Latest Posts by junkyuholic - Page 2

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

Soap Being Soap

*opens tumblr*

*sees kidnapper!konig x reader*

*sighs and closes tumblr*

I’m a bit concerned lowkey about the amount of kidnapper fantasies out there, he’s starving the reader, locking her in the basement….nothing about that is appealing to me ..like that is just one thing I cannot get on…plz I want konig to make me safe not kidnap me and starve me and separate me from my family

I got news for you baby, you're looking at the man!

pairing: john price x fem!reader

wc: 7.2k...sorry lmao plz read…

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, oral (m. receiving), road head, porn w so much plot, hair pulling, angst, emotional conflict, complicated family dynamics, dysfunctional family, i.e., ongoing conflict, reader having familial issues (mostly maternal), age-gap, secret relationship & marriage, & john being a protector.

author's note: this was brought to fruition by a singular barry sloan edit that had me salivating and @sai-int's fic 'a ticket to play', which single-handedly re-sparked my love for price! so, yeah, anyways, enjoy this horny mess!

dividers by @/saradikagraphics!

John Price is a man...

“John, you didn’t,” you hiss, eyes wide as you set down the groceries on the counter, your wrists aching from the heavy load.

“Didn’t know it was your mother, sweetheart,” he replies, his tone sincere. He quickly grabs the bags and begins unpacking the groceries.

You glance at the house phone positioned beside the fridge, then peel off the old sticky note attached there. You read it aloud, “Don’t answer calls from the 406 area code. I’m talking to you, John,” before pausing to think, lips pursed in contemplation.

He opens the fridge, sliding the milk jug inside before carefully shutting the door. When he turns back to see your knowing smile, his eyebrows lift in a silent acknowledgment, a quiet ‘ah’ escaping his lips.

“Well,” you urge, grabbing the aromatics from the counter to put up. “What did she say when you picked up?” You ask, attempting to sound as casual and disinterested as possible.

“Oh. Nothin’ you’d find interestin,’” he hums with a knowing smile as he tears open a pack of paper towels.

You press your lips together. “Well…yeah,” you mutter, picking up a few grapefruits. “I mean, it doesn’t matter to me,” you defend, emphasizing the ‘doesn’t.’ “I just want to know what she thought,” you shrug, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Mhm,” he hums thoughtfully as he gathers the now-empty reusable bags, hanging them on the hook next to the cabinet.

“I’m serious,” you say, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “I really don’t care.”

"I know you don't, hon." He turns to wash the fresh berries in a colander, the water splashing against the metal steadily.

"You don't believe me," you exasperate.

He lets out a low laugh as he washes the berries. "Didn't say that."

You lean against the kitchen island, your body language betraying your frustration. "You were thinking it," you accuse, with a dramatic sigh.

He sets the berries back into the colander and turns his head toward you, a playful half-smile on his lips. “No, I wasn't,” he replies, clearly amused.

You poke your tongue into your cheek, mentally cursing yourself for marrying someone so adept at reading your emotions, your inner conflict laid bare.

“But,” he says, tearing a paper towel to dry his hands. “Now, I’m starting to feel that you do care.”

You don’t respond, trying to avert your gaze as heat creeps into your cheeks like he’s caught you sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.

“Baby,” he moves closer, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders and pulling you into him. “It’s okay to care,” he whispers softly into your hair, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

You gently shut your eyes, pressing your face into his warm abdomen, finding comfort in his presence.

“Damn it,” you mumble, your words muffled against him. He chuckles softly in response. “Alright, fine,” you pull back slightly, locking your eyes onto his as his hands cradle your cheeks. “I do care. Now, spill the juicy details.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, she started by checkin’ in on you.”

You release a dry laugh, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, right. She always has ulterior motives," you grumble. "I swear that woman is always up to—"

"Shh," he squishes your cheeks together as both thumbs rest over your lips to silence you. "Will you let me finish?" He prompts, quipping a brow.

"Sorry, yeah," you apologize, your voice coming out muffled and nasal. 

He nods with a smile, moves his thumbs off your mouth, and drops his hands to massage your shoulders. "Said your sister is gettin' married, and she thought it would be nice if you came down for her engagement party this weekend," he supplies. 

Correction remarried.

She's on her fifth? No, her sixth husband now.

Guess she thinks six will be the lucky number.

Who’s gonna tell her?

However, that’s beside the point; you care about something much more…pathetic.

You feel frustrated because all you really want is to know how your mother reacted to the deep, gruff voice of the Englishman who answered the phone.

You wait with a bated breath, eyes wide with anticipation, but his expression remains flat, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What else?" You finally question, unable to contain your curiosity.

"That's all," he plainly says, his words hanging in the air.

You scoff. "She didn't ask about the random guy answering my phone?" You voice with disbelief.

Your mother is a shallow woman, but surely you getting what she’s constantly pressured you into getting would have her jumping for joy.

A sly smirk grows on his lips. "Am I just some random guy?" He jokes.

You smile yourself before pressing a kiss to his lips, arms coming to wrap around his torso. "You’re my husband, so not to me," you begin. "But to her, yes," your hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him down to peck his lips again. "You know that," you say matter-of-factly.

His hands drift to your waist. "Mhm, I'm your dirty little secret," he hums softly.

"John," you frown, guilt flooding your brain. "You know I would, but—"

"Just jokes, baby," he interjects, pressing a light kiss on your temple as his eyes light up. "I love you in any way you’ll have me," he murmurs softly.

"God, you’re perfect," you reply with a smile. 

"She did question who I was," he starts. "Had no idea she was so southern," he remarks casually before continuing. "She thought I was the plumber," he quips, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

He tried, but he could feel the tension in the air.

Sees the disappointment and anger in your eyes.

In your posture.

You're fucking pissed.

"Typical," you remark, stepping away from him, arms flailing around. "She—she thinks I'm so incapable of finding someone that she would resort to thinking you're a person I pay before actually thinking you're with me." Your voice is filled with frustration.

"Hon—" John begins, voice soft as his hand reaches for you.

"And she wonders why I never visit," you release a dry laugh. "Never reach out."

"Come ere,'" he coos, hand pulling you by your wrist, so he can engulf you in a hug.

"It's not fair," your voice is once again muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but he can hear the tightness in it and the sniffle against him, a clear sign of your emotional distress.

"No, it's not," he affirms, fingers easing through your hair.

"Nothing is ever good enough for her," you exhale into his abdomen, fueled more by anger than by despair.

John gently kisses your hair while his fingers soothe your back with a gentle massage.

"I’ll never be good enough for her," you mumble absentmindedly, your voice lacking emotion.

"Sweetheart," he begins, his voice low as your hair muffles the sound. "Don't take offense, but you're mother is a real nasty woman. You're fuckin' perfect, and if she can't see that, it's her God-damn loss," his tone rough yet sincere.

You chuckled, a smile spreading across your face as the corners of your eyes crinkled. "I love you."

"Love you so much," he whispers, gently planting another kiss on your head.

He leans back slightly to look into your eyes. "Want me to run you a hot bath?" He asks, gently massaging your shoulders.

"That sounds really nice," you reply, taking a deep breath. "Thanks."

"Course. That's what I'm here for," he says effortlessly, leaning down to kiss your lips tenderly. "I'll let you know when it's ready."

You nod quietly as he moves to draw the warm bath.

The thought of sinking into steamy water and enveloping bubbles soothes your mind.

Honestly, to hell with your mother's opinions.

They just weren't worth the headache.

And there was no way you were going back to that house.

The promise of the bath, with its comforting warmth and enticing bubbles, would wash away your worries and quiet the thoughts swirling in your head.

Visions of your mother and that place would fade, never to resurface again.

"Can't believe she thought I would actually come down," you sigh contentedly, feeling the warmth of your husband, John, as he works shampoo through your hair, creating rich suds.

So much for the visions of your mother fading. 

It had been a whole day since your mother's call, and the weight of her words still lingered, stirring up a storm of conflicting emotions within you.

"Still on your mind?" John asks, eyes hyperfocusing on ensuring the shampoo coats every strand of your hair.

"I just—I don't understand why she thought I would come," you suspire, turning to massage the loofah against John's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tension in his muscles.

"Must have gone mad, I suppose," he jests, his fingers massaging the shampoo into your scalp, adding a touch of humor to the heavy conversation.

Your lip quips at his joke, eyes lighting at the sight of him taking such good care of you, ensuring your scalp is tantalizingly clean. "Maybe," you murmur. "Because all she ever does is ridicule me and constantly ask if I've found a man.” You gently move the loofah over his chest to ensure he is squeaky clean.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs, his hands coming to massage your facial cleanser into your face before returning to the issue at hand.

"Wouldn't let tryin' to examine your mother's psyche take your day, hon," his hands move with familiar ease as he massages the liquid into your cheeks. "You'll never know why. Can't change that,” he says.

"I hate how logical you are," you sigh, finding yourself relaxing at his touch.

He lets out a gruff laugh. "Would you rather me be some git?"

Your eyebrow quips, eyes remaining closed. "What does that mean?"

His lip quips. "Sweetheart, how long have you lived with me here, in England?" He enunciates the last word as he moves you under the faucet to wash away the cleanser's remnants. 

"Not long enough, I guess," you smile cheekily, wiping your eyes free of water to open them. "Honestly, forever isn't even long enough," you add, trying to shift the focus, though it's true; you can't quite remember how long you've been living together  

"Oh," he tuts softly. "Nice save. Can't argue with that," he replies, smirking before leaning in to kiss your lips.

After a stretch of silence, you turn around so he can wash your back with the loofah. Your mind is still swirling with thoughts. "I kind of miss seeing my niece," you find yourself reminiscing.

"Even though my sister and I don't get along too well, her daughter and I have always had a special bond," you say with a sigh.

"What else do you miss?" Since you never really talk about where you grew up, John prods, he's curious.

"Well, in the spring, my cousins and I would go flower picking in the field behind my grandfather's house," you find yourself getting more excited.

"He also had an old peach tree, Mindy, he called it, that we would pick dozens of peaches from and just lay in the shade under the tree and eat them till he thought we might become peaches ourselves," you snicker, turning around to face him, eyes light.

"They were fucking good peaches."

"Sounds like you miss it," he grins.

Your hand turns the lever off, and the water stops, leaving a lingering warmth on your skin. "I do," you confess, stepping out of the shower to grab you and him fresh towels.

"But, my mother knows how to ruin the best of memories," your voice is monotone. "I want those great ones to stay intact, you know?" You shrug, wrapping the towel around yourself, offering comfort.

He wraps the towel low around his waist. "Course I get it, sweetheart," his voice soft yet gruff. "Let's get you all nice and dry, and we'll order some takeout. Yeah?" He asks, reaching for your hand to lead you into your shared bedroom to get dressed.

"Sounds perfect," you voice, the thoughts of going home almost completely absolving. 

A few misses wouldn't make you completely switch gears and go.

It just wasn't worth it.

Only your mother could figure out how to make the enjoyment and amazing things crumble up and burn. 

But you won't let her. 

So, you've made up your mind. 

You will not be going.

That's final.

It's two days to Saturday.

You've been manically counting down the days.

And so, naturally, instead of basking in the serene morning, with birds chirping and the gentle glow of the sun filtering through your kitchen window, you're perched on a barstool, computer propped up, as your breakfast grows cold, hand hesitating over a plane ticket that will whisk you away tomorrow morning to your hometown. 

Just one click, and you'll have solidified yourself as going.

You're only feeling so impulsive because your impulse control, aka your husband, is at work.

Your finger hovers over the 'confirm' button for about twenty minutes.

You know what's holding you back.

The anxieties claw up about your mother and what ifs that could happen.

And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, it all becomes clear.

'Could.'

It's not a promise, just a possibility.

You had spontaneously decided that you wouldn't let the could control your decisions.

Yes, one thing was holding you back, but what about the multitude of things that you wanted to see or the many people who loved and cared about and desperately wanted to see after so long?

You were not going to let the 'could' control your decisions.

You were going to overcome this worry and take the leap.

You sit up tall in your chair, turning your head with a wince as you click "confirm."

"Oh," you murmur. "That was dramatic for no reason," you say monotonously.

But, now you can't help but feel a surge of excitement.

You would get to see your niece after so long.

And the flower field and, of course, Mindy the peach tree.

Who could forget your childhood room full of posters and knick-knacks you collected throughout your teenage years.

You find yourself smiling as you get that familiar chime from your email confirming your flight ticket.

Can't get cold feet now.

You take a swig of your tea, which has long since gone cold, but your throat is parched from the anxiety that grips you, a knot tightening in your stomach.

The mug was a gift from your husband for your birthday last year.

It featured your favorite flowers made into it and even had your birthday engraved on the bottom.

John was always so thoughtful.

You pause your movements, lips hovering over the clay mug, a moment of hesitation freezing your actions.

John.

Your husband.

Of course, he didn't care that you bought the ticket or wanted to go, but he would be pissed if you just left.

Sure, you could wait until he returned home, but the urgency to communicate your decision gnaws at you, compelling you to act now.

You hurriedly reach for your phone, fidgeting to press his number.

He's at the top of your contacts.

You tap your fingers against the cool granite countertop, waiting until he picks up.

It rings.

And rings.

...and rings again.

Until the line picks up, you sit up, ready to unload on him, only for it to be his voicemail line.

"Shit," you curse, hanging up as your foot bounces on the metal footstep on the barstool.

As you sit there, unable to wait until he gets home, you can't help but feel a surge of dramatic emotion. This internal conflict, this emotional turmoil, is what drives you to act impulsively.

But this is a big deal.

You never go home.

Rarely mention it.

So your next actions feel rationalized to you.

Without a second thought, you spring up, grab your keys from the hook by the door, slip your shoes and coat on, and speed to your car, most likely looking like a mad woman. 

But at this moment, who cares about appearances? 

The urgency of the situation overrides any concern for normalcy.

Normalcy is overrated, anyway.

You throw the car into gear, and though you are in a rush, you don't speed there. 

Carefully, you make your way, chewing on your lips nearly the entire drive.

Despite your earlier determination not to return, you find yourself on the way, a plane ticket already in your possession.

The anticipation of what your husband has to say fills you with a slight unease.

He wouldn't be mad.

More surprised than anything.

And honestly, you shamelessly loved seeing him at work.

His professional demeanor, always in control, never fails to impress you.

You can't help but oogle him.

It secretly really got you going.

But, this time, it was a purely innocent visit, of course.

You find a parking spot, ease into the front part, giving the officer guarding the gate your name.

She quickly lets you through.

You are the captain's wife, after all.

Walking, you head straight through a door and through another one.

So many God-damn doors in this place.

Until you reach the middle portion of the base, grass surrounds you, and various equipment is placed orderly around.

Sandbags, wooden ladders, and weights are among the items you see. 

Your eyes sweep the area until they land on the man you're looking for. 

He stands tall, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform, a few strands of hair escaping his signature hat.

His eyes are focused on the recruits, his expression a mix of determination and frustration.

From the looks of it, he's training new recruits, something he doesn't often do, but it's a real treat when he does.

His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny arms. 

His arms, usually strong and steady, now appear more veiny than usual, a sign of his apparent frustration with the recruits. His jaw is set, and you can see the tension in his muscles as he barks orders.

"Runnin' like a fuckin' slug," he reprimands. "Pick up the pace."

You hate how hearing that makes you feel butterflies in your stomach.

"Get your head out of your ass," he grunts outs, clearly annoyed. "The hell are you lookin' at," he asks a recruit who, along with a few others, seems to be on another planet, eyes wandering behind him.

John turns to his side to see you in a cute dress, waving to him sweetly. "Course," he lets out a dry laugh, giving you a small wave.

He turns back to the recruits, his authority palpable.

"Eyes off my wife, or you'll be doin' extra laps," he scolds, his tone low but intimidating, before yelling to move to the ladders with Soap.

He makes his way over to you, a warm smile on his face. "Nice surprise, hon," he greets, kissing your cheek.

"I'm gonna go," you murmur.

His brows furrow in confusion. "Go where?" 

You raise a brow at his confusion. "To...see my family."

His eyes bore into your intently. "By yourself?"

"I didn't think you'd want to go," you say honestly. 

"I'm going with you," his tone final, with no room to argue. "You bought a plane ticket?" He questions.

"I did...sorry, I just thought—" you begin before he cuts in, his hand pressing against your cheek. 

"No worries," he says. "I'll get the ticket when I get back to my office," his tone casual. "You're sure about this?"

"I think so," you say. "Plus, if I cancel the ticket, we'll be out six hundred dollars," you laugh out.

"Screw the money, okay? You tell me if you don't want to go," he tells you, face serious.

"If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know," you lean up, pressing a short kiss to his lips. "Also, you should always wear your shirt like that."

His eyes narrow as he lets out a laugh. "You like it?"

"Looks sexy," you purr quietly, teeth coming to bite your lip.

His face warms slightly. "Should see what it looks like off."

"Are you flirting with me, captain?" You say, hand coming to your heart in false surprise. 

"Just givin' you a preview for later," his tone is husky. 

"I'll be waiting," you begin, beckoning him to lower his head so your lips can hover over his ear. "Already so wet just thinking about it."

He releases a low grunt as you press a kiss to his cheek.

"See you at home," you say sweetly as if you didn't just give him a hard-on at the thought of you all wet and needy for him.

"See you, sweetheart," he almost chokes out as you turn to go away, your ass swaying in the dress you wear.

He's going to make you pay later.

And honestly, you can't wait.

You need something to take your mind off tomorrow's morning flight. 

Though it was going to take a lot more than sex to ease your mind.

A horse tranquilizer may help.

No. Too dangerous.

Whatever, you'll take your chances with John's hand all over and in you to have you sleeping and at ease.

Maybe you'll get lucky, and you two can sneak off to the airport bathroom and finally join the mile-high club.

That would definitely keep your mind off things.

For now, you’ll wear a smile, and excitement will radiate from your being.

Everything will be fine.

Nothing bad will happen.

Even so, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?

Statement retracted.

Your trip thus far has been a shitshow, and you haven't even seen your family yet.

Your flight got delayed three hours because of fog.

That was understandable, annoying, but understandable. 

What wasn't was the lady who insisted on sitting between you and John on your flight in the seat you paid for.

An older lady, maybe in her late forties or so, with a determined look in her eyes and a set to her jaw that said she wasn't going to let a little thing like a seat assignment get in her way.

She was nice at first.

She became insufferable rather quickly.

Very persistent.

You deduce she did that so she could sit next to your man. 

It didn't bother you so much, plus you knew if you showed it did, John would make a scene, and you just wanted to close your eyes and sleep, so you let her have your seat and sat by the window instead.

But every time you got settled, eyes closing gently, the soft lull of the plane helping you drift off.

"Going off to college?" She piped next to you, oblivious or noncaring about your eyes shut.

Your eyes open rapidly, and you look at her, awaiting a response. "Uh, no. I graduated a couple of years ago," your voice is drowsy. 

"Oh. You two must be going on a father-daughter trip, then?" She poses.

Your wide eyes drift to John's; a smile etched on his face. "Such a kind father you are," she compliments without missing a beat.

The sheer absurdity of her assumption leaves you speechless, and John can't help but let out a quiet laugh.

"Thas' actually my wife," he says, trying to contain another laugh. 

"Oh," her eyes widen in shock and apparent envy. "Well, aren't you a lucky one," her tone is dry as she eyes you.

That was funny.

But not when she did it about five hundred times on the eight hour flight.

It was like a broken record, playing the same tune over and over again, and you were the unwilling participant. 

Over and over again like clockwork.

Drove you bat shit crazy.

Sure, maybe you could have just told her to shut the hell up, but you kept telling yourself it wasn't worth the fight, and you didn't have the energy to make the effort.

Also, since the lady was sitting in the seat between you, formally yours, you didn't feel comfortable asking John about the bathroom sex.

She would have most likely dropped dead or asked to join.

You didn't want either.

So, it is safe to say that when the plane landed, you sat up excitedly to escape the stuffy plane.

The lady tried to follow you and John out, but you grabbed John by the wrist, dragging him behind you as your legs gained more momentum to try and escape her.

It was like a horror movie.

"Oh my God. She was so weird," you laugh out to John as you manage to get away from her, stepping out of the airport to collect your rental truck. 

"I know. Kept lookin' at me the whole flight," he says with unease as he places your suitcases into the backseat of the truck, shooing away your hands from the bags so he could lift them himself.

"Do we need to get you a counselor?" You half-joke as he opens the car door for you to get in as he moves to the driver's seat.

"Think so," he gruffs before his eyes fixate on you. "You okay?"

You had put the address into the truck's maps system, settling back into the leather seat, eyes now on his. "I'm nervous," you confess.

"Nothin' to be nervous about. I'm here for you, okay? If you need to leave, just tell me," his voice is soft as his hand caresses your thigh in comfort. 

You give him a nod, turning to look out the window at the passing buildings, a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

You had already texted your niece you were coming, so you're sure your mother and sister know. 

It's not like you'd be staying with them.

That's too much too soon.

Plus, you and John could have sex anytime in the hotel with no fears of your estranged mother walking and seeing John balls-deep in you.

It was really better for all parties.

Once you pull up to the house, you swear you could hurl.

"Was this a bad idea?" You ask John nervously as he pulls your suitcases out of the backseat.

He gently sets them on the dirt. "It's just nerves," he says, locking the truck. "Let's scope it out, and if you want to leave, we'll go. No questions," his hand rests gently on your shoulder.

"Promise?" You prod, tilting your head towards him. 

He smiles at you. "You have my word, sweetheart."

You release a deep breath. "I think I'm going to pass out."

He chuckles deeply, hand snaking around your waist to lead you to the front door. "I'll catch you if you do."

You feel your nerves subside with John by your side as you flip up the familiar peach-shaped doorbell cover to ring the bell.

Stomping feet approach, the voice growing nearer and nearer until the front door pulls open to reveal your sister.

Flawless as ever. 

Her eyes light up. "Thought my daughter was tellin' fibs," she jokes, pulling you into a warm, tight hug. "Missed you." Her genuine affection wraps around you like a comforting blanket.

You reciprocate the hug with equal tightness. 

Although you may not have gotten along well, she was still your sister, and you could feel the love a million miles away. 

She pulls away, eyes falling onto the mysterious, hot, stoic man to your side. "Who's this good-lookin' hunk?" She coos, smacking her gun.

"This is my, um, my husband, John," you say, fumbling your words a little.

"Nice to meet you," his voice is low and most shockingly British, as he sticks his hand out.

Cordial as ever. 

"Oh, come on. That's just not even fair, sis," she jests, taking his hand fast and tight.

Her playful banter adds a lightness to the moment that almost absolves your nerves entirely.

"Where's...mom?" You ask, your heart pounding in your chest, the unease apparent in your tone.

She looks back at you. "Kitchen," she says before offering a reason. "She's makin' peach cobbler. Come on in," she steps aside so you and John can enter the door.

The familiar scent of the old wooden floors, the sound of the creaking stairs, and the sight of the family photos on the wall all bring back a flood of memories.

Warm smiles and familiar voices greet you as you step inside.

Cousins, aunts, uncles.

They approach you one by one, their surprise at your arrival evident, but even more so at hearing that you're married to the burly man at your side. 

Your aunts keep him occupied as you wander into the kitchen.

They keep him engaged in their lively banter, shamelessly flirting with him while their husbands sit in the living room, engrossed in their own discussions. 

You feel a little bad for leaving him to fend with the wolves, but he assured you he was alright and all but pushed you into the kitchen.

Sure enough, your mother was busy rolling out some dough on the countertop for the crust for the top of the peach cobbler. 

"Mom," your voice is quiet as you move around the island to where she is.

She turns. "Well, I'll be," she begins, eyes wide and full of surprises. "Ya came."

"I did," you amend with a smile. "And I brought someone I'd like you to meet."

"Some city guy?" Her head moves back to the dough, no longer on you.

"He, yes, he's from the city," your voice is outwardly confused.

"Thought so," her tone is snarky as she delicately lays the dough over the cobbler filling. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" It comes out more defensive than you intend. 

"Nothin,'" she says flatly. "Enjoyen' your fancy life in the city?"

You roll your eyes, already anticipating the direction this conversation is about to take. "Mom," you urge, your frustration palpable.

"No, hon. I get it," she looks up at you, shrugging. "Honestly, surprised you came. Wouldn't wanna dim your new sparkly life," her tone is condescending. "That is why it's been so long, right?"

"It's not like that," you try to justify, but you know it will do no good.

She completely disregards that, instead changing the subject. "Supper's ready," she bussies herself with stirring the gravy. "Better snag yourself a seat quick," her tone is dry. "Table hasn't grown none."

You release a shallow breath, turning around to escape this stupid God-damned kitchen and moving to find John. 

It's a familiar feeling, this resignation. 

Guess some things never change. 

You approach him, and before you say a word, his eyes are already locked on you, body language now stiff. "What's the matter?" His hands are on you in an instant.

You should have known.

He can read you like one of those mission reports he reads daily.

"Nothing," you mutter, forcing a smile, but the words feel heavy with the things you're hiding.

His eyes narrow. "Can't lie to me," he voices.

You'd just about rather crawl in a hole and die than re-account. 

What was supposed to be a happy recount turned sour rather quickly.

"Tell me," he urges, sensing your inner turmoil. 

"Drop it," your tone is more icey than usual. "Please." 

He gives you a light nod, eyes full of concern.

"Let's go eat, okay?" Your hand moves to his, intertwining your fingers, and guilt claws up your throat.

He gives you a nod as you drag him into the dining room to snag a seat at the main table.

Mom was right. The table is still too small to accommodate a family of this size, so another table sits outside and another in the living room. 

Others crowd around the breakfast nook and sit on barstool at the kitchen island. 

This house has never known loneliness. 

Your mother, father, sister, sister's daughter, and your sister's fiance are at the table with you and John. 

Your niece opts to sit next to you, gushing about her new boyfriend, the son of the florist downtown, and asking questions about the city.

"Hush now, darlin.' She gets all fussy about that," your mother chides your niece, referring to your early conversation about you living in the city.

"Mom," you quip, eyes wide at her sheer audacity.

She hadn't even addressed John, just jumping straight into a fight.

Typical.

"I'm just sayin.' Ya jumped all over me for talkin' about it," she says, trying to sound innocent. 

Seems her memory is slipping.

"That's not why I got upset," your tone is teetering between desperation and frustration, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air.

She plops some mashed potatoes on her plate before passing the bowl along. "Then what was it ya were so hurt about earlier, huh?"

You're sure steam is rolling out of your ears.

"You hold a, a vendetta against me for leaving," you spew without much thought, anger taking over. "Because you never got to leave, you take it out on me," you finish, and you're sure you're shaking. 

If all eyes weren't on you before, they are now.

John is leaning back in his chair, eyes wide.

He's kind of scared if he touches you, you'll punch him, so he instead crosses his arm over his chest.

"I think the city is cool," your niece randomly chimes in, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Would love to visit someday."

You give her a smile before your mother starts up again.

"Didn't your mother teach ya about city girls," she snaps to your niece. "Nothin' good ever came from any of em.'" 

You can taste the metallic taste of blood on your tongue; you had bitten your cheek so hard you bled.

"Ain't that right," your mother says, eyes shifting to your sister.

Your sister is great.

Just not in the presence of your mother.

She takes on her personality and thoughts.

Agreeing with her without a second thought

That includes her fights.

"It's true," she snickers. "City girls can't tell a pencil from a pecker."

You find yourself standing abruptly, and your sister matches your action, spewing more garbage. 

And for some reason, her fiance stands up, which makes John stand up, matching his movements.

He's easily a foot taller than her fiance, and he's much more muscular, too.

"Enough," John's low, commanding voice is fitting for a military captain. It splices through the room, the commotion dying as he speaks. "I will not sit here and let you treat my wife like this," his head tilts towards your sister and then to your mother. "Now or ever."

He doesn't even need to yell to get any attention. 

His voice just demands attention already. 

Your sister, usually so quick with a retort, is silent.

The fear in her eyes is unmistakable, adding to the intensity of the confrontation.

She’s scared.

Hell, everyone is.

Well, except your niece, whose lip quips secretly, a small smirk playing on her lips despite the tension in the room. 

"Your daughter came down on her own merit to see you," he points to your mother. "Could have done so many other things, but she wanted to see you," he enunciates the last word.

"Well, she—" Your mother begins, her face bright red with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Tired of hearin' the excuses," his voice cuts through hers. She quickly shuts up, a surprising silence falling over her. "Can't even believe your daughter turned out as amazing as she did growing up with this," he gestures towards you.

He stands with his hands on his hips, disappointment is evident on his face. 

"My wife is a God-damn saint," his voice is rough.

You find your lip quipping at the praise and how much he appreciates you.

He worships the ground you walk on.

That was made abundantly clear. 

His hands reach to rest on your lower back. "Appreciate the food, but we'll be leavin' now," he mutters, stepping back to push his chair in.

You don't argue with him.

Hell, how could you?

He said everything you couldn't

Laid all your thoughts on the table and even added some extra.

He did what he was born to do: protect.

You step away, push your chair in, and turn around, not bothering to say goodbye as you walk to the front door.

You'll text your niece later. 

The chill in the air, carrying the scent of magnolia trees and damp earth, hits you like a slap to the face.

John's hand is still on your lower back, guiding you back to the truck.

He opens the door so you can slip inside as he makes his way around the driver's seat.

The heater is blasting as he shoves the key into the keyhole, and the engine is stirring alive as he easily backs out and pulls onto the road. 

The silence is heavy as he drives down a straight, desolate road.

It's silent for a moment before he starts to comment, apologizing profusely about how he overstepped and saying sorry that this trip turned out bad.

You're tuning him out and instead focusing on how he stood up for you.

He was just such a man.

He always knew how to be what you needed him to be.

Protector.

Listener.

Talker.

He always knew which role to take on to support you, to be your anchor in the storm of emotions. 

Just that thought alone made you incredibly wet. 

You don't know why.

You should be crying from the way things unfolded with your family.

But you're not sad, not even remotely.

Just incredibly horny.

You find yourself slipping the rubberband off your wrist and quickly tying your hair in a messy ponytail.

"Hon," John says, noting your unusual silence. "I'm so sorry," he quickly glances your way before looking back at the road.

You don't speak, opting to brush your hand against his cargo pants as your fingers fumble with his zipper.

He makes a noise of surprise. "What're you doin?'" He asks, his voice breathy.

"You took care of me," you mumble, shimming your fingers under the waistband of his boxers to release his erect cock, to which he grunts. "Want to do the same," your voice is lazy, as your lips brush against the sensitive head.

"Me yellin' at your mother got you all hot?" He jokes though it dies halfway on his tongue as your lips spread open to accommodate his size.

His knuckles are white as he tightly grips the steering wheel so as not to crash.

Your mouth makes a pop noise before you speak. "You're just so sexy. All manly like that," you mutter against his cock, the tingle of your words sending goosebumps throughout his entire body.

"Am I?" He chokes out as your lips move back to encase his cock.

"So hot," your voice is muffled as you take in more of his cock.

"Oh—Christ, thas' it, hon," he groans as you bob your head up and down.

His mind has gone fuzzy at the feeling of your tight throat, taking him so good, even swerving a little, before quickly straightening the wheels.

"So fuckin' good," he grunts, as one hand moves to gather your ponytail in a loose fist. 

