lecture hall.”

“Two minutes, very impressive,” he said, wordlessly agreeing to accompany you as the two of you began walking toward the building together, his tone laced with dry amusement. “I’m sure it was at least a five-minute walk.”

You groaned. “Will you ever drop that?”

The lecture hall was conveniently close to the entrance, and you led the way through the double doors. The dimly lit hall was silent and empty, the air slightly cool compared to the bustling warmth outside. You noted how your footsteps echoed faintly against the walls, the lack of other students making the space feel oddly massive.

You’d barely taken a step inside when Illumi’s hand suddenly shot out, grabbing your arm firmly. The suddenness of it startled you, and your heart jumped as you instinctively looked down, expecting to see a loose cable or chair you might have tripped over. Finding nothing there, you turned back to him, frowning.

“...Illumi?” you asked cautiously.

His grip tightened, bordering on painful now, and you tugged at your arm, trying to pull free. It wasn’t until you met his gaze that confusion set over into worry. His previously good mood was gone, his eyes wide, his posture leaning slightly forward as though caught in some animalistic trance.

“Okay, seriously, what are you doing?” you asked, your voice edged with both confusion and concern.

Before you could pull away or demand an explanation, Illumi leaned in, and you felt—heard—him inhale sharply, his breath warm against your skin. You froze, staring at him incredulously, waiting for him to clarify what in the world was going on.

“You smell of Hisoka.” Illumi said in clipped tones, his pupils dilated and his mouth set in a grim line. “Explain.”

“Wow, are you alright?” You said, holding out your free hand in front of you in a gesture trying to calm him down. “He bumped into me on the way here.”

“Take off the shirt.” Illumi ordered. “I don’t want that scent on you.”

“I’m not wearing a tank-top underneath-”

“Can you for once just do as I tell you to instead of argue with me.” Illumi said, his voice still level but seething. “Take it off.”

Indignified, you took a step back, still unable to free your arm. “No, you can’t just-”

Before you could finish, Illumi closed the distance in a single, fluid motion. His long fingers curled around the fabric of your shirt, and with one decisive tug, he ripped it open, buttons scattering like metallic raindrops on the floor. 

You staggered back, instinctively wrapping your free arm around yourself to cover your now-exposed torso. Heat flooded your cheeks as you stared at him, eyes wide, heart hammering in your chest. It was as if he’d slapped you.

His pupils, dark and blown wide, locked onto yours. "You're my beta," Illumi said, his voice low. "I don't want you smelling of another."

"Excuse me?!" Your voice cracked with indignation as you heard the buttons fall down the steps of the tilted lecture hall. "You can’t just—what the hell is wrong with you?"

"You reek of him," he said simply, as if that alone justified everything. The size of his pupils were massive, his normally dark eyes now feeling like you were staring into an abyss. "Do you understand what it means?"

"No! I don’t!" you shot back, hugging your arm tighter around yourself. "And you’re not explaining anything—you’re just acting like some kind of unhinged lunatic!"

For a moment, Illumi said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. He finally let go of your arm- there was a red mark of where he’d held you-, and stepped back just enough to shrug off his own shirt, revealing lean muscle beneath. Without hesitation, he held it out to you. "Put this on."

You hesitated, glaring at him. "I’m not a goddamn doll for you to dress, Illumi."

"You’re not anyone else’s" he repeated, an edge creeping into his voice. "That means I don’t want you smelling like others. Hisoka knows that, and he bumped into you to be annoying."

"He bumped into me!" you nearly shouted. "And since when am I your beta? When did that happen? Do you even hear yourself right now?"

Illumi’s head tilted again, as if your words were a puzzle he didn’t quite understand. "You don't understand," he said, quieter this time. "Put on the shirt."

You stared at him, bewildered, torn between anger, embarrassment, and confusion. Against your better judgment, you grabbed the shirt from his hands and slipped it on, the fabric warm and faintly scented of him. You wanted to go home, and you preferred doing so clothed. 

Also in your anger you realized that perhaps Illumi was close to a rut or something, and more protective of his friends. 

(You thought you could remember reading about something like that, and it was too delusional to consider any other reason.)

In the end, he was right. 

You didn’t understand.

Maybe Hisoka had really made a mess of things in some way, and Illumi truly was just protecting you from social death here by making sure that bad carnival trip scent didn’t stick to you. 

When covered by other’s scents, people couldn’t often tell you were a beta, which made it really hard sometimes. It’d been a mean-spirited prank when you were younger, to quickly rub some weird scent onto you and watch you go through your day, wondering why everyone looked at you funny.

Number one reason you washed your neck in between classes, and carried around an absurd amount of perfume.

You believed this primarily because Hisoka genuinely freaked you out. The idea of him even brushing against you sent a shiver down your spine, and you definitely preferred not smelling like that absolute freakshow. And maybe, just maybe, instead of some weird flirting, this whole “my beta” thing was probably Illumi’s awkward way of officially accepting you as one of his inner circle. That thought was oddly reassuring.

Didn’t mean you weren’t still mad.

"Happy now?" you muttered, still fuming.

Illumi's eyes flickered over you, and quickly he stepped forward and rubbed the back of his hand on your neck, making you flinch and lean back again. Once he finished doing that, his posture relaxed ever so slightly. "Yes," he said simply. Then, as if nothing had happened and he wasn’t in a state of undress right now, he looked over the lecture hall, probably trying to spot your coat.

You stared at his back, seething. "We’re not done talking about this," you warned.

"No," Illumi said, his voice as cold as ever. "I guess not. Grab your coat"

His tone made it clear he thought the conversation was over for now. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you glared daggers at him, but Illumi didn’t even look up. His calmness only fueled your frustration further.

"Unbelievable," you muttered under your breath, turning away to pick up the scattered remnants of your poor shirt.

Just as you’d settled onto your bed, laptop balanced on your knees and set to some show you’d been recommended, there was a sharp knock at the door.

You frowned, glancing at the time. It was late—too late for visitors. Cautiously, you padded to the door and opened it a crack.

Standing there was a delivery person holding a stack of neatly wrapped packages, a bouquet of colourful tulips peeking out from the top. "Delivery"

 “Uh… okay.”

The delivery person smiled, clearly unaware of your internal confusion, and began handing over the items. “Okay, so there’s this box, this bag, and, uh, this little basket here…” They kept piling items into your arms until you were balancing an almost comedic mountain of packages.

“Wait, wait—hold on,” you said, struggling to maneuver everything. You managed to drop it all onto your desk in one ungainly heap before rushing back to sign for it. “Who sent this?”

The delivery person glanced at the return address on one of the packages. “Looks like it’s from… Zoldyck?”

Your jaw tightened. Of course it was.

“Sign here, please.”

“Yeah, okay.” You signed the little machine and waved off the delivery man. When the door closed, you placed your hands on your hips and looked over the pile of gifts. What was this?

You grabbed your phone and called Illumi.

He picked up after the third ring. 

“Yes?”

“Why did you send me all these gifts, Illumi?” You asked, foregoing the usual greeting. “You really scared me the other day and I don’t want you to think you can just buy me off after doing stuff like that.”

“...” It was silent on his end for a while. “Apologizing would be useless here, since I stand by what I did.”

You made a high pitched noise of exasperation.

“But, perhaps,” Dear god he really had to force these words out, “I could’ve explained to you a bit better why I couldn’t let you smell like him.”

You looked at all the gifts and sneakily looked inside one of the bags, and with a tug at your heart you realized he’d gotten you merch for one of the movies you’d watched together in the cinema. That was sweet. 

Wait no, you were angry.

“It’s not something I can accurately explain.” He continued. Well, you’d heard that one before. “Can you trust me when I say it was for the best?”

“Well… Okay.” You slowly said, feeling like you had no backbone. “But for the next time if something like this happens, you don’t need to buy me gifts or anything, we can just talk it out.”

“I like giving you gifts.” Came the earnest reply. “I won’t apologize for that either.”

And once again, you were blushing, endlessly grateful he wouldn’t be able to smell how flustered he made you. You were supposed to be angry… angry.

“Just… warn me next time.”

Cradling your own forehead, annoyed at your own stupidity, you suppressed a groan, knowing you’d already forgiven him completely. 

You were fucked.

Dinner was supposed to be a casual affair—a chance to unwind and catch up with Mariah and Bianca, though the latter had gone into heat earlier this morning, so it’d be a week before you saw her again. The diner near campus, with its sticky menus and comforting smell of fried food, seemed like the perfect spot to gossip and reconnect, but the location had changed last minute to some uptight spot downtown, as you’d warned Mariah would happen.

Illumi had been invited, primarily because Mariah and Bianca had been dying to meet the mysterious guy you kept on disappearing with, though you weren’t entirely sure he’d show, despite having made a prepaid reservation. His response to being invited to dinner with you and Mariah had been a little lacklustre. 

But, true to form, he arrived just as you and Mariah were settling into the table.

“Hope I’m not late,” he said, settling into the seat next to you. He glanced briefly at Mariah, then turned to you. 

Mariah shifted slightly in her seat.

“Not at all,” you said, waving it off. “We just got here. Mariah, this is Illumi. Illumi, Mariah.”

“Good,” Illumi replied simply, already flagging down the waiter. You’d gotten used to his… slightly pretentious behaviour, but you were suddenly worried what Mariah would think. Would she think you were just hanging out with him because of his money, instead of despite it?

Dinner started easily enough—or so it seemed. After introductions had been made, you and Illumi fell into a rhythm. He had a knack for saying something just outrageous enough to spark a reaction, and despite yourself, you found it entertaining.

Mariah, though, was unusually quiet. She poked at her food, her fork dragging slow circles in her food. She nodded or hummed when you addressed her but barely looked up. You chalked it up to her being tired or maybe a little shy around Illumi, who wasn’t exactly the warmest presence.

Or maybe she hated the food. 

You could understand that as well, knowing she’d expected being able to order pasta instead of whatever reduction was on your plate now.

“Mariah,” you said at one point, trying to loop her into the conversation, “you promised to tell me about your holiday, how was it?”

She hesitated, her fork pausing mid-air. “Oh, um, maybe another time,” she said, her laugh sounding thinner than usual.

“Oh? You sure?”

“Yes.”

You frowned slightly but didn’t press. “Okay,” you said with a shrug, turning back to Illumi, who looked faintly amused.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Mariah gripping her utensils a little too tightly, her knuckles pale against the metal. Was something wrong? Was she sick or close to a heat like Bianca or something? That felt like a bad question to say aloud at a dinner table, and you were sure Illumi would have had more of a reaction if that were the case.

You dove back into the conversation, assuming Mariah was just having an off night. She was polite enough, you thought, even if she wasn’t her usual chatty self.

As the evening wore on, you barely noticed the way Mariah’s shoulders remained rigid, or the way her eyes darted to Illumi every time he moved. To you, it seemed like a perfectly fine dinner—awkward at moments, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. If there was something more beneath the surface, it didn’t quite register.

Finally, Mariah leaned over and touched your arm. “Hey, can you come with me to the bathroom for a sec?” she asked, her voice too light, too forced.

“Sure,” you said, sliding out of your seat. “Be right back,” you told Illumi, who gave a faint nod but didn’t seem particularly interested in your absence.

Once inside the tiny, dimly lit bathroom, Mariah spun around, her eyes wide.

“What the hell?” she hissed, her voice low but urgent.

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused. “What’s wrong?”

“That guy,” she said, glancing toward the door as if expecting him to materialize there. “Illumi. He’s—he’s dangerous.”

You frowned. “What?”

Mariah shook her head vehemently. “His scent—God, it’s like it’s screaming at me to get the hell away from him. I’ve never felt anything like it before. It’s not just strong; it’s like… like he could jump up from his chair at any point to kill me.”

“He’s never been violent-” You thought about the time he ripped off your shirt. “Well…”

“Be for real.” She leveled you with a stare. “That’s because it isn’t aimed at you.”

Her words gave you pause. 

“Is it that bad?” you said, though unease pricked at the back of your mind.”A little bit of an exaggeration, maybe?”

Mariah grabbed your hands. “I’m not. I know you think he’s your friend or whatever, but there’s something off about him. I can feel it.”

You pulled your hands back gently, unsure what to say. Illumi was… well, Illumi. Sure, he could be unnerving, but you’d never felt truly unsafe around him. Then again, maybe you’d gotten used to his peculiarities in a way Mariah hadn’t. Or…

“So you think he’s just messing with me?” You asked softly, feeling hurt already by the idea, and sounding like a child in your own ears. “That he’s up to something?”

Mariah instantly softened and hugged you before letting a little space between you return. “No, honey, no, if that was the case I would’ve told you sooner, you know that. It’s not aimed at you, I promise. I can tell.” She seemed to struggle finding the words for what she wanted to say. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t terrifying me, but if it is just his… intensity, then I would say… perhaps… that he’s smelling like that because he doesn’t want me here. Did he know I was coming?”

“Yes, I think so?” You said. “I texted it.”

“Okay, well, figure that out.” Mariah said. “I’m gonna excuse myself in a bit, and you can ask what all that… cloud of hatred is about. I’m surprised the staff isn’t saying anything about it.”

“Hm.”

“Also…” she began sheepishly.

Immediately you knew what she was talking about. “Yeah I know, don’t worry about it, he refuses to go to cheap restaurants, but in turn he pays. I’ll make a scene if he says anything about it.”

“Please don’t.” Mariah said, more seriously than you’d expected. “Please.”

You nodded, but your mind was spinning as you followed her back to the booth. Illumi glanced up as you returned, his gaze flickering to Mariah for a fraction of a second before focusing on you.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his voice as calm as ever.

Mariah’s fingers curled tightly around her water glass, and you hesitated before answering. “Yeah,” you said, sliding back into your seat. “We’re good.”

“Man, I’m wiped. I think I’m gonna call it after this.” she said, her voice too bright and about three seconds after she’d sat down again. She grabbed her bag in one swift motion and slid out of her seat again. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’ll see you later, okay?”

You frowned in faux surprise, mentally cursing her for not having more tact and at least pretending for another few minutes. “You sure? You didn’t even finish your drink.”

Mariah waved a hand dismissively, her eyes flicking briefly toward Illumi before darting away. “I’m good. Really. Nice meeting you,” she added..

Illumi didn’t look up from his glass of water. “Likewise,” he said flatly.

“Bye,” You said as she’d collected all her stuff. “See you tomorrow.”

Mariah lingered for a moment, as if debating whether to say more, then turned on her heel and hurried out of the diner.

You watched her go and looked like Illumi, trying to pretend it was also sudden for you. Even if your scent didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to be a genius to realize something happened after she immediately left after the both of you excused yourselves to the bathroom. “That’s a shame.”

“She was nervous,” Illumi said without looking up, tucking a few strands of ink-black hair behind his ear.

You turned back to him, feigning ignorance as you tried to fish for answers. “Nervous? Why would she be nervous?”

Illumi met your gaze then, his dark eyes cool and assessing. “Because she’s an omega,” he said simply.

You blinked. “And that means… what exactly?”

He leaned back, his posture relaxed, but his gaze unwavering. “Despite making up nearly half the population, they all expect to be treated with a certain… indulgence. Most of it is unspoken, communicated through scent. Since she’s unmated, she probably assumed I’d ignore you.”