Your tongue works in tandem, rubbing against the underside of his cock, sending more pleasure through him. "Such a good girl, babe," he praises, and you just know that your underwear will be soaked. 

"So good." Your moan against him at the next praise, making him sputter his hips up, his cock slipping in your mouth entirely. 

He chokes out some incoherent words you can't make out; taking note of his body going taut, you can presume he's close.

"Gonna," he strains out as you continue bobbing up and down, his hand tightening around the fistful of your hair. “Come."

You bring your hand to pump the base as your tongue flicks across the tip.

He groans with anguish, legs shaking as he comes in your mouth.

You pull your head up, your eyes boring into his so he can watch you swallow out every last drop, even using your fingers to clean up the residue in the corners of your mouth.

His eyes stay glued to your mouth before you yell at him to watch the road.

"Christ," he shouts, gripping the wheel tight to stay in his lane. 

You laugh as you lean, pressing a sideways kiss on his lips.

He can taste himself on your lips.

He almost comes again.

But the high lasts just as short as when you look in the review to see police sirens hot on your tale, the siren invading your eardrums. 

John curses but pulls off to the shoulder, sneakily grabbing his military badge in his pocket.

"You always just carry that on you?" You smile slyly, the body still warm from your escapades. 

"Will come in handy," he assures, rolling his window down as the officer makes his way to his window.

"Evenin', folks. Gotta call from a concerned driver sayin' you were swervin' out of your lane," he says.

"No, sir. Not us," you answer, John glancing towards you.

"That right?" The officer prods. "I'm going to need to see your license and registration, sir," his monotone voice says. 

"Yes, sir," John says, slyly flashing his military badge as he "looks" for his license. 

"You're military?" John nods. "Hell," the officer laughs, tucking his notepad back in his pocket. "I know you aren't some juveniles."

John laughs as he glances over to you, glancing down to see a little remnant of his come on your shirt.

He almost feels guilty.

Almost.

He lets out a cough.

"You alright, sir?" The officer asks, brows furrowed.

"Yeah. Fine," his voice is strained.

You shoot him a look before the officer starts again.

"Well, I'll let ya'll get on your way," he pats the top of the car.

You both issue a heartfelt thanks before John pulls back out onto the road, a palpable sense of relief in your voices.

"Can't believe he just let you off," you groan, hand coming to intertwine his. 

"Thought you'd be happy?" He laughs. "Can get to the hotel in record time now."

You raise a knowing eyebrow. "For what?"

"Saw you squirmin' in that seat," he teases, his affectionate tone wrapping around you. "I need to take care of my girl," he adds, his voice filled with warmth and love. 

You release a shallow breath.

His girl.

You.

Just you.

That's what you loved about loving him. 

You didn't have to keep up with his expectations.

You could simply exist, and he would kiss the ground you walk on.

The thought lit up your brain.

John Price was your man.

And in his eyes, you'd always be his girl.

mini author's note: i'd have to be surgically removed from him...

re-l, ergo proxy

NEIGHBORLY.

simon riley/reader feat. soap + gaz

tags: smut, established relationship (engaged), retired!simon, neighbors!soap+gaz, afab!reader, gn!reader, age gap (not specified but i imagine 30s/20s), long winded pwp

cw: voyeurism, size difference, no foursome, cucking, throat fucking with fingers, blowjob, dacryphilia, pet names: love/lovie/sweetheart, praise, outdoor sex, cunnilingus, wet&messy, simon picks up reader bridal, striptease?, fingering, dirty talk, praise, lots of compliments!!!, masturbation, clothed/naked sex, standing sex, hand on throat!!!!!, creampie

; two guys called soap and gaz move in next door and aren't good at hiding the crush they develop on you. your fiance, simon, decides they're fun to play with.

"You had dressed up so nicely for your company and here he was, stripping it off of you in front of them instead."

8.5k words

When your fiancé surprised you by buying a quaint little house for the two of you to spend the rest of your lives together in, you were elated. It was straight out of your dreams, cute and cozy, yellow on the outside and enough room for a little garden if you so wished. It was in a quiet neighborhood but near enough to everything you needed that you could walk there if you so chose. 

It was all so perfect – living with the love of your life in your first house together. Ready to start your lives and plan the upcoming wedding. Things were peaceful and you couldn’t have been happier. 

Then the house next door sold. 

“You really have to give them away?” Simon huffed from where he sat at the table, cheek resting on his propped up hand. His lidded gaze followed you as you flitted about the kitchen, cat-themed apron covered in flour.

You laugh over your shoulder, “It’s the polite thing to do! We have to be good neighbors!”

“They smell good…” Simon muttered, only making your smile broaden as you walked over to him.

His hands found your hips when you placed yours on his broad shoulders, black t-shirt getting white specks all over it from the flour still on your fingers, “After I get back from delivering these I’ll make a whole batch just for you, deal?”

He tongues the inside of his cheek before nodding, “Let’s get it over with.”

“You’re coming?” you ask, brows raised in surprise. 

“Of course,” he huffs, giving your bottom a little pat when you bend over to grab the tupperware out of the lower cabinet. 

You giggle and carefully place parchment paper inside before organizing the cookies in a way that looks nice. You pop the lid on and make your way to the door where Simon is leaning against it with his arms over his chest. 

You try your best not to ogle him but he looks damn good; a simple pair of blue jeans fastened with a leather belt and a tight shirt that hugs his pecs and stretches the sleeves around his biceps when they flex. 

“Maybe when we get back,” you hum, slipping your feet into your slides, “You can let me suck your dick on the couch, yeah?”

Simon rolls his eyes but doesn’t do a good job of hiding the crooked smile that slips across his face. He turns his back to you and opens the door for you before following you out and down the porch.. 

His heavy boots pound against the stairs, reminding you just how intimidating his stature is. It makes you pause, halfway between your yard and the new neighbors. You turn around and look up at him.

“What?” he raises a thick brow, crossing his arms over his chest again.

“Just…” you take a few steps backwards, playfully squinting at him with pursed lips, “Stay here, okay? We don’t want to scare the new neighbors.”

“You implying I’m scary, love?” he huffs, a smirk on his lips.

“I’m not implying it, Si,” you grin, “Just stay here while I deliver these.”

“You’re the boss,” he sighs. 

True to his word, his feet remain planted right where he stands as you cross into the new neighbors yard. You hop up the stairs and ring the doorbell. 

You hear a clamoring from the other side of the door before there’s a slam against the surface and muffled cursing. You bite back a laugh before smiling politely when the door swings open. 

Two men stand in the doorway, one with a mohawk stands closest to you – probably the one who ran into the door. 

“Oh,” he clears his throat, fixing his posture before flashing you a crooked grin, “Can-can we help ye?”

The other man, with pretty, brown eyes scoots closer, bumping shoulders with the other man, “You’re from next door.”

“Huh?!” The mohawk man gawks, whipping his head over to stare at the other man, “We had a pretty neighbor this whole time and you kept it to yerself?!”

“Are those for us?” he ignored his companion and looked at the tupperware in your hands.

“Oh!” you brush off mohawks comment and nod, holding the box out, “I made you some cookies. They’re just plain chocolate chip, I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” he kindly smiles and takes the container from you, fingers brushing against yours. 

“So,” mohawk rests his arm up on the door frame, eyeing you up and down, “My name’s Johnny but everyone calls me Soap.”

“Nice to meet you,” you nod your head in greeting, introducing yourself before looking at the other man who has opened the tupperware to take a cookie out.

“Kyle,” he offers before taking a bite, humming in satisfaction, “These are delicious.”

“Hey, don’t hog those for yourself, ye pig!” Soap cries, snatching a cookie out of the container before shoving the whole thing in his mouth with a moan, “These are good.”

“Thank you, I’m glad you like them,” you giggle, “You can return the tupperware whenever you’re ready.”

“So,” Soap hums before you can leave, “You’re pretty and you can bake, what else can you do? How about you come in and we can get to know each other more.”

You bashfully lower your head and laugh, “I don’t think my fiance would appreciate that very much.” You gesture over your shoulder. 

Both men comically lean out of the doorway to look into the yard where Simon still stands, arms over his chest, brown eyes practically piercing through them.

“Ah, that’s a shame,” Soap mutters under his breath before sighing, “Figures, I suppose. Lucky bastard.”

You shake your head tossing a little wave to Simon before looking back at your neighbors, “I’ll be seeing you guys around. Enjoy the cookies!”

You can feel their eyes on you as you go and it isn’t until you reach Simon that you hear the door shut. 

Your fiance looks down at you when you stand in front of him, “They liked the cookies.”

“Bet they did,” he hums, letting you take his hand and lead him back to the house where he proceeds to demand a fresh batch just for himself – as you promised. 

The next time you see your neighbors, it’s just Kyle. You’re outside, kneeling in the grass with your hands covered in dirt as you plant some flowers. 

“Hey there, neighbor,” a friendly voice calls from behind. 

You turn to look to see Kyle dressed in a compression shirt, shorts, and running shoes, “Oh hello, Kyle!”

“Doin’ some dirty work, are you?” he asks, eyeing the holes you’re carefully digging.

“Just getting started on my garden,” you explain, “What about you? Going for a run?”

“That’s right,” he nods, “May be on leave but gotta keep movin’ or I go crazy.”

“Leave?” you ask, sitting up straight in interest, “You’re in the military?”

His eyes light up as he nods, “That’s right. Soap and I both.” 

“You don’t live on base?” you ask, unable to hide your interest. 

“Nah, had to live in the barracks for way too long I couldn’t handle it anymore,” he laughs, a charming smile that makes you smile back, “You interested in military men, love?” he asks, flirtatious tone more than obvious.

You laugh softly, “You could say that,” his brows raise in interest, “My fiance is ex-military. Discharged at Lieutenant for an injury.”

His smile is wiped from his face quickly and you bite back another laugh, “Right, your fiance.”

“I could introduce you, if you’d like,” you offer, “Simon doesn’t really get to talk to many people who know what the military is really like–”

“That’s alright, love,” Kyle says, smiling politely, “I’ve got a run to go on, I’m sure I’ll get the chance to meet him soon enough.”

“Alright,” you wave, hands still covered in dirt as he makes his way back to the sidewalk before jogging off and out of sight. 

You finish planting and watering before you place all your tools in the shed and head back inside. Simon sits at the kitchen table, watching the tv that plays some movie from the living room. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets without looking away. 

“Hi baby!” you chirp, making your way over to the sink so you can scrub your hands free of dirt, “I ran into Kyle outside!”

“Who?” he asks, barely showing any hint of interest. 

“One of the guys from next door!” you remind him, turning off the water and grabbing a towel to wipe your hands dry, “Turns out they’re both in the military!”

“Is that right?” that finally gets his attention.

You nod, turning to look at him, “I offered to introduce you but I think they’re a little scared of you after all.”

He laughs through his nose before standing up, approaching you in a couple broad steps. He crowds you against the counter, hands on either side of you to prevent you from fleeing, “Think they wanna fuck you, lovie.”

You swallow thickly and look up at him, “Th-They’re just flirts…”

He hums, leaning down to press his lips against your neck, “Think I don’t know blokes like that? Young guys in the military like them only think about stuffing their pathetic pricks into whatever tight, wet cunts they can find.”

“S-Si, I haven’t showered yet…” you whisper when he starts trailing his lips along the side of your neck, “I was outside, remember?”

He scoffs, “What kinda man do you take me for?”

You giggle, squirming your way out of his hold, prancing past him and towards the stairs, “You can show me what kind of man you are after a shower.”

A grin spreads across his face as he chases after you, your sweet giggles music to his ears and cock already hard and heavy against his thigh, ready for you to be beneath him or the night.

He waits patiently for you to finish your shower. The second you’re out, a towel the only thing wrapped around you, he has you pinned on the bed. 

“You like keeping me waitin’, lovie?” he huffs, nipping at your jaw as he tugs your towel open so he can palm your breasts. You spread your legs for him, legging your knees rest on his hips, “Leavin’ me here with a hard-on. Got my cock achin’, sweetheart.”

“Si…” you sigh wistfully, lashes fluttering as his dirty words make you clench around nothing, “I-I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh?” he grins, broad tongue licking flat over one of your nipples, “I like the sound of that. You gonna let me use that pretty cunt?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, hands coming up to grip his strong shoulders from the pleasure his tongue brings you.

“So sweet for me,” he hums, rough hands sliding down your body, over your hips and trailing along your thighs until goosebumps rise on your skin. He brings two fingers between your legs to spread your folds apart, the sticky noise audible between the two of you and it makes him snicker, “You’re this wet?”

Your cheeks burn in humiliation, “Sh-Shut up, don’t be mean.”

“Mean?” he asks incredulously, “You’re callin’ me mean while I’m playin’ with this pretty cunt?”

You open your mouth to retaliate but he slides two thick digits into your pussy. You whimper at the burn that it causes but it fades quickly when he crooks his fingers just right to prod that sweet little spot inside you. 

Your blunt nails dig into his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt as he surges up to pull you into a kiss. You whimper into the kiss as he continues to stretch you open on his fingers, carefully introducing a third so you can take his cock later with ease. As you kiss, you grind your hips against his hand, his palm rubbing against your clit. The pleasure makes you sigh and shiver, a sweet little sound that makes Simon’s cock twitch in interest. 

The kiss is sloppy and wet, messy strings of spit between your lips every time you part to take a breath. Your cunt clenches pathetically around his fingers as he fucks you with them, scissoring his digits to really stretch you out. He doesn’t know how much longer he can wait 

“Please, Si,” you gasp, the plea making him stop, glancing over your face to see how badly you really need it. 

He sits back on his knees, flingers sliding out of your cunt with an obscene schlick. He unbuttons his jeans and moves the fabric out of the way so he can pull his hard, leaky cock free. He wraps his hand around himself, using the slick covering his fingers to lube himself up. 

“Take it off,” you whine, making him pause. 

He wants you so bad, just wants to fold you up and stuff his aching cock right in the tight, hot clutch of your pretty pussy. But the puppy-dog eyes you’re giving him has him huffing and obeying. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters, hooking his fingers under the hem of his shirt so he can yank it over his head. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, leaning up to run your hands over his chest and abdomen, feeling the firmness underneath your explorative fingers while he rids himself of his pants and boxers. 

Once he’s finally bare, he gives you no more time to admire his body before he’s pinning you down underneath his massive weight. You can’t do anything but let him, breathing in his scent while enveloped by his overwhelming warmth. 

He grips the base of his cock and slides the tip up and down between your folds, circling your clit to spread his precum all over it before meanly slapping the head against the little bud. The impact makes your thighs twitch and jump, a choked whimper of his name escaping your throat. 

You arch your hips just right, finally drawing the fat head of his cock into your clenching cunt. He grunts, thumb coming up to swirl against your clit.

“Oh, that feels so good, Si,” you whimper, your praise making his whole body shudder as he works his hips forward, sinking more of his cock into you.

“I know, love,” he chokes out, eyes pinned on where you slowly take him inch by methodical inch, “I treat this little cunt just right, don’t I?”

“Uh-huh!” you whimper, thighs twitching against his waist when he hits that sweet spot with practiced ease, sinking balls deep easily with how absolutely soaked you are for him, “No one fucks me as good as you, Si.”

He plants both hands on either side of your head, pulling his hips back so only the head is enveloped by your hot little pussy before he rolls his hips forward and stuffs his full length right back inside. He hits your cervix, a painful shot zaps up your spine and makes you grasp his arms to dig your nails into his skin. 

“I’m the only one who gets to fuck you, lovie,” he huffs, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple as an apology for hurting you. 

His next thrust isn’t as deep, avoiding slamming against your poor cervix but still deep enough that he can grind his pelvis right against your clit every time his hips meet yours.

“Simon!” you squeal, eyes rolling back at the feeling of your orgasm building.

“Fuck, look at that,” he grunts, head hanging between his shoulders, his wild hair tickling your face as he watches the creamy mess you’re covering his cock in, “Makin’ a fuckin’ mess, lovie.”

“You’re gonna make me cum!” you sob, hands slapping against his shoulders when he suddenly redoubles his efforts, encouraged by your announcement.

“I know I am, sweetheart,” he grunts, teeth clenched, “Always make this pretty cunt cum don’t I?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” you wail, throwing your arms around his neck, nails drawing thick, red marks down his back, “Cumming, cumming, cumming, Si! Fuck!”

He curses right in your ear, one arm wrapping under your arched back to pull your chest snug against his. He grinds his cock into you, no longer pounding into the gushing heat of your pillowy cunt, humping his pelvis against your clit to work you through the orgasm. 

When you sag against him, sticky cunt still spasming around him from the aftershocks, he starts fucking you again, this time to his own end. He grunts and groans in your ear, body trembling from the effort of getting his own orgasm – his reward for making you cum nice and hard around him like you deserve. 

“Shit, I love you s’much,” he slurs, lips getting loose from how close his high grows closer. His heavy balls slap against you, aching from how full they are, needing to fill you up with the load he built up just for you, “My pretty baby, so sweet and wet for me. A nice, perfect cunt for me to fuck, shit.”

Your cunt clenches pathetically at his filthy words, hearts in your eyes as you watch how handsome he looks with his brows furrowed and his pupils blown huge, making his brown eyes appear black, “Love you, Si. Please cum inside me, wanna feel you cum, please.”

He pants, slumping against your chest as he uselessly works his hips until his orgasm finally washes over him, spilling his cum inside you with a final, long, drawn out moan. 

“Shit, that’s it, baby,” he whispers, hoarse and breathless as his cock throbs and pulses, spitting out ropes of cum that fill you up just right, “Take it all.”

“Ah…Si…” you sigh softly, carding your fingers through his hair as he rests against you, waiting for his cock to stop twitching from the aftershocks before he pulls out. 

“You alright, lovie?” he coos, soothing his large hands over your body, “You did so well.”

You smile, cheeks warm and body buzzing from the incredible dick he had just given you, “Never better. You’re so handsome.”

He scoffs, rolling over to toss his legs over the side of the bed to stand up. He picks up  his discarded shirt and uses it to wipe off his softened cock, cleaning the mess of your combined cum off of himself.

You hum, “I have to take another shower. Would you like to join me this time?”

He looks up at that, eyes twinkling in interest.

One afternoon, there’s a knock on your door that interrupts your peaceful dinner preparations. You wipe your hands off on your apron and make your way to it, passing by where Simon is transferring the wet clothes into the dryer. 

On the other side stands Soap, an empty tupperware container in his hands. 

“Hey there, darlin’,” he greets, holding the box out, “Gaz and I loved ‘em.”

“I’m glad to hear it!” you giggle, taking it from his hands, careful not to touch his hands with leftover vegetable residue on your own.

“Somethin’ smells heavenly,” he groans, leaning over your shoulder to take a whiff of the aroma drifting from your kitchen.

“I’m just making dinner,” you explain with a little shrug.

“Guess you’re one hell of a cook too, huh?” he compliments, a charming smile on his face.

“I get by,” you laugh.

“Say,” he says suddenly, “Is that big bastard really your fiance?”

You blink in surprise at his bold question, “Y-Yes..?” your response comes out more as a question. 

“Is that a problem?” a deep, annoyed voice comes from behind you. 

You jump when Simon’s firm, tattooed arm wraps around your waist, “Si, you should be watching the stove.”

“You go ahead and finish up, lovie,” he mutters, kissing your temple before shooing you away from the door. 

“Ah,” Soap clears his throat awkwardly, as his back straightens, “Simon was it?”

“You’d be wise to watch your tongue,” Simon warns, “I’m not above putting you in your place.”

“Y-Yes sir,” Soap whispers, hands clasped behind his back, “I’ll be more mindful.”

“Get the hell off my porch,” Simon orders, watching the young man tuck his tail and dash down the stairs. 

Simon quietly closed the door and made his way back to the kitchen where you were plating the food, “Everything okay, Si? You weren’t too hard on him, were you?”

Simon bites back a smile and takes the plates from your hands to put them on the table for you, “Who do you think I am?”

You give him a skeptical look before taking a seat in front of your food, “I don’t want to make enemies with our neighbors, Simon.”

He sighs, taking a seat across from you, “Alright, I’ll be nice, love. I promise. I’ll go over tomorrow and apologize for bein’ rude, will that make you happy?”

“Yes,” you smile, “They’re not too bad. They’re just…rambunctious. You said so yourself, you know how their types are! They’re just flirts.”

He nods, “They’re…interesting characters.”

The next day, true to his word, the next morning, Simon is standing in front of their door. 

“Oh, hello neighbor,” Kyle greets nervously, “Is there something you need?”

“Your friend,” Simon grunts, “I’d like to talk to him.”

Kyle looks worried for a second, glancing over his shoulder where Simon assumes Soap was, “Whatever he did, don’t mind him. He’s just an idiot.”

Simon huffs out a laugh through his nose, “I wanted to apologize to him.”

“Oh!” Kyle gasps before looking back over his shoulder, “Soap, door for you!”

Soap rounds the corner and freezes when he sees Simon standing there, “Hello, sir.”

“Soap, right?” Simon says, “Listen, I was rude last night. I wanted to apologize.”

“Ah, well,” Soap shifts on his feet, casting a sideways glance at his friend, “I-I deserved it, I shouldn’t have said what I said either. Your relationship isn’t any of my business.”

Soap actually looks like a kicked puppy and Simon feels his own interest piqued, “Pretty, huh?”

“Sir?” Soap blinks in confusion.

Simon says your name, “Pretty little thing. Can’t blame you for makin’ eyes.”

“I…” Soap licks his lips, blue eyes wide in shock, “W-Well, yes, sir. Very pretty.”

Simon laughs softly, glancing over at his house where he knows you’re bustling about inside, “You think they’re pretty now. You should see them in nothing, bent over the kitchen table in tears.”

Soap’s throat moves as he swallows around the lump in his throat, mind conjuring up sinful images. Kyle’s eyes practically bug out of his head at Simon’s words.

The large man gives a tight lipped smile as a goodbye before he's stalking off of the porch, leaving the two young men slack-jawed and stunned into silence. 

When Simon’s in the safety of his own home, he places a hand over his face and lets out the low chuckles he had been holding back. 

“What’s so funny, Si?” you ask when you descend from the stairs, a laundry basket in your hands – the second load from yesterday that you hadn’t had the chance to do.

“Nothin’, lovie,” he grins, sharp canines on display, “Let me help you with that.”

“Did you make up with the neighbors?” you ask, letting him take the basket from your hands.

“I sure did,” he coos, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before leading the way to the laundry room. 

You give him a suspicious look but decide not to press the issue further, instead choosing to focus on the other chores you still had to do for the day. 

Things seemingly settle down for a little while. You don’t see either of your new neighbors except for polite greetings in passing. All in all, things seem to quiet down. 

You’re relaxing with Simon on the back veranda, curled in his lap on a swinging bench with a book in your hands. Usually, you’d be scrolling on your phone but Simon was always adamant about being tech-free when you were outside together like this.

Enjoy nature and relax he would say, only laughing when you would call him an old man. 

Just as you start a new chapter in your book, Simon’s hand begins to wander. Your lips twitch as you fight smiling, watching his fingers slip beneath the leg of your lounge shorts. The feeling of his callused skin brushing against the hem of your panties already has you clenching around nothing. 

“Look so pretty like this,” he coos in your ear, hand coming from between your legs to wrap around your throat.

You smile against his lips, “I haven’t even gotten dressed yet today.”

“I know,” he breathes, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet, simple kiss before pulling back to add, “You’re pretty without even havin’ to try, lovie.”

“You’re just trying to butter me up so I let you in my pants,” you tease, practically melting at the feeling of his thumb stroking the skin of your cheek. 

“Don’t gotta butter you up for that, do I sweetheart?” he coos, “You’ll let me right between those thighs without even havin’ to ask.”

Your lashes flutter at his words, heart pounding in your ears because he’s right. Even right now, your panties have grown sticky. His thumb traces over your lips and you open your mouth to let the digit inside. The action makes him raise a brow.

“You want somethin’ down that little throat?'' he asks. You nod your head, not caring how desperate you look, “Even with our little audience over there?”

He watches your eyes widen, clearly startled out of the moment. Your gaze flicks past his face to see your two neighbors Soap and Gaz on their back porch, both nursing beers. They look away when your gaze falls on them but it’s clear they’ve been watching the whole interaction with your fiance. 

“Don’t care,” you find yourself muttering, eyes falling back onto your fiance.

“That’s what I thought,” he huffs, leaning forward to brush his lips against yours, “Knew you were filthy, don’t mind if anyone watches you as long as your pretty cunt gets to cum, yeah?”

You feel breathless as you nod your head. Simon brings his index and middle fingers to your lips that you eagerly open up for him. 

“Good,” he praises, slowly slipping the fingers into your mouth, careful not to gag you on them until you’re ready. 

Your lips seal around the digits, rolling your tongue over the salty skin until they’re covered in spit. Then he slowly starts sliding them deeper into your mouth until the tips are buried in your throat.

“Relax, just like that, good,” he praises, cock leaking against his thigh at the sight of your eyes filling with tears. He pulls his fingers back carefully just to stuff them back in, biting back a groan when you choke around them. 

Simon casts a glance over his shoulder to see the two neighbors you were giving the show to watching with wide, unblinking eyes. Neither could take their eyes off of you as you eagerly let your fiance fuck your throat with his fingers. 

He could see Soap had his hand on his crotch, no doubt gripping his hard cock. Kyle at least had enough pride to not touch himself to the sight of you. 

You reach up to grab Simon’s wrist, signaling for him to pull his fingers out of your mouth. When he did, a string of thick drool connected your lips to the tips. The sight made his cock throb painfully, desperate for some kind of friction. 

“I want you, Si,” you whimper, reaching down to cup his hardened cock through his pants.

“Is that right?” he asks, raising a brow, “Is that pretty little pussy wet?”

You nod your head, “Want your tongue, Si.”

He licks his lips, chasing the fantasy taste of you before glancing back over to the neighbors who now don’t even bother hiding the fact they’re watching the two of you.

“Want me to eat you out right here?” he asks, subtly gesturing his head to next door.

“Don’t care about them,” you whine, a cute little frown on your face that he just couldn’t say no to. 

Before you knew it, Simon was on his knees, tugging your shorts and panties off in one fell swoop. You eagerly spread your legs, locking your arms around your knees to let Simon have as much room as he needed. 

“Look at you,” he coos, using his thumbs to spread your lips apart, exposing your drooling entrance and swollen clit. 

The little bud twitched under his heated gaze, hole dribbling out more thick juices that made his mouth water. He can’t resist the call anymore, leaning forward to slide the flat of his tongue over the length of your cunt, ending with a flick against your clit that made your whole body twitch. 

“Thaaaaat’s it, pretty,” he coos, muffled from the way he refuses to part from your cunt, “Let us hear you.”

Your mouth falls open as he starts eagerly tonguing your pussy, swirling the muscle inside your hole before coming up to wrap his lips around your clit. He eats messy, not caring for all the drool and cum that covers his face or drips down to the floor below. 

He uses his thumbs to keep your folds spread so he can focus on your clit. His tongue swirls around and around, lathering the poor little bud in a heavy film of his spit before he’s wrapping his lips around it again and sucking. 

The feeling makes your back arch and you can’t help the loud moan that tears from your throat. Your nails dig into the soft meat of your thigh, the only thing you can grab from the position you’ve chosen for yourself. 

Simon’s eyes are closed and there’s a crease between his brows of concentration. Neither of you even remembers the fact you’re outside and have an audience of two just next door. All you can think about is how good your fiance’s tongue feels worshiping your clit. 

“Si!” you squeal when he reaches up to tug the hood of your clit back, exposing the little bud for him to tongue at. It’s so sensitive that it aches but it feels too good to stop him, only able to lay back and twitch as you take it. 

He groans in response to you calling his name, cock leaking down his thigh so much that his sweats are sticking to him. Your slick drips off of his chin and he can think of nothing but how good you smell and taste – a 5 star meal all laid out just for him.

“Oh, I’m gonna cum!” you cry out, “You’re gonna make me cum, Si!”

He can’t even bring himself to pull his mouth off of you to encourage you like he usually does. Instead, he doubles his efforts, slurping and sucking at your clit. His jaw is aching but it’s barely a blip on his radar as he feels the tender little bud throb beneath his tongue. 

Your orgasm washes over you quickly and hard. Your eyes roll back in your head as your jaw falls open, a symphony of pleasured cries flit through the air. Your fiance eagerly works you through the orgasm he so easily gave you, tongue swirling and circling your clit until your thighs clamp shut and you push him away, still trembling and shaking from the aftershocks. 

He pulls back, chest heaving as he finally takes the first deep breaths he’s gotten since he started. 

“Good?” he asks, licking his lips to clean your cum off of them.

You nod, breathless, “Take me inside and fuck me, please Si.”

He’s on his feet in seconds, scooping you up bridal style before hurrying back inside, forgetting all about the book you left behind – and the audience still on the porch next door. 

You learn that Simon seems to really enjoy torturing your two neighbors when just a few nights later, he corners you in the bedroom. 

“Our neighbor’s a nosy little bastard,” he coos into your ear. 

You cast a glance over to the window where you can see Soap is lingering in front of his window, acting like he wasn’t watching and waiting to see what would happen next. 

“He’s waitin’ so patiently,” Simon says, “It’s only polite of us to give him somethin’ to look at.”

“Glad to see you’re finally being neighborly,” you tease, a cheeky grin growing on your face. 

Simon’s fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, sliding it up and up until you lift your arms and let him tug it over your head. Your bare breasts bounce free and Simon sucks in a breath at the sight.

“Fuck,” he coos, large hands cupping them, “Can’t believe I get to marry you some day.”

“We still need to pick a date,” you mutter, voice cracking when he wraps his lips around one perked nipple. 

He groans against your chest, “I’d marry you right fuckin’ now if you’d let me.”

You whimper, hands carding through his messy hair before he abruptly pulls away. He grips your shoulders and turns you so your back is pressed against his chest and you’re facing the window – and Soap, who still stands there stunned. 

Kyle pops in from the left, mouth dropping open at the sight of your tits on full display for them to ogle. Simon stares over your shoulder, watching their reactions as he gropes your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. 

You can’t stop the soft whimpers and gasps that fall from your lips as he plays with your nipples. Your thighs clench together, a weak attempt to quell the ache that settles in your cunt. You never thought you’d enjoy being watched like this – it felt so dirty and wrong but that’s exactly what turned you on. The fact your neighbors wanted you so badly that they would just watch you get touched like this. 

“You wanna give ‘em a show?” he asks, voice dark and deep in your ear, “Somethin’ they’ll be fistin’ their cocks to later?”

“Yes, anything, Si,” you whimper, hands coming up to grip his wrists as he squeezes your breasts, “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Then get on your knees,” he orders, letting your chest go so you can drop to your knees in front of him, “There you go. Just where you belong.”

He unbuckles his belt and pulls his zipper down, reaching inside his boxers to pull his half-hard cock out. You watch with wide eyes as he slowly strokes himself to full hardness. 

A bead of precum oozes from the tip and it makes your mouth water. Before Simon even says anything, you lean forward and wrap your lips around the head of his cock. A soft, sweet sound comes from his throat at the feeling of your hot, soft tongue sliding over the sensitive skin. 

His hand comes down to cradle your jaw, lidded gaze watching how you start to take him deeper. 