You frowned. That didn’t sound anything like how Mariah had described it. “That doesn’t seem right.”

Illumi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his tone turning pointed. “Is it really so hard to believe that you’d be sidelined when alphas and omegas interact?”

It wasn’t.

But biology aside, Mariah hadn’t looked annoyed or jealous—she’d looked uncomfortable. Scared, even. You’d only known her for a year, but that was enough time to get a sense of someone, wasn’t it? Then again, you’d never gone to one of those mixers with her. You already knew you’d hate the whole experience, so maybe she really was different in that kind of setting.

“That’s… kind of harsh,” you said, leaning back in your seat. “You make it sound like she’s jealous. She’s not like that.”

“It’s not necessarily jealousy,” he said curtly. “But her reaction isn’t unusual.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how matter-of-fact he was. “Huh.”

“It’s not just a guess,” he added. “It’s a pattern. Even if she’s your friend, omegas don’t like being ignored or overshadowed. And I simply prefer your company.”

You hesitated. “I… don’t really know what to think about that.”

It was true that you spent most of your time around omegas, and this whole situation with Illumi was new. Thinking of Mariah in such a negative light didn’t sit right with you.

“I might be wrong,” he said.

“Could be, I can’t say.” Another tally for the growing list of frustrations your secondary gender was causing you. “Does that mean you only like hanging out with me because I don't expect you to fawn over me?”

“No.” Illumi said immediately. 

“...Then what?”

“Hm.” He seemed to think about his phrasing. “If anything you should expect more from me.”

“Oh.” You said slowly, feeling stupid as you had no idea what he meant by that.

Illumi didn’t reply right away. When he finally spoke, his tone was softer but no less unsettling. “Does that idea bother you?”

You still hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, so you just winged it.

“Not really, I guess?” You looked at him. “Should it?”

He nodded. “That’s a good answer.”

You glanced at the door where Mariah had left, unsure what you’d say to her when you’d meet her again. Telling her Illumi seemed to consider her insulted by his lack of interest towards her seemed like a bad call, but you hadn’t ever been in a situation like this one before, so you couldn’t really tell whether or not what either was saying was correct. 

Either Ilumi was, probably unintentionally, really scary, or Mariah was annoyed because your friend didn’t switch his attention to her. 

The silence stretched for a moment, and your curiosity got the better of you. Since the topic was already out there, you figured you might as well ask. “Okay, since we’re on a similar topic, I wanted to ask you what you think I smell like?”

You’d asked Bianca once, and she’d blinked like it was a really weird question. Her answer had been vague, just telling you that your scent was very neutral. 

Illumi did look up at your question, slightly surprised, but didn’t hesitate for even a second before leaning in slightly, his sharp nose barely an inch away from your shoulder as he inhaled.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

He straightened just as quickly. “Cold coffee,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What?” you blinked, startled.

“Cold coffee,” he repeated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Stale, bitter, with faint traces of something sweet.”

You stared at him, completely at a loss. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

“It’s accurate,” he replied. 

“Well, okay. Didn’t know what I expected,” you said, still processing his blunt observation. “Is that a good thing? Stale and bitter doesn’t sound good.”

“It is good, don’t worry,” Illumi said, tilting his head slightly. “Coffee is dominant, but there’s something else beneath it.”

You frowned. “Something else? Like what?”

Illumi regarded you for a long moment, his gaze heavy. It must’ve been a trick of the light, since you swore you saw his pupils dilate. “I can’t place it. Yet.”

“Yet?” you echoed, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny.

He didn’t answer.

You let out a breath and muttered, “Cold coffee, huh? Guess I’ll take that over, I don’t know, swamp water or something.”

Illumi’s lips curved faintly. “It suits you,” he said simply.

“Again,” you said, side-eyeing him with a faint smile of your own, “not sure if that’s a compliment. And can you, like, really read my emotions out of it? What I’m thinking?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, his words frustratingly evasive.

“That’s unfair,” you whined. 

“I like it.”

You stopped your own exasperation and smiled wider, raising an eyebrow. “You like knowing exactly what I think, while I’m forced to guess?”

“Yes.” His answer was immediate.

“That’s…” You trailed off, searching for the right word. Infuriating? Annoying? “Of course, you do.”

Illumi’s eyes didn’t leave you, and you had the distinct feeling that he was filing something away. Cataloging another one of your on-display emotions.

Meanwhile, you had nothing. No scent to read, no way to tell what was going on in his head, no way to even the playing field. You were left with only your gut—and he seemed entirely too aware of that fact.

“Must be nice,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

“It is,” Illumi said, leaning on his fist with his elbow on the table.

Your cheeks warmed, though you weren’t sure if it was irritation or embarrassment. Maybe both. 

Next to you, Illumi shifted, his hand brushing his glass again before returning to his lap. His focus hadn’t wavered, and though he said nothing more, you could feel the weight of his attention pressing down like a tangible thing.

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to squirm under his gaze.

“Well, enjoy your unfair advantage,” you said, finally trying to break the moment, your voice light but tinged with dry humor.

“I will.”

A few days later, you and Mariah were sitting in your favorite coffee shop, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the air as you both huddled over steaming mugs, a smell that held new context for you now that you knew you apparently fit right in. 

The tension from last week seemed to have faded, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that Mariah was still a little off whenever you brought up Illumi. You pushed the thought aside as she leaned back in her seat, her gaze flicking over to you with an almost suspicious look.

Surprisingly, she was the one to bring him up.

“You know,” Mariah said slowly, her voice quieter than usual, “you smell like him.”

You blinked, looking up from your coffee. “What? Like who?”

Mariah’s eyes narrowed as she studied you, wordlessly yelling at you who do you think. “Illumi. You reek of him.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the accusation, though you tried to keep your expression neutral. “I—I don’t reek of him. I don’t even—he was over at my place this morning so some must have stuck, that’s all,” you said quickly, trying to brush it off.

But Mariah wasn’t buying it. Her eyebrows shot up, and she leaned in, voice low and urgent. “Listen to me, okay? No one smells like that unless the alpha intends for it to happen. And I’m telling you, girl, that scent—his scent—is all over you.”

“You think Illumi is scenting me?”

“Of course he is. He’s marking you.”

You quickly glanced around, making sure no one was overhearing this ridiculous conversation. “What? No, no, that’s not what happened. He wasn’t marking me or whatever. He just—he was there to talk for a bit and—”

Mariah threw her hands up in exasperation, slapping her palm against your forehead in a light but hard thwack. “Are you seriously this oblivious?” she snapped, her eyes wide with disbelief. “He called you his beta, didn’t he?”

You blinked at her, rubbing your forehead where she’d hit you. “Yeah, he did. But that was just... I don’t know, some weird thing he said. Like, I’m his beta now or something. I didn’t take it seriously.”

Mariah stared at you, slack-jawed for a moment, as if you had just confessed to committing some terrible crime. “No, no, no. You don’t get it. When an alpha calls anyone theirs—especially a guy as serious as Illumi—it’s not a joke. Alpha’s don’t joke about stuff like that. He’s marking you.”

You stared at her, images of what ‘marking’ generally entailed in your romance novels popping up in your mind, a hot blush creeping up your neck. “I—Mariah, I swear, it wasn’t like that. He didn’t—he didn’t mark me, he just... he just came over and—”

“I don’t mean sex! Marking is more than that, it’s like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant, but with scents. Sure, being around someone is bound to have some intermingling in scent occur, but he’s clearly been rubbing his scent glands on everything he could get his hands on.” Mariah said pointing at your neck, bag and coat. “It’s in the way he marks his territory, and your scent is telling everyone with a working nose that you’re his.”

“But what does that mean?” You felt like a broken record, but you just couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“I know you probably don’t wanna hear it from me,” The omega said slowly. “but he’s into you. Carnally. Romantically. Sexually. Either which way.”

“That’s-” You looked up at the ceiling, so shocked to hear it so bluntly stated that you couldn’t really figure out what to say. Telling Mariah, who hated Illumi, that you’d been kinda into him for a while now and were kinda happy at hearing all this seemed like a bad call. Better to maybe save that for when you truly figured out what you felt about him instead of this back- and forth you felt currently. “So... what do I do now?”

Mariah threw her hands up. “Honestly, at this point, I don’t know. But you need to stop acting like this is some innocent thing. I don’t know why he’s doing this either, but we gotta call it like we see it, and this alpha apparently has a thing for beta’s.”

Your gaze drifted to your coffee, the bitter taste now suddenly too sharp on your tongue. Her words bothered you. Like she couldn’t fathom someone going to such (hypothetical) lengths for someone like you. Like you were less than, never enough.

Mariah’s sharp eyes softened as she looked at you one last time. “Just... pay attention, okay?” she said quietly. “Don’t let him drag you into something you’re not ready for. Marking is serious business, and for some reason, this guy just wants you.”

“For some reason?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, the bitterness in your voice evident.

Mariah backpedaled quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, no, no.” You held up a hand, feeling frustration bubble to the surface. “I know you think you’re helping, but all you’re doing is showing me how unlikely you find it that someone might actually like me.”

Her comment stung more than you wanted to admit. It wasn’t just Mariah’s words—it was your own insecurities coming to life. Deep down, you’d always wondered if you could ever be enough for someone. Enough for anyone, let alone someone like Illumi, who was handsome and nice in his own weird way despite being a snobbish prick fifty percent of the time. 

Beta’s were rare, and there was no promise that you’d click with any one of them, while the rest of the population apparently found it unnatural to be romantically interested in someone like you.

And now, with Mariah voicing those doubts aloud, it felt like confirmation of every fear you’d tried to bury.

“I don’t mean it like that.” Mariah hurriedly said. “I really didn’t. It’s just… Alpha’s, and men in particular, are pretty basic. They follow their nose as much as they do their dicks, and Illumi is acting like you’re an omega, which you’re not. It’s weird that he’s doing this, and I want you to be safe from his freakish behaviour.”

"Freakish"? You repeated again. “Taking me out to dinner, paying attention to me, actually getting to know me instead of labelling me away as a faulty byproduct is freakish? I’m not a little kid, Mariah, and I really like him. I’m not going to quit seeing him just because you cannot fathom someone actually taking an interest in me without being some freak.”

“I didn’t mean—” Mariah winced, her voice lowering as she glanced around. “Get your scent under control, you’re filling the whole café.”

Your eyes flashed with hurt at her words.

“I’m gonna go,” you said quietly, standing up and grabbing your things. You sniffled, trying to hold back the sting of tears. “See you later.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked out, the door’s bell jingling softly behind you as you stepped into the cool evening air.

A few nights later, you and Illumi had agreed to stay in and watch a movie at your place. 

You hadn’t spoken to Mariah since the fight, and mornings in the communal kitchen were rather awkward. It was clear Bianca was taking Mariah’s side, since she’d also been rather short with you when you’d walked past her.

It meant you’d been rather lonely and were glad you still had Illumi.

Even ignoring the fight, she had been right about one thing. Everything you had reeked of him. The fact that you smelled like Illumi had since then been confirmed by multiple other sources, a young boy on the subway even asking you who you were and why you were smelling like his older brother.

(You’d been excited at that, having heard Illumi talk about his younger siblings multiple times, but the white-haired boy had just told you to ‘steer clear of that asshole’ which had made you confused once again. Was it just the kid going through puberty, or were you an idiot and was every sign in the universe telling you that this wasn’t a good idea? 

You were leaning towards puberty.)

Since he’d arrived, you’d even caught him in the act. You’d showered beforehand, made sure to be so lathered in body butter that perfumes were clogging up every pore, and you’d deep-cleaned your house religiously. When Illumi entered, you’d immediately noticed a slight upturn of his nose. He didn’t respond with anger or disappointment, as part of you had expected, but you did notice him trail his hand over your couch and put his coat directly over yours at the hanging rack.

The gesture had seemed casual, but something about it made your skin prickle. The weight of his coat pressed firmly against yours, their scents mingling in a way you were now sure wasn’t accidental.

As you settled in on the couch, remote in hand, you glanced over at him. 

"Illumi," you said, your voice steady despite the uncomfortable knot in your stomach, "we need to talk."

He glanced over at you, his eyebrow twitching slightly, but he didn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue.

You took a deep breath, deciding you weren’t going to back down. "About your scent."

His gaze shifted slightly, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You’re still bothered by not being able to read me?"

"No, it’s not that, I—" You hesitated. "I met up with Mariah and she made some comments, and I need to ask you about it. She said that all my stuff- and me-  smells like you, and that such things don’t happen by accident, so I need to ask you why you have been marking me with your scent like that? You know, it's apparently  kind of hard to ignore."

“That girl really dislikes me.”

“...Yeah.” You admitted, not wanting to get into the specifics. “But the point stands, are you really doing that?”

Illumi didn’t seem surprised by the question. He tilted his head ever so slightly, his dark eyes focusing on you. “It’s natural,” he said simply. “It’s in my nature to mark what’s mine.”

Your breath hitched, and you were fidgeting with your sleeves to avoid making eye contact. "Just to be, uhm, clear: what do you mean, ‘what’s yours’?"

Illumi looked at you, his expression blank but somehow expectant, like he wasn’t sure why you didn’t understand. "You’re my beta," he said matter-of-factly. "I’ve told you this before."

Your stomach twisted. “I—wait, no.” You shook your head, trying to process what he was saying. “We’re not dating. We’re not in a relationship or anything like that. So why are you—” You paused, trying to find the right words. “Why are you marking me like that?”

He blinked slowly, processing your confusion. "What did you think we were doing all this time?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. You suddenly felt like you were backpedaling. Of course you’d noticed possible romantic possibilities, you’d even gotten into a fight over the mere existence of the possibility, but this wasn’t an indication of liking you, this was a confession.

"I didn’t think it was like that," you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I thought we were just... friends. You know, hanging out, watching movies, talking. I didn’t realize you... thought we were dating." You huffed out in frustration. “Why would you think that? You know I can’t tell with stuff like this.”

“I thought I was being rather upfront.” Illumi tilted his head, as if he were considering your words for the first time. Then, with an almost imperceptible shift, he leaned a little closer. "Do you often have friends that buy you jewelry when they apologize to you?”

“I don’t have a lot of super rich friends who can do that, so no.” You said, flustered, unsure whether you should lean back or forward. “but we’ve never done anything romantic or—” You gestured vaguely, your cheeks warming. “—intimate. How was I supposed to know you felt differently?”

“Hm,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’ve got a point. I didn’t consider it like that.”

Your heart was pounding when he stood, his movements confident as he approached. You barely had time to react before he loomed over you.

“Illumi—” you began, but the words died in your throat when he leaned down, his face inches from yours.

He didn’t give you a chance to protest—or to think. His lips pressed against yours, firm and insistent, and the world tilted.

The kiss wasn’t gentle or hesitant. His hand moving to the back of your head with practiced ease, he made sure your first kiss with him was something that you’d never be able to forget. He guided you closer, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, leaving no room for doubt or misinterpretation.

Your thoughts short-circuited. This wasn’t what you had imagined—not during embarrassing daydreams or fleeting fantasies during lectures. It wasn’t tentative or awkward at all.

When he finally pulled away, your breath came shallow and uneven. Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it. You stared up at him, wide-eyed and speechless, unable to form a single coherent thought.

Illumi straightened, his dark eyes never leaving yours. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips, like he was testing the waters of your reaction.

“I know you want me to say things out loud,” he said, his voice casual and unhurried. “But now you understand, don’t you?”

The high-pitched ‘huh?’ that left your mouth didn’t convince him you’d understood, so he made sure to reiterate his point.

Okay.

So you were dating Illumi now.

It was a big change, though not a lot had changed between you and Illumi since you realized he’d already thought you’d been dating for weeks already. You, Bianca and Mariah still weren’t talking, and after getting confirmation by Illumi that both their scents were rather antagonistic towards you (he’d visited you and the two of you’d walked past them) you had to come to terms with the fact that you didn’t really have friends anymore.

No more late night talks, movie nights and coffee dates.

At least with them.

You did miss them both, really, but even if you wanted to make up, the fact that they still were really mad at you made you scared to approach them. Illumi assured you you didn’t need them, which made you feel a little bit better, and luckily he’d taken a while off work at the end of the semester to spend some time with you. 

That was… nice. 

No, it was more than nice. It was surprising. Sweet, even. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had cleared their schedule just to be with you.

After the first few days, your routine had completely changed. Instead of going home, you were picked up by Illumi’s car (you couldn’t get used to it) and brought to his apartment, where the two of you would hang out for the entire night or go out and do something fun. 

The first kiss had opened up a dam, since Illumi now wouldn’t let you leave without at least kissing you once, preferably with things going a little further. You weren’t ready for sex yet and had made that very obvious when you’d started to cry when he’d tried and unclasp your bra, but after that he’d interrogated you (that was the word for it) and a list of activities had been made that you did feel comfortable with. 

So no sex yet, but your entire neck was dotted red with hickeys.

Sometimes, though, the car wouldn’t take you to his apartment. Instead, it would whisk you away to one of Illumi’s surprises. These outings were always meticulously planned, and while you appreciated the effort, it was a lot to take in. Dinners at high-end restaurants (which you still didn’t really like), private gallery viewings (of artists you’d never heard of), even a helicopter ride once (you were kind of afraid of heights)—it was thoughtful, but overwhelming. 

It made you feel like you needed to keep up, to repay him somehow.

You’d tried, once. You’d spent hours planning a surprise arcade date, something low-key and fun, the kind of thing you thought he’d never experienced. You’d saved up for it too, scraping together enough for the tickets and even a dinner reservation at a place you thought was cozy and nice. It had been a lot of work, but you were excited to surprise him, to show him you could contribute to the relationship too.

You’d been in the arcade hall for barely half an hour. He hadn’t shown any interest in the games you wanted to try, brushing off your suggestions and seeming uninterested in the bright-coloured collection of games. When you went to pay for some tickets, hoping to at least do that for him, his credit card was handed over before you even reached the counter, effectively undermining your effort. 

To make matters worse, the dinner reservation you’d carefully planned had been canceled without so much as a discussion. Frustration bubbled over, and you couldn’t hold back your irritation any longer. Why wouldn’t he let you choose anything?

You’d put so much effort into finding a place you could afford that you thought he’d like, and it felt like he’d completely dismissed that. He hadn’t seemed to understand why you were upset, either, which had only made things worse. 

Still, despite the bumps, he was giving you everything and it was hard to feel justified when your main grievance with him was that he gave too much. 

It just felt like he wasn’t listening.

But if not being alone meant learning to stomach some well-intentioned over-gifting, perhaps that was just how it was. Or at least, that was the mantra you tried to hold onto, right up until the moment you found yourself standing in front of something you couldn’t stomach at all.

“What’s this?” you asked, your voice low and cautious, your eyes locked on the keys in your hand. They were heavy, the kind with an expensive fob that seemed engraved with actual gold.

Illumi gave you a steady look, his gaze never wavering. “Your new apartment.” 

You blinked, trying to make sense of the words. “I can’t accept this,” you said finally, your grip tightening on the keys as though holding onto them too tightly might undo what was happening. “We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks. I don’t even know if...” You trailed off, your thoughts too jumbled to finish the sentence.

“It’s already paid for,” he interrupted smoothly, cutting off your protest. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining a math problem. “You don’t need to worry about rent or any of the financial hassle. College housing fees are too high for you, and you don’t need to stay there. It’s the best deal you’ll get.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence. The keys in your hand suddenly felt like they were burning your skin. How did we get here? you thought, the enormity of the gesture hitting you all at once. This wasn’t just overstepping a boundary; this was obliterating it.

“Illumi, I don’t— I don’t feel comfortable accepting this. This is... a lot. I’ve been fine in the dorms. I don’t need an apartment.”

Illumi seemed to be studying you, as though he was weighing your every word. “I’m well aware that you’re not financially independent,” he said, holding a condescension in his voice that made you bristle. “The dorms aren’t a permanent solution. I’ve paid for this place, and it’s better than anything you could afford on your own. It’s already done.”

You recoiled slightly. “I... I don’t want to be in debt to you,” you said, voice tight. “It feels wrong.”

Illumi’s lips twitched, a hint of something—disinterest, maybe amusement—flashing across his face. “You’re not in debt to me,” he replied. “It’s a gift. Consider it an upgrade before we eventually move in together.”

The pressure in your chest intensified as you glanced at the keys again. You wanted to argue, to push back, but what could you say? The offer was so one-sided. So easy for him. And yet it felt suffocating.

“I don’t want to owe you anything,” you said quietly, the words more to yourself than to him.

“You won’t owe me anything,” he said, his voice steady. “But it’s already done. The place is yours. As the person responsible for your wellbeing, I consider it to be my responsibility to make sure your place of living isn’t covered in black mould”

“Illumi, we’ve-” You didn’t know what to say. “We’ve been dating for like a month, that’s not enough time to be giving me stuff like this. I’m not your responsibility, not like that. You make it sound like we’re married or mated or something.”

“Not yet.” He said, patting your hair.  

“I didn’t say that to sound enthusiastic, Illumi” You tried to give the keys back, but he wouldn’t take them. “This is going way too fast for me.”

The words hurt to say. 

What if he ended things because of this? You’d have nothing. 

But…

“I think...” you started hesitantly, the words tangling in your throat. “I think... Maybe some space might be good for both of us. Just to—”

You didn’t even know how to finish the sentence. It wasn’t that you wanted to break up, you liked him! More than you had ever expected to care about someone so quickly. But your life had been shifting so quickly since Illumi had entered it. 

At first, it had been nice—wonderful, even. The way he had swept in and taken care of things you hadn’t even realized you needed help with. It was intoxicating, feeling so wanted, so thought of, so prioritized after a lifetime of being forgotten. But these days, you had no friends, and your day began and ended with whatever he had planned. 

You’d already been lying awake some nights, wondering what would remain of your life once he would start working after school again. Would you even know what to do with yourself?

Every day seemed to revolve more and more around him: his plans, his routines, his way of doing things. And while you didn’t mind it in theory—how could you, when he was so thoughtful?—you missed having time to breathe. And it wasn’t like this would last. One of these days he’d find someone else with a sweet scent and he’d forget all about the weird girl he dated in college. You shouldn’t let it get to your head.

You felt selfish even thinking about it. 

Still.

The words weighed heavy in your chest, and as you looked at him, you could only hope he’d understand. “Just to... I don’t know, adjust,” you finished weakly, your voice trailing off.

Illumi stepped forward and grabbed your arms, cutting off your words. His eyes, usually so blank, sharpened into something predatory. Before you could react, his face was inches from yours.

“Space,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate. “Is that what you think we need?”

“...Just a little?” You whispered.

“Wrong answer.”

One of his hands was placed on the back of your head, keeping you in place as Illumi pushed your shirt down your shoulder in one swift motion, ripping the neckline. You dropped the fob on the ground, trying to step back.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your neck as he placed his teeth against your skin.

For a fleeting second, your body tensed, instinct screaming at you to move, to push him away—but before you could even process it, he bit down.

The sharp pain of his bite made you gasp, a strange mixture of heat and cold spreading through your skin. His teeth sunk deep, leaving a mark that burned. The sensation was overwhelming, dizzying. You wanted to pull away, to scream, but his grip tightened, strong and unyielding, holding you in place effortlessly. 

Illumi pulled back just enough to look at you like a cat who’d gotten his prey, his eyes almost glowing with a dark satisfaction. 

Your heart pounded erratically in your chest, each beat reverberating against the raw, burning mark on your neck. You could barely hear yourself over the rush of blood in your ears. You’d been holding your breath from the moment he’d held the back of your head.

“Fuck,” you breathed, the word slipping out before you could stop it. Your voice was shaky, barely audible, but it carried the weight of your disbelief.

The weight of the realization hit you like a tidal wave. He hadn’t just bitten you. That was a fucking mating bite. 

“You—you bit me?!” you finally managed to choke out, your voice breaking. Panic and anger surged through you, but you couldn’t seem to make sense of either. Your fingers brushed over the tender skin of your neck, coming away slick with blood. “That’s a felony, Illumi! What the fuck?”

His gaze didn’t waver, his expression as casual as when you’d ask him the weather forecast. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a hand to his mouth and swiped his thumb across his lips, collecting a faint smear of your blood. His tongue flicked out, licking it clean.

“That’s how much space we need,” he said simply, as though that was enough explanation. “Now you’re well and marked.”

“No shit, you marked me,” you shot back, your voice rising. “You can’t just—just do that without asking! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Illumi tilted his head slightly, as though your outrage puzzled him. “You’re mine,” he said matter-of-factly, his tone calm, as though he were stating the obvious. “Now even if you get ideas about wanting space, your body will know better.”

“I won’t be able to get rid of this,” You realized as you felt the blood seeping down your shirt. A mating bite was serious business. If one wanted to get rid of it, the entire glands in the neck needed to be cut out, a very pricey and risky surgery that you had to fly overseas for to get. You’d never heard of a beta getting one, and had no idea what it’d do to you. “This- oh fuck.”

You pushed him away, immediately falling to the floor, trying to stop yourself from panicking. 

“You once said that it’s difficult for beta’s to date, because they live in a world where they have to guess, while everyone else knows who’s a good fit.”  Illumi continued as he leaned over your fallen figure, his black hair falling around his face, closing you off from the rest of the room. It was just him.  

“Th-that’s-” 

He just looked at you as you started to crawl away, staining his floor with blood.

“But I disagreed with that statement.”

You were slipping on your own blood. You couldn’t get away fast enough. He was going to get you.

“We don’t have to guess either, because I know. I can assure you you’ll be happy with me, so you don’t have to think about it for even a second.”

Despite your fear, a new part of you wanted to settle down into the floor, to roll on your back and open your arms and have him closer to you. It was like an invisible thread pulling you toward him, tugging at your very soul, but the sick feeling in your stomach snapped you out of it before the thoughts could gain hold.

You wanted to leave. You had to leave.

“I can tell what makes you happy, and you don’t need anyone else for that.”  

The words were meant to be reassuring, if he were to be asked, but they only deepened the knot of anxiety in your chest. The reality of what had just happened was sinking in, and with it came a crushing sense of helplessness.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“No,” Illumi agreed, his lips curving into a cruel mockery of a smile. “But you didn’t have to.”

He took a step towards you.

Summoning every ounce of strength you had, adrenaline gave you the energy you needed to wrench yourself up, your feet nearly slipping as you stumbled towards the door. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

Despite thinking he’d chase you, you reached the elevator, Illumi remaining in the appartment. A random man coming home from work saw you sprint out when you’d reached the bottom floor, calling after you that you were bleeding, as if that was new information.

As soon as the cool night air hit you, the wound started hurting badly, and it felt like your body was being torn in two. It was a bodily reaction to you knowing Illumi was getting further and further away with each step you took.

Your skin crawled, a disgusting ache starting deep in your chest, gnawing at you with the weight of his presence so far away. The sickly, yearning feeling only intensified the further you got from him, and you fought every instinct to turn around and go back.

But you had to leave. 

Mariah had been right. His little brother had been right. Everyone had been right.

Illumi was dangerous.

You walked quickly, heart pounding as you made your way to the street. The world felt off-kilter, as though the very air around you was thicker, heavier. 

You only vaguely knew where you were going, but your feet kept going, despite your body feeling heavier and heavier with each step. You had been out of breath after the first hundred feet, but your body persisted, fueled by the fear that someone was chasing. 

People tried to stop you as you ran, a group of very concerned women even trying to physically stop you from keeping on running. You managed to side-step them, and none gave chase, the few shouts following you drowned out by the heart beat drumming in your ears.

A cold sweat broke out across your skin as the bond gnawed at you from within. Every step you took away from him made the ache worse, the emptiness spreading through you, yet you needed to get away.

It was outside your college dorm that you heard someone call your name.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

You turned to see Mariah approaching, her face pale with concern. But as her eyes fell on you, she stopped dead in her tracks, her gaze locking onto your neck. The blood marked your skin, the bite mark standing out on your neck.

By now your entire shirt was soaked.

Mariah’s eyes widened in shock, and she hurried toward you, her face a mix of disbelief and fear. “What the hell happened to you?” Her voice shook, but she didn’t wait for you to respond. She reached out, pulling you away from the street, her hands trembling.

"Mariah, I—" you began, your voice shaking, but she cut you off.

“No, no, no!” she said, her tone growing frantic as she looked you over. “We need to call the police. Now.”

The reality of her words hit you like a punch to the gut. You blinked, confused, trying to make sense of the situation. “Mariah, what? I just need—”

“Because that,” she pointed at the bite mark on your neck, her voice trembling with panic, “is dangerous, you could get really sick. Did he just leave you here?!”

“I ran…”

“You ran?!” she said incredulously, pushing her hair out of her face. “For fucks’ sake. I’m calling the cops”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of her words crashing down on you. 

“No,” you said quietly, shaking your head. “I just... I just need to get away from him. Put some alcohol on it and ride this out. I don’t need the police. I’ll be fine.”

But Mariah wasn’t having it. She grabbed her phone, dialing a number before you could protest. “No, you won’t be fine. Forget bloodloss, you just had a bucket full of hormones pumped into you and you’re completely unprepared. We have to get you to a good place. They have separate rooms at the police, if I remember correctly”

As Mariah spoke urgently into the phone, arranging for the authorities to meet you, you just sat on the steps, fighting the overwhelming desire to run all the way back. The pull was almost too much to resist, but luckily for you, the running had completely exhausted you, meaning that even if you didn’t resist, it wasn’t like you could stand up anymore.

When she was done calling, she sat next to you and sighed deeply. You looked up at her and felt like shit.

“I’m sorry, Mariah.” You said, tears prickling in the corner of your eyes. “I-I thought.. I really liked him. I’m sorry.”

She sat next to you and let you lean against her shoulder, while she kept pressure on your neck.

The fact that blood seeped into her hands didn’t seem to bother her.

 “I know, sweetie. I’m sorry, too.”

The sterile, fluorescent lights of the police station flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow on the walls. The faint hum of distant conversation filled the air, but you were far too disoriented to pay it any mind. You sat slumped in a chair in the waiting room, your body trembling, feverish, and aching. The wound Illumi had placed on you still throbbed painfully.