When he feels his cock pop into your throat, it feels like the air gets punched out of his lungs. His touch moves from your jaw to your throat, feeling the way it bulges the deeper you take his length down. 

He glances out the window to find Kyle has joined watching with rapt attention at how you swallow his cock. The sight of it makes him pulse in your throat and you whimper at the salty taste of his pre-cum on your tongue. 

When you’ve swallowed all of him that you can take, you bring up a hand to stroke him to the same rhythm that you bob your head. Simon tosses his head back, brown eyes rolling into his skull at the sloppy sounds of you choking and drooling all over him. 

He feels your spit dribble down his balls and over your chin to his hand. It’s everything – it’s messy and sloppy. He can’t even bring himself to look at you, too scared he’ll blow his load right down your tight little throat before he can even fully enjoy it to the fullest. 

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound going straight to your cunt. You can’t help but slip your hand down your panties, finding your cunt slippery and wet. Your fingers circle your clit as you gag around your fiance’s thick cock.

“That’s it, lovie,” he huffs, “Touch that pretty cunt for me.”

Your lashes flutter at his words, rocking your hips against your own touch. Simon’s hand rests on the top of your head, slowly starting to rock his own hips, heavy balls slapping against your chin with the movement. You halt stroking him with your hand and brace yourself against his thigh, giving him permission to fuck your face as he wants. 

“There you go,” he grunts, teeth gritted, “Cum on those fingers for me and I’ll cum down your throat, yeah? Think you can do that?”

You nod your head, doubling your efforts between your legs. The mess of drool that Simon fucks out of your mouth froths and drips everywhere, the entire endeavor growing messier and messier with each thrust he makes. 

Simon watches the way your eyes roll back in your head, thighs twitching and spasming around your hand. He can feel the muffled vibrations as you whine against the cock filling your mouth. 

With a final, deep groan, Simon’s balls draw up and his brows furrow before he’s spilling right down your throat – as deep as he can. You eagerly swallow around him, taking down every single drop he has to offer. 

When he’s finally done, cock still twitching in sensitivity as he slowly softens, he pulls out. His cock was a mess, drool and cum still clinging to the skin in sticky strings. 

“Fuck,” he laughs breathlessly, “That little throat is dangerous.”

You giggle, biting your lip as he moves towards the window, sending a last look to your neighbors before drawing the curtains closed. End of the show, it seems.

You never thought about how you would feel when you’d have to face your two neighbors again. Given the fact they were actively in the military, you could go days before you caught sight of one of them again. Ever since Simon had started this little game of teasing the poor guys you hadn’t actually spoken to them face to face. 

“I invited Soap and Kyle over for dinner,” Simon muttered one late afternoon as he sipped on a cup of tea.

You nearly dropped the knife you were using to chop vegetables as you turned to look at your fiance in shock, “You what?!”

“Saw them while I was out on my mornin’ run,” he explained, taking a sip from his cup that was all too nonchalant for the utter anxiety that you felt, “Thought I’d be neighborly and invite them for dinner since we haven’t yet.”

“Simon!” you cry out indignantly, “How am I supposed to face them!?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, hiding his smile behind the cup.

“Th-They’ve watched us do all sorts of shit!” you whine, turning back around to anxiously cut the vegetables once again.

“So?” he hums, “We’re all adults. You think they can’t act normal just ‘cause they’ve seen you with a cock down your throat?”

You let out a frustrated sound, “You’re so-!”

“Relax, sweetheart,” he croons, placing his empty cup down, “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

You should have known better than to believe him. Simon seemingly couldn’t resist teasing the two men. As soon as all four of you were sitting at the table, you knew right away that this was not going to be the peaceful dinner you were hoping for. 

Kyle and Soap were painfully quiet, trying their best to keep their eyes off of you in fear of making your fiance angry. Simon was keenly aware of this and before any of you had a chance to finish your meals, he was pushing his chair back and pulling you from your own seat, your back pressed against his front.

“I think we all know what we want,” he sighs, “So why don’t we cut the shit and get on with it.”

Rough, experienced fingers slowly start undoing the buttons on your shirt. You had dressed up so nicely for your company and here he was, stripping it off of you in front of them instead. 

One by one the buttons came undone, your fiance giving you ample opportunity to stop him and back out should you decide this wasn’t something you wanted to do. But you never did.

Your breathing fastened and your heart raced in your chest at the excitement of the whole situation. Soap and Kyle sat in their seats, wide eyes following each methodical movement of your fiance until the final button was undone and they were able to see your bra. 

Kyle licked his lips at the sight of your breasts wrapped in the sheet material, giving just a hint at what was beneath. 

Soap follows Simon’s hand as it slides down your front to the button on your jeans. The button comes undone followed by your zipper, giving a little peak of the maroon colored panties you wore. 

“What do you think?” Simon asks them, nosing softly at your cheek until you let your head fall to the side, exposing your neck for him to kiss. 

“A fuckin’ dream,” Soap whispers, sounding like he’s in a daze. 

Kyle audibly gulps, too lost in a daze to say anything as his eyes practically burn holes into you. 

After pressing a kiss against your jaw, Simon finally slides the shirt off of your shoulders. The fabric flutters to the ground but you don’t have time to think about it before the clasp of your bra is undone and your bra joins it. 

Both men at the table inhale sharply at the sight of your bare breasts. 

“Prettier up close…” Kyle mutters, resting his chin on his hand, simply admiring the view before him. 

Simon takes a second to cup your tits, squeezing them in his rough hands before his thumbs hook under the band of your pants and tugs them down. You shimmy in place, helping him tug them over your hips until they pool on the ground and you can step out of them completely. 

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap whispers, leaning even closer from where he sits, trying to get an even better view of you standing in just a pair of pretty, sheer maroon colored panties. 

“Aren’t they so lucky?” Simon coos in your ear, one hand slipping between your thighs to cup your clothed pussy while the other eagerly gropes your tits, “Gettin’ to see you like this when only I should get to.”

“Si…” you whimper, gripping his arm in your hands as he carefully strokes you through your panties. 

“What do you say, men?” Simon asks sharply, glaring at your two guests.

“Thank you, sir,” both of them say in unison without taking their eyes off of you. 

Simon hums, seemingly satisfied enough to slip your panties down so you’re completely bared – the only one naked in the room. It made your cheeks burn in humiliation but that humiliation only made your wetter. 

Simon’s fingers slid between your folds, a sticky noise accompanying the movement. You hear him suck in a breath when he feels your slick coating his fingers. You lift your leg and place it on the nearby chair, giving both men at the table a perfect view of your pretty cunt being spread by your fiance’s fingers. 

“There you go, lovie,” he coos, “Show them how wet you get for me.”

He slips his middle finger inside, letting it slowly sink in the final knuckle. Your lashes flutter at the feeling of being stretched but it’s not enough – one finger would never be enough when you’ve had his perfect cock inside you so many times before. So Simon quickly slides his ring finger in right alongside his middle and your head falls back against his shoulder. 

You practically forget about the two pairs of eyes on you when he crooks his fingers just right and grinds the tips against that gooey little spot that makes your thighs tremble. 

“Si!” you squeal, nails biting into his wrist as you grind your hips, humping your hardened clit against his palm. 

“Yeah?” he responds, tucking you firmly against him so he can fuck you properly with his fingers. 

You’re unable to stop the cries and sobs of pleasure as he brings you closer and closer to orgasm with every press of his fingers against your sweet spot and every slap of his palm against your clit. Drool drips down your chin as your whole body twitches, eyes rolling back in your head as the orgasm builds and builds. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Kyle breathes, a trembling hand placed over his mouth in awe. 

Finally, your high washes over you and you slump forward, held up only by Simon’s strong arm grappled around you. Your knees tremble as Simon’s fingers continue to fuck you through it until you’re gushing in messy spurts all over his hand every time his fingers are stuffed back inside. It splatters to the floor and drips down your thighs, making your cheeks flush in embarrassment. 

Simon pulls his fingers out of the hot clutch of your cunt with a humiliatingly loud squelch before he pops the digits right into his mouth, humming at the taste of your cum on his tongue. 

He lifts your chin up and immediately plants his lips right on yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You sigh into the kiss, cum-drunk brain getting lost in the familiar affection. You don’t even notice Simon undoing his jeans until you feel the hot, blunt head of his cock prodding your entrance. You whimper into his mouth when he simply ruts his hips, sliding the head back and forth, over your clit and back down – coating himself in the cum he had already fucked out of you with his fingers. 

“How are you boys enjoyin’ the show?” Simon asks, suddenly reminding you of their presence. 

You dazedly look at them, finding both of them sitting back in their chairs, stroking their cocks in the open. Soap’s got a thick, veiny cock that looks like it would make you cry if you tried to take it down your throat. Kyle, on the other hand, has a long, pretty cock adorned with a piercing on the tip that makes your cunt clench around nothing just imagining what it would feel like. Maybe you should ask Simon to get a piercing just to see.

“Fuckin’ incredible, sir,” Soap chokes out, squeezing his cock tight in his fist. 

Simon chuckles under his breath before his attention turns back to you, a well-practiced rut of his hips sinks the head of his cock into your warm, sticky cunt. Your mouth drops open at the feeling, eyes accidentally locking onto Kyle’s, who is watching you with a dark, focused gaze. 

You find yourself unable to break eye contact as your fiance slowly and carefully stretches you open on his cock until he finally sinks to the hilt, full balls sleeping against your clit. Your eyes roll back and you bite your lip to suppress the absolutely sinful sound that threatens to escape your lips. 

Simon groans at the feeling of being clutched so tightly by your precious cunt. Your hand comes down to circle your clit with desperate, shaky movements until you’re suddenly cumming around his cock.

“Shit!” Simon practically howls, blunt nails biting into your skin as he holds your twitching body against his through the sudden orgasm you’ve given yourself, “Cummin’ just from gettin’ my cock in you? So sweet, lovie.”

You whimper his name in a little hiccup, tearily looking up at him from where your head thumps back against his shoulder. The pathetic look in your eye is what prompts him to start moving – fat cock sliding out of you before a powerful roll of his hips ends it back deep. He prods your cervix in a way that makes pain mix deliciously with pleasure – an addictive feeling that only Simon could ever give you. 

His harsh thrusts jostle your entire body, your tits bouncing in time to the movement. You’re not able to keep quiet, every time he sinks deep, it punches a moan out from your lungs. His heavy, fat balls slap against you, only adding to the lewd sounds of squelching and moaning. 

Soap and Kyle continue to stroke their own cocks to the sight of your getting fucked. Leaking cocks squelching quietly in their own grips. 

“Shit…” Soap groans through his teeth, “Wish I could wrap my lips around that pretty clit, darlin’.”

You whimper, eyes rolling back at the very thought of having a tongue worshiping your neglected clit. With Simon’s cock stuffing you full, you know it would work the most magnificent orgasms out of you. 

As if sensing your greedy thoughts, Simon wraps a rough hand around your throat, forcing you to look up at him, “Felt that little cunt squeeze me when he said that. My cock not enough for you?”

“Y-You are!” you sob, tears filling your eyes from how he starts an even rougher pace, “J-Just wanna cum, Si!”

Your fiance scoffs at your words, harshly knocking your leg off of the chair that you had it propped up in. You cry out at  how the angle changes with his hand still wrapped around your throat, forcing you to arch your back to look up at him. His cock grinds incessantly against that gooey little spot that makes your entire body twitch every time he pounds against it. 

It’s even more difficult to keep yourself upright without the chair to help, both your knees are shaky and if Simon wasn’t holding you tight against his chest by your throat, you’d certainly be slumping to the floor. 

Simon’s hand tightens around your neck and it cuts off the noises that are escaping. Your vision fuzzes up as your orgasm builds and builds. 

“Si, Si, Si–” you choke out, drool dripping down your chin, “Please, I’m gonna cum, you’re gonna make me cum!”

“Course I am,” Simon snarls, letting his free hand drop to your clit, harshly slapping the little bud before rubbing soothing circles around it. 

That sends you over the edge, gushing all over him and down your thighs. You squeal, unable to do anything except hang on for the ride as Simon fucks you through your high until he reaches his own end – spilling his load inside you without a second thought. 

You’re left trembling and twitching, gasping and whimpering with tears dripping down your cheeks. Finally, Simon allows you to slump forward, your chest meeting the kitchen table as he pulls his softening cock from your dripping cunt. Sticky, thick strings of his cum connect to his length from your clenching pussy. He soothes his hand down the length of your spine, soothing the little trembles that still wrack your body as you come down. 

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Soap pants, wiping his cum-covered hand off on his pants.

“You,” Kyle adds, “are one hell of a neighbor.”

property of rowarn. do not modify, translate, or report on other websites. reblogs OK!

TRAINER KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. sucking könig's humongous titties. big cock. shower sex. semi-public. non-fluent könig.

it was a practical decision, you told yourself, scrolling past flashy advertisements for gyms promising overnight transformations, past testosterone-fueled testimonials about “beast mode” and “grindset.”

you'd sworn to yourself that as soon as you had the financial breathing room, as soon as you didn’t have to mentally calculate whether a dinner out would set you back for the week, you’d do it. invest in yourself. not in aesthetics, not in performance metrics, but in survival.

something that made you feel safer so that walking home late at night wouldn’t always feel like a loaded gun pressed to the base of your spine. you wouldn’t keep your keys between your fingers like they were some flimsy excuse for a weapon.

you found a coach who was within budget, someone named könig. a straightforward profile without a profile picture and just a handful of mid-range reviews.

it was genuine in its mediocrity, not glowing in the way bot-generated reviews tended to be, but not riddled with horror stories of scams or half-baked lessons either. people mentioned that he knew what he was doing, that he was patient, that his methods were effective.

but there were a few comments about his communication too. his english, more specifically.

at first, you were more nervous about looking weak than anything else.

logically, you knew that was the point. that was why you were paying for this— to get stronger, to learn. but the thought of stepping into a room filled with people who could probably bench your body weight while you struggled with a 25 kg deadlift made something inside you shrivel. made you feel like you’d be under a microscope, mistakes magnified. the thought of someone watching you fumble through drills, assessing your form— the potential for ridicule made your stomach knot up.

so, you signed up for solo lessons.

before you even met him, könig messaged you. a late-night notification breaking through the dim glow of your phone screen.

“is it ok that my english is not so good?”

you blinked at the screen. read it again. there was something unexpectedly… earnest about it. a self-consciousness that you rhymed with your own.

your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you replied. “of course! i don’t mind at all.” then, after a second, “i’ll probably learn some phrases from you, haha.”

a long pause. three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. finally— “this is nice. i will try my best.”

something about that, about the fact that he had asked at all, the careful way he phrased it, stuck with you. you didn't know why, but it did.

the first time you met könig, you nearly turned around and walked straight back out the door, convinced your coach still hadn’t arrived.

at first, you genuinely thought you had the wrong room. or maybe there’d been some kind of mix-up, like another instructor using the space before your lesson.

you had walked into the gym expecting— what? some average-looking guy in a compression shirt? maybe a little bulky, maybe with that particular kind of gym-rat energy, all tight smiles and way-too-enthusiastic handshakes.

instead you got könig.

a massive, six-foot something, tank built like something that was meant to withstand damage and then deliver it back tenfold.

his hoodie, loose on his frame and looking a bit worse for wear from too many washes, still did nothing to hide the sheer scale of him. the water bottle he was holding was dwarfed by his hand and his arms, even relaxed at his sides, looked like they could crush a man’s ribs without much effort.

out of place. that was what he looked like. less self-defense coach and more guard stationed at the gates of hell.

you hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of your gym bag, suddenly hyperaware of every muscle in your body tensing up.

and then he spoke.

"… my client?” his voice was surprisingly soft. deep, yes, but smoothed down with the lilt of his accent.

you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. jesus christ.

“uh, yeah, i think so,” you shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “i booked the solo slots.”

he nodded. “good.” a pause. then, “you are… beginner?”

you exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “you could say that.”

his eyes smiled, something in the creases looking like amusement, before he jerked his head toward the back of the gym. “we start slow then.”

the whole thing went… surprisingly well.

könig was an amazing instructor for self-defense, not afraid to teach you moves that were downright dirty. not just the textbook counters or polished techniques that looked good in demonstrations but the kind of violence that left real damage. moves that could end a fight before it even started. his lessons were brutal in their practicality, built for survival, not sport.

his shrug always came before the skepticism could leave your mouth, as if he already knew the doubts forming behind your eyes. anticipation sat in his expression, waiting for you to question the practicality of a move that involved hitting someone's throat or breaking a wrist. waiting for that flicker of hesitation so he could counter it.

“has no rules, defense,” he simply told you, adjusting his gloves with a nonchalance that felt at odds with the destruction he'd just inflicted on the poor training dummy. his foot still pressed into its broken torso, the material caved inward like a crushed can. “s’long as you're safe, is good tactic.”

it was truth that didn’t need embellishment to him. könig wasn’t just saying it to justify his methods— it was a simple fact.

he made it seem less brutal, more justified. not just an excuse for violence but a reassurance, a lesson in survival.

it had you thinking if maybe you had been seeing things too rigidly, measuring combat in terms of right and wrong instead of what kept you breathing. könig didn’t. his world wasn’t one of fairness, it was of outcomes.

you exhaled, glancing at the poor, ruined dummy before looking back at him. “i think you broke it.”

könig tilted his head, unbothered. “hm. ja.” then, after a pause, he grinned, nudging the dummy’s crumpled remains with his boot like it might suddenly spring back to life. “but was good form, yes?”

the laugh that bubbled up caught you off guard, an unexpected burst of warmth. the corners of his grin lifted just a little higher at that.

texting started out as a necessity. scheduling changes, clarifying techniques, occasional reminders about bringing extra wraps. that was the whole point, really— a way to communicate outside of training.

somehow, though, könig turned out to be a menace over text. sarcasm practically dripped from his messages, sharpened now that he had the time to translate things properly. he was witty, sometimes outright ridiculous, and the sheer absurdity of his jokes caught you off guard more times than you could count.

könig: i think i have unlocked a new level of muscle soreness. my body is rejecting me. i am a broken man.

you: rip. gone and forgotten.

könig: good. don't tell my story. it's kind of pathetic.

“könig,” you typed one evening. “where the hell did you learn english?”

“the internet.”

immediate suspicion flooded your mind. “what part of the internet?”

“…the bad part.”

“be more specific.”

“ah…” there was a long pause, like he was regretting his choices. finally, “weird forums.”

apprehension curled at the base of your spine. “what kind of weird forums, könig?”

“…conspiracy theories.”

sheer, undiluted disbelief clung to you as you stared at your screen.

“WAIT” he backpedaled immediately, as if he could feel your judgment through the phone. “i was a child!!”

“A CHILD IN CONSPIRACY FORUMS?”

“it was not like that!!”

his frantic response only made you laugh harder. “then explain.”

“i was just reading, yes? stories. people told very cool stories. aliens, secret government projects, ghosts”

“oh my god, you were a cryptid kid.”

“nein!!”

amusement bloomed in your chest. “so what i’m hearing is you were, like, deep in the trenches. lizard people? JFK clone theories? the moon isn’t real?”

“…yes.”

“jesus christ.”

“it was fun!! and good english practice!”

“you learned english from paranoid men on the internet.”

“they were very passionate.”

laughter ripped through your chest so violently you nearly dropped your phone. könig sent a series of increasingly exasperated texts, all variations of “stop laughing”, which only made it worse.

every time you thought about it after that, a fresh wave of giggles overtook you. the next training session, you couldn’t even meet his eyes without picturing tiny könig hunched over an old computer, nodding solemnly as someone named TruthSeeker88 explained how the queen of england was actually a reptilian overlord.

he hated you for it. “you are evil,” he muttered when you brought it up again, shoving your shoulder lightly. “this is slander.”

“is it slander if it’s true?”

“YES.”

somewhere along the way, little snapshots of your lives started slipping into the conversation. könig sent blurry photos of his boots kicked up on a table, a war documentary playing in the background. “history lesson,” he’d caption, like he wasn’t watching something unreasonably brutal for fun. you sent the sky from your morning walk, pink bleeding into gold, and he always responded with a simple “pretty.”

you weren’t sure if he meant the sky or something else, but you let yourself wonder.

and then, selfies.

his were always shy, half-obscured, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you see too much despite the fact that you saw each other every week. the lower half of his face, mostly— jawline tucked into the shadows, the soft curve of a grin barely visible.

sometimes it was just his hands: wrapped around a steaming mug, fingers long and scarred, or flexed absentmindedly over his knee, veins shifting beneath pale skin. you never commented on them outright, just sent something casual— “cozy” or “nice gloves, old man”— but you always saved them, tucked away in your camera roll like little guilty pleasures.

yours were much less subtle in comparison.

exhausted post-workout, slumped against your couch with a dead-eyed stare. wrapped up in a hoodie, coffee in hand. the first time you sent one, you didn’t expect much. maybe a quick “good job” or some kind of fitness advice. instead, he sent “cute.”

you stared at the message for a full minute, blinking. your stomach did something stupid.

after that, he started commenting more. when you looked particularly grumpy, he’d send a teasing “you need nap, bird?” or “angry face. very scary.” and when you groaned about soreness, he was smug about it, “should have stretched. tsk tsk.”

it was cute. unbearably cute.

but all good things must come to an end.

one month. that’s how long this was supposed to last. four weeks of training, a neat little package of lessons that would leave you more capable of handling yourself in a fight. somewhere along the way, that timeline stretched, bending under the weight of something neither of you dared acknowledge.

könig should have cut you off weeks ago.

“you are expert already,” he tells you one evening, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. his tone is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of real curiosity beneath it. “i do not think class is needed. why do you keep taking?”

hesitation flickers in your chest. because of you, you want to admit, but the words sit heavy on your tongue, too risky, too exposing. instead, you roll your shoulders back and offer something easier, something safer.

“i need to beat you first.”

amusement dances across his features. könig huffs out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering the possibility.

“it will not happen in a million years, i think.”

arrogance suits him. confidence carved into his bones, stitched into the way he moves, the way he fights. you don’t argue because he’s right— he’s bigger, stronger, more experienced. if he wanted to, he could probably break you in half without much effort.

but miracles happen.

it’s a fluke. both of you know it. a momentary lapse, a split second where his guard lowers just enough for you to slip past his defenses. könig lets you try—indulges you, really, humoring your attempts at taking him down like he’s teaching a child to wrestle. that cockiness, that easy amusement, is what costs him.

somehow, impossibly, you get him in a triangle choke.

his body tenses the moment your thighs clamp around his neck, locking him in place. shock flickers in his eyes before it shifts into something unreadable, something quiet and assessing. his breath comes out steady despite the position he’s in, controlled in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

for a moment, you think you have him.

then, with an ease that’s almost insulting, he pries your legs apart, spreading them like it’s nothing.

a gasp hitches in your throat.

his movements don’t stop there— before you can even process what’s happening, he shifts, pressing himself close, kneeling between your thighs, completely caging you beneath him. his grin is wide, pleased, entirely too unbothered for someone who had just been seconds away from losing.

“very good, bird,” he praises. “very good takedown. i like.”

air sticks in your throat. something is wrong.

“k-könig-”

he blinks at you, tilting his head slightly. “ja?”

your bugged-out stare flicks downward, and his follows instinctively.

oh.

his entire body tenses. his pupils shrink.

understanding dawnes, slow and terrible, as he finally feels the press of something very, very apparent against you.

“that was not supposed to happen.”

no shit.

könig’s weight shifts over you, muscles tight as he tries to move away but instead— maybe by accident, maybe not— his cock drags against your core, thick even through the fabric separating you. the pressure is just enough to make your breath hitch, a spark of something warm licking up your spine before a sound slips from your throat.

he freezes, head jerking up like a startled animal, eyes darting around the empty training room, scanning for any sign that someone might’ve heard, his breath uneven as he listens, as you listen, as the silence between you stretches impossibly thin.

nothing. no one.

he exhales. something in his face twitches, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real, that you really just made that sound because of him.

his gaze drops, landing back on you, mouth parting, jaw flexing. then his body moves again, slower this time, cock grinding against you, rubbing you through your clothes, dragging heavy between your thighs, and you swear you see his eyelids flutter just slightly at the friction.

his forehead presses against yours, breath coming faster. “tell me to stop.”

the words hit your skin as more air than voice, warm against your jaw, but you don’t even need to think about it, because stopping is the last thing you want right now, the very last thing your body would allow.

“d-don’t stop.”

he curses, words slipping before he can stop them, and you don’t know what they mean, only that they sound wrecked, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.

könig’s forehead presses harder into yours. his hands tighten at your waist. his breath comes out uneven, stumbling over itself, and his voice fumbles through the next words. “i don’t have lube.”

“we don’t nee-”

“we do.” his face twists a little, mouth pressing tight, like the idea of taking you without it is actually painful.

you swallow, shifting slightly under him, feeling just how big he is. slick gathers between your thighs, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips out, barely above a whisper.

“are you big?”

his lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a grin, like he can’t believe you just asked that, and then it spreads into something quintessentially könig, — slow, lazy, and warm.

he presses in harder, dragging over your soaked cunt through the fabric of your underwear. the friction pulls a gasp from your lips, hips rolling up instinctively.

his grin stretches wider, eyes flicking down to watch you grind against him. "i am not small."

heat floods you, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching. your hips move again, searching for more, slick soaking through your underwear. your head tips back, breath catching. the sound that escapes you is closer to a whimper than you’d like to admit.

his lips find your jaw, tongue flicking out, tasting sweat and skin. his voice follows his mouth, words warm against your neck. "pretty little pussy..." he murmurs, dragging the syllables out like he’s savoring them. "bet it’d feel better wrapped around me."

the sound that leaves your throat is humiliating, high-pitched and needy. you don’t mean to make it, but it’s too late.

könig grabs your wrist. pulls you up. your balance falters, and before you can recover, he hauls you toward the showers. boots thud against tile. the door slams, lock clicking into place.

his mouth finds yours before you can speak. lips crash into yours, messy and eager. tongues tangle, breaths mix, heat pouring between you as your fingers twist in his hair. a laugh bubbles up between kisses—yours or his, you can’t tell—and he groans into your mouth, grinning against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. cheeks flush, eyes dark with something feral. “wanted this so long…”

clothes hit the floor in frantic shoves. hands fumble, pulling fabric away until skin meets skin, warmth pressing in on all sides.

his cock, thick, flushed, and dripping with precum, hangs between the two of you, weighed down by its own girth.

he sees your stare and grins. "big, huh?”

words fail you and for a moment you can't do anything but nod dumbly.

könig reaches past you, flicks on the shower. water crashes down, steam rising fast. the air thickens with heat and he wastes no time to pull you under the spray, water slicing over skin.

scarred hands find your face, thumbs brushing your jaw as his mouth returns to yours.

your hand slides down between you and wraps around his cock. konig's hips jerk forward, breath shuddering out against your lips.

“could kill you with this, eh?” his grin tugs lazy at the corners of his mouth. his chest lifts and falls, breaths dragging in deep, water cascading over both of you, hot against skin already burning.

your hand tightens, fingers sliding along the thick length of him, precum slicking your palm. warmth pulses beneath your touch, veins pronounced under your grip. he twitches when you give a slow twist near the tip, hips jolting forward. a groan rips from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls.

“scheiße,” he hisses, jaw working as he fights the urge to thrust. one hand flies to his hair, tugging as if the sting will help. water streaks down his face, lips parted, breaths breaking up his words.

“not helping,” you breathe, voice shaking. you press your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss there before your tongue darts out to taste the salt of his skin. his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut.

“oh, fuck-” his hips rock forward again, cock dragging through your fist, smearing more warmth along your stomach. precum drips from the flushed head, glistening in the steam-filled air.

a grin tugs at his lips, strained but there. “you tryna kill me?” the words slide out. "scheiß kleines ding…”

you laugh, kissing down his jaw. “not my fault you’re easy.” your thumb slides over the tip.

his head knocks back against the wall, neck stretching, throat working through a swallowed groan. “you- fuck- you think is easy?” a hand finds your chin, pulling your gaze up. “look at me.”

könig’s eyes catch yours. blown out. a ring of blue against black. then suddenly his lips curl, and his voice slips through his teeth.

“i have touched myself to you.”

you blink. “what?”

his grin widens. “before.” his hips push forward, cock dragging against your belly. “many times.”

your face burns.

“oh my god.”

his head dips, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and amused. “you do too, hm?”

your heart stops. heat shoots through you, cunt clenching. “yeah,” your breath shudders. “me too…”

his eyes widen, like he didn't expect you to admit to it, then narrows, grin pulling crooked. “yeah?” his cock twitches in your hand again. “fuckin’ knew it…” laughter spills out, breathless and warm.

könig’s head dips to press a sloppy kiss to your lips. tongue sliding against yours, messy and eager. laughter rumbles out, hips rolling, giggles slipping between mouths.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he repeats, words slurring together. “think about me late at night? fingers stuffed in that pretty cunt…”

you gasp, half scandalized, half aroused, hips shifting as slick pools between your thighs. “könig-”

“yeah?” another thrust. precum smears across your belly. “tell me.”

“i- fuck- yeah,” you breathe. “think about you all the time.”

he groans like the words alone could undo him. könig’s hands drop to grip your thighs, fingers digging firm into the flesh as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your back meets the cold tile with a dull thud, heat from the shower clashing with the chill seeping through the wall.

your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close. his cock drags through your folds, thick length sliding slick against your cunt, nudging your entrance but never pushing in.

könig watches your face, chest lifting with every shaky breath. “how much do you take?”

you blink, heat simmering through your skin. “what?”

his cock slides against you again, harder this time, grinding against your clit, making you twitch. “normally. how much?”

a shrug rolls through your shoulders, confidence bubbling up, reckless. “all of it,” you answer without thinking, back arching, rubbing against him, arms looping around his neck. “i can take everything.”

he stills, expression shifting— his lips part, brows lifting just slightly. then he laughs, a low, amused sound, mouth curling into a grin. “nein, you can not.”

challenge flares in your chest. “i can.”

another laugh, softer now, hands adjusting on your thighs. “you are-” he shakes his head, grinning wider, lips brushing your cheek as he exhales, “-so very stupid.”

heat pools in your stomach, thighs clenching around him. “i’ll prove it.”

hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing deep into flesh as könig shifts his weight, cock grinding slow against your entrance, precum smearing where you’re slick and warm. a breath shudders out of him, jaw tight, brows pinching like he’s trying to hold something back. “you say this,” he mutters, “and then you cry.”

“i won’t,” you shoot back.

“hm.” his gaze flicks down to where his cock pushes against you, dragging through your folds. “we’ll see.”

könig’s fingers flex. his grip tightens and your breath hitches. “ready?”

“please,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.

he grits his teeth, cock sliding as deep as your walls will allow, head bumping against your cervix. every sob that escapes your lips makes his hips stutter, breath catching like he’s holding on by a thread.

"oh shit," he mutters. "look at you... crying so much."

"feels too good." your hands are weak on his shoulders.

könig grins, breathless, hands squeezing your hips. "ja? but you begged for this, no? say ‘please, könig, fuck me’-" he mocks your voice, low and whiny, then thrusts, ripping a squeak out of you. "and now you cry like a little baby like i said."

you shake your head against his chest, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. you love it—you love his cock so much it hurts—but you just can’t stop the sounds. every thrust drags a new sob from you, body trembling in his grip.