Your mind was clouded, slipping in and out of coherence as the fever set in. You could barely keep your eyes open.

Half an hour ago, Mariah had left for a bit after they’d administered some medicine to you, which did little but further nauseate you, promising that as soon as a separate room was available they’d move you. She’d whispered that she’d try and file a report while you were recovering. 

You didn’t deserve her, you realized, and you definitely would buy some stupid friendship bracelet once you got out of here.

The door to the waiting room opened, the sound of shoes clicking on the tile floor breaking through your delirium. You looked up, squinting through the haze in your mind, to see two men in sharp suits standing before you. One of them held a folder, the other a briefcase. They didn’t need to say anything; their presence was enough to send a ripple of unease through you.

One of the men held out a form in front of you. “Sign here,” he said flatly.

“Whassdis?” You slurred.

“Release papers.” The man said, pushing the pen in your hand. “We’re moving you to a different location. It’s better prepared to handle your situation.”

You stared at the paperwork for a moment, disoriented, unable to focus properly on the words on the page. The dizziness in your head made it impossible to read anything clearly, and the feverish haze only made it worse. 

“Shouldn’t…” You began, trying to focus on moving your tongue correctly. “Mariah, my friend, she’s here-”

“We’ll make sure she gets informed.” The man said immediately. “Now sign, we need to move you as quickly as possible.”

You reached out with trembling hands, signing the papers, your signature almost illegible.

The men exchanged a quick glance before they closed the folder and stood up. One of them reached down to offer a hand to you, and without thinking, you took it. His grip was firm, steady, as though he was accustomed to leading people like you around.

“Try and walk, if it doesn’t work, say something and we’ll carry you,” he said, guiding you to your feet. Your legs wobbled beneath you, but you had no strength to protest. 

They led you out of the station, past the rows of busy officers and the quiet buzz of the station. You barely registered the surroundings, your vision blurring as you were guided through the entrance. Outside, a familiar black car waited, sleek and polished under the dim streetlights. The door was already open, and the men ushered you toward it.

You felt a cold shiver run down your back. Something was terribly wrong. But no matter how hard you tried to focus, your body wouldn’t respond. Your eyes kept fluttering, struggling to stay open.

“I need to talk to Mariah,” you whispered, your voice weak. “Is she coming with us?”

No answer came. The man simply nudged you forward, and before you knew it, you were sliding into the back of the car, the door shutting behind you with a soft thud. The men climbed in on either side of you, trapping you between them. One of them pulled out a phone and began speaking quietly into it, while the other sat still, watching you.

The car moved. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess, the fever in your body making it impossible to process everything clearly.

And then, just as the car began to pick up speed, a distant shout pierced the fog in your mind.

"Hey! What the hell is going on?!"

You blinked in confusion, trying to focus through the haze. Through the rear window, you saw Mariah standing on the sidewalk, her face pale with shock and anger. She was waving her arms, running toward the car, her voice desperate.

“Stop! What are you doing?!” she yelled, looking around at pedestrians as you got further and further away from her. “Get the officers! They’re taking her! She’s—”

The car accelerated, and you couldn’t hear her anymore, her voice muffled by the sound of the engine roaring to life.

Mariah’s words lingered in your mind, but the fever had already taken over, drowning you in the confusion and ache of the bond. You wanted to reach out, to call for help, but everything felt so far away, like you were slipping through your own fingers. You couldn’t remember where you were going, who these men were, or even why you were so desperate to escape. 

An indiscriminate amount of time later, the car came to a stop with a soft, muffled hiss of the brakes. 

You were barely able to move, but the men guided you out, their grip on your arms gentle yet firm. You didn’t have the energy to focus on the details as you were led inside, up a quiet elevator, and down a pristine hallway to a door that clicked open with a soft, satisfying sound.

Inside was... familiar. It smelled of bleach. There was something off-putting about it, but your mind couldn’t piece everything together. Your limbs felt like lead, your head swimming as if you had just woken from a deep, feverish sleep. But you weren’t sure if you had actually been asleep or if this was the feverish haze you had slipped into.

You barely had time to process any of it before the men pushed you toward the couch, and you sank into it, weak and exhausted, realizing that you’d sat on this particular couch before. 

You looked around and noticed a shimmer on the floor, as if it had been recently mopped. A sigh left your lips as you realized where you were, and what that entailed.

The men in black stepped away and left, the door closing softly behind them, leaving you in the dimly lit apartment with only the sounds of the faint hum of the city outside to fill the silence.

Then, his presence hit you.

Illumi entered the room, his footsteps silent. You felt the pull of him—stronger now, more undeniable than ever—and your stomach churned with discomfort as he moved toward you, standing close but not touching you.

“Better?” His voice was low, steady, like a soothing balm against the rawness of your confusion.

You couldn’t answer. Your throat was dry, and every movement felt like it took all the strength you had left. Your body ached, your neck still stinging from the bite he had left, and you could feel the mark throbbing. You wanted to be angry, to demand him to take you back home, but your body refused to cooperate, instead relaxing in the immediate relief you felt being near him.

Illumi knelt in front of you, his hands gently cupping your face as he inspected your condition. “You need rest,” he murmured happily, as if not even noticing the pain and discomfort you were in. “I’ll take care of you.”

His gaze never left you as he stood, moving across the room to fetch a glass of water. You were too dazed to protest, too weak to do anything but sit there, watching him with unfocused eyes. When he returned, he sat beside you, lifting your head slightly to offer you the glass.

"Drink," he commanded softly. You obeyed out of instinct, your lips numbly parting as the cool water slid down your parched throat.

"You'll need to take it slow," he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender, and it would’ve fooled you if he didn’t seem so damned smug. "But you’ll be taken care of."

You swallowed hard, the water offering momentary relief. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. 

"Illumi," you whispered, the words scraping painfully against your dry throat, "What do you think you’re doing?"

His  eyes narrowed slightly as if weighing your question. "What do you think I'm doing?" he asked, his voice deceptively light, as if the two of you were playing a game.

You opened your mouth to protest, to explain that you didn’t want any of this, but the words died on your tongue as you felt the room spinning in slow, dizzying circles. 

Before you could say aloud that you were feeling sick, Illumi was there lifting you with ease (your blood seeping into his shirt) and carrying you to a bedroom. Even delusional, you recognized your fucking sweatshirt as his pillow case.

He put you down on the bed, the sheets cool against your skin as he tucked you in. You wanted to stand up, slap him and go back home, to your own space, your real friends. At the same time, your entire body cried in agony when he stopped cupping your skin, wiping away some sweat from your forehead. 

You’d heard it described mating bites as a very intense experience, but none had mentioned how out of this world dizzying it all was.

Though you guessed most omega’s didn’t sprint a few miles after being bitten.

"You must be tired," Illumi murmured, his cool fingers brushing your hair back from your forehead. "Sleep."

That seemed like your only choice, you reckoned, though you were terrified of what you’d wake up to. Illumi had dragged you from a police station of all places, meaning he wasn’t even scared of law enforcement. There was also the massive issue of the bite on your shoulder, and how you’d probably either spend your life by his side, or in massive debt from having it removed. 

You closed your eyes, not having the strength to even curl up on your side. You felt Illumi’s presence by your side, his soft breathing, and the way the sheets rustled as he-

What was he doing?

Opening your eyes as far as you could manage, a heavy weight called exhaustion pulling them shut at the first few attempts. You felt the warmth of his body join you under the sheets, before he sighed softly and pulled them off of the both of you completely. The chill you felt gave you the little bit of energy you needed to hold your eyes open for a little bit. 

Illumi manhandled your legs, parting them and settling himself between them, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“Illumi…?” You said, the words sounding sleep drunk to your own ears. “Wh-tre you doing..?”

Illumi just looked down at you as if he was surprised you were interrupting him."Hm? Oh. There’s a reason mating bites are usually made during sex. The shock your body is going through right now, sex will help with that. I should’ve mentioned that.” He tapped the side of his head as if to say ‘whoops’. “I thought one of those whores that you kept around would’ve mentioned that.”

Despite the fact that you should’ve focused on the first half of that sentence, all you could say was: “Don’t- don’t say that. I love-”

“Shh…” Illumi placed a finger on your lips. “You don’t need friends like that anymore. They’ll just tell you the wrong things.”

Dear god, this man was insane.

How’d you missed it, or ignored it, until now was probably reason to see a therapist.

You felt his weight settle between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing insistently against your core. A whimper escaped your lips. Despite everything, you suddenly felt wide awake, the realization of what he was planning shocking your body out of its stupor.

“ Wait! Illumi-” 

“You’re lucky I have such control over myself,” Illumi interrupted, his voice deceptively calm, though his body betrayed him. A faint tremor ran through him, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, and his eyes, though steady, burned with barely restrained fury. Tears welled at the corners of your eyes, but he remained focused, his breath measured, as though each word required effort to contain the storm within.

“When you ran off, I wanted nothing more than to stop you,” he continued, each syllable laced with tension. “To lock the doors and make sure you were fucked, to keep you from making yourself sick. Nice of me, isn’t it?” His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, his jaw tightening. “I stopped myself because I knew that if I acted on that urge, I’d probably hurt you. And your little stunt made me very... irritated.”

His shoulders rose and fell with controlled breaths, but his body still trembled slightly, shivering with anticipation as if holding back required every ounce of his willpower. “I’ve given you the most important gift of your life, and you acted like I was wrong to do so.”

While talking, he popped loose each and every button of his shirt.

You raised a hand, trying to cover your own face. He was scaring you, and base instincts were telling you that if you couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there.

He barely had to exert any effort to pry your hands back down, his hair making everything but him fall away in the background, falling around your face like a curtain. “I knew you just needed to run for a bit and lose some energy. and then when you were finally tuckered out, I’d bring you home.”

“You didn’t do-” You couldn’t finish your sentence, a sudden weight leaning against your clothed cunt making you momentarily freeze. When you regained yourself, you tried to spit it out with the same conviction, but it lacked bite when you felt so vulnerable. “You just sent someone.”

“Someone I control.” He hummed, leaning back to manhandle your limp body, shimmying your underwear down your legs, tossing it through the room. “And my deepest apologies for sending someone else, I just wasn’t sure whether or not you’d want to be fucked on the floor of a police station. I assumed this would be preferable.”

“But-” You started, when you were interrupted by Illumi shushing you, his so-called self-control fringing at the ends. He took a deep inhale and leveled you with two simple words.

“Shut up.”

And with that, he got back to his task.

Illumi had stripped off his shirt in an unhurried, efficient way. But he didn’t bother removing his pants fully, only shoving them down just enough to free himself, as though he had no patience for anything more.

His pupils were blown wide when his gaze fell on you again, dark pupils swallowing every trace of restraint. The fingers of his left hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding himself to where your body lay open, frozen—because despite the panicked thoughts coursing through your head, your body had already betrayed you.

The wetness pooling between your thighs was undeniable.

Illumi sighed, a pleased, contented sound as he pushed in, sinking himself inside inch by inch.

Your body clenched around the unfamiliar stretch, instinctively adjusting as he bottomed out. The sharp pressure of him inside you forced a whimper from your throat, but Illumi only exhaled again—settling in, indulging in the feeling of being fully sheathed inside you.

Then, he moved.

The steady, unrelenting rhythm of his hips rocked your body beneath him, dragging you up and down against the mattress with each thrust. The bed creaked violently in protest, the headboard slamming against the wall in a lewd, rhythmic percussion that filled the room.

But you remained still, unmoving, limbs slack where they had fallen. 

Your mind had returned to being present, aware of everything, but your body felt like lead. If anything, you’d probably have preferred to be hazy and subdued right now, as that would make the feeling of your virginity being taken in such a manner a little more emotionally manageable. 

All the years wondering what it felt like, imitating the feeling of a cock inside you with your fingers or some toy you’d discretely bought off the internet, and now you knew. Now you knew exactly how torturous each drag of his hips felt, how painful the pressure sometimes could be, and you wanted to say that it was bad, that you didn’t want it this way and that you wanted him off of you.

But you didn’t.

You blamed the bite, the hormones coursing through your veins, but you couldn’t do anything but inwardly exclaim that it felt so, so, so good.

Illumi’s fingers tightened around your hips, digging into the softness of your flesh hard enough to bruise, his grip a silent demand that you match his rhythm. When your body refused to act on its own, he forced it to, pulling you down to meet every thrust, dragging you deeper into the movement.

Leaning down, he pressed his mouth against your throat, his breath hot against your damaged skin. The bandage there was hastily applied, rough and uneven from Mariah’s quick work at the station. He nipped at the gauze first, his teeth grazing dangerously close to the wound beneath it. Then, without warning, his tongue flicked out, lapping at the dried blood crusted along the edges of the fabric.

Savoring it.

It didn’t take long for his pace to grow sharper, more urgent, his measured control unraveling strand by strand. His movements turned erratic, hungry, his fingers gripping your waist hard enough to make your bones ache beneath the pressure.

Then, with a guttural groan, his body tensed above you, shuddering as he spilled inside.

The warmth of it filled you, seeped into you, and though you wanted to recoil at the realization that he’d cum inside of you, to push him off, some quiet, instinct-bound part of you didn’t.

Some part of you, buried deep beneath layers of confusion, felt sated by it.

Illumi’s weight collapsed against you immediately after, heavy and suffocating, his breath slow and steady as it fanned against your skin. 

“That’s better.” he murmured.

For a second you wondered if that had been all, the rise of your own pleasure not having come to any conclusion, but to equal part excitement and fear, you realized Illumi was nowhere near done. He showed no signs of stopping, even as his softening cock slipped out of you with a wet sound.

With irritation lacing his movements, he took your shirt off, snaking an arm behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra. Once both articles were thrown across the room, he took in the sight more than appreciatively.

A little more lazily than his initial fervor, he lowered his head, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue swirled around the sensitive bud before sucking hard, pulling more of your breast into his mouth.

He made eye contact at one point, and you could do nothing but cover your eyes again, feeling much too embarrassed and agonized to witness something so lewd.

He let your minor resistance happen this time. 

Illumi's other hand slid down your stomach, his fingers delving between your slick folds once more. He could feel how wet you still were, your body betraying your arousal. Two fingers pushed inside you without preamble, pumping in and out.

"You’re not on birth control, are you?" Illumi whispered around your nipple, his hot breath washing over your sensitive skin, and to your surprise, his voice sounded more like you were used to. Casual, cold and more than a little amused. He bit down harder, sending jolts of pained pleasure straight to your core. His fingers pumped faster, curling to hit that special spot inside you with each thrust. “I couldn’t find anything like that at your apartment.”

Your stomach twisted. He looked? Of course he had.

Illumi released your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your breast. He latched onto your other nipple, giving it the same treatment, his teeth and tongue teasing the hardened peak. His fingers never stopped their relentless assault on your dripping cunt, his thumb rubbing your clit at the same time, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of an unwanted peak.

“I’ve…” This didn’t feel like the moment to reiterate how being intimate hadn’t really been something you dabbled in, and how could you? Everyone had flirted and hooked up using a language you couldn’t understand. It was also hard to think when all you could focus on was the feeling building up between your legs. “That’s-”

“I know, I know,” Illumi murmured, his lips ghosting up the column of your throat. “You mentioned it the last time I tried to fuck you.”