"shh." he squints down at you. "you are too loud-" his hand slides to the back of your head, pressing you close. "fuck... here. suck."

your lips brush his chest, and his nipple is right there, stiff against warm skin. you hesitate, dizzy from pleasure, but then your mouth opens and you latch on, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck soft and slow.

könig’s hips jerk.

"oh, shit- good girl," he breathes, head falling back. his fingers tangle in your hair. "yeah, just like that. little baby needs something to suck on, huh?"

your cheeks burn, whining against his chest, mouth working over his nipple as his cock drags in deep and slow. he groans, low and desperate, fucking you through your cries.

"such a messy baby," he grins, looking far too fucked-out to be as smug as he is. "can’t stop crying, can you? too good, yes? too much?"

you nod, sobbing around him, and könig just laughs, like he can’t believe how fucked you both are.

"keep sucking," he growls. "will fuck you ‘til you’re dumb.”

Price is literally so gross. silver fox seeking a pretty young thing after a divorce to the MAX. his ex wife comes over to drop off their son but you open the door instead, cotton-plated in one of his shirts and hair damp from your recent shower. Price takes over and you can hear his wife’s voice from the foyer—“how old is she? she barely looks an undergraduate, John” and he acts sheepish but Lord knows he doesn’t care. Ou.

Virtual Breadcrumbs || Poly!141 x hacker!reader

Summary: A kinda prologue to Search History, While you're having your menty b back on base, a little bit from the boys' perspective. Specifically Simon. Alexa, play Mastermind by Taylor Swift.  

Part One Next Part

CW: NSFW MDNI 18+ female pronouns , porn, porn, lots of porn allusion, the boys are all handsy with each other, Simon's lowkey manipulating the situation, again irl this is harassment, stalking warning to be safe? mentions of oral and vaginal sex, really just me being nasty from Simon's point of view

It took a long time to gain access to Simon’s inner circle. Simon Riley had a habit of being intense, all or nothing, especially for those he’s decided to care about. His captain and his sergeants were in that inner circle, and he cared deeply, implicitly, about them. Health, safety, happiness, and something Simon was especially attuned to was keeping them sated. A man of action and acts of service. 

Simon was neither a poet nor a psychologist, so he didn’t spend much time or energy putting definitive terms and conditions on whatever relationship the 141 shared. He cared and he was cared for, it was intimate on all levels, and that’s all that mattered to him. 

A bond forged in bombs, bloodshed, and loyalty above all else.  Four soldiers at the top of their game, literally battle-hardened (double entendre completely intended). He was content with his little circle. 

However, he couldn’t fault the boys for missing something a little softer. Something a little sweeter, something a little more pliant. Hell, Simon wouldn’t mind burying his nose in a neck that didn’t smell like sweat, blood, and gunpowder.  

That’s where you came in. Simon’s sharp eyes didn’t miss anything. 

He saw how Price’s signature little smile rested on you whenever your explanations turned a little rambling, the look of pride in his eyes when you cracked a hard encryption- he’d called in a favor from Laswell to recruit you after all. How the Captain didn’t scold you when your work outfits were outside the civilian regulations (which was often), not that Price minded the view when you’d drop something and bend over to pick it up in your pretty skirts and heels. 

He saw how Gaz would lean over your shoulder, just a hair too close to be friendly, and watch in a little bit of awe as you worked, how the two of you spoke in code (literally) to each other. He would watch Gaz get a little hot in the face with your flirty little quips over comms, voice a little tight as he returned them. How the sergeant would bring you little pastries or coffees on days they were on base, how prided he seemed when your face lit up, and when you’d unexpectedly touch him- grab his hand or bicep with your pretty painted nails? Simon would notice how Kyle would excuse himself to go do something else, sometimes dragging Soap off with him.

And Johnny. He tried not to show it, the Scot was as loyal as they came. A dog, Simon called him often, a mutt when he was being obnoxious. Simon’d noticed Johnny literally sniffing around you, his head following the lingering scent of perfume and shampoo when you passed. He was touchy with you, passing it off as being friendly, hugging you just a bit too tight to feel the squish of your body against his- a kind of softness Simon, Price, and Gaz just couldn’t replicate. It was a sport for him, to get you to blush or stutter. 

And, fucking hell, the banter. Your voice, slightly crackly through their headsets, leading and chiding them through missions. Something about the distance or facelessness of it made you bold and teasing. Soap would egg you on over comms, sending you both down teasing explicit rabbit holes, until Price would remind both of you that the brass had access to these audio files, and you’d get shy and go quiet, but not for long.  Gaz was fairly smooth with it, not often getting out of hand until you clicked off and he’d adjust his pants and collar mid-op. Something about Price’s authority kept you a bit tamer on him, but sometimes you would slip, and the way you got all shy and apologetic, Price’s chest would puff up a bit, beard twitching with a smirk as he’d ’scold’ you. 

Simon’s men wanted you, bad. But none of them were going to be the first to admit it, none of them wanting to be the first to want more. Their loyalty to each other was their greatest value, but it was holding them back this time. But Simon had a plan, all he had to do was plant the seed. 

__

The 141 had holed up in a grungy safehouse to rest and recoup before moving on to the next portion of this assignment. ‘House’ was a bit generous- there was no central heating and it was little more than a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom, the living room was basically just the foyer with a pull-out couch that took up the entire floorspace when pulled out.  The mission hadn’t gone to shit, but it was proving tedious, and stretching into a longer commitment than they’d planned for. Price was miffed about the time commitment, but it wasn’t anything new, it happened all the time. 

Waiting for transpo from Nik and information that you were working on. Even Simon felt the sting of disappointment when you’d told them you’d need them to quit calling, that the data Price requested from you was proving to be a challenge that needed undivided attention. They were bored. Price and Gaz had slipped off somewhere so the Captain could work out some of his irritation, which in turn got Soap huffy and touchy. 

Which was why the Scot was sitting, spine curled into Simon’s side, laid across the sofa still in full gear, long legs over the side while Simon simply sat up straight ( "s’too fuckin’ cold f’ this shite", he’d muttered after they’d found the wood for the old fashioned wood stove was both wet and molding, "Body heat it is, fucks sake." ), military-issue tablet using the secure network you and Gaz had set up. Too tired to do much of anything, too mission-wired to truly relax, restless and a little homesick.

Simon wasn’t surprised that it only took two rounds of solitaire before the Scot switched to the browser and started to look through the homepage of a porn website he didn’t recognize. They both knew this strategy, get yourself off a few times and your brain releases enough ‘good’ chemicals that you might be able to get some sleep. Johnny did seem uncharacteristically indecisive, getting quickly squirmy and irritated, as he continuously clicked ’next page’ waiting for something to catch his eyes.

A sniper always sees a good shot when it lines itself up, time to plant the seed. 

"Give it ‘ere." Simon gruffed, plucking the tablet out of Johnny’s hands, only smirking at the coarse language Johnny offered in return, though he didn’t attempt to get the tablet back. Waiting curiously and not so patiently for whatever Simon was going to produce, what a good dog.  The lieutenant took a couple minutes to find the right seed to plant, using key phrases that produced the results he was looking for. 

He let Soap peruse his yieldings. The actresses had some things in common, familiar hair and eye colors, familiar because they shared them with you. And the actors doing such filthy things to them? Well, that was the seed (double entendre not intended) Simon was planting, the bone he was throwing to Johnny, all the actors were Scottish.  The sniper knew his shot landed when Soap muttered under his breath, taking the tablet back, hips shifting a bit subconsciously as he scrolled, watching the thumbnails give little snippet previews, "Steamin’ Jesus, Lt…" 

"Seen you sniffin’ around our analyst. Pretty bird." Simon shrugged but his eyes were just as fixed on all the thumbnails, girls that looked vaguely like you in all sorts of positions getting rammed on Johnny’s- sorry, the actor’s cock. He saw the look of (Catholic) guilt on the sergeant’s face, swirling with lust and a pretty flush under his stubble, so Simon swooped in with another seed, motioning to a thumbnail where an actress with the same hair as you was moaning, "Bet our bird'd look better, bet she’d sound better." 

The guilt was gone, the seed planted and flourishing in the Scot’s brain, Johnny’s lips growing into a wicked grin as he settled on a video, not bothering with headphones or squirreling away in the bathroom.  One video turned to three, the two men taking turns chiding and teasing the other, and when his sergeant finally burst, it was your name he called out. 

Yes, his plan was going to work beautifully. 

___

For a quick two-minute search with the sole purpose of quickly getting Soap off, Simon hadn’t been displeased with his results. Neither had Johnny if the spring in his step and uptick in screen time was any indication. The actresses shared features with you, but he was positive there was a closer match out there. And since he couldn’t exactly ask you, their lass in the chair as Soap called you, he turned to their other tech guru and the next part of his plan. Kyle. 

He was a bit more straight-laced than either Simon or Johnny, he’d be harder to convince. Simon didn’t know if he had it in him to debate the morality of purposely seeking out a porn star that was as close as physically possible to you… Or how that might affect the relationship amongst the 141… Ghost wasn’t known for being the moral backbone of the task force, and this wasn’t an issue that could exactly be bullied to be won.  

So, when first met with some resistance even if Garrick’s face was flushed and he was shifting in his seat, ("Simon, that’s… I don’t know what but it’s not right. What if she finds out-") he delegated some orders to Johnny. 

Simon didn’t know what the Sergeants got up to- that’s a lie, he had a pretty good idea, and he expected a repeat performance later- but when they came back, Kyle’s eyes were still a little glazed and his shoes were on the wrong feet. 

"Well?" Simon raised an eyebrow looking up from the rifle he was meticulously cleaning. Johnny was smirking smugly, belt still undone, nudging the other sergeant to remind him to answer their lieutenant. Gaz was nodding wordlessly for a moment, running a hand over his hair, slumping back in front of his military-issue computer, and opening a private browser. 

"Yeah… Yeah, mate, I’m on it." Kyle was practically still panting from whatever Johnny had done to/for him. Simon smirked, going back to his rifle, until after a moment when Kyle’s voice was more level, he added his requirement, "If I find her-" 

He paused, cheeks heating a bit as he reworded himself a bit, "A look-a-like, I mean, I get to taste her first." 

Simon could work with that. 2 down, 1 to go. 

____

Lastly, John Price. Saved him for last for a reason, but he was also the easiest. Simon waited until the assignment was on the up and up again. Summit fever to push through and go home had its claws in all of them. He knew it was a good time because, after the last firefight and subsequent march through the woods to a safe zone, all the boys were too tired to fool with each other... much. Price was sitting against a tree, that ridiculous hat of his resting on his propped-up knee, face illuminated by his cigar and the light of his phone.

Wordlessly, Simon crouched beside the captain and held his hand out expectantly for the phone. Price blew his smoke with a quirked brow but was curious to what the sniper had in mind, placing the device in the waiting gloved hand. 

"What’re you up to, Simon?"  Price inquired suspiciously, lowering his eyes to the light of the screen as it was handed back to him. His blue eyes, older looking than the captain really was, widened for a second before darkening in the low light of the forest, "So this is what the Sergeants’ve been on about, uncanny…" 

Price watched the very short prelude, a woman who looked so much like you, wearing something a little racier than you’d wear to the office but as blood rushed elsewhere, Price found the realism didn’t matter much when if he squinted… it was you stripping off a cardigan and letting some sort of authority figure pop the buttons of your blouse before shoving you under a desk with your pretty painted lips wrapping around his- sorry, the actor’s throbbing cock… 

Seeing the way John’s expression shifted, Simon smirked under his mask, raising back to his full height and returning to where he’d stashed his gear. His plan was almost complete, they were in the final stretch.

___

Simon was watching over Johnny’s shoulder, his hips occasionally rutting through his clothes into the scot’s back, a video that the sniper had chosen. Soap thought it was really funny that it happened to be from your doppelganger's Halloween playlist, but now was just as entranced watching the tall domineering figure clad in all black and mask absolutely ruin you her. The bed was a perk of finally making it to an actual base, with officer’s barracks, waiting for the official expo back to you home.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Simon groaned, biting Johnny’s shoulder through his mask and the sergeant’s t-shirt, as gloved hands twisted into hair just like yours. It was hard not to insert himself into the fantasy. A knock on the door made him growl, pulling him away from the delicious video and friction that Soap’s weight against him was providing. With more force than really necessary, Simon whipped the door open, only relaxing a little bit when Price was standing there with Gaz, both of them with their strategizing faces on. So, he wasn’t the only one making plans lately.

“See the new video that got posted?” Gaz questioned, looking down to unlock his tablet undoubtedly sharing it over to Johnny’s laptop still playing on Ghost’s bed. Both Lieutenant and Sergeant shook their head no. Johnny clicked on the share notification, releasing a breath that puffed his cheeks and raised his eyebrows as he read the title alone, the video still loading in the base’s less than ideal wifi (the 141’s latest habit undoubtedly eating up most of the bandwidth). 

It was your doppelganger’s stage name accompanied by the words Barrack’s Bunny Gets Gang Banged! 

“Fuckin’ Hell.” Simon repeated, words almost snarling his jeans chafing him as his cock twitched in his still buttoned jeans. 

“We’re having a dinner at mine.” John decided cooly, seemingly unrelated, leaning in the doorframe. His demeanor was its usual casual confidence, but his eyes were dark with the kind of want that spelled disaster for anything that stood between him and his goal. The seeds Simon had planted were growing like invasive weeds, wild and quick, “She’s invited.” 

“How’re we playin’ this?” Simon questioned relinquishing the reins to his captain, he was just as much of a soldier as the rest of them, he took orders well, watching as Gaz joined Johnny at the foot of the bed, both Sergeants watching the video together, hands already starting to wander, gear being unbuckled and unsnapped. Price smirked at the sight, adjusting himself through his camo cargos. 

“Cooly. Don’t wanna spook th’ sweet thing.” He smiled, mostly to himself making himself comfortable on the tiny futon that had been cramped in Simon’s room as an ‘officer’s luxury’. The captain dwarfed it, and patted the limited space beside him for his lieutenant to join him, “We’ll have ‘er eating out of our hands. And then we’ll have her.”

Price said this with the same easy decisiveness as he’d have busting a terrorist cell, but the curl of his lip, how his legs spread to accommodate the growing erection in pants noted the difference for Simon, his captain nodding towards the Sergeant’s watching the video, their breaths already getting heavy. Kyle’s hands fisting the bed's blankets like he might slip away and Johnny’s hips were already rocking a bit. Price’s smirk grew, eyes flicking to Simon before looking back forward, “You’ve been busy, Simon. Never miss anything, do you?” 

It was a mix of praise and teasing that, from his Captain, made Simon’s affirmative grunt a bit lower, something twisting in his gut, like a pet that wanted to be stroked more. Price chuckled deeply, nodding, “Bet that thick head’a yours hasn’t considered why you noticed alluv our infatuations with our little analyst, ‘ave you?” 

Simon didn’t respond, watching how Johnny’s eyes lit up much in the same way they did when he was presented a puzzle (bomb) that caught his interest, how he moved Kyle’s hands aside and rewinded the video, once, twice, three times at something your lookalike did that scratched his brain just right. Mutt, Simon thought, waiting for Price to continue, knowing that the captain couldn’t resist teasing him just a bit. He’d expected as much, maybe a vulgar comment or two. He was not expecting a truth bomb that turned him both introspective and horny. 

“Only reason you noticed how much we liked ‘er, cause you’re always watching her. You watch her just as much as y'watch any of us, wonder what that might mean?” Price shrugged, one hand working at his belt buckle before motioning for Gaz to turn the volume. The Captain actually laughed at the look in Simon’s eyes that most would miss before nodding back to the video and the Sergeants, “Now, watch the show."

Fucking hell. 

__

Maybe it was that little bite of introspection or the flight home where they fleshed out every last detail of their plan to get you, the real you. (“Gaz and Johnny’ll do the leg work, play up the charm, and Ghost and I’ll work the opposite angle, strong and silent.”). Maybe it was how eagerly excited Soap was or how Ghost spent his extra time scrolling through your Instagram. Maybe it was the two brief interactions with you upon returning to base- how pretty your eyes were looking up at him through your lashes, how good you smelled, the movement of your skirt as Johnny spun you around, how you got jittery under his slightest touch in the briefing room… 

By the time he found himself on Price’s couch, he was impatient. Knee bouncing, checking his watch, making Gaz track your location. When you’d been sitting out in your car for more than fifteen minutes, he all but growled, snapping at Soap, “Go get ‘er.” 

And when Soap guided you inside, pulling one of those bright smiles out of you with his own jokes, and Gaz was helping you out of your coat like unwrapping a present, your cheeks already flushed all pretty from the Sergeants’ tag team flirting routine… He didn’t think he could wait for Price to put the steaks on the grill, he needed something to sink his teeth into, sooner rather than later. He was sure if he bit the curve of your neck, it’d be a lot like biting into a ripe peach… supple and sweet. Just like you. 

Oh, his plan had worked, the seeds were planted and growing and overtaking every other thought in his mind other than making sure him and his boys were sated at dinner tonight, and you were on the menu. 

____

To quote Sir Mix-A-Lot, "Little Does she know I'm a nasty DAWG."

Y’all are getting this because my writing app deleted what I had done on Search History pt 2. Reminder- the reader is loosely based on Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds. The physical description is pretty vague, but lots of skirts and heels and makeup are mentioned, and I might have gotten carried away and implied

Once again: thanks to any and all tags and comments, i collect them and they will be buried in my pyramid when I die. seriously, they inspire me to keep going and I screen shot them to show to my friends :))))

Also so sorry if you got tagged twice im bad at taglists!!

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BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

BLOOD FEUDS, ANCIENT AND MODERN | RYOMEN SUKUNA.

✮ tags ; no curses au, blood incest, use of honorifics (oji-san) abuse (mostly verbal / emotional), classism, grooming / generally predatory behavior, large age gaps (20+ yrs), blood feuds, imbalanced power dynamics, white collar crime, afab + fem!niece!reader, uncle sukuna, the word rape used in text, non/dubcon (not noncon necessarily), fingering, petnames (little one, kid, little lamb), thigh-fucking, and other things, very horrible and gross sukuna behavior 18+

this is very dark and it deals BRIEFLY with sukuna being very predatory to reader when she's UNDERAGE / young. nothing explicit happens WHILE she is underage, but sukuna does leer at reader and it is mentioned. please proceed with caution !!!

PLEASE HEED THE TAGS BEFORE YOU PROCEED!!!

✮ wc ; 10.3k (???????????)

✮ a/n ; thank you vic @saintshigaraki for always indulging my nonsense and also tomfoolery. kissing you.

i'll be honest lads this one got away from me BAD jksdfhjs. i think its interesting at least.I KNOW THE TAGS ARE WICKED but i promise its like. kind of sexy at least.

also yes the title is from the rdr2 soundtrack shhh

✮ synopsis ; blood is thicker than water. resentment, you think, is thicker than both.

Bastard.

An intimately familiar title, lacking tooth and effect. It's meaning eroded with time and usage - and a moniker you've wielded proudly for as long as you can remember. You don't recall much of your life before it became part of you.

The daughter born of wedlock. Bastard daughter. The only remaining stain to your family's reputation aside from your late father.

Your mother often tells you that you were her hardest child to birth. When you were littler it was a story relayed to you with affection, and but now it's with such bitter hatred you can feel it lodged in your throat.

The most important element is the predestination in it. You came into the world kicking and screaming, throat hoarse and violent. From birth, you knew you were half-forged with bad blood and came into the world trying to be absolved of it. It's shaped your life, your relationships, everything about you.

The other half of your DNA, the good half, is from your father. Before you were a bastard, you were your parents' only child. Your father was a good man. The best you know. An average, humble man. From a generation of other working class men with a tough job in construction. Your best memories come from when he was still alive.

A quiet life, untainted by the residual bitterness of your mothers heritage. You lived away from it, outside of it. The mother in your memories from back then seem like a dream now, some mirage from long ago - disinterested in anything but you and your father. Your mama and papa. Your father took good care of you both, and your mother loved him madly.

You lived as a normal family in a small apartment just outside of Gifu for the first seven years of your life. You attended a small local school and had friends with crooked teeth and messy hair.

Your childhood was mostly happy if you break it up into pieces like that. Blissfully uneventful.

There's a concise break of change of what your life was versus what became of it. Your fathers death the splinter in the wood, separating the two halves.

The worst of your childhood, of course, came in your fathers passing. Not just because of the loss, but what it made of your life. His funeral welcomed people of all walks of life with the most notable absence of your elusive mothers side of the family.

Another old memory you have with your mother is looking at her face during your fathers wake. The deep darkness of her eyes, sunken in and hollow. The first time you ever found her terrifying instead of comforting. While the world mourned your father, your mother—you think—mourned her life.

Forced into single motherhood with no prospects and no career, your mother decided it was best for the both of you to return home.

You think the worst of your life started there.

Your mother's side of the family has never welcomed you with open arms. You wouldn't come to know why until much later. You were a child then. There's no way you could've known about feuds that deep.

The only thing you knew was that you were hated vehemently, and nothing could change that.

Your grandmother's estate was always frightening to you in your childhood. You've yet to grow out of that feeling despite living there for the last fifteen years. It's remained unchanged since you moved in and the lights in the hall never seems bright enough. Jade green painted walls and white tile floors. Some rooms have classically Japanese flooring and heirloom paintings from the Heian era. Others modernized with sterile whites and grays and house plants that add no life to it at all. Stretched wide with tens of rooms, and easy for a child to get lost in.

A sinking abyss. A terrible place. A dark labyrinth. Anxiety inducing to even think about now. No place for a child your size or your age.

The best way to describe your childhood after your father died was cold. Removed from your life in the suburbs and placed among other rich kids, you became overtly self-conscious of the differences between you and them. Them being anyone who grew up wealthy and your other extended family. You were constantly reminded of your place as the bastard child. Later learning how your mother left her fiance many years ago for your father, your poor and worthless father.

(You theorize any warmth that your mother had for you was buried in your dead dads casket. Living there, among them, made sure she'd never find it again.)

Your mother is the most complicated part of your life. You don't have a time for when she gave up on raising you. There was a year when she tried, you think. For the most part, you lived in that house utterly alone. 

At first that abandonment was miserable (as it would be to any child, certainly) but a time came where you were glad you saw so little of her.

Your mother, who you had once loved and thought highly of, became a pitiful prey animal in the four walls of your grandmother's house. Small and anxious and utterly hateful. A bunny born with some cosmic knowledge and horrific understanding that its destiny is to become food for a wolf. Viciousness between her siblings, no doubt fostered by your grandparents and their establishment, tore apart the aspects of her your father mended and ruined her. You were too little to stop it. 

Blood feuds that ran bone-chillingly deep plagued most of the interactions with your extended family for as long as you've been a part of them. Your mother has exactly four siblings. Two sisters between her with her as the middle daughter, and two brothers. One of which is estranged so completely you don't know his name.

And the other being your Uncle Sukuna.

Your hatred for your aunts and their children came to you rather naturally. For every gala and ball and charity fund your worthless bloodline ever raised, came catty arguments and verbal abuse from the shallow mouths of your beloved cousins. You had nothing to prove to anyone in that house. You were detested since your birth and your grandparents made no small effort to show you through as much neglect and verbal lashing as they could get away with.

Rotten girl. Cursed daughter. You're the reason your mother is like this. You're the reason she is miserable. You should've been buried with your father.

Compared to the experience of your grandfather ripping into you at age ten for simply being alive, your cousin's commentary on you was remarkably uninteresting. You resented them for being nuisances, though, with the exception of maybe one who bucked it out of that place as soon as they could. Just like you planned too.

For a long time, Sukuna wasn't around enough to have a real presence in your consciousness. You tried not to think of your extended family more than you had too. You got used to not knowing about your relatives living there, but there was no one so elusive as him.

It was as if, increasingly, you heard whispers of his name at everything you were forced to attend.

The first time you ever meet your Uncle, you're freshly sixteen. It's the birthday party your mother throws for you each year in an effort to show how close the two of you are to the rest of your relatives.

The first time you see Sukuna in person, the only thing on your mind is how much he stands out from the rest of your relatives. He's a head taller than the tallest person there, and he's...bigger. He's not clean or neat, scruff lining his chin. Old, dark eyes. Visible tattoos that reek of disgraced son and hardly of prodigy.

At sixteen, you understood intimately what your family considered to be gold standard. Your uncle was antithetical to it. His very existence a paradox to the ideas you've had been hammered into you for years. Dyed hair, piercings, tattoos - his suit jacket undone to expose his chest. Lacking respect and formality and dignity. 

He was a lot like you. You got that impression, somehow.

When your eyes met with your uncles for the first time, you had your second fully formed thought about him.

Dangerous. Like an alarm. Like a ringing bell, throbbing through your skull and pulsing through your teeth. Some part of you just knew that he was a very dangerous man. Not just a wealthy one.

The first conversation you ever had with your uncle proves to be the most significant. Brief, yet - tonal in all ways. The gold standard for how he viewed you. How he would view you.

How he would treat you.

("So you're the new brat,"

Your uncle is an imposing man. You are sixteen and slightly tipsy, which is the least horrible thing you could be since your other cousin is coked out in the bathroom upstairs. You sway, staring at him. You think that's disrespectful.

He's the kind of man who might kill you for that. Might hit you. But you don't find it in yourself to challenge your defiance when you're far from sober and even father form happy. You lean your weight to one side and hum.

"New bastard," You correct him, and take another sip of the flute of champagne in your hand. "My worthless fathers, worthless daughter."

Sukuna pauses, his eyes widening before his lips break out into a grin. You wonder if it's because you're drunk. You think he's staring at you. Your eyes are too blurry to tell but you think he's gazing down the low dip of your top. At the curve of your chest. Leering at the body you've yet to even grow into.

"Tenacious," Your uncle says, and takes a long drink of his sake. You stare at the edge of his glass, carmine eyes gazing so deeply at you - you think you'll throw up. "You're your mothers daughter. Through and through.")

The night of your sixteenth birthday, your uncle announced he'd be opening a business venture in Tokyo. All this time he'd been doing work overseas, but seeing family helped finalized his decision. You remember the look on his face when he announced it. Remembered his eyes searching on you through the crowd as he held the mic up to his lips. How he named you the main reason, one conversation and he grew so fond of his little niece. That you were a clever girl, and that even though he hadn't known you long - he was sure you'd go so far.

Happy Birthday to you, little lamb.

You remember best the feeling afterwards. How the crowd went nearly silent. Hundreds of eyes darting your way in seas of strangers. All the attention people hadn’t paid suddenly mattering, all the congratulations. You remember how they crowded you and how your uncle came to your rescue with a cheeky grin and air of nonchalance.

You remember feeling sick. You remember the chill creeping up your spine, bile in your throat - all wet eyes and nausea.

Your uncle is a dangerous man. And you, the uninteresting bastard daughter, had caught his full attention.

The next four years of your life would pass so slowly, you often wondered during them, if you died that night and you'd live through these days as punishment for the crime of existing.

A little after your birthday, your uncle moved back to Japan permanently - in a residence not far from your grandmother's estate. He became a permanent fixture in your life. Many things came with that reality, none of them being especially pleasant.

You learn three things in the four years you spend with your uncle in your life.

The first is that your uncle is more powerful than you can really understand.

Through conversations at your kitchen table about his escapades abroad, you learn nothing of the work he actually does. Only what it involves, who it involves - foreign governments and people much more powerful than your family. Your uncle has ties to the Gojo family, and the Zenins'. Your time here teaches you that they make up two halves of private militarized arms and they work domestically and internationally. The only thing you need to know about them is they are filthy rich, richer than your own family and twice as corrupt.

And Sukuna works with them. Knows them rather intimately, from the pictures you've seen of Sukuna and Gojo Satoru drinking together - two prodigal sons with silver spoons and unsettling demeanors.

The second thing you learn is that your uncle's power and influence extend past all borders and include your grandparents and relatives. In the years he'd been away from home, he's garnered a formidable reputation. You never cared to notice it before, but it's all you can see now. Every arrogant, vapid relative you have the displeasure of calling family sees your uncle as some sort of king. The golden ticket to grandparents approval. A wishing well for all their hopes and dreams - so long as they appease him.

They fawn over him. Sukuna knows it. But they're all so busy trying to get on his good side they never catch his subtleties. Never seem to notice the cold sarcasm and biting edge to his questions. They pander and peacock to him constantly, but not one of them has sense enough to understand him a little deeper. Except you, incidentally. That's part of your problem

The third thing you learn about your uncle is that he takes pleasure in your cleverness no one in your life has since.... who knows? Since your father died, you think.

And you are clever. A head smarter than the rest of your family and a try-hard in all aspects. You graduated highschool top of your class and got scholarships into better schools. It was never about proving your worth of course, but about survival. You wanted away from this place, and the only way to cut your ties completely is to carve a life for yourself. Academia, education, using your name to make connections - you've been working silently on it since you were in middle school.

The only person who'd ever noticed your accomplishments was Sukuna. In between his work, he'd visit you in your room. You grew close in one sense of the word. It was a secret kept between you - but Sukuna often reminded you of it. That he saw you for who you were when no one else did. That his interest in you exceeds your own understanding, and it'd be in your best interest to remember that.

Some half-way between threats and affection, for four years - your uncle remained at your side. Uneasy as you were, he'd never try to advance on you while you were still in highschool. Some part of you knew he wasn't above it. Rather his interest hinged on getting to know you.

Your uncle is above all things manipulative.

Rather he preferred to keep you on your toes during the duration of your time together. To get close but not too close. To get to know each other openly. Your uncle made sure everyone in your family knew of his fondness for you. He'd keep you close to his side or follow you around, always in public places with a million eyes. He'd whisper to you, laughed and asked questions.

You hated being the center of attention, so Sukuna turned it on you any chance he got. It made it hard for you to refuse him, but mostly it made it hard to go under the radar without his protection. It made it hard for your relatives to insult and berate you.

You hated it. You hated accepting his kindness, because you know your uncle well enough to know that everything in the world came with a cost. And that this protection is little more than luxury, promised to you as long as you played nice.

And you always did play nice. But you were cautious. Never alone too long in the same room. Never somewhere too late. Never drunk, never high. Always within distance of a door. Sukuna was a dangerous man, and you may be a bastard but you're no fool.

It'd work for years. You evaded any real alone time with him for years. Years.

Until earlier this year where your mother had made arrangements for you to spend the summer with your dear old Uncle - in his villa, far from the safety of Japan's main island.

In the years of your uncle's favoritism towards you, no one has been more pleased than your mother. You've come to hate her for it. Your relationship hasn't been good in years and for her to suddenly attempt to be your mother again felt like a mockery.

(It mostly felt like a betrayal. You didn't think she could betray you a second time after she all but abandoned you the minute she stepped foot in that house.

Like something possessing the corpse of the mama in your dreams, your seething hatred towards her started then you think.)

You'd spent years indifferent to her, but it was this change that made you hate her down to your bones. You were furious about the decision. Furious she didn't bother asking, furious about all of it.

About everything.

An entire summer alone with the man you know to be most dangerous to you. You wouldn't put it past Sukuna, to plan this around you - but it didn't make it any less frustrating.

("You'll be going with your uncle," Your mother says, hardly listening to you. There's a baby on her hip, your half-brother and a vacant look in her eyes. You feel your jaw tighten. "We've already made plans. Your stepfather,"

"Your husband." You correct. Your mother gives you a tight-lipped smile.