“T-then why ask?” Your voice wavered, hands still covering your face, unable to meet his gaze. The weight of what was happening was too much. “You’re a horrible person.”

“Am I?”  He said, sounding genuinely curious, curling his fingers inside you, making your lower body slightly raise off the bed, chasing the feeling. “I thought you liked me.” 

Illumi could feel your walls fluttering around his invading fingers, your body tensing as your climax approached. But just as you were about to tumble over, he abruptly pulled his fingers out, leaving you teetering on the brink of ecstasy, denying your much-needed release.

A choked sound escaped your throat, somewhere between frustration and desperation, tears prickling at the edges of your vision. Illumi straightened, resting both hands on your thighs, watching your reaction with the same impassive curiosity as always.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words, the weight of your own helplessness pressing down like a vice.

Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as your body quivered beneath him, torn between resentment and need. The sudden emptiness left an ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, a cruel echo of what you should’ve been feeling right now.

Illumi tilted his head, observing you like a puzzle he was piecing together. “Interesting,” he mused, his thumbs pressing idly into the soft flesh of your thighs. “You want to be angry, but your scent is conveying disappointment.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the sheets. “That was—”

“Cruel?” he supplied, his tone devoid of remorse. “Yes, well, I’ve heard I’m a horrible man.” 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your voice to betray the mix of frustration and something dangerously close to longing. 

He only stared back.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, he trailed his fingers along your inner thigh, feather-light, ghosting over sensitive skin without offering relief. “Should I let you finish?” he asked, as if he were discussing something as mundane as whether or not to close a window. “Is that something you want?”

Your body still trembled from the cruel edge he had left you on, a sharp, unsatisfied ache pulsing between your legs. Your hands fisted the sheets, trying to steady yourself, to think past the fog of frustration and confusion.

Why?

Why was he doing this?

Mariah’s words resurfaced, and a sudden horrible confusion washed over you. All this, the bite, the sex, the longing, where had it come from? Why was he going so far? He’d bought you a house, committed a felony worth at least ten years in jail, and for what?

“There you go again.” He ran a thumb over the curve of your thigh, watching the way your skin reacted to his touch, the way your breath hitched despite yourself. “What are you thinking about?”

You flinched at the casual dismissal of your internal dilemma. “Why me?” The words slipped out before you could stop. The words hurt to say. “You could have had anyone—an omega, someone who—who would make sense.”

It felt like a betrayal to yourself to admit it but…

This didn’t make sense.

None of it did.

You weren’t compatible with him, a complete biological waste of space, despite all the longing you did to believe otherwise. You couldn’t be what he wanted, couldn’t feel the bond in the normal way, couldn’t take the knot you’d felt insistently press against your body when he fucked you. You weren’t….

Enough.

Not to warrant any of this.

Illumi’s expression didn’t change. “Sense?” he echoed, as if the concept itself was foreign to him.

Your throat tightened, and you could feel thousands of other voices joining you as you said something you’d promised yourself you’d never say. “ People don’t bond with betas.”

A long silence stretched between you. His fingers kept tracing slow, deliberate patterns along your skin, not in comfort, but in possession. Then, finally, he spoke. “And yet you dated me, thinking this?” He smiled, a little teasingly. “Wishful thinking?” 

Your lower lip wobbled as you answered him. “I don’t know.” 

“Shouldn’t you be ecstatic, then? I’m making your dreams come true.” 

“I just don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to.” A tremor ran through you as Illumi’s fingers tightened against your hips, holding you in place beneath him. His touch wasn’t harsh, but it carried a quiet authority—an unspoken reminder of the claim he had already laid upon you. A claim you hadn’t asked for.

You never asked for the house, the extravagant dinners, the glittering parties, or the designer clothes. You never wanted the sleek cars or the empty luxury that came with them.

All you ever wanted was someone who saw you, who stayed because they chose to, not because they were caught up by some weird biological need to be with you, because that would never fucking happen.

Fucking monkey paws.

“You’re very tense,” he murmured, avoiding answering any of your questions.“Are you afraid of me?”

You stiffened. 

There was no answer on your tongue, and even if there was, he wouldn’t have waited to hear it.

He already knew.

Instead, he moved, shifting his weight so that his body pressed flush against yours, his warmth seeping into every inch of you. His scent—sharp and full and probably filled with answers—coiled around your senses, and you hated the way your breath hitched in response.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” he continued. “Most people are.” His fingers trailed higher, brushing the underside of your ribs, slow, unhurried. “But you’re not, are you?”

Your pulse pounded against your skin.

He exhaled softly against your ear, and whatever words you had been about to say died in your throat. His touch was methodical, exploring, testing, as if he was still learning the reactions of your body, cataloging every flinch, every sharp intake of breath.

And he was.

His fingers dragged lower, his palm flattening against your stomach. “Though I guess you wouldn’t know,” he mused, as if fascinated by the way you trembled beneath him. “I would have to tell you.”

Your nails dug into the sheets. “Stop talking like that.”

His lips brushed against the hollow of your throat. “Like what?”

“Like—” You bit your lip, frustration and heat warring inside you. “Like I don’t have a choice. In any of this. I can still… I can still leave. Maybe not now, but tomorrow. I- I can get surgeries, or- or something like that.”

Illumi stilled.

"No." His voice was calm, final. "It’s just the stress talking, so I’ll forgive you. But understand this—" his fingers brushed the fresh bite on your neck, deliberate, possessive and you’d wish he stopped fucking touching you.. "I didn’t do this lightly. You might think it was impulsive because of how sudden it seemed, but it was always going to happen. Sooner or later." He studied your reaction. "I would have waited until you finally got over your ridiculous fear of sex, but you forced my hand—overreacting the way you did to my gift."

He tilted his head slightly, voice dipping into something almost curious. "I still don’t understand how you convinced yourself that we needed space of all things."

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

He lowered both hands and moved up a bit. His fingers curled around your hips, guiding them with ease—positioning them. He lined up his cock again, the thick and long appendage once again hard and begging for attention, and your breath hitched at the pressure, the slow, deliberate stretch that forced your body to accommodate him.

Your fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles white as you tried to steady yourself, to breathe through the overwhelming intrusion of him.

And then, finally, he moved.

A slow, calculated withdrawal before pushing back in, dragging a broken gasp from your lips. His rhythm was steady—deliberate—each roll of his hips measured and precise, as though he was testing how much you could take, how far before his knot would brush against your body, your body unable to take it. It wasn’t as hurried as the first time, where he’d barely taken a moment to breath in between thrusts.

“This,” He muttered as he bottomed out once again and leaned down to place his weight on top of your body, the push into the mattress heavy and suffocating. “Is all the space we need between us.” 

Futility

Warnings: fem!reader, smut, abusive relationships, non con, jealousy, power imbalance, slapping, implied death, creepy Razor out in full swing

Word count: 6.7k

Keep reading

TW: nsfw, yandere, toxic relationship, friends with benefits, guns, threats of harm and death, name-calling

gn reader

When you open your heart to your fuck-friend, he sighs with rust.

You still have his cum inside your hole as he tears you a new one—telling you he doesn’t have the fucking time or the fucking energy to deal with lovey-dovey confessions right now—he has enough bullshit on his goddamn plate already without having to consider you and your fucking feelings as well.

If you’re not going to shut up and fuck him, you might as well shut up and fuck off.

So you do. The latter, that is.

Part of you knew it was going to end up this way. You with your heart broken and him with the blood on his hands. But part of you had hoped as well—hoped he felt the same way—hoped your words would soften his edges and wash away all the muck in his head enough to let you in.

You’d read a little too much into those gentle touches he sometimes bestowed upon you in his weaker moments—that soft way he cried when holding onto you during the night, wordless and clingy and begging you not to go.

But the more you think about it, the less you understand why your heart aches. It doesn’t really make much sense after all…

In truth, he’s an asshole. Always been. And you deserve better.

He’s always so angry. Always on something mudding up his blood. Never with anything nice to say. It doesn’t really matter how you’d held him in his nightmares or patched him up when he’d stumbled through your door drunk and bloody. 

Scarred boys in need of fixing aren’t good for your health—especially when all they have to offer you in return are callous words of rejection.

He’d always been secretive. He wasn’t a very good lover—but you're not entirely sure if he was ever even a good man. The wounds he’d dreg to your apartment in the middle of the night always left blood on your sheets. He never agreed to go to the hospital—always insisted your first-aid kit was enough, even when he'd come to you with bullets you’d have to dig out with a pair of tweezers.

You realize he’d been using you. You were convenient and stopped being convenient the minute you wanted more—and upon the realization, you move on.

And then he comes crawling back…

Shivering in the rain like a beaten street mutt—looking starved and sick like one, too. There’s blood on his shirt and a grim darkness in his eyes. He tells you to let him in, and you only barely have the guts to tell him to go away. 

He has this tortured look on his face—as though something’s your fault, as though you’ve wronged him in some way, as though you’re the reason he’s out in the cold with nowhere to go.

Barging in and slamming the door behind him—he locks it and pockets the key—ignoring your questions as you ask him what the fuck’s gotten into him. He looks deranged—water dripping from his matted bangs, eyes reddened, and cheeks streaked. You only now notice it isn't because of the rain.

“You said you wanted me, didn’t you?” he huffs. “Here I am.”

You’re tense. You hadn’t felt like that with him before, it takes you a minute to realize it’s because you’re scared. After all, you’d wanted him all those other times—rough or otherwise. And now you didn’t want him at all. 

“You should leave. You’ve been drinking.”

“What? You changed your mind already?” he accused, then scoffed with an unamused laugh. “I’m not surprised. People like you, who like danger and bad men, are always so fickle-hearted.” He approaches you too fast for you to back away, his scarred hands curling into your sweater—split skin from recent beatings bleed onto the fabric. “Flighty little slut, you’ve probably already found the next guy who gives you a rush. Isn’t that right?” He’s seething as he pulls you forward, looking like a hostile hound.

You lay your hands on his chest to keep him at a distance—feeling his entire body shake like static. You wonder if he’s taken drugs tonight, but looking into his eyes, you don’t think so. They aren’t fidgety but deadset. Actually, upon closer look, you don’t even think he’s drunk.

But anyway, it doesn’t really matter. You still don’t want him here. “I’m serious. Get out, or I’m calling the police.”

“Oh? Are we slinging threats now?” he jeers, showing no signs of letting go or leaving—he only pulls you in closer, so close you could kiss. “What? Don’t tell me you’re scared now.” He breathes out a short excuse for a laugh as you veer away, putting his lips to your ear instead. “You should have been from the start—but no—grinding up on me at the club as though you’d die without my attention. Crying pretty tears when you saw me all beaten and bruised—acting as though you want to save me. Tch—”

He throws you down on the carpeted floor. You wince from the impact, and when you look up again, you see he has a gun pointed at you.

You stop breathing. A dark hole in your gut seems to want to swallow you from the inside, and you think you might just want it to if it means escaping the threat before you.

“I shouldn't have come here…” he mutters—finger resting on the trigger all too calmy. “But I just couldn’t get your face out of my head. Looking up at me with those doe-eyes, wearing my shirt even though it’s got blood on it after I fuck you silly, saying such sweet little nothings as if I’d paid you to.”

He sighs—heavily—as though he’s expelling spirits. His hand remains holding the gun poised and pointed straight down at you even as the other drags down his face, pulling his maw before sliding through his wet locks, raking them away from his face.

“I gotta kill you, you know?” he says, shoulders slumping with the statement. He sniffs—it's almost soft enough to be a sniffle. “That’s the only way to solve this. That’s the only way to get you out of my fucking head.”

He cocks the safety with a click that makes your life flash before your eyes. Faces of your family and friends, people you haven't seen in years, childhood pets long dead, a job interview, the holiday you felt true happiness, the night you went out dancing and met him.

The tears stream silently down your face, and you still don’t breathe. Every part of you, every nerve and muscle, has gone completely still. Unmoving, unblinking as you stare up through the barrel of the gun and wait for the bullet to come through.

His finger curls tighter around the trigger, and you close your eyes with a furl between your brows. And then…

Nothing. There’s a large exhale.

“I can’t do it…” 

You open your eyes to see the gun lowered. The sight brings a rush of air back to your lungs, making you all but wheeze as it fills you, breathing in far too much and much too quickly. You regain some semblance worth of motoric, too—able to scramble backward until there’s no more room to be gained, sitting with your back against the wall. Eyes peeled at him where he’s taken to crouch, holding his head with his free hand and the one still with the gun in it.

He fists his hair and tugs on it frustratedly, muttering to himself. “Dozens of lives on my hands, and I can't kill this one single-” he stopped short.

This time, when he looks at you, there’s something else in his eyes. No malice or scorn, but something sad—pity almost.

“Well… seems like you got what you wanted...”

The pity’s meant for you.

“This is what having my heart feels like.”

BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Dabi JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Toji AOT – Eren DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ (FEMxM) INSERT masterlist ♡ (GNxM) INSERT masterlist

Frustration

Franklin x female!reader

Warnings: smut, dubcon, mentions of noncon, captivity, aphrodisiacs, drugging, spanking, manipulation, gaslighting

Word count: 7.5k

Your attitude towards Franklin could be best described as that of a tide moving to and from a beach.

You went to him when you needed the social interaction, when the loneliness of your new life hit you too hard and you needed to talk to someone just to keep yourself from losing it. You spoke to him civilly, starting with topics as basic as what the weather was like until you were willing to have more in-depth conversations regarding genuine interests. Eventually you would let him touch you without much fuss, not shying away whenever he would place a hand on your shoulder or lower back. Those moments you allowed were brief, and would end once he sensed that you were becoming uncomfortable.

With enough time, the short moments of physical touch turned into longer ones. You allowed him to keep his hand on your thigh when you were sitting close to him and let him to hold your hand in his. And it would soon get to the point where you would have no issue with him pulling you onto his lap and holding you; sometimes you held him back.

When you were at your most comfortable with him, there was no protest from you when his hands would begin to wander.

His touch would be tame at first as he continued the process of easing you in. When you would sit in his lap, he would take the opportunity to caress you, stroking your hair or massaging your shoulders you would relax further. Then his hands would wander further, caressing your inner thighs before he slipped one of his hands beneath your shirt so he could grope your breasts while he began to mark up your neck with his mouth. At that point it would culminate in sex. Unlike times in the past where you would cry, during these times you would reciprocate. You held him, kissed him and didn't hide how much you were enjoying yourself when he fucked you, your moans and squeaks of pleasure echoing through the room while he had you writhing on his cock.

Afterwards, late into the night when you were both exhausted, you always fell asleep before he did, not complaining when he held you and instead being content in his arms, resting your cheek against his chest while you slept peacefully.

Franklin always felt that he was at his happiest in those moments, when you were able to let go of the resentment you held towards him and allow yourself to feel good with him. When you freely gave him your love and affection. Less like his captive and more like his lover. The way he wanted it.

But those moments of bliss would only last for so long.

After that point, like a tide pulling out, you would begin to pull away from him. Days later you would go back to shying away from his touch, sleeping at the very edge of the bed so as to create a physical distance between you two and only giving him one word answers at best whenever he spoke to you. You retreated from him in all aspects that you were able to within the space the two of you shared and only interacted with him when you had no other choice.