"We are going on a family vacation. Your grandparents wouldn't tolerate you here alone , so you're going and that's final."

"I don't need to live with you," You seethe, fighting the urge to grab her and punch her. You've never been violent. Your mother makes you homicidal. "I can find my own fucking place, I'm twenty I don't need-"

She slams something. Your half-brother makes watery eyes. She stares at you distantly, righteously angry. Whether she's earned that anger or not, it makes your mood worse. .

"This is the least you could for me. For us." She hisses, turning around. You think of killing her. "For all the shit you put me through."

"What I put you through? Fuck you," You admit, your throat burning like a star falling through the atmosphere. Then, through a shaky breath"There's something off about him, mom. Do you understand what I'm fucking saying? Where you're sending me?

Three expressions pass over her face. The ghost of grief, some kind of solace and then more vacancy. She swallows, turns around to keep folding baby clothes. Her voice trembles. She knows she's sending you to your doom. Knows what waits for you as soon as you go.

"You're going. We need this." She says, and still doesn't turn to look at you. Her voice is so frigid it doesn't sound like hers anymore. "That's final."

You shouldn't be shocked by it anymore, but it doesn't make it easier.

You slam the door on your wait out. You hope their plane crashes on the way there.)

You tried your best to worm your way out of the situation before the semester closed out. But Sukuna, three steps ahead of you at all times, made sure that wasn't possible. Your uncle owned a villa out on an island, private - and the bags had already been packed. You'll like it there, he assured you so many times, it's comfortable. There's a good view and the kids in the place will remind you of the kids you grew up with.

(It's hard not to notice the ways in which Sukuna tempts you into wanting to go. Though there's nothing, truly, that could make the experience a pleasant one - it's posed to appeal to you. A place to remind you of your childhood. You try not to think about it.)

Despite your protests, despite your vehement frustration - there was nothing you could do but go. If you didn't go with Sukuna, it'd be enduring 3 months alone with your grandparents. You could try to crash with friends but the friends you've made so far wouldn't dream of being so polite and you dare not think of burdening your childhood friends with your family problems. They deal with enough as is.

The last option was running away. You're desperate enough to entertain it. You do, several times - considering what the worst outcome could be. All scenarios end with Sukuna coming to find you, because he's crazy and connected like that. Even if he's deliberate in not displaying those parts of himself, you know his apathy to be a facade.

You know him well. He knows you well. It feels like a competition to see who can outsmart the other that you were forced into with no say.

So, come the end of your third year of college - a driver picks you up right as your finals are finished to take you to the airport. A private jet, a nauseating display of wealth just for your uncle to torment you with you're sure.

On the plane ride to a small island on the coast of Japan, you think to yourself that all gods in the world must've abandoned you before you were ever born.

__

The first few weeks of your stay in the island of Nii-jima prove to be uneventful.

For a small island, it's still governed through something related to Tokyo. It's not the city or even the country, some quiet and relaxing in between. There are people here who've lived for generations and others who are only touring. Your uncle's villa though, is far from all life - and a few miles out from a beach.

You can hardly understand what a single man needs such a big house for. There's staff there too, though less than at your grandparents place which you're grateful for. You've met six of eight, two of them people who take care of the yards and garden.

Sato-san is the woman you see most often. The one cook Sukuna has and the woman who's been working longest. She is kindhearted and sturdy, often bringing her grandchildren with her. She's quiet and motherly - and so warm you're unsure of how to behave around her. Your uncle is seemingly fond of her which is saying a lot. She speaks highly of him. 

It's been so long since you've experienced something like maternal warmth, you're awkward around her. You try to not be too attached, try not to be fond of anything in this house because you know something horrible and dormant lies within it and you do not want to stay. Don't even want to entertain the idea of staying.

But Sato-san is good to you, with wrinkles and sunspots and a bright laugh. Her grandchildren are so well-behaved you wonder about how they were raised. A girl about seven and a boy about four, always quiet and inattentive. You've grown fond of them too, despite how bad you normally are with children. They're easy to be around.

You're frustrated mainly because you don't hate being here. The people are kind and welcoming and everyone locally is pleasant and good. You've been in the city too long, with insane people too long, and everything feels refreshing. The bus here is free and you can be at the beach whenever you like. You've made friends here - organically, with no strings attached. .

For the first time in your twenty years of living, you even have a guy you think is cute. It seems small, but back home everyone knows who you are. You've never had a relationship work out for one reason or another, but here? Here no one knows you, and the boy you meet at the beach with his friends is just a boy.

You don't want to like being here, but you do - and you don't want Sukuna to come back and he will. Nothing ever works out for you.

The worst of your luck you think builds on the edge of that thought.

You come home tonight doing a lot of things you would not normally. 

For one, you've gotten yourself drunk. The reason being the cute boy aforementioned invited you down to the beach with his friend. You justified going thinking if you were going to be miserable all summer - a single good memory wouldn't kill you.

You had fun. Your swimsuit is underneath your short skimpy clothes, and you sat in his lap and made-out with him all evening. Got to pretend you were a normal girl and you got to kiss for the first time. You still reek of alcohol and his cheap cologne. Blissfully uneventful. 

When you stumble into the foyer of the house with blurry vision and hear the T.V. playing, you know it instinctively that peace is going to be short-lived. You know that your uncle is home, and that he was waiting for you.

All the hairs on your neck raise. A shift in the atmosphere makes it hard to think clearly. Your lungs barely get enough oxygen in them to keep you upright. You think of leaving. You think of running up marble stairs to your room in hopes he won't catch you.

"Brat," Is yelled from the living room. Right, as if you'd ever get so lucky. You jump in your skin. "You home?"

Your stomach churns. You feel sick.

"Come to the living room."

You go obediently when Sukuna calls you, trying not to stumble over your two feet.You don’t think there’s more options than fearful compliance. 

Your uncle is watching Scarface on the big flatscreen on the TV. The subtitles are on in Japanese though you don't think he needs them. He only barely turns his head to look at you, his interest piqued when he sees what you're wearing.

You feel sixteen again, self-conscious of your body and womanhood. He hides it even less than he did the first time - the leering. He notices your skimpy shorts and top, the bottom of your bikini. And he grins, and stares but doesn't say anything.

"Oh?" He says, calm and casual, glancing back at the T.V. "Finally went and had some fun did you? Thought all that studying turned you into a bookish little shut-in permanently."

You don't say anything, arm clutching your other self-consciously.

"Did you need something?"

He snickers, low and predatory. "Come on. You're here to spend time with me so let's spend time together."

You don’t bother asking where he’s been for the last few weeks.  Your gut churns, feet heavy as they drag you to the far end of the couch. Sukuna stares as you sit hesitantly. You have no doubt he's going to make you move, but he's kind enough to leave you alone for now.

"Have fun on your..." He gives you another knowing look then laughs. "Outing?"

You aren't sure how to respond. "Just drank with some friends."

"Friends," He mimics, feeling the words out in his mouth. "The kind of friends that smudge the lipstick off your mouth, huh brat?"

You flush suddenly, embarrassed - and Sukuna barks a laugh. You don't know what he's expecting you to say there so you opt for nothing.

"Sorry," Is the only thing you can manage. Placating. He lets out a puff of air through his nose and relaxes further. There's an air to him, of nonchalance, that unsettles you more than if he was angry or unpleasant. Your throat bobs.

"You're a big girl now," He comments - sleazy and indignant. His indecency towards you, about you glints like a star. A sharp canine and piercing red eyes examine you from his peripherals. "Now that you're showing off it's only natural boys flock to you, hm?"

You can't explain the way this comment makes you feel. So much said with so little. The gap between is and has always been miles wide except sometimes it's not. Your uncle is unusual. Cold-blooded, manipulative, ruthless. There's no warmth in him in a comfortable, loving way. 

There's even less of a normal relationship between you.

But you both exist in this space with... similar awareness. Of the world. Of yourselves. There's a conscious intelligence to him that's reflected in you - that you are both fractured parts of your grandparents bloodline in two separate bodies. That self-awareness affords him a presence. In your mind. In your fear.

You are undoubtedly related. Sukuna revels in that.

It’s rare to see that kind of awareness in your family. You’ve never felt threatened by people dumber than you, even if they had more power or money. Vapid and shallow and useless - there’d never been anything that could win you on. It might sound cocky, but it’s true. It’s been true. 

It’s why Sukuna frightens you. He has everything, but above all - he’s smart. And hard for you to read. 

You swallow, shakily - your eyes looking down at your hands. In a profoundly long beat of silence, the movie plays. A fair bit of gunshots echo through the loud speaker and they startle you.

"You scared? Come sit closer, then." He tells you, less than asks you.

You stand and sit next to him, still a distance away. Sukuna remains unmoving. You don't know what to do with yourself.The silence seems to stretch for miles and minutes. Sukuna just watches the T.V. and stares at his phone - occasionally answering messages. You stay like that for a long time. 

"Need a smoke," He says, and it's not really directed at you. "Maybe later. Wouldn't wanna make you sick."

"People smoke around me all the time."

"Do you smoke?"

You shake your head, too tipsy to lie. He laughs at that. "Not even weed?"

You don't bother mentioning legality, you both know it doesn't matter between your lineage.

"Don't like the taste."

"How interesting. What a straight-edge kid. Most I've seen you get is drunk and this is the drunkest I've ever seen you. Still sober enough to talk clearly though."

"I just drink socially,"

"Ohh," He says, and then grins a little sharper. "A little shot of courage to fuck that little college boy then?"

This makes you jolt. "We didn't fuck—"

"No?" He looks genuinely surprised at this, though it's mild. "Poor kid must've wanted too if you came around him wearing that. Unless he came in his pants soon as you sat on him. Boys that age do stuff like that,"

The comment about his age reminds you of how old your uncle really is, and something in your chest flares hot.

"It wasn't that either—I've never-"

He cuts you off. "You're a virgin?"

You flush, stopping yourself from answering and he laughs.

"Ohhh, that's good. Very good," He grins, so genuinely pleased it makes you shiver. "I like virgins. Easy to please."

"That's—It wasn't for you."

For the first time in your relationship, Sukuna bridges the gap between you. He sits up and forward, his hand finding the bare skin of your knee. He rests it there, his thumb circling the flesh.

"Don't touch me," You hiss. Sukuna tightens his grip, but not threateningly. He turns to look at you that time, and you can't help but look back.

There's something in his degeneracy that horrifies you. It's fondness, you think. Genuine fondness.

"You sure?" He licks his teeth in a way that reminds you of a wolf. But not one that's starving. There's no desperation in his actions, but a self-assurance. Wolves don't often survive alone, but Sukuna has. And he hungers with the confidence of a predator who has killed all that stand before him. That's never been told no to what he wants to eat.

Your heart stops. Your voice a low whisper. "Stop,"

"You say that but you came in the house looking all desperate for sex and approval. You always look like that. Have for a little longer than what's normal for a girl your age,"

"I don't look like that!"

"You would've fucked that little college twerp if you stayed wouldn't you? Nothing wrong with honesty, brat."

Before you have a chance to understand what goes on around you, Sukuna changes position. You've never gotten a chance to feel and experience how strong he is - not like the way he's manhandling you now. You gasp at the arm around your waist and back. He pins you to the couch in a swift motion, not sure how he's done it, the alcohol making you dizzy.

Sukuna has never crossed the boundary with you like this before. Your heart is thumping loud, beating against your ribs. The source of it eludes you. If it's fear or discomfort or some other thing entirely causing such noice. 

There's a certain blase in his attitude that makes you forget momentarily about the taboo and gives way just to the tension between you. You feel it for the first time with his body pressed against you, all hot and heavy. He smells of cologne, but it lacks the acidity cheap ones tend to have. There’s strong hints of cigarettes and aftershave accompanying it. Appearance wise, he has lines in his face like a man in his forties. 

You don't know what's wrong with you. With a relationship so fucked up from the start, you thought crossing this line would feel different. You think you want to throw up, but you're completely calm. 

You want to be disgusted. You want to thrash and kick and scream and fight. You squirm away from him, the threads of what's left of your moral conscience urging you to do so. Like a last ditch effort to keep you sane. 

But there's just. Something. Something so inevitable about it that your heart doesn't beat at all. The panic itself feels hollow in nature. You are a rotted log and Sukuna has ripped the soft wood out of you with relative ease. But you’ve been that way for a long time, and nothing hurts. Not really.  

It's relieving in the worst way. 

"Get away from me,” You whisper again with noticeably less fight. Sukuna looks at you bright-eyed.

"You're a good kid," He says. The genuine praise knocks the air out of your lungs. That disgusts you more than anything else happening between you so far. "Interesting. A lot brighter than the other kids in our family."

Our family. You wince. .

"Stop, this is—" You don't know what word to use. He's your uncle and you're his niece and he's been gazing at you like this for god knows how fucking long. "Stop."

"You've got something going on behind your eyes at least, even if you're still just a wet-nosed and angry little housecat," He says, staring down at you. He's so imposing. His facial hair and his various tattoos. Everything about him, down to his bones. "But I can't tear my eyes away from you at the same time. You know that?."

You do know that. You cast your gaze away.

"I applaud how cautious you've been. But it didn't make a difference in the end. You know that too, right?"

You don't say anything.

"Clever little lamb you are, indeed. I like that about you." He hums, leaning down closer to you. His face is inches from yours. "You should be smart enough to know how this ends. But you know, you've been so entertaining to me this whole time I feel like I should at least be a little nice. So I'll offer you something. A deal of sorts, we can even write it on paper."

This catches your interest and he knows it does. He knows. You’re cut from the same cloth. And this place has made you lose your character, just like it always does. So if it means your survival and sanity or your morals, one comes before the other.

He grins at you.

"Come stay with me. Here in Nii-jima and back at my estate at home. I'll take care of your expenses and whatever else. I have better connections than the old hag," He says, leaning down even closer to you. You can smell him. He's intoxicating "You can be away from everything. I'll even let you have boyfriends and girlfriends over. You can throw sleepovers. I don't care. You can do whatever you want."

"What's in it for you?"

You can feel his knee press up against your cunt through your shorts and you gasp, hand going up to his shoulder. "This. Been thinking about this tight little cunt for a while now. You'd have to be at my beck and call. We'd be the closest uncle and niece in all of Japan," He snickers.

You wince at the reminder. You hate yourself for considering it. "Why me? There are plenty of women who are dying to fuck you."

He scoffs a little. 

"Once we get you a little farther from the trenches kid, you might start to understand me. Wealth, fortune, fame - all of it's fucking boring. I came back to Japan prepared to leave again but you made me stay. Not much more to it than that."

"You're fucking your blood-niece out of curiosity? Your sister's daughter?"

"My sister never did anything good with her life except marrying your father and making you." Sukuna says, and laughs lightly. You hate how validated it makes you feel. Your skin crawls. "I'll have to thank her for it. She'll be pleased.

You make a face at him, uncertainty. Apprehension. Fear. Frustration. Everything you’ve been compartmentalizing comes bubbling to the surface and making your head feel weighted with lead. You want to kill everyone and everything including him. You want to run away from this place. You want to go home, though you don’t know where that would be anymore. They demolished your old apartment years ago. 

You think spending a few years getting fucked and used might be less miserable than the suffocation of living with your mother and your baby brother and your grandparents. How much abuse you’ve endured already vs. what awaits you when their true heir starts to walk and talk horrifies you. 

You look at him. 

“You’re horrible.” 

“Tell me something new.” 

“I hate you. I don’t…want this. Any of this. I want to go home.” 

You’re just venting. Really. You’ve made the choice already. 

“Has there ever been a time where it’s been about what you want? I doubt it. But if you stay with me, appease my wishes for a while, well,” He laughs confidently. “You’ll get something, at least. Better than what you have.” 

“The contract. Are you serious about that?” 

He laughs at you. “Sure. If it makes you feel better, you can draft it and I’ll just have my lawyer sign. Bring your defenses. Whatever. Don’t really care as long as I get what I want.” 

“And that’s me?” 

“Seems like it,” 

You purse your lips. It seems like a rash decision to make in the moment, but truthfully your heads never felt so clear. Even with the alcohol. 

“...Fine.” 

Sukuna hums when you agree. It feels anti-climatic somehow. Not that he’s not expecting your yes but that you’ve come to accept it so easily. It’s not like this takes away from the coercion, from the awful feeling of being violated. Sukuna was going to rape you whether you liked it or not. This way, at least, you get something out of it. This way it’s something you choose. Something tangible results from your inevitable doom - the fate your mother damned you to. 

It affords you some plausible deniability too. In truth, you’re afraid for yourself. You’re afraid of what will happen when he finally does cross the line completely. You’re afraid you’re going to accept it, that it’s going to feel pleasurable, that years of repressing yourself will come back to make sure you never return to normalcy. 

What will become of you when Sukuna has his way with you? Will you become a more apathetic version of yourself? Is it possible? Will you sober and feel like scrubbing your skin clean in the shower? 

The worst outcome, you think, is nothing so horrible happening. The worst outcome is knowing you’ve fallen far enough for none of it matters at all. 

Sukuna grins down at you. “What a well-behaved niece I have. Good girl. You’ll do well living with me.” 

You make a displeased face at him, but your breath catches in your lungs soon after. Your uncle leans in to kiss you and you close your eyes trying to get away from it. But it’s true that your body has been burning up from the inside since you came back home - a dull throbbing between your legs turning you all kinds of stupid. 

When Sukuna kisses you - your first thought is that he’s unexpectedly gentle. 

You didn’t think he’d care about kissing to begin with. In your head you thought he’d tug off your shorts brutishly and fuck you without any prep. You were readying yourself for tears and pain, for screaming and crying - the sharp sobs of your own voice piercing your ears. 

A gentle press of lips startles you from your drunk haze. You can feel the scruff of Sukuna’s face on your own, your arms wrapping around his neck instinctively. The taste of cigarettes and something else mildly smokey fill your mouth and make you dizzy. Sukuna tastes like kissing a man - or what you might’ve imagined that to be like. Not a boy, but a man. You feel his strength, your hands splaying at the base of his neck and feeling the faded undercut of his neck, the texture of his dyed hair. His weight shadows you, his strength making you feel fluttery. 

He doesn’t tease you all during the kiss like you’re expecting. Nothing goes the way you expect. He kisses you in slow, short pecks and escalates to his tongue dipping against your lips - a little added element to his deep kisses. He kisses like he’s been doing it for longer than you have, with experience and finesse. You’re all but too conscious of everything little thing. About the sounds you make, about knowing when to breathe, about trying not to get wrapped up in the pleasant euphoria. 

All you can think about is how good he is at it. Effortlessly good. You think part of you latches onto it to avoid thinking about what’s happening. Denial feels pleasurable at least. 

You kiss like that for so long, your lips have swollen - sticky with spit and saliva. Sukuna has a self-satisfied smirk on his face when he pulls away from you, laughing at the flush in your expression. 

You hit him lightly, looking away from his face. 

“It’s a wonder you’ve kept your virginity,” He says, chuckling. “A kiss and a dirty old man like me could’ve taken it from you.” 

“Shut up,” Your reply is weak. He laughs against your mouth, and you can’t get over the intimacy of it. You hope you’re deluding yourself but then he kisses the corner of your mouth. Hot, warm air tickles against your jaw and neck when he presses his lips there too and suddenly it occurs to you how real it is. 

You don’t think your uncle is capable of warmth or love or anything that doesn’t come from coercion. But fondness. Maybe fondness. 

He spends more time doing that than what’s comfortable. Relishes the feeling of you in his arms, his bulge grinding against your clothed cunt but not forcefully. Just with enough pressure to make you gasp once in a while when you don’t have a mind to fight it. 

“I won’t take your virginity tonight,” He says declaratively. It surprises you. “You’ve got three months with me. It’d be boring. I’ll give you something else.” He looks at you then, then grins impishly. “What do you want?” 

Your eyes widen, suddenly unsure of yourself. You push away, brought back to reality by the questions. 

“How would I know?” 

He blinks at you. “I know you said you were a virgin, but did you really mean in everything?” 

You pout at him all of a sudden. “So what. I didn’t have that kind of time.” 

Sukuna barks a laugh. 

“Huh. I thought you were a goody two-shoes out of necessity but you really don’t do a damn thing in that house. Not even a boyfriend to do hand stuff with?” 

“Ugh. No, alright? I don’t have time for that kind of thing like I just said.” 

He laughs a little breathless, sitting up for a minute. You’re wondering what it means for you. Sukuna pulls you up along with him. He sits down again with his legs spread before looking at you. He pulls you into his lap with relative ease, until you’re half-way pressed into him with your legs over his thighs. You stare at him, feeling more exposed in this position. You get a closer view of his neck tattoo, realizing how far down his back it must go. You go to ask him what he’s doing - but he’s undressing you before you can. 

Confident, large hands trapeze down your back as he finds the end of your overwear and pulls it off - leaving you in the microkini you wore to the beach. It barely covers your nipples. You made the choice to wear it, yet seeing Sukuna examine it so closely leaves you wallowing and regretful. Still, he’s silent as he does something similar with your jean-shorts. A hand lifting your legs up enough to roll the cheap, denim shorts and discard them right on the marble floors. 

You’re still half-way over his lap - sitting on his thighs but you’re naked now.

You feel yourself growing self-conscious. Never mind that it’s the first time anyone’s seen you this naked, who exactly you’re showing it to makes you want to throw up. He stares for so long you wonder what he’s thinking, a lazy grin splitting his face. A hand nudges your thighs apart, moving your leg to give Sukuna more access to you. With an arm around your waist, his hand cups your cunt, rubbing it softly. You shift nervously. His thumb moves then, rests at the hood of your clit, pulling up to look closer at it. You hold back any noise as he examines you, bent pointer of the opposite hand brushing over the hair on your skin with a laugh. 

“Unexpectedly, it’s pretty,” He says and your eyes shoot wide open. “Good job brat.” 

“What are you,” You pant, your breath hitching as you close your eyes.”staring so much for it?” 

“It’s mine to stare at.”

You don’t think of your uncle as particularly possessive. It’s more like he believes in that so much, so unshakingly nothing else could be true. You wonder if there’s more to it. He didn’t seem angry even after you told him about seeing a boy. 

But comparing the two, Sukuna outclasses him in all ways that it should matter. He must be confident about that. 

He spreads your thighs a little further. You’re half tucked into his side now - an arm around the back of his neck and shoulders. Sukuna ducks down a little, nudging his nose against your neck and scraping his teeth lightly against your throat. He doesn’t do much other than… touch you. Not directly. His other hand, the one not secured around your waist, rubs at your pussy but not in an attempt to pleasure you. It’s exploratory and intimate. He’s just touching you in a way that’s making you restless. And the angle he’s bent down, the proximity gives you a better view of him. From the side where you sit in his lap, you can see the tattoo again. 

You shudder then, pussy suddenly clenching in a way that leaves you ashamed. Your uncle notices, though he doesn’t look up. 

“Thought of something, brat?” 

“No.” You deny, vehemently. He spanks your pussy but not hard. You jolt in reply, a shock traveling up your spine. 

“C’mon now,” He hums, predatory. “Don’t lie. That’s not fun.” 

“Y-your tattoo,” You say, suddenly feeling the influence of alcohol in a way you hadn’t all evening. “It’s…big.”

“Into bad boys or something, kid?” 

You frown. “You look like a yakuza.” 

This makes him laugh, more genuinely than you’ve ever seen him laugh. “Getting warmer, I guess.” 

You don’t say anything to that. Instead spurred by the sudden confidence. “Why aren’t you…touching me?” 

He looks at you surprised then tilts his head. “Is that what you want? 

“I don’t want any of this but it,” You squirm again. “Feels weird.”

“Sounds like you want something, at least. Go on, tell your oji-san what you want.” 

You scrunch your nose up at him, a familiar feeling of disgusting flitting through you. It fades as quickly as it comes.

“I’ve never put a-anything inside,” You admit, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

“That so,” He hums. His middle finger slides down the wet seam of your cunt as you tell him this. You nod but you don’t think he’s really listening. His hand is warm, and big - and his fingers are thicker than yours. One of yours may as well make two of his, no end to how imposing he is. You don’t protest as he starts to touch you. You simply take a deep breath, holding onto him a little tighter. 

With your head turned towards him, Sukuna leans in again to kiss you. It’s deep from the beginning this time, and a little rougher. He bites lightly on your lower lips as his middle finger dips down towards your sex. Your insides are throbbing, hot and wet as you feel some friction. It’s the first time anyone else has ever held you in your life, every touched you directly like this. Against your will, your body is sensitive to the stimulus. Everywhere he touches you goes alight, and the kiss makes your tummy flutter. A tender feeling of want spreads you open, tears you apart right in front of him. 

With parted lips and a heavy head, you kiss him as his middle finger dips down low enough to penetrate you. A soft gasp pulls from your throat. 

It doesn’t feel unpleasant.

“I thought it was going to hurt more.” You admit, feeling him inside of you. It’s a new sensation but it’s not bad. 

“It shouldn’t hurt if you’re aroused enough. And wet enough. You seem to be both.” 

You frown at him, face pinching. It’s washed away quickly by the sensation of him pushing deeper. It’s hard to describe it as anything other than feeling something inside of you. Deep in a place you didn’t think it could go. You shake a little, trying to get adjusted. Sukuna does it carefully, slowly - thrusting in even strokes and keeping you focused on kissing so you’re not too conscious of it. 

He’s not thoughtful, not really - but you can tell that he’s going slower for your sake and that makes your heart stammer uncomfortably. The last word you’d ever use for him is kind but he’s not being horrible and it’s unsettling you. 

Once one finger goes in and out smoothly, your uncle starts to add another. You feel it that time, the stretch of it - gasping hard at the sudden sensation. Your breath catches in your lungs, hand clutching at his shoulder for purchase. He pulls away from your mouth, his breath near your ear. 

“Easy, little one. Give it a minute.” 

“It feels different. It’s,” You can’t form the words as two fingers penetrate you in full, slowly being eased inside of you until Sukuna is knuckle deep. Your breath hitches. “Not like it hurts.” 

“It’ll feel good in a second.” He says assuredly, voice smooth and raspy against your ear. You feel combative at his confidence, but then a minute passes of him rubbing along your insides and something strikes against you like lightning. You pause, blinking confused as Sukuna laughs. “There it is,” 

“There what is?” 

“C’mon kid, I know you’re too busy with school but you don’t know something so basic about your own body?” 

“What is it, oh.” 

His other hand toys with your clit, rubbing it in slow circular motions as he gauges your reaction to the touch. You jolt from the sudden pleasure, getting used to it slowly. You didn’t realize how badly it was throbbing to be touched until he does it in full. Your mouth dries up immediately. Little shocks of electricity spark up through you as his hands go full in on your body. The combined pleasure starts to uptick, something building slowly but surely. It goes from not feeling like much to feeling like something. Feeling physical. 

Your mouth drops open in sudden shock, eyes lidded as you moan unabashedly - unable to keep the sound at bay. You own a vibrator, use to cum quick and hard just to curb the feeling. You’ve had orgasms on your own but nothing has ever felt like this before. It’s undeniably satiating, mimics the feeling of eating something and nearly making yourself sick on it. You go slack-jawed, your nerves on fire. 

Two fingers curled against your silken walls and another two toying at the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs leaves little room in your brain to think. The only thing your body seems to remember is how to moan and whine - make these pathetic little noises you’ve never heard in your life. You didn’t even know you could make. Oddly enough, Sukuna is quiet through it. He makes grunts and little affirmatives but he’s mostly silent. You mostly hear the sound of your own voice. 

The sound of your own wetness. You can feel the sticky sensation of your arousal but you can hear it even better. It’s lewd to listen too, wet smacks mixing with the pathetic bleats of your voice make you feel hot all over. Skin prickling with heat and sensation. 

“I knew you were sensitive but haah. If I would’ve fucked you today, you would have cried.” 

The thought drifts idly by about his cock and your whole lower half reacts to it by going weak. It aches just thinking about anything bigger or longer entering you than his fingers. 

“Figure an insolent little kid like you isn’t much of a crybaby. I’m sure I can make you one.” 

You don’t even think about asking what he means. 

“Feels,” You make a gasping noise, body suddenly going tense. “Hngh, fuck. Feels so good, holy fuck.” 

He groans a little. “I’m being too nice to you. I really should be balls deep in your cunt already and I’m not. You gonna cum for me, huh brat?” 

You nod your head dumbly, unable to retort. To think of anything but the sensation washing over you.”Go on. Do it. Cum for your perverted oji-san.”  

Something about the depravity of it sets your mind numb. Your body goes tight, every nerve firing off at once as you grip onto his shoulder and let the feeling of euphoria wash over you. Your whole body is so stimulated it’s numbing. The feeling of pleasure crashes into you, leaves your spine arching - mouth dropped open and nearly screaming. Your sanity melts, fades off completely and your brain feels like it’s gone empty. You close your eyes so hard little splashes of white show up in your vision, like you’re seeing T.V. static. 

You think you scream. You don’t know. You just know that you’re cumming, hard, just from his hands and you’re terrified of what else he’s good at. You don’t think it boils down to sensitivity as the waves of your first orgasm ripple through your body. 

You lay in his arms, sweaty and limp. Your vision is blurry with tears as you open them to look at him. Sukuna is rubbing your side, taking his fingers into his mouth. You look at him surprised as he does. He grins. 

“Tastes good, kid.”

You flush. “Shut up.” 

“Don’t think I’m done with you quite yet.”

Sukuna guides your hand to his pants, over his bulge. You gasp a little at it. His size through clothes is astounding to you. 

“I’m not so generous to leave with nothing, you know.” He pats your thigh, moving you from his lap. “I’ve got a better idea than trying to teach you anything today, so try to hold still.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about until he guides you on the floor. You’re confused until you feel him position you  - facing towards the couch with your knees spread on the floor. In doggy, you realize a little too late, your upper-half supported by the couch cushion. You feel more confused than you felt a moment ago. 

Sukuna positions himself behind you. You can’t see him, but you can hear the soft rustle of his clothes moving as he stands on his knees behind you. More than that, you can feel his cock resting on your bare ass. You gasp, feeling the weight and size slide against your curves. Sukuna does a breathy little laugh at your reaction. He’s huge. 

“Don’t cry kid. I told you I wasn’t gonna put it in tonight and I meant that,” He hums. His hands come to your hips, all of a sudden pushing them together. “Push your thighs together as tight as you can.” 

You listen to him. You can do it with some effort despite how weak your body feels. You lean forward on the couch for support, bringing your knees together and pressing your thighs. You don’t understand what it’s for until something hard pressing along your spine moves down the curve of your ass. You gasp aloud as his thick cock pushes between your thighs, tip catching against your swollen clit. Your whole body is covered in goosebumps. Sukuna moans low in his throat, resting his head on your shoulder. 

“Fuck, that’s it.” He hums, sounding pleased. “Keep them tight for me, alright girl? Try to at least.” 

Sukuna is wordless as he grips your hips, your flesh dimpling under his bruising grip. You're silent, your voice threatening to spill again as you try your best to listen to him. You keep yourself tight and firm, your hands gripping the couch cushions as Sukuna pushes his cock between the fat of your thighs and starts a pace.