It would stay that way until you couldn't stand being alone anymore and you would go to him, at which the cycle would start over again.

Franklin was used to it, and while the situation wasn't something he liked, he could live with it for the time being. Until you were able to better accept your new life and those instances of you shutting him out ceased, he would take what you would give him only when you were comfortable enough to do so. Until that time came, he'd be fine.

Or so he thought.

This latest instance of your refusal of him was lasting longer than normal, and the longer you went rejecting him, the more frustrated he became.

Maybe it wouldn't have been as bad if it weren't for the fact that the last time the two of you had been intimate, you had been the one to initiate.

He hadn't been expecting it as he didn't think he had worked you up to that point yet. But one night you surprised him when you climbed on top of him in bed, silencing his questions by pressing your lips against his. Your intent became clear when you slipped your hand into his sleep pants and began to stroke his cock.

That night was the first time you went down on him. The sight of you sitting between his knees, your tongue sticking out to lap at the metal piercings at the tip of his cock before you opened your mouth wide and took in as much of him as you could while you stroked at what wouldn't fit – those were images he was certain would be forever engraved in his mind. At that point, he didn't care what had brought this on. When you pulled your mouth off of him, he grabbed you by your hair and brought you up to his level so he could kiss you. He'd been rougher with you than he intended, but you didn't complain. If anything, you seemed to like it, and you kissed him back with just as much fervor.

You were desperate for him that night, placing kisses on his jaw, neck and along his chest, guiding his hands to where you wanted him to touch you and staying on top of him, riding him while you pressed your hands against his chest, your nails digging in and leaving small crescent shaped marks in his skin while his cock repeatedly disappeared into your cunt, engulfing him with your wet warmth. You shuddered and cried out when you came, and the way your walls squeezed him so tightly brought him to his own climax. When Franklin grabbed you by your hips and pushed you down all the way as he came inside of you, you cried out once again and reached out to wrap your arms around him as his cum began to dribble out of you.

You were completely spent after, falling onto his chest while you tried to catch your breath. A soft but appreciative moan left your lips when he ran a hand over your back to sooth your sweaty skin. He'd wanted more from you and part of him felt as though he was ready to go again, but at the sight of your exhausted form laying on top of him, Franklin told himself not to. There was no sense in ruining things by asking too much of you.

You placed a few more kisses on his skin before you fell asleep, and he felt content with the progress you had made.

The day after had been a different story.

Like someone had flipped a switch within you, you walked around like a zombie that morning, your gaze looking distant at times. Whatever thoughts had plagued your mind, you seemed to be struggling with them. That afternoon you had taken a long shower, and when you had gotten out, it was clear that you'd spent a long time scrubbing at your skin to the point that it had become irritated, and he saw that the damage was worst in the places you had guided his hands to the night prior.

When he tried to ask what was wrong, you only shook your head before you walked away.

At the time, he had told himself to think nothing of it. You were pulling away again only because you were still struggling to adjust. You would come back to him once you were desperate enough, and he would get to feel your loving touch once again. It wouldn't be long until you reached that point again.

Only the days had turned to weeks, and you were still avoiding him.

As a result, his frustration was mounting.

Before all of this Franklin never would've thought the lack of physical contact would bother him so much; with everything he'd gone through in life, he should've been able to deal with such a thing easily. Maybe before he could've, but it was different now. After the taste he had gotten of you freely giving into him and going to him on your own, it angered him that you would insist on pulling away.

But he wasn't sure what he could do about it.

His gaze returned to where you were sitting at the table with a book in hand, reading quietly with your back turned to him. Originally you'd been sitting on the couch, but when he sat down to join you, you got up and moved. You weren't even trying to be subtle about avoiding him.

Did you want him to get angry?

Franklin chose not to say anything. Lashing out wouldn't help the situation.

Even if it would be incredibly easy to do something to you.

No doubt because of what had happened the last time you went to him and how those images of you were still fresh in his mind, intrusive thoughts came to the forefront as he looked at you. They plagued his mind as he looked you over, running wild and distracting him. Thoughts of what he could do if he decided that he really didn't give a shit about what your reaction would be to any of it.

If Franklin really wanted to fulfill those urges right at that moment, all he would need to do was bend you over, kick the chair away and remove the clothes that covered you. Then he could do what he wanted. Take care of the frustration you had caused while he got to experience your warm pussy walls again. With how weak you were compared to him, he wouldn't even need to use much of his strength, and while the lack of recent intimacy would make it uncomfortable when he initially shoved his cock into you, the resistance on your part would die out soon enough. You would probably start to enjoy it after a time, and with some encouragement and a few orgasms of your own, he could get you to hold and kiss him again.

But that was a horrible idea.

He'd be taking several steps back if he went about it that way. When the next morning would come, you would go back to ignoring him – or worse, you might go back to the way you'd been when Franklin had first brought you here, where you would alternate between crying and raging in between pleas for him to let you go.

Forcing you into it would just make you resent him more.

Make you fear him more.

So he kept his distance, keeping the fantasies of forcing you into positions he liked in his head while you continued to read in peace. Franklin tried to do the same, though after a few futile minutes, he found he wasn't able to focus well on the book he'd selected. He closed it while his free hand went up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Ah, right. He remembered what he needed to mention to you.

“I'm going to be leaving tomorrow,” he said.

You didn't say anything, but you glanced back at him.

“I'll be in Meteor City,” he explained, “if all goes well, I'll only be gone for a week. But it could be longer than that.”

A beat of silence passed, with you still looking back at him, as though you were waiting for him to say something else. When he didn't, you finally responded.

“Okay.”

The reply you gave was barely audible and you immediately returned your attention to your book.

Franklin frowned.

That was all you had to say, apparently. Though with the way you'd been acting, he wasn't sure why he'd been expecting anything different.

Despite knowing how useless it was, he kept trying to engage with you.

“Will you be alright being on your own that long?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

You didn't even look away from the book that time.

“Is there anything you need before I leave?”

“No.”

He stared at the back of your head while you turned the page. But even with your dedication to the book you had in hand, he saw the way you tensed when you heard him lean forward in his seat, as if you were expecting something bad to come after.

If you were that nervous then why the hell were you acting like this?

Franklin ignored it again as he spoke once more, saying “I'll be passing through Olsoria to get to Meteor City. The place with that bakery with those macaroons you liked. If you wanted, I could get some for you on my way back.”

“No thank you,” was your curt response.

I don't want anything from you

That felt like what you were really trying to say with that, and Franklin felt himself becoming irritated. You clearly sensed that fact as he saw your figure become even more rigid where you sat.

The question came again: why were you insisting on acting like this if you were really that scared of him?

His mind started to go wild with fantasies of taking you again. Of storming up behind you and forcing you against the wall, lifting up one of your legs and fucking you open after tearing away your pants and underwear, taking any and all fight out of you with every thrust of his hips.

He wanted you. And at one point, you had wanted him as well.

Since you seemed desperate to pretend it never happened, he could easily remind you of that fact.

…..

If he went through with that, all of that work he'd done in warming you up to him would be for nothing, he reminded himself.

With that, Franklin's self-control won out yet again, and he stood up as he decided to give you some space for now. He didn't miss the way you flinched when you heard him stand, nor did he miss the way your shoulders sagged in relief as he left the room.

You were having trouble adjusting, he told himself. You would come around eventually. You needed to.

Franklin's business in Meteor City had taken less time than he initially anticipated, so it was only just over the week mark when he had returned. While the more practical side of him anticipated that your attitude would be the same as before, another part of Franklin was hopeful that things would be different once he came back. That maybe you wouldn't push him away anymore, and that perhaps the week away was what you needed in order to warm up to him again.

Why he had such a hope, he had no idea.

The practical part of him turned out to be correct, as you had the nerve to look disappointed when he walked through the door, only offering a small nod in response to his greeting to you before you quickly disappeared.

Nothing had changed since he had gone: once again he would try to talk with you, and once again you never engaged in any meaningful way. If anything, things had escalated. You now made a point to move to another room whenever he walked into the one you were occupying, and that first night back ended with you laying at the very edge of the bed again, almost teetering on falling off the mattress completely in your refusal to be close to him. The day that followed was the exact same as you treated him with apprehension and barely hidden disgust. You said maybe five words to him that day, and the distance between the two of you in the bed stayed.

He truly wondered what exactly your endgame was in all of this – you needed to know that he wouldn't put up with this forever. The way you looked nervous whenever he came close was clear indication that you anticipated he would snap at some point.

But instead of again questioning why you would continue when you feared him in that way, Franklin didn't comment on any of it. While he still felt some irritation at how you rejected him, he was now having an easier time dealing with it. Because, unbeknownst to you, he'd returned from his childhood home with a backup plan that he'd tucked away among his things.

A chance sighting while he'd been back in his roots of Meteor City had brought forth an idea, and within the hour Franklin found himself in possession of what could possibly be the answer to the problems he'd been experiencing with you: a pricey bottle of pills that had made the seller snicker when he had asked for them.

Franklin wasn't a stranger to illicit substances. Just about everyone in the troupe had tried something at one point or another, and he wasn't any exception, trying various things alongside some of the others when they all were younger. Maybe it was because he was getting older, but such things didn't interest him anymore. Do too much, be it D² or some other drug that was popular, and you ended up enslaved to it. A fair amount of the residents in Meteor City fell into that hole, rotting their bodies and minds with drugs all so they could have some relief from the harsh life they lived in the junkyard they called home.

These pills were different. He didn't need to add to your erratic behavior by getting you addicted. All he needed was for you to let go of your fear for just a little bit.

Initially after buying them he'd found himself struck by a case of buyer's remorse, uncertain if it had been a stroke of genius or a horrible waste of jenny. There was also a great risk involved: if you managed to find out what he intended, you would never warm up to him again.

But if the aphrodisiacs worked in the way they were supposed to, you would go back to wanting his touch. Maybe even begging for it.

And with every instance of you pulling away from him, you made his decision to use them on you that much easier.

All he had to do was wait for the right time.

It was close to a week after Franklin returned that you needed to go grocery shopping, and you didn't say much to him beyond the fact that you needed to get more food. You walked away without any response when Franklin said that he would be going with you.

Franklin didn't comment on it.

Not much was said between the two of you after you left, though you managed to get out a half-hearted “thanks” when he complimented you on the skirt you were wearing. The only bit of conversation you initiated after that was to quietly mentioned at that he didn't need to come with you. Franklin's reply was that he wanted to spend time with you. You nodded, though based on your expression it was clear you would have preferred to have been alone.

Franklin again said nothing about it.

When the two of you made your way around the store, you were guarded around him. Not as bad as you had been in the past, admittedly, but every now and then you would look back at him nervously. Did you think he would try to do something? What exactly did you think he would do in a place as public as this one?

Only once did he step closer to you, intending to place his hand on your lower back when you were reaching up for something and it looked as though you were becoming unsteady. You saw it coming and darted away from him, throwing the item from the shelf into the basket as you mumbled some excuse about why you needed to be away from his proximity right at that moment.

That irritation in him wanted to bubble up to the surface, but Franklin once more remained silent.

By the time you had made it to the checkout lane, he had made his decision:

Franklin would use the pills on you tonight.

That was how he got to where he was now: standing close by with a single pill in hand as you began to separate the meal you had prepared into two different portions, all the while he waited for a moment when you wouldn't notice him slip it into the food. A bit difficult to do when you were currently standing over it, looking over to him every once in a while. It didn't seem likely that you suspected he planned to do anything – you were probably just unhappy that this was a situation where you couldn't get out of being in his presence.

He waited until after you had turned away before he made his move, telling you “I'll take the plates out if you want to set out the drinks.”

“Why?” you asked.

“You've done all the work; I'd like to help out a little,” he answered.

“… Fine.”

There was a slight frown on your face, but you didn't stop him as you grabbed two drinking glasses from one of the cabinets. With your approval, he collected the plates and set them on the table in the other room. And in the time it took for you to reach your seat, he had mixed the pill in with your food.

You didn't say anything when you sat down. Nor when you began to eat. With the rest of the ingredients you'd used, you didn't notice the pill at all. Once he was certain that you had taken it, Franklin told himself to wait as he kept an eye on you. The seller's words came back to mind as he routinely glanced over at you through the silent meal. The aphrodisiacs were fast acting, they had said. Guaranteed to get whoever had taken it desperate and needy enough to throw away whatever reservations they might have.

The moment of truth didn't take long to come.

In the middle of the meal, he noticed when you paused between bites as you suddenly tensed up. You stayed frozen like that for a moment, and while your face was blank, he saw a growing panic in your eyes. It only lasted for a moment before you ultimately continued eating your meal as though everything was normal.

Only it clearly wasn't. Your growing uneasiness was plain to see as your movements became more stiff and robotic, and he saw the way you glanced up at him as you though you hoped he hadn't noticed your change in demeanor.

Franklin chose then to speak as he said “it tastes good.”

The compliment caught you off-guard, and you blinked at him for a few moments before you replied with a small “thanks.”

Your voice was hushed when you answered him, and you quickly averted your gaze as you took a long sip from your glass of water. You were doing your best to act as though everything was normal as you continued with the meal, forcing yourself to take bite after bite in between nervous looks over towards Franklin when you thought he wasn't paying attention. An uncomfortable huff of breath left your lips as you shifted in your seat, causing a twitch ran up your spine. The softest noise escaped you, one that was stifled when you bit down on your bottom lip to silence it.

Even if Franklin hadn't been watching your every move, he would've noticed that.

“Are you alright?” he asked you.

There was a guilty look on your face the second he asked that, horror overtaking your features before you hurriedly shook your head in response.

“I'm fine,” you replied.

“Are you sure?” he pressed.

“I…. I think I might be a bit lightheaded, but it's not a big deal,” you said.

There was a breathlessness in your tone, and that caused a heat to stir within Franklin as well.

“Are you sure that's all it is?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

You tried to continue as though nothing was wrong. No doubt you were confused by your body's sudden reaction and horrified at the thought of Franklin finding out what was happening. No doubt that horror drove you to try and prove to him that you were okay with every bite you took. But eventually, you gave up.

You set your fork down as you said “I don't think I can finish this. I'm gonna lie down for a bit.”

You didn't wait for him to respond before you got up and left, heading back to the bedroom.

He waited a few moments before he began to gather everything up, taking the plates and bagging up whatever was left of the meal for leftovers. But once that was finished, he found that he couldn't be bothered to do a thorough job with the rest of the cleanup. Franklin threw the dishes and cutlery into the sink and rinsed them for a moment before shutting the water off as he decided that was good enough. He was more interested in seeing how you were doing, and how much of a mess you were by now.

If you were desperate enough to beg him to fuck you.

He again thought of that last time together, of how bold you had been and how you had grabbed at him. How you had directed him to touch you as you placed kisses all over.

He wanted that again.

He wanted you.

And tonight you weren't going to deny him.

You were curled up into a ball on the bed when he entered the room, facing away from the doorway with your legs pulled in and your arms wrapped around yourself. When he looked closer, he saw that you were trembling. The shaky breaths that escaped your throat were easily audible within the space of the bedroom, and Franklin watched you rub your thighs together in subtle movements as though you were trying to find some relief that way.