The angle makes you gasp, body feeling weak at the way it touches your clit with each bump. Sukuna doesn’t hold back at all. You’re not being penetrated but the weight behind each of his thrusts makes you feel like you’re being fucked. The bruising sensation of skin against skin - the hard muscles of his own legs smacking against the softness of your thighs. 

Most embarrassing is the way the position makes you conscious of your uncle's cock. You knew he was huge before, but the way he’s thrusting. Where it reaches when he does thrust makes your throat feel nearly tight. You can’t stop thinking about the fact it’ll be inside you. You can’t imagine taking it in your hands - the girth and length of it fucking impossible. And he wants to fuck you with it? Take your virginity? 

He’ll stretch you so open if he does. You can barely think of it fitting in you. When you do, your whole body shudders in a horrible and pathetic way - a new wave of arousal striking a strange chord. As he bumps and ruts against your clit and your mind fills with such lewd images, a new wave of lust starts to pour through you. 

It’s unhelped by the feeling of Sukuna’s cock - getting so close. The throbbing with each thrust and the low, throaty groans he keeps vocalizing against your ear. All of it proves to be too much for you. It shocks you when you feel yourself grow hot all over again. Not even being touched directly and so soon after your first - a mere few minutes. 

And you find yourself with all your muscles tight, your hand reaching back for Sukuna as you plant your face against the cushions and let him fuck hard between your thighs. You feel incoherent, stupid and so fucking horny. You’ve never experienced it. You can’t think of what to moan, so you choose his name. 

This makes him laugh as he bends over you, his teeth biting your shoulder blades. 

“Gonna cum again from this brat? Aren’t you fucking easy? Come on, cum with me. Just like that, take it. Fuck, that’s it. Good. Good girl.” 

It’s the last bit of tension that pushes you over the edge, whether you care to admit it. Your voice breaks as a second orgasm washes through you - more intense but much shorter than the first and you nearly fall limp. You only barely manage to hold yourself up as your uncle keeps thrusting relentlessly. 

You can feel him twitch hard between your thighs when his orgasm finally hits. You shake as you feel him squish the tip between your thighs - hot ropes of cum spurting against the swollen mound of your cunt and dripping down your thighs as he finishes. He smacks your ass as he finishes, making you yelp. Your whole body is rife with exhaustion, finally coming down from high-highs and low-lows. 

“We’re gonna have a lot of fun together for the next few months kid,” He says, almost affection in his words. You’re too exhausted to reply, looking at him over your shoulder. “Let’s get along and do our best.” 

“You’re a sick-fuck, oji-san.” 

“And you’re a whole lot like me, aren’t you kid?.” 

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.” 

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐈, 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈 ♛

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. gladiator!Sukuna x princess!Reader, historical AU – ancient rome, misogyny, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, eventual smut [MDNI], degrádation, power play (?), bondáge, chöking, hair-pulling, overstimulátion, dácryphilia, fíngering, cünnilingus, tït súcking, knîfe play, cūm eating, full nelson, outdoor sêx, table sêx, balcony sêx, pool sêx, angry sêx, size difference, breêding, unprotected sêx, multiple örgasms, gröping, pet names, TL;DR: Sukuna can't keep it in his freaking pants

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 18.9k 💀

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. i <3 a good ancient rome fic, but please don’t be alarmed by the wc—the first two acts are boring (but necessary) world-building + plot and whatnot, but the third act’s where things get GOOD, iykwim // available on ao3 // dividers by @uzmacchiato

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈.

This was bound to happen sooner or later.

Well, with being raised so near the emperor’s circle of friends and family, you had never been exactly shielded from death and despair, per se; and, let’s be honest, attending a gladiators’ game in the Colosseum was practically fate.

During the times of Ancient Rome, you had an . . . uncommon upbringing, to say the least. Abandoned as a mere newborn, you were taken in by none other than the emperor and his wife, who failed to have any real children of their own. Growing up, they treated you like a daughter they never had, and gave you a life of endless prosperity and luxuries. Your bedroom—decorated and gilded in gold; your closet—always stocked and more ornate than even the average noblewoman’s; and your life—full of only the highest expectations.

Despite coming from a pitifully low background and rising to such a rank that made your peers during schooling envious, you learned some much needed qualities such humility and humbleness. Well, you were practically everything but a princess, after all. You lived in the palace with the emperor and empress, but you weren’t royal by blood. Sure, you were noble; and your time was mostly taken up by serving the empress as her lady-in-waiting, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life was pleasant like this.

You enjoyed serving the empress who took you under her wing, and found no difficulty in assisting with her day-to-day tasks. Dressing, accompanying, running errands. It was simple; there was never a rush for you.

Today was no different.

With the radiating, beaming sun blinding civilians with no mercy—from merchants, to nobles, to plebeians—the star did not leave a single mortal untouched or unaffected.The cruel rays shining upon skin glistening with sweat and hair tousled and unruly only displayed each spectator’s discomfort as the minutes rolled past and the gladiators had still yet to enter the amphitheater.

Fanning yourself, as you sat high above the stands beside the empress, you couldn’t help but express your wonder, turning your head ever so slightly to meet her eyes. “How long does Your Imperial Majesty think we will have to wait?”

“Child, how many times will I have to make myself clear? Such formalities between us are hardly ever necessary,” the woman—clothed in a purple stola—scolded, replying with a maternal smile. “But, to answer your question,” she began, clearing her throat, “I figure . . . not so long. You know how men can be: adjusting their armor, fixing their hair, getting stage-fright. It’s all the same to me. How can one worry about their appearance when it’s plausible their blood will just be splattered along the arena in the end?”

You pretended to laugh at her disposition.

Contrary to popular belief, the empress was a nice woman; an understanding woman; someone who ruled alongside her husband with equal—if not rivaling—authority and a scholar’s intellect. You occasionally thought of her as someone practically born to lead, and after spending your whole life in the palace, you’ve grown accustomed to the fact that, while the face of the empire was usually imagined to be the emperor’s, it was not seldom that the empress was the one pulling additional strings behind the stage.

Misogyny is a nasty prejudice, and if it weren’t for the way things were, you had no doubt in standing behind the idea that the empress would be just as great of a prominent ruler as those who had come before her husband.

Of course, even with being such a morally virtuous person, the empress was born into royalty, and had never served someone a day of her life; and alongside being surrounded in endless luxury, comes the inevitable quality of aporophobia. The woman wasn’t as cruel as most, however; yes, she looked with disdain at poverty and unfortunate souls, but didn’t turn a blind eye, no.

She cracked jokes at, made fun of, and used people of lower rank for her own amusement, but it was all “harmless,” as she called it, similar to having a jester in one’s court. Even while mocking those she deemed helpless and lowly, she never failed to grant them whatever resources they requested when visiting her throne. You may have heard of kindness without honesty and honesty without kindness, but kindness with neither honesty nor humility? Strange. 

Well, don’t start getting the wrong idea now. The empress could be with preconceptions, but she was a charming woman within retrospect.

Before the empress could poke fun at any more people, the Colesseum’s spectators suddenly burst into roars and bellows and yells as the appointed gladiators of the first match entered the arena. 

Two men. Both of adequate height—no less than six feet, you assumed. But, were they slaves? you wondered. No. No, they were too muscular for that. Oh, well, then again, that quality may have been from manual labour and other work of the like. Although the naked eye failed—from how high up your seats were—to see a real difference, you could still tell one of the fighters was shorter than the other, from the length and distribution of their shadows.

The taller competitor, with a reddish-brown beard and deformed knees, caught the interest of the woman beside you, and she turned to whisper (albeit poorly) in your ear and laugh about his disagreeable features.

“I heard his name was . . . Remus, or something. But, if you asked me,” the empress laughed, “I would say he was nothing but a damn fool—a fool disgracing the name of the God of War’s son.”

You met her eyes, which seemed to almost glow beneath the sun. “You suppose he will lose?”

“Suppose?” she repeated, tossing coins into a betting pool as if it were impossible for her to be wrong. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The other fighter—the shorter one—held a gloomy expression on his face, and didn’t look a day over twenty. A slave; competing for a chance at freedom? It wasn’t so far-fetched.

The referees were soon called to their positions, the armed combatants took their stances, and the munera commenced.

Swords met, shields resisted attacks, and little to no blood was drawn. Again, and again, and again. The crowds booed, raised their voices, and expressed their boredom and utter disappointment like spoiled children; it made your ears hurt, and you chewed at your bottom lip in agonizing anticipation of what was to come of these poor men. But, nevertheless, the show had to go on.

Even with the fierce sun, and beads of sweat accumulating on just about everyone’s foreheads, the fighters regained their positions and began anew—this time, with more violence.

The shorter man looked as if he finally realized he could turn his life around if victory was his and started to hold the hilt of his sword with gathering excitement rather than fear. Stabs cut through the air, piercing absolutely nobody, and consecutive gasps erupted within the stands as suspense arose alongside the growing lust for blood.

Both men lunged forward consecutively, throwing jabs at the other, just to fail and jump back, before trying again.

With the heavy toll of labour dealing on each competitor’s body and soul, they both looked equally older compared to how they actually were on the records. The fight was nothing if not unpleasant. More often than not, according to the empress, gladiatorial games were always more entertaining when the combatants were more . . . manly. Or, masculine? Attractive? All the same.

And, anyway, you couldn’t exactly deny Her Imperial Majesty’s claims. For, even as you remained with a neutral expression on your face, you couldn’t help but cast side-glances at the figures of the gladiators. Muscular, but . . . not muscular in a lovely way. Their faces were dirty, cheeks hollow, and hands grimy. It seemed like the exertion on their bodies would be more of a morality cause than how hopeless their fight was continuing to be.

Even with the increase of energy and work being infused into the swords’ clashing and shields’ refuting, only a few minutes had passed and you already began to grow bored, waiting for the moment the fight would be either called off or a more formidable opponent would be brought into the arena. A bull, for instance.

It wasn’t until a rock—thrown by a spectator in the stands—landed just beside the left foot of the taller fighter with a thudding sound that, for a second, the man froze, either confused or unable to decide on what to do, and his opponent wasted not a second more before moving in for an attack.

The blade of a gladius pierced the taller competitor on the side of his abdomen, and his sword dropped onto the floor with a dull sound, seemingly filled with a sense of inevitable defeat, as the man himself fell soon after, his body landing prone beside his weapon. The sight was almost poetic, and even the empress found it in herself to let out a little gasp (despite her early confidence in the outcome).

The arena went silent. Utterly silent.

Would the referees consider foul play? Spectator interference? Everyone wondered, and eyes moved from one man to another to try and figure out the decided outcome of the match.

You only noticed how clammy your hands had gotten throughout the climax of the match when you followed the example of other spectators to rise in ovation and break out into plaudits and hollers after the shorter fighter was finally announced victorious. Letting out a breath you did not know you were holding, you wiped the sweat off your palms at the fabric of your palla.

The gods were not on the taller man’s side this day, for, the fate of the match was due to two factors. A) the rock was interference, yes, but it was neither an advantage nor a disadvantage for either of the competitors. Since, according to the spectators, both of them could’ve been affected by it; the taller man just happened to be frozen while the other gained consciousness. And, B) any one of them could’ve stood still, but, perhaps, the taller one really was as stupid as he looked.

The empress told you both men were, in fact, slaves, and that you had been correct in your assumption. But, you had no reason to celebrate, for you felt pity for the fallen; but, anyhow, death would’ve come sooner or later to him. The rest of his life would’ve been spent bending over machines and gathering hay and tending to cattle.

On the other hand, fortunately for those hard of hearing, the applause died down more swiftly than the end of the fight came, and most spectators had already begun to seat themselves back down when the victorious competitor exited with his treasures, and two new combatants entered, instantly silencing any other leftover noise.

Their names were announced, but you could not pick up a single syllable, for, only a millisecond after, the crowds had once again broken into loud cheers and yells; these competitors were apparently not ordinary gladiators. Probably well-known, or excellent fighters, is what you assumed.

Although their match had yet to begin, the second pair of fighters were already visibly sweating beneath their heavy armor and shields.

Now, from the height of your seat, you could not distinguish which of the men were taller, but you could easily set their countenances apart.

The silver-haired one carried himself with an elegant, almost prince-like gait, and his eyes shone like the beautiful waters of the Mediterranean Sea under the rays of the glaring sun. His lips—thin and pink—occasionally formed into a taunting smile or flashed his pearly whites at swooning women in the stands. He was particularly attractive, and despite yourself, you found the act of looking at him rather enjoyable.

His eyes raised above the crowd of spectators for a moment, before meeting the emperor’s in a friendly fashion. Then, flitting to the side, he gave a small acknowledgement to the empress. And then, finally, to you. His eyes met yours with a flirty ulterior motive and he smiled an almost boyish smile, but you couldn’t deny the fact your cheeks seemed to warm at the sight of his brief greeting and acknowledgement before he turned back to evaluate the crowd with squinted eyes (courtesy of the overly sunny weather).

Clearing your throat and settling the ridiculous thumping of your heart, you sat up in your seat and, ignoring the teasing remarks of the empress, your eyes moved over to take a look at the other gladiator.

He was . . . perhaps, the complete opposite of the silver-haired one.

A total brute, if you did say so yourself. Pink, rosy hair. Defined muscles. A sharp nose and pierced ears. He had the arms and legs of a high-ranking Roman soldier, and, even from how high up you were, or how blinding the sun was, you could still clearly tell his chest would be just as chiseled as the rest of him. He was, without a doubt, a piece of eye-candy if you had ever seen one. But, what intrigued you most about him, were his tattoos. Inky, black markings that circled around his wrists, thighs, and decorated his already daunting face.

You had been staring at him for a while when you felt the intimidation of his piercing gaze meeting your figure up in the stands, seemingly having taken notice of your ogling. Sinking back down in your seat, your body squirmed nervously and awkwardly under his unforgiving stare, as if you were trying to escape his sights. 

You couldn’t understand the meaning for your very sudden and growing embarrassment for having been caught, and you pretended to avert your focus elsewhere. But minute after minute continued to pass by, and you could still feel the pair of crimson eyes burning holes at the side of your head.

Like a child finally succumbing to the scolding of their parents, you turned back to face the gladiator, and, like you imagined, he had not moved his eyes off of you for even a second. His lips were sealed in a thin line, and the expression on his face, emphasized by his seemingly bored eyes, displayed nothing but want and desire. Was it want and desire to exit the arena? Or, want and desire to avoid throwing his life away in a gladiatorial game? You could not decide on an answer.

Your eyes wandered downwards, and landed upon the pink-haired brute’s weapon of choice. He had a gladius, like most fighters of munera, but it was . . . different, in possibly the most subtle way.

A ruby lay clear as day in the dead center of his capulus—the hilt of his sword. The color unmistakably matched up with the shade of the sword’s master’s eyes, and you couldn’t help but flicker your gaze from one to the other.

The only event that managed to take your attention off of the man and his blade, was the empress, who interrupted your focus and leaned in to whisper in your ear. “What do you look at so intently, my dear?” she questioned, before waving her hand in dismissal. “Never mind; look over there. Yes, right there. Do you see that man? The pink-haired fighter?”

You nodded.

“His name is Ryoumen Sukuna, but you must know, most people have started calling him King of the Colosseum.”

“Sukuna? King of the Colosseum?”

The woman ignored your growing curiosity, and moved on to other subjects. “He’s a fine one—personal favorite of the emperor, you know. Lovely physique, an agreeable countenance, and boundless skill in a match to the death. I hear his streak of victories has not ended since he began gladiating all the way back since he was twenty.”

“How old is he now?” you asked, your desperation for information on the man growing second by second.

“Six-and-twenty? I could not tell you, darling.”

While you and the empress conversed, whispering about the combatants behind ring-adorned hands which covered your mouths (to avoid any scandal which could arouse from lip-reading), the match began and the gladiators took their designated positions before plunging head-first into battle.

Sukuna swung his blade up in the air with one quick movement before bringing it back down to strike the silver-haired gladiator in either the neck or the back of his head. But the man seemed to have guess the intention for that attack, and side-stepped away. Which, for the most part, probably would have left Sukuna to deliver a useless blow to the sands and allow his opponent an open opportunity, but it was clear to even the lowest of the lows that he was far from inexperienced with the blade.

He neither tarried nor let his mistake take the best of him, and moved to retract his weapon quicker than how the other fighter escaped it.

Blow after blow was delivered by both men, and no visible cuts or injuries were inflicted on either of the two.

Despite none of the fighters being able to land a successful hit on the other, their fails were only due to the fact that their skill was matched, and that no matter how many party tricks or ploys or schemes they had up their sleeves (or, in this case, manicas), neither one of them could fool the other. Well, at least, not for too long.

Even with the lack of blood, the spectators were still kept entertained and satisfied from the number of impressive and, to the naked eye, seemingly humanly impossible dangerous attacks.

You had noticed, after a few attempted blows—all resisted from the usage of shields, that, what looked like to be mere strategy, was probably something more on the lines of technique. Sukuna’s technique, to be clear.

With the advantage of his height nearly always towering over his opponents, Sukuna subconsciously developed, over time, a habit of striking over-head. And, with arms like his, it was no trouble for him, at all, to lift up an iron blade and do such a thing. Sukuna frequently swung his gladius and struck at the side of the silver-haired fighter’s head, which was usually blocked by the opponent’s shield, or avoided by the said opponent ducking and subsequently swiping at Ryoumen’s legs.

It was overly facetious. Too facetious, actually—for a duel that would only result in death and horror.

If it wasn’t obvious before, you were not at all a fan of gladiatorial games. No, not even in the slightest. You looked upon the thought of unnecessary murder serving the sole purpose of entertainment for all civilians ranging from plebeians to nobility to royalty with disgust and disdain. Watching two men fighting in a ring—sometimes blindfolded, sometimes with no weapons save for their hands (which are dangerous enough)—was ridiculous. Or, that’s what you thought.

See, you wouldn’t have even been present at the current gladiator fight had it not been for the coercing of the empress, who, according to her, needed you by her side, since her husband would be seated at a separate stand (for reasons you did not know). But honestly, now that you were both watching two men stab and jab at each other, it seemed to be the other way around.

The empress was enjoying herself to the fullest, while you, on the other hand, were horrified; and that was saying a lot, considering you had seen warfare since your adolescence.

“Getting bored?” the empress asked, getting your attention amidst the cheering of the crowds.

You shook your head, exiting your train of thought. “Not at all.”

The woman looked at you tenderly, and touched your cheek with her cold fingers. “Cannot say I’m surprised. Ryoumen certainly knows how to put on a show for a woman he deems rather oculorum captans.¹”

¹ Eye-catching.

You pretended not to understand whom that was directed to. “Is that . . . why he has yet to deliver an ending blow?”

“Oh, nonsense. The man’s a flirt, yes, but he would never let fraternizing stand in the way of a victory. It’s impossible. Gojo is just, perhaps, the only gladiator who could ever rival him.”

At learning of the silver-haired fighter’s name, you let your eyes briefly return to the match. Blood had now managed to have been drawn, and both of the blade-wielding beasts had now sustained injuries on their triceps. You thought yourself a lucky one to have missed witnessing how that came about, and turned back to meet the empress’s eyes while yells continued to erupt within several sections of the arena.

“Will it continue going on like this?” you asked, gesturing to the missed blows and endless clanks of shields. “It seems the men could only die from exhaustion now.”

The empress offered you a strange smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

“How do you mean?”

“This won’t be their last match. They’ll have a draw, and the editor will enable the defeated to live another day. But only for the sake of another match to take place soon after.” The woman said everything like it was a declaration, and not an assumption or probability. It made you uneasy, in a way.

“. . .Another match?” you repeated. “What ever for?”

“A gladiator match is a spectacle—it’s a source of entertainment. How will the crowds be entertained when their favorite gladiator is killed in a common, ordinary game? A game succeeding two slaves, more or less,” she added, snorting.

“So, they’ll be kept alive?”

“For another match, id est verum;² it will take place before the festival of Vulcan. It will be, by far, the greatest gladiator match ever seen by the people of Rome. Now, I cannot spoil too many details, but, all I can reveal is, expect the unexpected.”

² That is correct.

And, just as the empress had said, the match between the silver-haired gladiator and Ryoumen Sukuna was declared a draw soon after your conversation with the woman, as decided by the editor. This decision not only satisfied spectators on both rooting sides and caused an uproar of hollers, but also guaranteed an adequately sized and enthusiastic audience for the final and tie-breaking match of the year, which was, clearly, going to be the event looked forward to for the rest of the month.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈.

You were beginning to think the most crucial detail someone has ever failed to tell you was how the last man you wanted to see right now was good friends with the emperor—pals, even! Which was great, just great.

“I know you would rather die from scaphism,” said the man, as he plucked a grape from a bowl, “but you can at least try and act like you’re enjoying this instead of standing there like a sulky child.”

Ryoumen Sukuna, a proud, formidable opponent in the arena—widely known as the King of the Colosseum, continued to be a haunting presence in your life even after his match ended with a draw two weeks ago. It was embarrassing enough that you could break so easily under his stare, and that, in addition, he knew that—just as well as you did (if not better). But to have him roam around the palace? While you were living there? Mallem mori.³

³ You would rather die.

The pink-haired man held favor from the emperor, since it seemed they knew each other even before the younger began a career in dueling, and alongside their acquaintance, came the event of Sukuna’s frequent visits to the palace. It had been a fortnight since the last munera, and you had already seen the beast of a man a total of fourteen times. It was like he knew he was tormenting you.

And, gods, it was absolutely childish how much you began to loathe the color red ever since. Time and time again, the appearance of Ryoumen Sukuna was continuously marked by either a ruby-adorned weapon lazily left around the premises, or a red cloak whipping through the air as you (in that scenario) would be staring at his broad back with a bitter taste in your mouth, while deciding whether to walk away or to dig a hole in the ground and die away like a hobbit.

Red was like a bad omen for you.

Wherever it was, you could bet a hundred horses that Sukuna would turn up sooner or later.

Now, normally, if the emperor invited friends over, you would not mind—no, not even in the slightest; for, from all the years you spent kissing the asses of royals who you came across, you had learned to blend in with high society. But, with Sukuna, it was different. You couldn’t keep your cool around him; seeing him always left you heavily bothered.

Even when you first met him (or, saw him, actually; because you two never formally introduced yourselves)—even then, you failed to stay calm and composed. Was it his eyes? Or his looks, in general? He was attractive—very attractive, tu non mentior,⁴ but, was that really all there was to it? You refused to face a man solely because you deemed him unbelievably good-looking?

⁴ You could not lie.

No, that wasn’t it. Well, that was part of it, but it wasn’t all. You couldn’t stand being in the same room as Ryoumen Sukuna because—because you were afraid of him. I mean, c’mon, you’re dragged along to watch a gladiator match (and, mind you, you despise unnecessary murder), and then you lock eyes with a man who looks like he could tear the entire empire apart with his bare hands, and now you have to act friendly with him? At least, in front of the emperor and empress? You had every right to avoid him at any chance you got.

And, not only that, but, aside from his frequent—almost annoyingly frequent—visits, he always held the same damn look on his face. Red, crimson eyes that looked at you like an animal would its prey; it was like, every opportunity received, Sukuna would size you up, as if envisioning as many ways possible he could kill you just like he does his opponents. But, fuck, his eyes were your weakness.

Staring through your soul like he wanted something, and in a way that made it seem as if he knew every thought that went through your head, including your fear of him—and imagining how he could exploit said fear like the cruel brute he was.

The empress and her husband wanted you two to get along, but you just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never meet those bewitchingly crimson eyes with an emotion lacking hostility.

“I am not sulking,” came your reply, moments later.

“Yeah? Then, why are you just standing in the corner of the court like someone in time-out?”

His laugh made your blood boil, and you couldn’t help but cross your arms over your chest, scowling with your eyes facing away like a scolded child. How could he stand there, looking at you with those same red eyes, and act like nothing was the matter? Of course, something was the matter! Otherwise, you wouldn’t be on the verge of throwing yourself into a bush of thorny roses.

The emperor and the missus had left the two of you in the gardens, because, according to them, they had some “business” to attend to, and thought you would be eligible enough to be able to give the guest a tour of the terrace and the courtyard which stretched beyond it. That was a grave mistake on their part, for Sukuna was right, you really would rather die than speak with the man for more than a few minutes.

“Has it ever occured to you that not everyone enjoys your presence?” you spat out, finally having mustered up the courage to approach Sukuna from your little hiding spot.

Your steps were slow, languid, but the pink-haired brute saw them as nothing short of flirtatious. In fact, when you were just a foot away, he took it upon himself to close the distance between you two, staring down at your figure with that same enigmatic look in his eyes.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

“And you’ve got quite the nerve showing up here as often as you do.” You narrowed your eyes. “Tell me, what is your purpose for coming here, anyway?”

Sukuna laughed—a cold, cruel, taunting laugh. “Can a man not step foot in his future palace?” But, when he noticed the confusion evident on your face, he smiled grimly, before taking you arm-in-arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

It was more of an order, if anything, but with the strength he used to pull your arm into his, and with the intimidatingly imperiling energy practically radiating off his body, you did not refuse his subtle coercion to take a stroll around the gardens, (especially since his gladius was still strapped in its harness).

Taking a slow pace, the two of you walked arm-in-arm around the various bushes, plants, trees, and vineyards that surrounded the estate. While making your way around the scenic landscape, Sukuna, in a low voice, began to speak.

He told you of his imprisonment, and how, for four years, he had been idly rotting away in a cell, before his persecutors decided to finally end his life and throw him in an arena. Sukuna did not attend any schooling for gladiators, and was untrained. When he first stepped foot in the Colosseum, almost everyone thought he was to die. But, miraculously, he, instead, survived. His first match, he won. His second match, he won.

The officials kept throwing him into munera, and every single time, he came out undefeated. Sukuna was a criminal since birth, but when he made a career as a gladiator (albeit against his will), he quickly made a name for himself. Ryoumen Sukuna rose in fame and fortune—not only for his skill when it came to swordsmanship, but also for his looks. The man may have been a notorious criminal, but he was a fan-favorite when it came to the ladies.

It was as if the gods regarded Ryoumen as their champion, seeing as they granted him victory through every editor that oversaw his matches.

With each gladiatorial game that passed, Sukuna’s opponents only grew tougher and tougher, which, mind you, never proved a problem. The man’s prizes and incentives for surviving the arena increased with each match, and Sukuna’s wealth grew in unmistakable abundance, surpassing even the fortune of an average nobleman.

When Sukuna was but a boy, he never dreamed of a life in the Colosseum; but in this realm, one either wins or loses. The Parcae wait for no man, and mortals of all ages and all walks of life know one thing: Vincere aut mori.⁵

⁵ Conquer or die.

“Each time I unsheath my blade,” Sukuna began, stopping just before an olive tree, “I do not know whether I will breathe for another night. But the higher-ups in this empire are all but damn fools. The last match, right before we celebrate Vulcan, will determine everything. If I kill Satoru Gojo, my name will live on long after my life’s end. If I die by his trident (the weapon my silver-haired rival wields) . . .” His voice trailed off.

“That’s not a possibility I’m against,” you interjected.

“Very funny.” Sukuna turned to look down at you. “For that’s a possibility that simply will not happen.”

“What, don’t tell me you’ve consulted an oracle or something of the sort?”

The pink-haired man laughed in your face; it was cruel and unsounding. “You dare doubt my victory, woman?”

“I doubt everything when it comes to you.”

Your stroll around the palace gardens came to a sudden end, as Sukuna roughly pulled you by the shoulders and placed you both to stand face-to-face. His expression was dark, and his tone inhumane. “Listen, and listen well, girl. The emperor offers me a prize I cannot reject. If I win my most anticipated match yet, he will bestow upon me—by the power vested by the gods above—whatever it is I please.”

You couldn’t help but interrupt once more, your curiosity getting the best of you. “You mean to tell me, you’ll ask for the empire? Is that what you mean by ‘future palace?’”

“I won’t ask for the empire. No, my prize will be something far greater. And when I get it, the empire will soon fall into my hands as easily as it was for you to fall into mine.”

“So, that’s all it is that you want? The empire?”

Sukuna leaned down to meet your eyes, his stare burning holes through your flesh. “I want control.”

“Well, let me tell you something, sir,” you began, coolly, whilst taking a step backwards with each word you spoke, “you won’t find that here.”

But when you were just about to exit the garden, and finally get the fuck away from the brute of a man you called Sukuna, you could just barely hear him utter—with that sensuously slow voice of his—five words, that seemed to stick with you even after you left the premises. “Oh, I don’t intend to.”

It was as if you had pushed your luck far too much for the gods’ pleasure, and now, they were giving you something along the lines of a punishment.

Even after Sukuna’s visits changed from daily, to every other day, to weekly, and then, to nothing but a faint memory of the past, his voice never left your head, like a deity putting a certain thought or belief or action into a mortal’s mind. It was overbearing, and you couldn’t draw the line between delusion and reality.

When you set off to fetch herbs for, say, preparing baths or something of the like, Ryoumen’s cold, dark voice, which practically dripped with malice, seemed to follow you every way you went. Feeling a hand perch on your shoulder always had you shuddering, whether it was a trick of the mind or an action actually done by someone else. Entertaining yourself with the playing of an instrument—you preferred the cithara⁶—degressed from a pastime to a new torture method. Between picking strings and producing melodies, came the haunting face of Ryoumen Sukuna, which proved more of a distraction rather than a stimulation, seeing as dissonance and incorrect, out-of-tune notes were the only sounds played.

⁶ An instrument.

You knew that you were in your right mind when you first met the fact that you avoided the man for being afraid of him, but only now, were you finding yourself validated by the shivers you got from the mere thought of him appearing. Somnus was not a god of your favor; your dreams—more like nightmares, it seemed—only filled you with more despair each time you arose in a cold sweat.

It was unfair how much of an effect the beast had on you.

Alas, your hopes of freedom were for naught.

Another fortnight passed, and it had now been a total of thirty days since you last spectated a gladiator match. You were neither surprised nor anxious when the empress dragged you along to another match at the Colosseum (by then, you had realized it was practically fate), but what you were astonished to see, however, was the sight of fires which blazed unwaveringly before you.

It was evening; the arena was lit up with several immensely-sized bonfires, whilst the air darkened with the amount of smoke flying up to the clouds above; the stands were decorated in tapestries and other displays of insignias; and the crowds bustled and roared with uncontrollable excitement and an unquenchable lust for blood.

The emperor sat in his respected box—the cubiculum—with his lions beside him, while you and the empress sat in the Imperial Box opposite to his.

The night was young, and the winds—smelling of the fragrant incense being burned—lashed and whipped unforgivably at your plaited updo and thin clothing. Even with the bright, old stars beaming down at the gold of your jewelry, your eyes shone downwards, covered ever so slightly by the veil you wore atop your head. You did not want to watch this match, but, despite the fact, you neither declined nor pressed for complaints when the empress ordered for your accompanying presence at the amphitheater.

“My child,” was what she began with, before saying, “the Parcae.”

It was short, it was simple, and yet it had the same effect on you that it would have—had her selection of words been more compious.

Fate called you.

There was no doubt in that.

For, when you found your seat in the arena . . . There it was again. That same piercing gaze delivered your way, and that same intimidated reaction you experienced. Like prey having been caught in its predator’s trap. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling of two red, crimson eyes staring right back at you, and you worked arduously to ignore his unmistakable stare, using turning to the side and facing a neighbor or digging in your bag as an excuse to escape making eye contact.

Ryoumen Sukuna had entered through the Gate of Life, (as did all gladiators of the time), and if the growing rowdiness of the crowds hadn’t brought you to that attention, the sudden chill in the air would.

Gojo Satoru’s entrance into the Colosseum followed soon after, and you bit your lip at the memory of the last time you met his sea-blue eyes. It was distant, long-past, but you liked to think about it every now and then; sometimes when you dipped your fingers into similarly-colored waters, or, when the clouds rained and thundered over the empire.

Familiarity breeds contempt, but you did not know the silver-haired gladiator like you feared his crimson-eyed opponent. Fear is power. Power is love.

“Dearie,” called the woman dressed in ornate fabrics, as she placed a hand on your knee, “do quit the shaking of your leg. If the sight of blood brings about your nerves, we can always have someone over to cover your eyes with a palm branch when the time comes. I am not mistaken, corrigere?⁷”

⁷ Correct.

“No, Empress, I appreciate your kindness, but,” you paused, casting your eyes downward, “there will be no need. I can assure you that, blood hardly disturbs me in the slightest. I am just . . .” Your voice trailed off, your fingertips grazing the folds of your palla. “I wonder who will survive this evening.”

“My, my, my, has my dearie taken an interest in gladiatorial matches?” The empress smiled, teasingly. “I didn’t know you cared for a matter you previously spoke about with such disdain.”

Your cheeks warmed, fists clenched, and your breath caught in your throat. Embarrassment was an inexplicable feeling, and you looked to the side before changing the subject. “Who has your favor?”

“Is that even a question?” The woman erupted in laughter, surprised at how you could even question her about who she rooted for, especially due to the known fact about one man, and one man only, who had been dwelling at the royal abode as a repeated visitor.

You whispered mumblings under your breath—something along the lines of paenitemus,⁸ or, ignoscas mihi.⁹

⁸ Apologies.

⁹ Excuse me.

“My turn to question,” the empress managed, between her fit of laughter, “tell me, daughter of mine, which lucky man has your favor?”

You were silent for a moment—indecisive, one could say—but thanked the gods above when the gladiators were abruptly called to state their oaths, and, therefore, giving you an excuse to avoid providing the empress an audible answer.

You leaned forward in your seat, and watched as both Ryoumen Sukuna and Gojo Satoru spoke, consecutively, with their eyes set on one another. The crowds ceased their commotion, and watched, with intent so significant it brought them practically to the edges of their benches, as the challengers gave their swearings of the vow directly tying them to the will of the gods as they gave away their lives—the sacramentum gladiatorum, it was called.

Sukuna’s eyes were dark, that you could tell, and the overall atmosphere surrounding him screamed a lust for blood. His voice was cold, as if he wanted to get everything over with already, whilst the ruby on his swords’s hilt shone reflective under the moonlight’s illumination. He did not speak like it was an obligation, he spoke like it was a duty. 

“Uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroqua necari pateor,” they both vowed.

Each man knew he were to either conquer or die; the speaking of those words only solidified the matter for all to hear. Victor or not, the lives of gladiators are objects of entertainment according to the match’s editor’s will. The gods speak, blood drips, and blades bury the undead. Spectators are roused as both competitors ready themselves, (which is a spectacle in itself, truthfully speaking), but you, on the other hand, are only able to watch with a sense for danger in the air. It was almost amusing. Timor mortis morte pejor.¹⁰

¹⁰ The fear of death is worse than death.

As both men began to circle each other, throwing insults and taunts, you could not help but drift off to the memory of that fortnight Sukuna spent at the palace. His words lingered in your ears, and the feeling of his hands on your shoulders, his arm around yours—it was . . . you couldn’t put a finger on it. There was, just, something about what he said that gave you an uncanny feeling in your gut.

Sukuna wanted control, you knew that, but, if he came out victorious this same night, he wasn’t planning on asking for the empire. He already made sure you got that through your skull, but, all the same, you couldn’t pin-point what it was that he did want. Gold? Treasures? He already had plenty. Women? No, his collection of admirers already exceeded a great number. Land? Yes, that had to be it. But, then again, whatever it was that Ryoumen wanted, he claimed it would have the empire falling into his hands sooner or later. Land couldn’t possibly be the answer for that . . .

Whilst you stayed in your head, thinking to yourself, the match had already begun to get less boring. Both men had each delivered at least two hits to the other, and the clanks! of iron against iron could be heard audible throughout the arena.

Sukuna took side-steps, a new technique he had developed, while the silver-haired gladiator struck the tips of his trident at places most people wouldn’t have even imagined possible.

Grunting, the pink-haired man swung his gladius like it was a mere toy, while spitting on the coarse, rough sand. That action alone sent several sections of the Colosseum swooning. But, despite the fact, Gojo didn’t let any of it get to his head, and, in lieu, let out an almost facetious whistle.

“Dunno if you’re aware, Ryoumen, but this isn’t exactly a great time to pick up ladies,” was what the lean, pale man said, joking, as he continued stabbing with his trident.

“Any time is a great time; what are you going on about? Could pick up a chick with my eyes closed.”

The two men went forwards and backwards with their banter, like two boys rebelling and messing around in school. They joked like immature adolescents, but fought like champions of the gods. The skies were cloudless, with the moon shining bright, and it was thus unclear whose side Olympus was on. But what really confused you, was the sudden thumping sound that reached your ears. Especially with the lack of drums or any similar instruments visible, you were left in a sense of unanswerableness.

The sound of the thumping was loud, and continued to increase in volume as the match went on. Gojo slashed at Sukuna’s armor—the drum beat faster; Sukuna stabbed at Gojo’s helmet—the drum beat in a staccato fashion; Gojo stumbled on his own two feet, struggling to fight back against Ryoumen’s gladius—the drum did not beat faster, but, instead, crescendoed, along with the roars of the crowds.

It was incredibly overwhelming.

You turned to the empress, in order to ask if the emperor had hired any percussion players, but Her Imperial Majesty paid you no mind, for she was extremely engrossed in the fight, repeatedly expressing her frustrations and anticipation by cursing under her breath.

Everyone was in their own world. Spectators, as they watched and rooted for their favorite gladiator. Nobles, as they placed bets and other games of the like. The emperor and empress, as they analyzed the match and reactions of the crowds (as to decide who to favor when the time came for a turned thumb). And, if it wasn’t obvious before, the gladiators, as they fought for both their lives and honor.

First blood was drawn a while ago, but only now, had real stabs been given. Pierced through his armor, clutching at his chest while taking steps backwards, was none other than the infamous, silver-haired Gojo Satoru. You did not know much about him, other than the fact he was an attractive man (A/N: don’t even start with me), but you couldn’t help but feel pity seeing him come to a loss so soon.

While the drum beat faster, and the volume amplified, booming across the walls of the amphitheater, you could make out, just slightly, the life returning back to Gojo’s eyes. Blood dripped, yes, but it was not plentiful enough for death to visit the grounds of the Colosseum.

Gojo’s hands twitched, his slender, pale fingers stained with blood and marked with sand, but his figure fought back for composure, and the fact soon became clear as his legs grew stiff, and his steps grew less irregular as the seconds went by.

You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice the man’s recovery, but it would have been strange to admit Ryoumen was the one behind it all. Seeing as a duel to the death in an arena was all a mere lousy game to the pink-haired brute, it wasn’t a refutable accusation to say Sukuna was only toying with his opponent’s life. Nearly piercing through Gojo’s chest, just to stand and watch solemnly as he stumbled—you soon grew familiar with the idea of Ryoumen testing the waters: seeing just how much Gojo could take before the ever anticipated match-ending move was played.

Murder flashed in the pair of crimson eyes, and the etchings on Sukuna’s gladius gleamed under the moonlight as he drew up his sword for one last round.

Gojo regained his stance, delivered a blow at Sukuna’s side, which, for second, appeared to at least wound the beast, but Ryoumen, ever the calculated, drew back; and as the drum continued to beat and thump in the background, both men fought with a newfound rush of vitality and zeal for blood. Hollers sounded through the crowds, coins dropped into dishes, and the shaking of your leg quickened.

Sukuna kept silent, like a scheming child, while he hit Gojo with the end of his sword. The attack was with enough force for the silver-haired gladiator to be knocked down, off his feet, and onto the floor of the arena. A retaliation was not lacked, as Sukuna received small, insignificant and weak stabs of the trident to his abdomen, as Gojo fought for the continuation of his name, but it was for naught.

The climax of the drum’s beating was reached when Sukuna delivered an almost humorous kick to his opponent, before turning to face the emperor in his Imperial Box. Gojo’s face was full of yearning and want—but, whether it was for death or life was uncertain. He laid, injured and on the brink of mortality, but he was silent, and ceased any more attacks.

Crowds grew silent, but stayed as rowdy (somehow), as everyone turned to the emperor in anticipation. Clothed in the naturally designated purple toga, with a laurel wreath to emit godly status and authority, the emperor stood before and above all. A pollice verso¹¹ was given, after careful thought, and as the beating of the drum quickened, the blade of Ryoumen Sukuna’s gladius was driven through the heart of Gojo Satoru.

¹¹ Turned thumb.

But before such an action occurred, the beast did not forget, with audible cruelty, to spit out the words, “The moonlight’s illumination makes it easier . . . to see how pathetic you are.”

Blood seeped from the wound in Gojo’s chest and spilled out from between cracked lips; and as the fallen gladiator was soon carried out the Gate of Death, the beating of the invisible drum ceased, and you lost your capability to form words.

Surprise, pity, anger—they were all shown in your expression. With parted lips, and denial etched all over your face, you sunk down in your seat as others around you stood up to applaud, cheer, cry out, and much more.

At his zenith, Ryoumen Sukuna backed away from the corpse at his feet, dug his gladius into the floors of sand, and looked ‘round at his spectators. Turning his head, meeting the eyes of those who wanted him dead and those who prayed for his victory, Sukuna held a scowl on his face, like he wasn’t affected in the slightest by having just murdered a man.

Ryoumen was a man who knew how to hold himself in stance and gait, much like a god or a king. Raising his arms wide, eyes flickering to pierce everyone’s souls, his voice came out just as cold as it had been last fortnight—when he decidedly said, in front of everyone, “Behold, mortals; feast your eyes upon the monster you have set free for your pleasure.”

This was the King of the Colosseum.

You could see that much, now.

***

The sun rose proud, the mockingbirds cooed gently, and the blessing of the dawn of a new day had been upon citizens of Rome.

Senators were gathered ‘round while royals and other noblemen stood and watched alongside. Whispers and murmurs were plenty, but when the emperor asked for whatever it was that the gladiator wanted, there was a stunned silence as the pink-haired beast took long, full strides to approach none other than you. Kneeling before your feet, and kissing the back of your outstretched palm, even the gods watched with pleasure and anticipation whilst an answer revealed itself. 

Silent, swift, and yet, never before, so concise. The air was still, the noise had ceased, and even the falling of a pin could be heard clear as day whilst your figure twitched and shook ever so slightly—fear having begun its taking of your body.

It was needless to voice that same wretched look Ryoumen Sukuna offered your way, his crimson eyes peering up at you from beneath his eyelashes. It was nothing short of a horror.

The day after Gojo Satoru’s death, a circle of royal acquaintances had gathered at a pavilion of the palace to watch as the emperor granted whatever prize Ryoumen Sukuna wished for. Elephants, tigers, lions, and other beasts of the wild, were already lined up and harnessed. Stacks of jewelry and treasures littered the marble floors. It was clear the emperor had already expected what offers could be possibly made, and so he decorated the palace in accordance. But, when the fearsome gladiator chose to, in lieu, take you as his bride for a prize, there was unanimous astonishment.

Rising back to his feet, the pink-haired victor—dressed in his signature red cloak, ruby-adorned blade, and now, an additional laurel (to signify his victory the last evening)—looked down at you with a strangeness about his eyes. Your hand was still in Sukuna’s when he turned to face the emperor, who stood with a calm demeanor, contrasting just about everyone.

“You ask for the princess?” the emperor questioned, curious.

“If it can be done.”

The emperor laughed, adding, “But, you must know, son, there are many women who will not be happy by this news.”

At this, the crowds burst into laughter. The tension in the air dissipated, but you . . . you looked at the ground and at your feet, praying you misheard or were even dreaming. But alas, you couldn’t have strayed farther from the truth.

“You would kiss the hand of your prisoner?” you whispered, whilst everyone was distracted in their fits of laughter.

“Am I not a prisoner, as well?”

***

You were twenty years old when your hair was parted by a spear, separated into six locks, crowned with nature’s gifts and herbs, and covered by a flammeum (also known as a veil). With your face painted, jewelry adorned, and dress made ready, you were escorted and sent off to join in matrimony with Ryoumen Sukuna. Tears in your eyes, a palm branch in your hands, the completion of the ceremony came, and it was then time for the wedding feast: the banquet. 

It was to take place at the atrium of the palace, similar to the wedding ceremony.

Pheasants were killed, venison was brought, raw oysters were consumed, and shellfish made its appearances at the banquet. You sat beside the man you now called your husband, picking at your meals and distracting yourself with entertaining the guests. Sukuna, on the other hand, sat silent, for the most part; his hand resting on your hip as he watched, full of intent, as your lips parted and moved with each syllable you uttered.

There were a-plenty dancers, poets, and musicians present at both the wedding ceremony and banquet, but, for each ritual up until now, Sukuna had failed to take his eyes off of you. Red, crimson orbs—that seemed to never stray from yours.

It had been a week since you last spoke to Sukuna, the day he claimed you as his, and, in truth, if it were in your will, you would wish to never speak to him again. You hardly paid any mind, at all, to him as the both of you sat side-by-side, presenting yourselves as a married couple to the families, friends, and well-wishers who attended your wedding feast.

When the attention was directed elsewhere, and you received a much-needed break from entertaining your guests with talk of whatever it was that came to your mind, you reached for your goblet of wine, thirsty and parched, but were stopped by a ring-adorned, scarred hand, belonging to Sukuna, which held you firm by the wrist.

“I have murdered a man for you, dear wife,” began Sukuna, a cold, enigmatic look in his eyes as he peered into your face; “there is blood on my hands solely for your sake, and you refuse to even acknowledge my presence?”

You tried fighting back, stretching your fingers and reaching out for your goblet, but, surprise-surprise, his strength surpassed yours. With a huff of defeat, your hand—once writhing in your husband’s grasps—relaxed, and you gave into responding. “Do not forget, husband, I was not the one who called on you to do such a thing.”

Sukuna laughed, released your wrist, and opted to rest the side of his face on his fist as he watched you drink, a demented (but captivated) look on his face all the while. “Gods, I always forget how much of a sweet-talker you can be,” he snickered.

“You are delusional,” you deadpanned, continuing with your drink.

“And you, my dear, are—”

“Bitchy?”

“No.”

“Cruel?”

“No.”

“Exasperating?”

“I was going more for . . . bewitching.”

You set your wine down; silent, as you avoided Sukuna’s eyes.

But the man had different plans, seeing as he gingerly seized your left hand, and laid a kiss upon your ring finger (which connected to the vena amoris¹²), before kissing down each digit, making sure his lips met almost every piece of gold on your hand. The action would’ve been seen as romantic through your eyes, if you had forgotten what got the two of you here in the first place.

¹² Vein of love.

You did not speak until he was done, and when he was, you said, your voice above a whisper, “Husband.”

“Wife.” His response was almost immediate.

“I am . . .” You turned to meet his eyes. “I am bored, and would like to hear a story. A tale. Anything.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Tell me—Tell me why you chose me.”

“I chose you because . . . I wanted you. Simple. Can a man not have his wants? His needs? As one chooses their life’s path, so I have chosen a woman I worship. A woman I need. A woman I love.”

“Need I remind you that lust is not love?”

A darkness came over Sukuna’s eyes, like a storm succeeding the calm. “Lust can be many things,” he replied, before lifting his goblet. “Care for a drink?”

You lifted your goblet, but hesitated, caution taking over your nerves. “I have had enough to drink for the night.”

“What, no toast for your husband?” Sukuna joked, his tone sly and cunning, as if there were an ulterior motive laced beneath his invitation.

You turned to face Sukuna, the bracelets and cuffs on your wrist sliding from their rightful places ever so slightly. 

“Never in a million eons, you devil.” Seven words uttered before you finished off the wine in your goblet in one go.

The wedding feast ended with confarreatio, which led to the beginning of the next ritual. Domum deductio took place, and, that same evening, your innocence was stolen—ripped right out from your cold, bare, fucking, hands.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

Marriage, actually, wasn’t all quite as bad as you had imagined . . . Okay, that was a lie.

Your first debut outdoors, after your joining in nuptials and being on the arm of Ryoumen Sukuna in front of government officials and nobles, took place a week after your wedding ceremony. The two of you had gotten up to making much use of your lectus genialis, and, even with the longing of fresh air and seeing familiar faces, it still took a bit of convincing for you to exit the doors of the estate; for, exhaustion had gotten the best of you.

It was hot outside; the sun shone cruelly, but you enjoyed being outside of the estate’s premises for once.

“I still don’t understand why you declined traveling by a litter,¹³” Sukuna said, bitterly, as he sat with his arms crossed, and his expression stern, whilst looking out the carpentum’s¹⁴ windows.

¹³ During Ancient Rome, a litter was a portable couch or bed that was carried by slaves or animals.

¹⁴ A luxurious Roman carriage used by the privileged.

“I am not a fan of parading,” came your calm reply.

“You’re a princess—by blood or not. Either way, a woman, as beautiful and alluring as you, should be treated as such.”

Your cheeks did not warm; Sukuna’s way of speaking about you like this was far from new, and you had gotten used to it, ever since your first encounter.

“Ryoumen,” you called, almost like a mother soothing a fussy child, “why do you feel the need to coddle me?”

“Coddling?” he repeated, seemingly offended. “You’re my wife, my treasure. The question should be why I would do anything but.”

The noises of the bustling street, talk of the people, and the sound of clothing against clothing, were all drowned out by the running of hooves and the whips of the carpentum driver. It was a spacious carriage, you had to admit, but with the amount of times the vehicle rocked and jerked on the uneven roads, you had soon begun to find yourself sitting impossibly close to Sukuna. Your elbows touching, shoulders meeting—it was uncomfortable due to the evident size differences.

“You forget that you won me, husband.”

“What is the difference?” sighed Sukuna, running a hand down his face. “I would’ve put a ring on your finger sooner or later.”

“. . .”

“Though, I do argue that, killing a man for your hand, was quite romantic . . . What, don’t give me that face.”

You looked at Sukuna with a stupid expression. “You . . . are a silly man.”

“All but for one woman,” he replied.

When you entered the carpentum, neither of the two of you knew where it was you were going. To the shops, to the villages, to the palace—it was unknown. Or, maybe, the destination was to remain indefinite on purpose. You liked traveling through the city, meeting the eyes of citizens you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. You enjoyed the scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air, and children laughing as they played in the streets. You liked it all, and you missed it all, even. But, gods, were you getting soft.

There was a pair of men passing through the road, and you would not have noticed them had the vehicle not yielded to let them pass.

“Look at their shoes,” Sukuna said, leaning in closer as the carriage was stopped, so you could hear him over the commotions. “Disgusting.” 

“Do remember you were born in a prison, husband.” You remained straight-faced whilst you spoke, as neutral as one could be whilst keeping your eyes forward.

Sukuna let out a bark-laugh. “What a saint you are, huh.”

Your carriage was just about to approach a turning corner, when, completely out of the blue, you heard one of the men exclaim to the other, “Ah, look at that one, Caius! A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she?”

His companion replied, saying, just as scandalously, “Not half-bad, my friend,” he laughed, eyeing you up and down. “Never before have I wished more to be an emperor; just imagine what works I could perform if she was a slave.” 

“If?”

“If. No way she’s anything but royalty. No man in his right state of mind would let her out of the streets if she was property.”

The two men snickered, carrying woven baskets filled with crops as they went, completely oblivious to the way Ryoumen sized the both of them up, seemingly possessed by a sudden lust for blood. Now that he thought about it, he had not killed in a while.

You tried to put a hand on Sukuna’s arm, in a poor attempt to soothe his growing anger, but he did not pay any mind to that, for he stuck his head out the luxuriously decorated carpentum, and retaliated against the perversion of the men with insults of his own. Yelling Latin curses left and right, all the obscenities in the book and footnotes. His voice was cold, and rough around the edges, but what surprised you most, was the tone in which he said, “Somnia omnia quae vis, nothi; praecidam manus tuas antequam tangas eam.¹⁵” You had never seen or heard such anger.

¹⁵ Dream all you want, bastards; I will cut off your hands before you even touch her.

But, before Sukuna could say something more offensive than “Te futueo et caballum tuum,” or, “Fututus et mori in igni,” the men recognized his carnage-filled reputation in the Colosseum from his notorious tattoos, and, with such fear they could’ve wet themselves, the both of them went, scurrying off in the opposite direction of where they came from, even going as far as dropping every basket they carried before making a run for it.

You caught a glimpse of them in their distress, and agreed—their shoes were disgusting.

Although settling into Sukuna’s estate took little time, familiarizing yourself with life as a married couple, on the other hand, took . . . some time, to say the least. The both of you had your ups and downs, and the path to warming up to your husband was a rocky one, seeing as your marriage was not out of love (not in the beginning, for the most part); so, naturally, there were some days where the two of you did not get along so well. And, who knew valets and maidservants could serve as such good marriage counselors? 

Bright, sunny days had you seated outside, beneath the shade of olive trees, and while the songbirds sang along, you often kept yourself occupied by playing your cithara.⁶ Your husband was seldom home for most of the day, and you had learned how to keep busy whilst the only company you had was the flames rising forth from the hearth, and the tamed animals which lingered while your fingers danced across melodious strings.

⁶ An instrument.

Today was different.

Sukuna had no appointments to meet, no guests to entertain, and no matches to play. He met you in the gardens of your home, and stood, stiff and broad, just three paces from where you sat on a fountain’s coping. It was as if he were afraid to approach, to disturb and interrupt your playing, but you knew he was just deciding whether or not he was welcome.

“You play well,” came the sound of his voice.

“How could I not? There is never much to do around here.”

“Weaving?” He raised an eyebrow, still standing still like a statue.

“I fear I do not see as much joy in that as I used to.”

“And why is that, dear wife?”

“I find . . . other activities to take up the majority of my time.”

“Such as?”

Romans were barbarians in the arena and in the bedchambers.

You did not know sex until you were bedded by Ryoumen, and you did not know libido until you experienced what it meant to really be fucked. Growing up, sexual intercourse was always described as marital duties, but with Sukuna, it felt like a pleasure—quite literally.

Day and night, night and day.

It was all you knew the week following your wedding ceremony, and it was all you desired when coming home to the brute of a man you called your husband. The two of you did not exit the bedroom once during the week you spent after the final nuptial ritual. He had ruined you in the best way possible, you sometimes thought, and with little difficulty had he gotten you addicted to the feel of his cock, his tongue, and his fingers. Merely thinking about it all had your cheeks growing warm and your core practically aching with need.

But sex wasn’t all you received from the man; there was also endless banter, cruel mocking, rough touches, and arguments. Sukuna wasn’t a kind, vanilla man, you realized that the moment you laid eyes on him; and he was, if anything, a deviant. A monstrous one, at that. 

Retaliating against him got you absolutely nowhere, and arguments only ended in sex. It wasn’t healthy, no, but it wasn’t like anyone said it would be.

With every step you took backwards, Sukuna followed with two forwards. The two of you had been arguing about a trivial matter—it had been long forgotten, actually—but neither of you had the decency to end your quarrel. Your yells and insults echoes throughout the walls of the estate, and servants paid mind to avoid the room you two currently occupied.

“Have I ever told you how much I absolutely loathe your pompous, fucking, ass?”

“Oh, sweetheart, only about a million times,” he answered, obviously taking your anger with a grain of salt. “But, how could I not? when you always do more than just tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes at the man, and cursed. “Go rip out your tongue and rub it raw with a strigil.”

“I always forget how much I love to hear you dirty-talk.”

“You are a dog,” you spat out, as Sukuna had you backed up against the edge of a table.

“And you, my dear wife, are a beauty to behold.”

Mentally having patted himself on the back for rendering you speechless, Sukuna closed the distance between you two and placed a kiss on your hand like he always did. Sexually appealing, successful, and charming? Damn the gods for giving him it all. 

You and Sukuna were stood just centimeters apart, his arms caging you in as he stared down upon you with that unforgettable look in his eyes. It was intimidating, indeed, but you were his wife, for gods’ sake! you could surely hold your ground.

“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” you said, placing your palms on the surface of the table behind you as you challenged Sukuna’s unwavering gaze, staring up at him with eyes doe and, still, equally as hardening.

“Good. Flattery isn’t quite my style.”

Sukuna raised a hand to rest on your cheek, before bringing you in for a zealous kiss. All teeth and tongue. It hurt—how rough he held you, that is—but it was a different type of pain. A type of pain you enjoyed suffering. His lips met yours, and you tasted blood on his tongue. You could not tell whose it was. Whether it was from him handling you with little to no care, or it was from him, himself, or it was from another, more foreign, source, you did not know.

You responded to his kiss with just as much violence as lust. Your body pressed against Sukuna’s, seeking as much friction as you could, whilst the two of you molded into each other like pieces of a puzzle. While Sukuna kept you pinned against the table, with nowhere to turn, your hands found their way to perching on his shoulder and on his beating heart, in efforts to maintain stability (which was proving to be a challenge, if you had to be honest).

Whispers and murmurs against lips; nipping and biting of sharp teeth; heavy breathing and the failure to catch breaths—it was overbearing. The room felt stuffy and overcrowded, when, in reality, it was only the two of you.

“Were you—mmph—acting like a bitch because you missed this?” Sukuna jeered, sloppily kissing you between each word.

“I would act like a bitch regardless.” You clawed at his chest and toga, having gone equally as mad from the mere feeling of kisses alone, but, in any way, your words came out all the same as you had intended them. “Taking me as your wife may have come easily to you, but wooing me won’t.”

“Lucky me,” Sukuna exhaled, releasing you from his nearly-suffocating kiss but not from his grasps. “I’m all for a challenge.”

One of his hands shot to your hip, his grip unforgivable and white-knuckled, whilst his other hand trailed down your thigh, slender fingers tickling your warming skin through the fabric of your clothing, and sending the hairs on your neck to stand up. You held your breath, hands back to their original positions on the table’s surface, as Sukuna reached the edge of your dress, lifting it to your waist.

Cool air hit your skin almost instantly, and goosebumps arose along your limbs. But, still, you did not breathe; it wasn’t until Sukuna’s cold, cruel voice spoke up that you did.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he cooed, staring at the dampness of your core. “No undergarments? Must be all for me.”

He spoke as if you were a feast; it made you bite your lip to the point of bleeding, and caused your legs to almost go wobbly, like a fawn.

Ryoumen tilted his head down to meet your neck, before he sank his teeth beneath the skin of your clavicle. It was scandalous in all the best ways possible, and you couldn’t help the breathy moan which left your lips. He sucked at the wound, kissed it, and moved his lips to other areas of your collarbones. He nipped and bit at freckles and moles, sucked on your skin—leaving love marks in his way, and, despite the feat, never failing to litter sloppy and wet kisses all the while.

With his mouth on your skin, Sukuna’s hands worked elsewhere. He trailed a cold hand up your thigh, teasing you with touches to the point of it becoming agonizing, before finally getting to where you needed him most. You were dripping enough for no lube to be needed, but the man was still courteous enough to dip one finger within your folds, before following with a second. Curling them deep inside of you, and hitting just the right spot; your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your hands shook and jerked uncontrollably as you dug your nails into Sukuna’s toned biceps.

Moans and whimpers left your lips left and right, yet he was only beginning.

His fingers bullied your clit, continuing their assault mercilessly; and whilst the sound of your growing cries bounced around the walls of the estate, his pace and roughness only reached new heights, seemingly possessed by the satisfaction of bringing you to Cloud Nine.

“Sukuna . . .” you whimpered, struggling to form words. “Sukuna, please. Please, I need to—”

“Need to what?”

“I . . . nngh,” you managed, moaning within your pleas, “I need to cum. I need to cum, you stupid bastard.”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your husband?” Sukuna taunted, pausing his attacks on your neck and the skillfulness of his fingers between your legs with not even a second thought.

You were this close to being brought over the edge, and you whined and wiggled your hips as Sukuna stopped reaching so deep within you, but, instead, opted for circling the tips of his fingers around the embarrassingly wet entrance of your clit. It was not even close to enough; he was punishing you, you were sure.

“No, no—nngh! Why did you stop?” you cried, bucking your hips in an attempt at reaching bliss.

“Because you have not an idea on how to speak to the Head of the House, wifey.” His crimson eyes bore into your teary ones, and you clawed and scratched at his neck, trying desperately to pull him closer to you.

“Ryoumen, no, please. Please—I need to . . . I need to . . .” Your voice trailed off. Truthfully speaking, now was possibly the worst time to gain a conscience.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I . . . Please, Sukuna. I need you. I, fuck—I need you. Please.” You looked into his eyes, crying entreaties like your life depended on it. “Please, I need to cum.”

“See? Not so bad, now, was it?”

Sukuna did not resume his assault with his fingers, but, instead, for possibly the first time in history, knelt down, before you, before his wife, and pressed a degrading (if anything) kiss to your pretty, puffy lips, before attaching his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking stripes up and on it with a velocity that left you leaving permanently visible claw-marks on the furnished table.

You could not hear, you could not move, you could not speak, you could only feel. Feel the feeling of Sukuna’s rough tongue gliding through your wetness, plunging and pumping and ravaging throughout your folds, reaching spots deep within you, causing you to see stars as he reached that one good spot. It was ruthless, it was sinful, and it was so, so, so, so wrong, but, then again, it was just so, so, so, so good.

Flicking his tongue, and curling it, Sukuna continued to tease and suck on your clit. The whole act of it was just . . . incredibly intimate. Your thighs squeezed and squeezed, hands gripping his hair for support, but it was still too much. With a final kiss to your clit, you felt the coil build in your stomach, and with a scandalously loud cry, you came on Sukuna’s tongue, shaking and writhing as tears fell from your dazed eyes.

Allowing you to ride out your high, Sukuna lapped at your release, gripping onto the flesh of your ass with white knuckles to keep you from squirming and wiggling.

“Mm, tastes so good, baby.”

“I . . . ahh . . . too—too much. Sensitive.”

“Poor baby,” he cooed, mockingly, before his voice turned cool once more; “you can handle it.”

Rising to his feet, and wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand, Sukuna stared at the wood behind you whilst watching you catch your breath, chest heaving as you depended on the table for balance. “It was a smart move to buy such a large table,” he murmured, stepping closer.

But before you could ask what on earth it was that Sukuna was referring to, he answered all your questions by lifting you up by the meat of your hips and laying you on your back on the rough wood of the table. It was cool against your bare skin, and sent a shiver running up your spine.

“You . . . What?” you questioned, attempting to sit up, before being roughly shoved back down.

“Don’t ‘What’ me, sweetheart. I’m giving you what you’ve been waiting for. Unless, of course, I’m hearing complaints?”

“. . .” You gulped, swallowing the lump in your throat, before crossing your legs behind Sukuna’s back and pulling him closer to your cunt, the hard-on—barely hidden beneath his toga—being pressed right up against where you needed him most. It sent a shock to your core.