Desperation was beginning to take hold, but you were clearly trying to keep it under control.

He spoke your name softly, and you stopped, freezing in place on the bed. Had you not realized he was in there with you?

Franklin said your name again as he asked “are you sure you're alright?”

“…. Y-yeah,” you said, keeping yourself turned away from him as you added “just n-need to rest.”

“Hm.”

The sound of his footsteps coming closer to the bed had you curling in on yourself further, and you bit your lip again in an attempt to keep in any noises. Sitting down behind you, he watched as you tried to bury your face in the sheets to keep him from seeing what you looked like in that moment.

“It's really nothing,” you managed to get out.

You really thought he would believe that this was just some lightheadedness?

“It doesn't seem like nothing,” he said to you, reaching towards you.

“It's noth-”

He grabbed you by the shoulder and flipped you onto your back.

Your eyes were wide in surprise, your mouth gaping open as you stared up at him. When it looked as though you were about to say something in response to him grabbing you, his hand traveled up to cup your cheek. Once again you were cut off as you whined at the skin on skin contact, your legs falling open as you leaned into his touch. Your whole body was running hot as Franklin glided his free hand on top of your clothes, and more gasps left your lips in the wake of his touch.

Just hearing you make those noises was having an effect on him, and the sight of you so vulnerable, so needy, had his dick hardening.

Having reached the hem of your skirt, he pulled it up to reveal the state of your underwear.

There was a wet patch on the fabric of your panties. And it was only getting bigger.

You squealed when he pressed his thumb against the spot, rubbing the folds of your pussy through the fabric. That action had you moaning and you began to buck your hips to the sensation.

Despite how this current sight of you was starting to affect him, Franklin kept his voice level as he spoke to you.

“You should've told me that you were lonely,” he said softly, thumb still pressing against your burning pussy.

Hearing his voice had done snapped you out of your state somewhat, as you now pulled away from the hand he had kept on your cheek, though the way you bucked your hips against his hand didn't stop even when worry took over your features.

“I-I… I'm not…..”

Whatever sentence you were trying to form died when he rubbed your clit, a loud moan coming from you. You slapped your hand over your mouth, looking away from him.

“Leave it to me, I'll take care of you,” Franklin muttered.

For a brief moment, you took back the control of your mind that the aphrodisiac had taken from you, a look of horror returning to your face.

“No…. I can't…..”

You actually tried to move away.

Franklin snapped. That rejection was the last one that he could take and he ripped away your panties, shoving a finger into you before you could say anything else.

The sensation of that single thick digit being forced into your pussy had you cumming instantly.

You cried out, arching your back while your pussy clenched around his finger, milking the digit as your release came leaking out after. Your gaze was unfocused and you struggled to control your breathing while your legs continued to tremble. The hand of yours that had tried to push his away was now gripping him tightly.

Franklin was only vaguely aware of your reactions as he was far more concerned about the way you clenched around his finger. How your muscles felt as they pressed down on him. How your release dripped out onto the sheets beneath you. How with every mindless movement of your hips, you encouraged him to fill up that emptiness inside of you.

All of those sensations would feel better once it was his cock inside of you, and with the way his erection that was starting to get painful for him as it pressed against it's confines, he was more than eager to get to that part. Though a voice at the back of his mind told him to open you up a bit more – with how much time had passed since you had last let him fuck you, the stretch would be more than a little uncomfortable without a bit of prep.

He moved within you to press against your walls, and then he heard the way you moaned and felt how you moved your hips to full on grind against him. Just like that, he removed his finger as he chose not to bother with preparing you any further.

You could deal with it.

Your whine of disappointment was cut short as Franklin grabbed you by your hips to pull you so you were facing him, resulting in your skirt pulled up further around your waist while your legs hung off the edge of the bed.

The sound of a zipper opening and his pants falling to the floor brought your attention back to him, and when you looked back to find his cock rubbing against your slick folds, you bit your lip in anticipation. Now, instead of fighting him, you tried to move your hips so he could slip into you, an effort that was thwarted when he grabbed you by your waist and held you there. You looked up at him with dilated pupils and tears forming in your eyes, your hands going down to grasp his in an effort to encourage him to enter you.

The expression you wore was one of pure desperation.

Franklin shoved himself inside of you. Despite how wet you were from your previous orgasm, he only managed to go in about halfway, your walls having tightened up since the last time he had fucked you, and from the way your face scrunched up, he saw that you were in pain, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

Seeing the way you had cried in the past had killed his mood on more than one occasion, but all the sight did this time was spur him forward.

With a slow drag of his hips, Franklin pulled out until only the tip remained in you before he pushed in again, his large hands tight around your comparatively tiny waist as he bullied his way in further, intent on burying into you to the hilt. All resistance on your part was gone; unable to move your hips as he kept you in place, your hands reached out for Franklin, desperately grabbing at the sleeves of his shirt in an effort to pull him in closer. You wanted the closeness. You wanted to hold him and for him to hold you back.

Using those sleeves that you had gotten a death-grip on, you pulled yourself into a sitting position as you attempted to wrap your arms around his neck.

With one hand he shoved you back down onto the bed.

And after he readjusted his grip on your hips, Franklin picked up his pace as he began to fuck you faster.

Your cries of pain quickly filled the room, accompanied by a lewd squelching sound as Franklin thrust into you again and again. Every time the metal piercings that lined his cock scraped along your walls, it caused you to jolt, your voice going up a few octaves as you still tried to move your hips out of the iron hold of his hands. But even though you were full-on crying now, you weren't doing anything to stop him. The affects of the drug in action: keeping your mind focused on the burning feeling inside of you that needed to be satiated and disregarding everything else. Whatever worries you had about the whole situation would come later; right now, all you could do was take the harsh treatment he was giving you.

Franklin stared down at you, watching your pained expression slowly fade as you got used to the feeling of his length being inside of you again, though every now and then you would still tense up, a soft, short whimper interrupting your frequent moans.

It wouldn't hurt so much if you'd given in on your own earlier

With that thought in mind, Franklin kept up the harsh pace, his cock battering open your pussy until he was able to sheath himself in all the way. Your tears that fell as a result of that were numerous, but never once did you tell him to stop.

Eventually Franklin flipped you over onto your front, forcing you onto your hands and knees to fuck you from behind. He changed up where he held you, now keeping one hand securely in your hair while the other slapped your ass. Once again your shrieks and squeals echoed in the room, and Franklin alternated which hand was holding you, delighting in seeing the way your skin became marked up from the force of his hits.

The way he hit you combined with his dick hitting a particular spot inside of you had you cumming again, and the feeling of your heat pressing down around his cock was what pushed him over the edge. With one hand still in your hair, Franklin pressed you down into the mattress while he kept your hips raised, leaving you to squirm as you felt his cum spilling out and dripping down your thighs.

A satisfied moan left his lips as Franklin loosened his grip on you, keeping his cock inside of you as he began to stroke your hair softly as he looked you over. Your skin was still hot to the touch, a layer of sweat covering you as you trembled beneath him. A quick glance towards the quickly bruising skin of your ass and there was no doubt that the next day would be uncomfortable for you whenever you would need to sit down. With how hard he'd hit you, maybe it would last longer than that.

Good.

Franklin leaned over you, the brief reprieve all he needed before he felt he could go again as he moved you over onto your side. He began fucking you from a new angle, and with how sensitive your previous orgasms had left you, your throat was quickly turning raw from how often he had you moaning.

When you pushed yourself up by your arms and once again reached for him, he chose to indulge you. With a shaky hand, you reached out to cup his cheek and pull him forward, and the action ended with you placing a soft kiss on his lips.

He kissed you back, at first matching your softness, then he pulled away to bury his face in your neck, covering it in lovebites and resuming the harshness of his thrusting.

He took you several times that night, and it was long overdue for both of you. Franklin painted your hot little walls white several times that night as he claimed you, and any and all fight had completely vanished from your system. Even in your exhausted state, you still tried to meet his thrusts, the drug having you far gone enough that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

By the end of it, you were fully naked and slumped over on the bed, your body still twitching as you tried to recover while Franklin's breathing was still calming down as he sat next to you. He reached out to you again, once more to pet your head after he brushed the hair out of your face. The noise you made upon feeling his touch sounded as though you were satisfied.

Not long after, the toll of the long night finally forced you into sleep.

Despite being early in the morning, it was still dark out when you got up from the bed, Franklin waking up shortly before you left the room due to the loud way in which you had stumbled about on your way out the door. A light on the other side of the hallway shone into the bedroom afterwards.

When he heard no further activity, Franklin got up to follow after you.

He found you standing at the sink, your hands gripping the edge of the surface to hold yourself up while you stared at the mirror before you. Your eyebrows were furrowed and you were frowning as you looked at the figure that stared back at you, taking in the sight of the bruises that had been left upon your skin. Your gaze went to him when you realized he was standing in the doorway, and it then seemed as though you were filled with a vague sense of distress just at the sight of him.

Franklin pretended not to notice that as he asked “everything alright?”

“….. I don't know,” you answered.

You looked back to the mirror as your hand left its place on the sink to trail over a mark that had been left on your collarbone, though you almost immediately placed your hand back on the sink when you unintentionally began to lean forward. Franklin was quick to steady you as he held you by your shoulders.

“You should come back to bed and lay down,” he told you, “I don't want you falling over.”

You didn't reply, instead looking down at the bruises that were scattered across your body.

“What happened earlier?” you asked suddenly.

Franklin blinked.

“What do you mean? We had sex.”

“Yeah, but….”

You trailed off as you looked away from him, your hands gripping the sides of the sink hard while your mind going over the events from only a few hours earlier. Then you opened your mouth as if you were going to speak, and after struggling to come up with the words, you spoke again.

“Did you…?”

Once more you left your sentence unfinished, and this time it seemed as though you were too scared to complete it.

“Did I what?” Franklin asked, making a point to raise his brow in question as though he had no idea what you were getting at.

“…. Did…. Did you drug me?”

Your question hung in the air while the seconds passed by in silence. Franklin didn't reply and you didn't look at him.

Then Franklin's hands fell from your shoulders. You looked back to him then, only to find an irritated expression on his face.

“Really?”

That one word that was dripping with disgust was all he said to you before he turned away, heading back towards the bedroom and making it a few steps into the hallway, intent on leaving you where you were.

Franklin was stopped when you grabbed him by the arm.

“I'm sorry!”

You were crying – sobbing, as you held onto him, both of your arms wrapped around his.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” you repeated, “I don't know why I said that. I'm sorry, please-!”

Apologies continued to spill from your mouth as your knees sank down onto the floor, still keeping your grip on his arm as your hands slid down to hold onto his wrist. He looked down at you, watching the way your tears flowed while you sat on the cold floor of the hallway, your weak hold on him likely the only reason as to why you were staying upright.

If Franklin wanted to be cruel, he would've wrenched his wrist away from you and gone back to bed, leaving you a sobbing mess in the hallway. Maybe he would give you the same treatment you'd been giving him for the past few weeks. How devastating would it be if you could only get one word answers from him? To have your only source of company not want anything to do with you? How well would you handle any of that now that you'd been forced into this state?

As interesting as it might be to find that out, he didn't want that right now.

While he did pull out of your grip, he did so gently and scooped you into his arms after, holding you while you cried. You wrapped your arms tight around his neck, as though you were scared he would vanish right then and there.

“It's alright. Don't cry,” he began, petting your hair again as he added “you haven't gotten a lot of sleep. That's probably making you say things that you don't mean.”

You nodded.

“The only reason you're feeling strange is because you've been feeling alone and stir crazy for a while now, right?” he asked.

You nodded again, eagerly accepting the explanation Franklin had provided for you without an ounce of hesitation. He wondered if you were actually listening to him or if you were just so desperate for him to not reject you that the words were going right over your head.

Regardless of what it was, at least it had you holding him again.

Franklin placed a kiss on your forehead, and that seemed to calm you down some, though your grip around his neck didn't loosen much.

“It's okay. So let's just forget about this and get some sleep,” he mumbled against your skin.

You nodded in agreement for a third time.

You clung to him even after he had placed you back in the bed, one of your hands on his chest while you cuddled up against his side. Franklin wrapped an arm around you to hold you close, and that further helped in calming your mood as your tears finally stopped, though you continued to sniffle for a few moments longer. He continued to give you reassuring touches as he caressed your skin, something you appreciated as you nuzzled your face against his chest.

Not long after the sad noises coming from you stopped as you finally fell back asleep. Your arms were still around him, and his body felt warmer in the areas where he felt your touch.

Franklin felt content as he continued to caress your skin.

This was the way it was supposed to be, he thought to himself.

You by his side, readily accepting his touch and offering your own affection in return. That was how things should be between the two of you.

And things would be like that from this point onward; Franklin would make sure of it. No more of the constant back and forth of ignoring his presence and then being all over him. No more of your barely hidden contempt as you went out of your way to avoid him. You were his, and just as much as you were meant to love him back, you were meant to give yourself to him so that the both of you could feel pleasure.

Franklin hoped you would remember that from now on.

And if not….

Well, he had plenty of pills left.

Treasure Box Reactions, Headcanons and Scenarios

Anyone looking for YG Trainees reactions, headcanons and scenarios, please send in some requests!

Actors on Actors | Toji Fushiguro

pairing: actor! toji x actress! reader

genre: interview style, slightly suggestive on toji's part

note: ah shit here we go again

📊 Video Stats

10M views | 350K likes | 40K comments

Convincing Toji to do this interview was as hard as his team had expected. 

The man was extremely private, always giving short answers on red carpets but they were more than enough to feed his fans. Coupled with a confident smirk of his and a proud display of the scar on his lip, the man knew he had people swooning for him. 

However, he wasn’t fond of interviews. It was evident in the way he leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, a bored look on his face and only answering when the question pertains to his character only. 

Other than that, you couldn’t get a single word out of this man.

When you heard that you were invited to be on an episode of Actors on Actors, you were both excited and nervous. Talking about yourself wasn’t your favorite thing in the world, but you loved getting to know other people in the industry and bonding with them over shared experiences.

What you don’t expect is to read Toji’s name on the paper. 

“Toji?” you turn to your manager with a look of disbelief on your face. “Fushiguro Toji?”

Your manager gives you an apologetic look. She could see the anxiety brewing inside of you, and you have to place a hand over your heart to calm your nerves. 

Talking to that man was the equivalent of talking to a brick wall. There was no way this was going to be a good interview—and who thought of pairing the two of you together?

The tall, broad shouldered man sits in his changing room with the same paper in hand as his eyes land on his name. His makeup artist catches the glimpse of a smirk on his face before Toji turns to his manager.

“That’s the pretty one, right?”

His manager chuckles before placing a hand on Toji’s shoulder. “The one and only.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

The interview is off to an awkward start. At least from your part. 

You feel small under the gaze of such an intimidating man, putting a leg over the other and pulling down the hem of your short dress to hide as much of you as possible. That doesn’t stop Toji’s shameless gawking as the two of you shake hands.

“I’m (Name), nice to meet you.”

“‘course I know who you are,” the words roll of his tongue smoothly and he watches as you purse your lips, dropping your gaze. “Fushiguro Toji”

“Very pleased to meet you.” You finally let go of his hand but you could’ve sworn that his hand lingered on top of yours a bit longer. 

When neither of you decide to speak up first, you let out a nervous chuckle while Toji turns to the filming crew with a playful smirk.

“This is fun,”

“I mean…” you trail off, smoothening the fabric of your dress. Again, his eyes land on your thigh and clear your throat.

“I’m…a really huge fan of your work.” your voice is small as you confess your admiration for his work in the industry. “I’m always amazed by your ability to get into character so quickly.”

“Watched some behind the scene footage?”

You were caught.

“Maybe…I mean it’s there!” You laugh and fortunately for you, Toji does as well as he nods. 

“Sure it is. I could say the same about you—” he gestures towards you with a genuine smile. “Great work, it’s rare to see someone so passionate in the industry nowadays.”

“Oh,” you wave your hands. “It’s-it’s nothing, I just really love acting.”

Toji braces himself forward with his elbows on his knees. “How old were you when you thought of giving it a try?” 

Your back straightens up under his gaze and you avoid his eyes as you think of a response. “I was about 6 or 7 when my parents would pull out a camera during Christmas and record me recreating scenes from movies like The Wizard of Oz and The Shining.”

“The Shining?”

“I was a weird kid,” you laugh when you see the look of shock painting his features. “But yeah these two were my favorite movies of all time.”

“That’s interesting, cause in a way I can see you getting into movies like that at a young age.” 

“Really?” 

Toji really likes the glint in your eyes. 

“Mhm,” he nods as he leans back in his armchair. “Like I said I’ve seen some of your work and–” he raises his hands. “I’m a fan.”

You drop your head shyly, silently thanking him for the amount of compliments he was throwing your way. This was honestly going better than you expected, but you knew it was time to ask him questions. 

“Can I just say,” you gesture towards the man. “Your recent work absolutely blew my mind—I mean, the entire movie was just amazing but your role. Wow, just wow.” 

Toji bows down his head when you clap for him, chuckling when you go the extra mile by pretending to bow down for him. 

“That role, was it difficult to get into such a state of mind? I’ve seen many actors—including myself, who needed a much needed break from everything after a certain role. Was it the same for you or were you able to detach yourself from the role easily?”

Toji gives it a thought, taking in the fact that you had crafted this question so carefully unlike any other interview he’s ever been on before. 

“After we finished shooting, I cut off contact with most of the world for about three months straight. I moved out of my neighborhood and into an area where it was just me, the mountains and the sound of birds.”

 Toji proceeds to explain how the role was mentally taxing, how the idea of going back and doing promo for the movie seemed like a huge roadblock he needed to get over. But after lots of therapy and some much needed time off, he was able to get back on his feet. 

“I’m glad that you feel better now, the industry needs good actors like you.” You admit and Toji leans back in his armchair again with a knowing smirk.

“I could say the same about you.”

The interview proceeds smoothly, with the two of you asking each other questions back and forth. After fifty minutes, the interview comes to an end and you get up to share a well deserved goodbye hug. 

However, Toji’s arms linger a little longer around your waist and he whispers something in your ear that’s facing away from the camera.

“You look good by the way.”

Guys, the mics are still on!

🗨️ Top Comments

💬 [somethingsgottagive]: DID YALL SEE THAT (6k likes)

💬 [somuchtosay]: this entire interview is just toji flirting with her im losing my mind (5k likes)

💬 [onehastogo]: ive never seen him this down bad omg??? (7,3K likes)

💬 [theboyismine]: this is the most talkative ive ever seen toji am i sensing smth (1.8K likes)

💬  [sweetnsourchicken] replied to  [theboyismine]: THAT HUG???

💬 [alltheavocadoes]: THE THING HE WHISPERED???(923 likes)

💬 [albumoftheyear]: oh the internet is on FIRE (508 likes)

💬 [cmontryme]: someone check on me ive shipped them for the longest time (392 likes)

💬  [sweetnsourchicken] replied to  [cmontryme]: without a single interaction is crazy

💬 [cmontryme] replied to [sweetnsourchicken]: i’m crazy

2025 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea. 

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her. 

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy. 

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too. 

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers. 

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper? 

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give. 

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint. 

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft. 

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate. 

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind. 

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale. 

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were. 

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.” 

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.” 

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them. 

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent. 

He needed nicotine. 

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with. 

A blink of red pierced through the mist. 

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave. 

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon. 

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day. 

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater. 

A lifeboat. 

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips. 

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.” 

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Roger.” 

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall. 

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom. 

“What’ve we got?” 

“Life raft.” 

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots. 

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers. 

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat. 

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean. 

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.” 

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat. 

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged. 

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.” 

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads. 

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line. 

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them. 

“You sure?” 

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together. 

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch. 

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive. 

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up. 

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?” 

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already. 

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind. 

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath. 

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure. 

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard. 

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand. 

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman. 

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.” 

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face. 

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly. 

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat. 

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.” 

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.” 

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging. 

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth. 

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it. 

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm. 

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.” 

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back. 

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again. 

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell. 

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension. 

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb. 

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them. 

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down. 

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs. 

“Gotta get her warm,” John said. 

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?” 

“One year,” Kyle corrected. 

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious. 

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck. 

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully. 

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled. 

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?” 

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.” 

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall. 

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her. 

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away. 

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations. 

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head. 

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled. 

“What is.” 

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant. 

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him. 

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand. 

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste. 

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity. 

John did not care, he had no qualms. 

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again. 

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin. 

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs. 

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them. 

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall. 

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided. 

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again. 

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair. 

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that. 

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle. 

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.” 

John said nothing. 

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude. 

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening. 

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word. 

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough. 

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?” 

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.” 

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud. 

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres. 

“Ferry capsized, maybe?” 

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.” 

“Mh,” Gaz agreed. 

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.” 

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting. 

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs. 

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship. 

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley. 

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?” 

“No.” 

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.” 

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder. 

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull. 

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together. 

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it. 

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.” 

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.” 

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.” 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.” 

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered. 

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal. 

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees. 

“What if she doesn’t?” 

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.” 

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly. 

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness. 

Still, salt on your tongue. 

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in. 

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine. 

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe. 

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate. 

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you. 

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again. 

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth. 

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it. 

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back. 

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet. 

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.” 

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you. 

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling. 

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water. 

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright. 

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft. 

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings. 

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.” 

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.” 

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him. 

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him. 

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.” 

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab. 

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you. 

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives. 

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands. 

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence. 

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.” 

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously. 

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway. 

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you. 

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again. 

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank. 

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside. 

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step. 

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets. 

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step. 

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked. 

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!” 

“Oi — girl—” Called one. 

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!” 

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach. 

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed. 

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?” 

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you. 

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed. 

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.” 

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you. 

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly. 

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?” 

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction. 

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.” 

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor. 

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone. 

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze. 

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him. 

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs. 

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.” 

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed. 

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched. 

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly. 

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle. 

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut. 

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.” 

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you. 

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg. 

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears. 

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg. 

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting. 

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being. 

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers. 

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees. 

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion. 

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece. 

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together. 

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?” 

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.” 

“That’s fine,” you croaked. 

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head. 

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.” 

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.” 

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion. 

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting. 

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.” 

“Iron Tide?” 

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.” 

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?” 

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him. 

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.” 

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased. 

“So?” 

“So what?” You asked, with a frown. 

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?” 

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea. 

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke. 

You didn’t have an answer. 

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you. 

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully. 

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head. 

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?” 

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.” 

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?” 

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty. 

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it. 

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.  

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?” 

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back. 

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.” 

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade. 

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.” 

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff. 

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.” 

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece. 

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder. 

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.” 

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle. 

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair. 

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.” 

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat. 

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead. 

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs. 

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about. 

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself. 

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one. 

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it. 

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table. 

“Happy?” 

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him. 

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?” 

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.” 

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between. 

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase. 

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door. 

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse. 

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else. 

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.” 

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste. 

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room. 

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him. 

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate. 

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it. 

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up. 

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it. 

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up. 

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy. 

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface. 

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle. 

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you. 

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.  

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface. 

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again. 

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness. 

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed. 

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.  

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours. 

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull. 

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm. 

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on. 

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent. 

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming. 

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again. 

Bottom Shelf pt. 1

First half of my gift-fic to @uvobreakmylegs who is amazing and deserves the world. I first intended it as one  big fic but this first half is already 11k words so haha that ain’t happening. Hope you all enjoy and comments are appreciated <3

Part 1 / Part 2

Warnings: fem! reader, forced marriage, alcohol and drug abuse, debt, medical debt, mafia/gangs, mentions of violence, nsfw mentions, very depressed reader, low self-esteem, yandere Uvo, yandere Franklin, poly relationship, mentions of a father and mother

“Y/n. Where are you going?”

“Huh? Ah, did I forget anything?” You looked at the small receipt on your platter. Three beers and an espresso, their usual starting order. One quick glance at the table, and you were sure there wasn’t anything missing. Had they wanted to order something extra, and you’d missed a queue? “Did you want to order anything else?”

“Of course not. You’re a doll.” Uvo threw an arm around your waist and pulled you closer, making you yelp and nearly drop the platter filled with empty glasses. You weren’t exactly unfamiliar with the man neglecting to respect your personal space, but this was a bit excessive. “What’s that look? Haven’t you heard yet?”

“Since when are you so touchy?” You tried to casually step back without it getting awkward, but his hold on you was surprisingly tight. “Haven’t I heard what?”

“You’re gettin’ married.”

Yeah, right.

“Uhuh. And the bride is the last to know?” You felt your cheeks heat up as Uvo grinned at you, somehow still at eye level even while he was seated. Despite the long time you’d waited on them both, he was never as bold as he currently was while you were working, Franklin often reeling the larger man back when things got out of hand. Franklin didn’t seem to be interested in stopping Uvo today. Uvo’s lips curled even further when he noticed you glance sideways to check. “Sounds about right.”

“You’d think I’d bullshit you?” He said, mockingly indignified. “We checked with the boss, and your entire debt will be forgiven if you just go along with this. Easy, right?”

“You’re serious.” It’s not a question. It’s meant for yourself as you search Uvo’s face for any kind of tell that he’s lying or making fun of you. Neither would surprise you, but while he definitely looks untrustworthy, he doesn’t seem to be lying. Is he for real? “You don’t mean-”

With you?

They both seemed to hear your thoughts.

Keep reading

magnum reaction to their s/o crying

Sorry for not getting to this sooner!

Magnum Reaction To S/O Crying

He would be coming home from a late dance practice, he would enter the apartment expecting to see you greet him, but when he saw you weren’t there, he knew something was up. He heard sobbing from upstairs, he slowly went up the stairs, heart racing, and mind flooded with reasons why you could be crying.

Jihoon

He would run to you and engulf you into his arms “why, why, why, who made you cry?” He would pat your hair, and whisper “it’s okay” over and over again. Would get mad, at whoever made you cry and would hold a grudge against that person forever. After you stop crying y’all would binge on ice cream and watch funny cat videos. But you best believe that he will find out what made you cry.

Yoshinori

His heart would break into a million little pieces, would run up to you and rub your back, while wiping your tears and snot away with the sleeves of his jumper, would whisper sweet nothings into your ear in hope that the crying ceases, which it does, he’ll ask you to explain everything, while you do he’ll hold your hand and draw circles on it with his thumb, occasionally giving your hand a little squeeze, to remind you that he’s still there.

Yoonbin

When he opened the door to your shared bedroom, that’s when he saw you huddled in the corner, wrapped around in a blanket, he would quietly approach you and wrap you around in his arms, not saying a word, just letting you cry into his shoulder, while he rubbed your back, after your crying ceased, he would remind you that he’ll always love you no matter what and that he’ll be with you thick and thin.

Mashiho

When he entered the room a look of confusion took over his face, ‘what could have gotten you so upset?’ He would softly call out your name, not asking what was wrong, but if there was anything you wanted, not replying to this he just hugged you, patting your hair, after the crying ceased he would ask you what happened to make you cry, and if there was anything he could do to make you feel better.

Asahi

Would quietly walk up to you and hug you, he won’t even say anything, he’ll just hug you as tight as he can, and when the crying ceases, he’ll cut to the chase and ask you who or what made you cry, if he was the reason of your tears, he would remove that flaw completely from himself that very second. You two would spend the rest of the evening cuddling.

Doyoung

He was excited to spend time with you, as the two of you had planned a stay-at-home movie night, his heart started to break when he saw you crying. Questions flooded his mind, was he the one that made you cry? He wouldn’t even call out your name, he would just wrap his arms around you and rest his chin on your shoulder, at this point he was also crying. “It’s okay, it’s okay” he would whisper into your ear without knowing the reason for your tears, but that’s okay. After the crying ceased he would ask if he did anything wrong ugh poor bby if he did he would feel like absolute trash and probably feel guilty about it for the rest of his life, and do anything within his power to not to that/say that again.

if you’d like to request here’s some ideas!^^

au + trope + prompt game

here’s a fun drabble game since i was on the hunt for one and decided i should just make my own instead.

 send in a character, an au, a trope, and a prompt, and i’ll write a little drabble based on it!!

au:

roommates!au

hogwarts!au

spy!au

mafia!au

ceo!au

coffee shop!au

bookstore!au

college!au

camp!au

high school!au

travel!au

babysitter!au

soulmates!au

parent!au

sports!au (name the sport)

supernatural!au (specify)

band!au

celebrity!au

trope:

friends to lovers

enemies to lovers

meet cute

meet messy

unrequited love

fake dating

childhood friends

exes

strangers to lovers

prompt:

“are you sure this is legal?”

“fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck this shit. fuck.”

“i don’t even think i want to know.”

“you said so, didn’t you?”

“you have the emotional capacity of a brick.”

“what is that?”

“you had no idea, did you?”

“wait, wait. say that again. please.”

“why are you awake so late?”

“you know i’ll do anything for you.”

“i know that it’s the thought that counts but this doesn’t even look like you thought about it.”

“is that the best you can do?”

“it’s been so long since we did this.”

“okay, maybe i’m crazy but did i just hear you say that out loud?”

“i’m rambling again, aren’t i?”

“my hands are really dry. sorry about that.”

“hold your fire!”

“this can’t be real. i feel like i’m having a fever dream.”

“suck on that.”

“it’s just so hard not to fall in love with you.”

“for the last time, please stop trying to airdrop me.”

“did you hack into my hotspot?”

“you know that your book is upside-down, right?”

“alexa, play wonderwall.”

“i know this looks bad, but i swear, it’s not.”

“sometimes, i sit in bed and wonder what would happen if things were different.”

“that was a very bad idea. 0/10 would not recommend.”

“do you ever feel like you’re far away no matter where you are?”

“hold on.”

“need any help with that?”

“you never saw me.”

“shut up for a second, will you?”

“now what?”

“i don’t even know why we’re doing this.”

“don’t tell me you spent actual money on that.”

“i let you mooch off of my netflix and this is how you repay me?”

“don’t you want to know how i feel?”

“i think i would rather eat expired spam.”

“you confuse me.”

“if you’re happy, then so am i.”