“Now that’s a good girl.”

He pulled the dainty cloth of your dress off your body as easily as it was for you to put it on when you awoke that day’s morning, and mindlessly threw it onto the floor behind him.

“Sukuna, you—could you take any longer?” Laid bare before his eyes, you shivered, but not before pulling your husband impossibly closer. His hands planted on areas beside your head, and your lips met, molding together, as wildly as before.

Squeezing your eyes shut, breathy moans drawn forth from your lips, you held the sides of his throat in your hands, and occasionally carded your fingers through his rosy, unruly hair. All while sneakily dragging a bare foot up the fabric of his toga, revealing tattooed skin as you went. You couldn’t wait any longer, and if you were the one who had to get your husband’s cock out, so be it.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway. Sukuna couldn’t care less for your impatience; he . . . had an appreciation of the sort, for the rare times you took mild control.

Sukuna murmured, laughing against your kiss-bitten lips, “So impatient today, wifey.”

“Like you’re not?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, looking down at you once the two of you released each other for breath. His eyes were dark and dull, but you noticed the strands of hair askew on his face, (if it wasn’t already enough for you that his toga was now completely off). “Come on. Do you really want to go down that route, sweetheart?”

“I can’t help it. Bullying is just such—o-oh!”

Despite biting your lip, you let out an embarrassingly loud moan, arching your back as Sukuna had your hands pinned down above your head on the table. The first thrust had the air knocked out of your throat, you didn’t even notice it was coming in the first place! Even with the amount of times he bedded you, you had never gotten used to his size. Long, girthy, with veins that twitched and never failed to send you straight to Olympus? Yeah, you couldn’t really blame yourself.

“All it took to keep you from running your mouth was some cock, huh? Yeah, you make such a good whore for your dear husband, don’t you.” His cold, dark voice, complemented with the contradicting degradation and praising words of his sent you spiraling albeit it was only the beginning.

You kicked your feet, whining and gasping for breath when Sukuna took the opportunity to lean down, littering bites and love marks on your bare chest, trailing, ever so slowly, all the way up to the swell of your breasts. Hands still pinned to the table, legs locked around Sukuna’s waist, meeting his continuous thrusts without fail, your back arched with pleasure, giving Sukuna easy access to your tits, bouncing in all their glory before his mouth.

He leaned over your body, the difference in your heights showing itself clearly at this moment, as he swirled a wet, warm tongue around your areola, before attaching his lips to your tit, biting every then and there around the soft mound. Your nipples, perky and hardened long ago, reacted as they always did when they met Ryoumen’s lips. Sensitive, they were, and it showed, when you squirmed uncontrollably under his assaults, eyes opening and closing with vertigo.

“Such pretty tits,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations to your already aroused buds, “bet they would look even better all swollen with milk for my heir.”

You whined, moaning from the thought alone—argument long forgotten. Your cunt, its walls, actually, tightened at the idea of Sukuna giving you a baby, and you were sure he noticed with the way he was smiling like a madman with your tit in his mouth, one hand pinning yours down, the other twisting and pulling and pinching at your other neglected nipple.

“Mm, yeah. You like the sound of that, don’t you? clenching down on me like a vice. Want me to hold you down and make you a little mommy? Is that what you want?”

You nodded fervorously, throat dry from crying out, and mind already gone and thoroughly fucked-out.

Sukuna laughed, like the cruel man he was. “Well, if that’s what my lovely wife wants, it’s what my lovely wife gets.” 

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you thrashed around and moaned aloud like a crazy woman as the tip of Sukuna’s cock hit you in all the right places. It was incredibly overwhelming, and with the way your walls were convulsing around the cock reaching depths deep within you, the both of you were sure your second orgasm was to come no later than the first one.

Your cervix—kissed over and over and over again by the head of his cock; your tits—groped and bitten and sucked with relentless roughness; there really was no end to the pleasure you received from Sukuna. You felt stimulation all over to the point it was embarrassing how much you were pushed over the edge by simple touches and caresses alone. Even hearing Sukuna’s grunts and the rasp of his voice had your cheeks growing warm and your skin glowing under a thin layer of sweat.

“O-Ohh, I . . . nngh,” you whimpered, your wrists growing sore as your voice grew meek, letting out a soft, quiet “Please.” 

Blood rushed to Sukuna’s ears at the sound of your weak voice, and, most importantly, also rushed to his cock. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? We’ve been over this, darling. Use your words.”

“I—but . . . Sukuna, please! I need to . . . I need to cum. I—hahh.” You let out a shaky exhale, your orgasm within fingertips’ reach. 

“You want to cum? Go on, then, and cum right on your husband’s cock, just like the slut of a wife you are.”

Everything turned to black when you reached your climax; warm, sticky whiteness running down the base of Sukuna’s cock. He finished inside of you soon after, one last grunt and deep groan marking his release, whilst his seed filled you to the hilt, reaching deep inside of your quite fertile cunt at his cock still being buried in your twitching walls. You didn’t think at all about the possibilities which could follow after having laid down with Sukuna unprotected, and it seemed it was the same for him, as well.

His grip on your wrists did not give out, but still, nevertheless, loosened ever so slightly, revealing a ring of red marks around your wrists. You breathed out a sigh, shaking with eye-opening bliss as your stomach, once empty, was now bloated with the impeccable amount of semen shot by your husband. It swelled, full and swollen, painted white with ropes of cum, and when Sukuna pressed down on the bulging outline of his cock, you let out a poor whine.

“Don’t tell me you’ve given out on me just yet, sweetheart. You don’t think we’re finished already, do you?” 

***

Crawling out from beneath messed up sheets, climbing over sprawled out limbs, and tiptoeing around in nothing but a loose-fitting stola had your escape occurred—exiting from the bedchambers smelling of musk and sex, and entering the balcony, seeking breaths of fresh air.

You did not usually awake before your husband (he was usually up and out of the room by the time you opened your eyes), but perhaps yesterday’s exertions had tired him out, seeing as neither of you slept from after supper to the break of day. And, yes, while you, too, were also thoroughly exhausted, you fell into the arms of Somnus much before Ryoumen did, which likely contributed to your quite early waking.

The view downwards was pretty. Blurred shades of green and blue and white. You could see servants walking to-and-fro, and, for a moment, you remembered when your life was something similar.

The sun shone on your face as brightly as it did when you first saw the man still lying asleep in your bed, but you did not raise an arm to shield your eyes. It was quiet, and you felt more alive than you did in weeks. 

Morning dew fell from trees, and the birds sang. The railing on which you rested your elbows was cold and rough, it reminded you of something that you could not quite put your finger on, at least, not until you heard the sound of footsteps behind you, and the yawning and cracking of unused bones.

“Surprised to see you’re not already knocked up with my kid,” came the raspy, unfamiliar morning-voice from behind you.

“Surprised to see you awake at a time after six,” you quipped, not turning around to face your lover.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist, and a bare chest pressed itself against your back as Sukuna’s lips met your collarbones, kissing your skin in greeting. “A snarky one, aren’t you? What, did last night not soothe your wants?”

He was always so clingy in the mornings. Like a needy child.

“. . .You are only wearing a subligaculum,¹⁶” you observed, changing the subject with haste.

¹⁶ An undergarment.

“It’s not like I hear any complaints,” he joked. “Besides, no one’s up here. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a servant taking a little peek.”

You swallowed. “Nonsense.”

“Smart girl.” He rested his chin on the top of your head, his weight resting on yours, causing you to lean the combination of your weight on the balcony railing. “Now, tell me, what is someone like the missus doing someplace out here?”

“Can a woman not be alone in peace?”

Sukuna seemed to pause in faux thought, before finally saying, “Not when that woman is my woman.”

“So, no?”

“No.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“What are you doing out here?” you questioned.

“Seeing my wife,” he stated, in a matter-of-fact fashion.

“But,” you bit your lip, “don’t you have any business to attend to?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, removing his chin off of your head and, trailing an ice-cold hand down your spine, which sent shudders throughout your body, he slid a sneaking finger up your thigh, until, with an agonizingly slow pace, he stuck a digit up your cunt. All this he did in a casual manner, like it was an everyday thing—which, technically speaking, it was.

“Are you trying to get me to leave you alone?” he asked, as if he didn’t have a finger up your pussy, “because it might be a little late for that.”

You whimpered, collapsing on the balcony railing for support when a second finger was added.

Sukuna curled his fingers, scissoring them and quickening his pace as he did so. The squelching of your cunt sent you over the edge, the idea of someone overhearing—or, worse, seeing—the two of you in this act had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Sukuna, please, we—nngh! We shouldn’t . . .” You let out a shaky exhale. “Not—Not out here.”

Sukuna leaned down to place a kiss to the lobe of your ear, giving a sloppy, dirty lick to the skin there. “Why not?”

“Because . . . someone—” You were cut off by Sukuna’s fingers hitting your sweet spot, and couldn’t help but let a scandalously obnoxious cry slip from between your lips, the three syllables of your husband’s name following soon after, like a prayer.

“Because someone, what?”

His voice mocked you, whilst the longest of his fingers bullied your cunt, and his thumb, every so often, circled around and applied pressure to your clit.

“Sukunanngh . . . I—You . . . You bastard,” you groaned, whining against the palm slapped over your mouth.

“What was that? Oh, you want me to fuck you?” His fingers moved faster, his voice growing cruel and dark. “Well, who am I to decline my bride, hm?”

Pulling his fingers out from between your legs, leaving you a shaking, heaving mess, Sukuna moved on to bring the ends of your dress to your hips, gripping and groping the flesh there as he pressed the outline of his cock against your slick.

Your breath got caught in your throat, choking on your spit, and you whined from the weight of his cock against your ass. You were dripping from the thought alone of Sukuna taking you right now, right here—out in the open, out on the balcony, where anyone, and I mean anyone, could catch a glimpse of their master and mistress from below.

Teasing the fat, leaking tip of his cock against your entrance, you bit your lip till you bled, pressing your ass back against Sukuna for any sort of friction to relieve you of the throbbing of your core, but that only worked against you; a harsh slap! was delivered to your left ass cheek, which sent you crying out, arching your back away from Sukuna. But that wasn’t even close to enough.

Bringing a hand to the column of your throat, his nails digging into your skin, creating red, angry crescent marks, Sukuna had you gasping for breath as he held your throat in his grasp, choking you to the point of gagging, but not yet enough to cut off your airway. 

Leaning down, he whispered in your ear, saying, in that rough voice of his, “You wanted to be fucked like the dirty whore you are? I’ll show you how much of a dirty whore you are.”

Grabbing a handful of your ass, Sukuna pushed you against the balcony railing, bending you over with ease.

“Wait, I . . . I—mmph! . . Nngh . . . Ahh—Ahh!”

Your voice, still evidently hoarse from last night, was cut off by Sukuna slamming his cock into your cunt, shutting you up as his hips pistoned against yours whilst you braced yourself by clawing at the railing below you.

“You are dripping. You really are insatiable, huh . . .” he muttered, releasing your throat as you gasped for air, only to be cut short by rough, deep thrusts that had you seeing stars.

“Sukuna . . . hahh.” 

“Tight as fuck, aren’t you? Cunt’s gripping my dick like a goddamn vice.” 

Sukuna ripped your hands off the railing, bringing them behind you and binding them together with gods knows what. Probably a cloth he found lying nearby. You writhed and squirmed and writhed and squirmed, but to no avail! Your wrists were bound to your back, held just above your ass. Now, you had no way to hold yourself steady, no longer pushing yourself off of the railing for support.

“I . . . nngh.” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you could not find even the strength to complain about your having been tied up.

Fully bent over, your ass bouncing with each thrust, you moaned and mewled to your heart’s desire. Slick dripped down your legs, and though the ticklish sensation left you bothered and just slightly uncomfortable, that feeling was soon forgotten by the cock absolutely pounding your dripping cunt.

Your shame was gone, you were a ruined woman through and through.

“Fucked the attitude out of you, yet?” Sukuna laughed, burying himself inside of you before pulling out, leaving just the tip in, before slamming himself back in, and repeating his assaults. He was like a big, mean bully, having fun by tormenting none other than his bride, his prize, his property.

You thought it degrading, but found heat pooling in your stomach at the afterthought, nonetheless.

“Gods, you . . . you are such a dick,” you managed out, through screams twisted between pain and pleasure, a line which you could not exactly draw.

“It’s what I do best, sweetheart.”

Birds scattered throughout the confines of their habitat at the not-so-peaceful-sounding noise of your cries, and you were sure someone had to have noticed the deviant behavior taking place upstairs on the master’s floor of the estate.

“Then hurry up and make me . . . hahh . . . c-cum, you ass. You are such a—”

One particularly hard thrust had you seeing stars as Sukuna’s cock hit your cervix, surely wounding your womb as the words got stuck in your throat, and your legs gave out beneath you. The only thing holding you up being Sukuna’s hand tangled in your hair, giving a rough tug, which forced your tear-streaked face back, and the other one being on your hip, his grip white-knuckled as his thrusts turned from rough and coordinated to stuttering and staggered.

You came without resolve, your moans merely music to your husband’s ears as he, too, finished inside of you, his cock pumping endless ropes of seed up your cunt, stuffing you till excess bodily fluids were forced to drip down your thighs. Your stomach felt warm and bloated as you were filled to the brim, seed ending up snug in your womb as Sukuna pumped you full of his cum, not wasting a drop, and even going as far as scooping up the excess fluids to shove two fingers in your mouth, allowing—more like forcing—you a taste of your actions.

After all, Ryoumen Sukuna was nothing if not a cruel man.

***

It was the eleventh of October when Sukuna left the estate without a word, and it was the eighteenth of the next week when he returned.

You had been out in the gardens, overseeing the yard-work when, in the middle of giving orders to trim the bushes to the left ever so slightly, a maidservant had come running to notify you of your husband’s departure. He did not leave a note, did not kiss you goodbye, and did not give commands for any of the servants to inform you of his leave (the maid just happened to be particularly loyal to her mistress).

“Cecelia!” was what you first exclaimed, surprised by her sudden appearance beside you. “What brings you here?”

“Mistress, I—I have brought word that the lord of the estate has taken his leave. On a horse or two.” The woman spoke between gasps for air, she seemed out of breath, perhaps from chasing after Ryoumen and his steed(s). “I saw a carriage pull away from the gates, and I . . . I supposed he did not inform you, either.”

“Oh, that’s . . . I thank you for the note, Cecelia. But that will be all. You’re correct, he did not tell me, and,” you paused, touching your index finger to your chin, “I do ponder where he went.”

You assumed your husband would only be missing for one evening, and return the next to fill you in on his seemingly hasty departures. But one sleepless night turned into two, and two turned into three, and three turned into even the advisors of the estate beginning to worry for their master. In turn, however, you had begun to grow indifferent to your missing husband.

On the fourth day, you discovered news of yet another gladiator match that was to take place. And who was to compete in it? Take a guess.

Being petty was a greatness of yours, and, while for a time, you were able to keep entertained by playing your beloved cithara, reading, or tending to your gardens, you had begun to grow bored. The estate was large enough, and, with your husband being gone, you were even more lonely than you were before. You had no children to run through the halls, no friends who could visit the property, and no duties besides your hobbies to keep you company.

On the fifth and sixth day, you had already invited over a number of “guests” to the estate. Your beauty was no unfamiliar subject to the people of Rome, and it wasn’t difficult to find men in want of serving as entertainment to you.

You had some feed you grapes, some play their music to you, some read their philosophy and literature, some tell you of stories from afar; it was all very enjoyable. Or, well, the idea of it was.

On the seventh day, you had appointed a raven-haired, older man to keep you company. He was a traveler of sorts, and had many stories of the West and the East to tell you. From wraths of gods, to legendary criminals, and heinous crimes, he knew it all. He made you laugh, and was . . . not a bad flirt, if you did say so yourself. But it was nothing serious.

You were in the middle of drinking wine with the fellow, when, by the informing of Cecelia, you were notified of a something that required your utmost attention at once. She did not explain further, but you noticed an urgency about her eyes, and did not tarry.

Excusing yourself, you stood up from where you lounged rather casually on the ornately designed sofa, and took graceful, calculated steps down a hallway to the left wing of the estate.

You were nearing the room Cecelia pointed you to when, to your utter surprise, a rough hand had pulled you to the side, keeping your back flush against the chest of a man you could not see, for his other hand held the blade of a dagger right against the column of your throat. Your breathing grew ragged, and your hands went up to attempt (and fail) at removing the dagger-wielding hand.

Your heart pounded, and the blood rushed to your ears.

“Did you miss me, . . . wifey?”

His stray hand was gripping the flesh of your hip, and held you firm above the ground, where you dangled, your legs kicking around uselessly.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing?” you managed to whimper out, against the dagger being pressed against your neck.

“As much as I love to hear those pretty sounds of yours, angel,” he began, before his voice suddenly turned cold, “there is a man in my house, standing next to my woman, and making her laugh. Care to explain?”

He did not release you from his grasps, but lifted the blade just a centimeter away from the skin of your throat so you could form coherent sentences. How thoughtful.

“When my husband has left for a week with no explanation, am I supposed to not keep myself occupied?”

“So you’ve borrowed a man to keep you company.”

“Are you turning this against me?”

“Should I be?”

Learning your husband has yet to retire from gladiating, and discovering he has come home, with a dagger to your neck upon arrival, was infuriating enough to make you forget the possibility of throwing yourself into his arms in greeting. He did not tell you a word about his match, prior and after, and you were the one in the wrong? Men were nothing but animals.

“. . .”

You kept silent, your face defeated, and Sukuna, finally having decided to let you go, released his hold on you and sheathed his blade once more, before dropping you back onto your feet. You nearly stumbled over yourself finding your balance, as Sukuna began to turn away, walking down the marble-tiled hallways.

“My hands are bloodied. I will be in the bathing quarters.”

All this he said, whilst his back was kept to you.

Several moments later, you had a valet escort the raven-haired guest out of your estate, and, next thing you knew, you were storming down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps reverberating throughout the estate, an evident display of your boiling rage. Your maid-servants weren’t unfamiliar with your and the master’s almost daily feuds, and were, by now, practically accustomed to setting out changes of clothes for when your arguments concluded.

Cursing to yourself as you went, your footsteps continued to thunder as you approached the bathing quarters, where you could hear small splashing sounds inside. You threw open the door, the scowl and glare on your face both clear as day whilst you walked in a straight line towards the pink-haired man who sat at the steps towards the end of the pool.

He was naked, completely bare in all his glory, but you couldn’t notice, not from how clouded your vision was with anger, no. His arms were resting on the edges of the pool, and his expression was cool as he leaned back, watching you approach him with not even a flinch.

“You motherfucker. You think you can just come waltzing in here, and avoid all your problems? You don’t pay any mind to the fact I’ve been worried sick, because my husband has left the estate with not even a word of explanation, and then, come to find out, he’s been gladiating?” You berated him without end, pointing a finger at his emotionless face as you walked along the pool’s edges. “Who do you think you are? 

“We’re married, remember? You won me. And now, you’re putting your life on the line? Whilst we are married? I don’t give a fuck whether you’re competing to win more wives, Ryomen, but where does that leave me, huh? If you die? I was just some temporary toy for you, and my life will basically end, as well? I will have no worth, Sukuna. No one takes in a ruined woman. And I’m not a solicitor, or, at least, I don’t want to be . . .”

Sukuna didn’t respond, and you were honestly thankful, actually. You feared, if he did speak, you would fold within seconds, so you took the time you had to get your frustration out and your point made.

“Why couldn’t you have just told me you didn’t retire? I mean, I would still hate you, but . . . fuck, you are such an ass.” You ran a hand down your face, stopping just two paces away from the beast, before continuing your storming. “Gods, you take new lows each day. I can’t believe my life is tied to yours for as long as I live—!”

You were shut up by the action of Sukuna pulling you down by the ankle and dragging you into the pool, manhandling you in all your writhing and struggling, and seating your ass right on his lap with ease, your back flush against his bare chest as his hand came up to wrap around your throat just as it had earlier.

You screamed, but another hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling any whimpers and noises you let out. Through your anger, you could not remember to think about how your dress was now thoroughly soaked through.

“Mmph . . . !” 

His face tilted downwards despite your struggles, and his lips whispered into your ear, his breath fanning hot air against your skin that left you with a strange tingling sensation.

“You never stop complaining, do you? You want to know why I left? Without explaining? Has it ever occured to you that, maybe I wanted you to truly hate me, after all, so the potential news of my death wouldn’t affect you? You make me out to be an animal, but even the gods know I’m not heartless.” You could practically hear his eye rolling. “C’mon, wifey, don’t you know, I’ve no need for another wife when I’ve already gotten my hands on a goddess right here. A goddess, that just so happens to be the world’s biggest bitch.” 

You struggled against Sukuna, your legs kicking and splashing in the water as your nails clawed at tattooed biceps. “Mmph! Mmm—Mmph . . . !” 

His left hand released your neck, but he didn’t let up on your mouth. “I only took the match because I was bored. Truly. Wanted to taste blood. But, what would you know about that? You’re an angel.” His voice was mocking, and dripped with malice. You shivered.

You gasped, desperate for air, when Sukuna finally removed his hand off your mouth, but your relief was short-lived when he tore the fabric off your body in one swift tear.

“What?” he asked, jeeringly, when you looked at him in confusion. “We’re already in the baths, might as well undress, too.”

The water was only up to your belly button, and a shiver ran up your spine from the low temperatures of the room. Sukuna, however, was like a walking, talking bonfire; he literally emitted heat.

Your nipples hardened from the air, and you squirmed around on Sukuna’s lap, growing uncomfortable. “You . . .”

“What’s the matter, honey?” He feigned concern, cooing. “Feeling pity? Gonna admit your mistakes?”

“I—”

He cut you off. “Let your body do the talking, and maybe I’ll find the heart to forgive you.”

Sukuna’s hands trailed down to your chest as he spoke, cold fingers going up to grope and pinch and tweak at your hardened nipples with each syllable he uttered. It sent a shock through your body, and you bit your hand to keep quiet.

“O-Oh, my . . . Nngh . . .” You mewled and twitched uncontrollably.

You didn’t know how much you loved the feeling of Sukuna’s hands fondling the mounds of your tits until you met your husband, and even then, he reminded you almost every day.

“Yeah? Does that feel good?” he asked, voice full of sarcasm. “What I fuckin’ thought, you whore. So needy and bitchy, all for some dick, aren’t you.”

Sukuna continued his assault on your buds, pulling and tugging at your nipples like it was child’s play. You arched your back at the stimulating sensation, your core growing warm from his fingers alone as you continued to attempt suppressing your noise with a fist in your mouth.

“Hahh, I—Sukuna . . . Mmph! you . . . You bastard.” 

You pressed your naked thighs together, your own hand flying in-between to apply pressure to your clit; your orgasm soon hit you like a chariot. The friction newly added was more than enough to finally throw you over the edge as you came from solely Sukuna playing with your tits, groping and squeezing like they were mere toys.

“Fuck, wifey. Making a mess from only my hands? Maybe I have been depriving you.”

Your release dripped all over your hands, and Sukuna brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking the juices off like wine. His lips made squelching noises around the bodily fluids, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as you felt the warm wetness of the sensation.

“Sukuna . . .” you whined, eyes growing teary with need.

“I’ll give it to you soon enough, princess. Quit your nagging,” was the reply that came, whilst Sukuna refused to let go of your fingers, even going as far as biting on them, leaving a clearly indented mark of his teeth on the skin, before finally releasing your hand from his grasp, and wiping his mouth clean of your slick.

Sukuna’s muscles were toned, abs flexing, and skin tanned from the ever-so cruel sun that shone down on the people of the empire. Even if his hold on you was gentle, his distribution of strength was enough to make it seem otherwise. That was made quite clear when he decided to abruptly cut your bliss short by lifting up your thighs by the backs of your knees, pinning them to position by your ears.

Legs spread, pussy weeping, back arched; you looked a mess. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, your hair was disheveled, body marked up with teeth marks from previous nights, and you could do nothing but claw and scratch at Sukuna’s arms. But, hot mess aside, (or not), you looked nothing short of a damn feast in Sukuna’s eyes.

Whimpering, mewling, and crying out, your ass was sat on Sukuna’s bare lap and the only thing running through your mind was your insatiable lust for being ruined by the brute you called your husband.

True to his word, Sukuna lifted your ass up with ease, before bringing you back down, practically smashing you onto his cock with one rough thrust. His tip pierced your cervix without fail, kissing all your sweet spots like habit.

It had been seven days. Seven, fucking, days without this man. And the first thing he did was fuck you like he meant to break you.

All the wind was knocked out of your throat as he continued to mercilessly slam his hips up into yours, bouncing you up and down without abandon whilst he kept your legs spread in the air.

The two of you had never tried this position before, but, gods, were you thankful for having done so. From this angle Sukuna’s cock reached areas deeper within your cunt than ever before, and with your thighs separated, it was significantly easier for Sukuna to fully bottom out before thrusting his entire length and girth back in, fucking you through the tears that fell and the sobs that left your lips from the constant thrusts, and bounces, and the frequent feeling of his hips pistoning against yours.

“Awh, don’t tell me my sweet wife is crying.” 

You nodded weakly, hiccuping, completely delirious.

“Shame. Your tears will only make it worse,” he said, darkly, wetting your skin even further as he licked a stripe up your cheek, ridding you of the tears that fell from your eyes.

Throughout all of Sukuna’s rough fucking, you came multiple times, his cock filling you with warm seed up to the brim. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking, pussy squirting all over, and lips quivering; but not once, never in any of those times, did he stop for you to catch your breath and regain your composure. He fucked you through every orgasm and continued to the next and the next.

Water splashed all around your naked bodies, and you couldn’t tell if you were more wet from the pounding of Sukuna’s cock, or from the pool you two were currently in.

Your skin was warm, wet, and glistening with sweat.

Behind you, you could hear Sukuna’s jagged breathing and, every so often, his grunts. The man wasn’t a very vocal one, but he never tried hiding his moans and groans, per se. He had no shame in whining in your ear from how tight your walls clenched down on his cock, and definitely wasn’t afraid of whimpering from the feeling of your ass grinding down on his chest, your slick dribbling down his naked abdomen.

“Ahh . . . ! Ahh—Nnghh . . . !” 

“Mmm . . . unghh . . .” 

“Hahh, o-ohh . . . !” 

Sounds of cries and plap, plap, plaps! filled the bathing quarters, and your cheeks warmed from the embarrassingly lewd noises the two of you made. That, and the feeling of veins on Sukuna’s cock twitching and sliding up and down and in and out of your weeping cunt had your eyes rolling backwards and your toes curling with the coming of an orgasm.

“Now, hahh, you gonna tell me why there was a man in my estate?” Sukuna managed to ask you, whilst he kept his cock ramming your poor, used pussy, lips of which were puffy and erect with need.

“W-What? Why are you—”

“Asking that?” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Dunno, maybe because my wife was home-fucking-alone with the dirty bastard.” 

His cock twitched inside of you, and you clawed at Sukuna’s biceps as he spoke. It seemed that, with every second the two of you spent speaking about the man who was in your home, Sukuna grew more and more frustrated, his thrusts turning out clumsy and sloppy and rough.

“I . . . I t-told you already, Sukuna,” you whined, stuttering from his thrusts. “He was just keeping me company, I . . . unghh, swear.”

“Only keeping you company?”

You nodded profusely, your voice growing weak from Sukuna’s cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. “S-Swear. Hahh, I . . . ahh . . . mmph! I swear—I swear.”

“Yeah? You swear?”

“M-Mhmm . . . Gods, please, Sukuna, o-ohh! gods, I need to cum. I need to cum!”

“Why not, go on, then. Cum all you want on your husband’s cock. Yeahh, atta girl. Shit, you’re fucking milking me dry, aren’t you. Want my seed so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck my kid into you?”

You mewled, music to Sukuna’s ears as every last drop of cum fell from your cunt, coating his dick with your fluids whilst the two of you rode out your highs. Your walls were painted white with Sukuna’s seed, filling you to the hilt as he kept his cock buried in your warm, wet cunt. Yeah, this one would surely take—Sukuna would make sure of that.

After all, this was bound to happen.

idgaf this is a politics free zone let me read my fics in peace ffs

In the Woods (Somewhere) - Mothman!Gojo

Ghost stories around the city whisper about a creature in the forest. They describe it as a moth like monster that only brings misfortune and death.

But what will you do as you learn these silly ghost stories are true flesh and bone… and now haunting you?

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

wc: 12.9k

warnings & tags: 18+ only MDNI, monster x human relationship, loose interpretation of the mothman legends and stories, death mentions, protectiveness & obsession that can be read as slight yandere like, lot of bug discussion, monster transformation with a touch of body horror, wound licking, blood & tear consumption, magical healing, car accident, allusion to f!oral receiving, kidnapping, character deaths (this ends happy I promise) feral and lovesick Gojo, if there is anything I missed please let me know!

a/n: this is my first submission to @willowser Haunted House Collab and I’m so honored to be part of this! Thank you for putting this together dear Willow! The title is from the lovely Hozier song. Also a big thanks to @skeletoncowboys for letting me scream about this monster & to @stellamancer for always being my dearest comrade in Gojo hell, enjoy and thanks for reading! Stay spooky!

Your grandfather once told you he believed butterflies were fairies and moths were angels.

It made sense to your child logic that butterflies could be fairy creatures. You even imagined fairies had butterfly wings. But, you had argued back in disgust that moths couldn’t be angels.

“Now now,” your grandpa had laughed. “Why can’t moths be angels?”

He gently explained moths were mainly seen in the evening and around light. He believed moths were the forms angels took to keep watch over everyone late in the night when no one believed they were being protected

“And,” he told you with all his sweet patience. “Something like a moth that loves the light can’t be bad.”

Scientifically you now understand moths mainly were nocturnal as a survival instinct for less predators and more opportunities for prey. Some were even active during the daytime. But your grandfather's words stay with you, etched into your heart.

He is why you are here after all.

The campus at night always holds a certain hollowness.

However, the storm that blew in yesterday continues looming with ominous clouds in the sky. It cast an early darkness against the city. The thick haze feels as if something could slink out of the shadows.

When you slip out of the research lab building there, against the light outside, one lone white moth flutters in the air.

Quickly glancing around the campus stretches out before you a vacant lot. In that moment of surveying, delicate wings rapidly flutter fast and wild against your face.

“Ack!” A surprised squawk leaves you at the moth’s sudden charge.

“I told you!” You hiss out waving the bug away. “You could’ve waited for me at home.”

The moth, outraged by your words, rushes against your face harder. Silk wings flap hard while it continues waving around your line of sight in a flurry.

“Calm down, you big baby!” You snap back annoyed and start stomping towards your car.

Now the little insect stops its fluttering attack to gently land on your face. As the bug travels across your cheek, its presence is a gentle tickling sensation. It finally stops and rests against you.

“Happy now?” You mutter low praying no one spots you with a large white moth on your face.

“I’m gonna pick up dinner. So are you getting in the car or meeting me back home?” You speak casual yet still within a low mutter.

With a delicate tickle again, the moth scurries across your cheek then across your nose making your lips twitch in a slight giggle.

Then the creature flutters away, your answer.

The pizzeria you end up at is adorably cozy. You spotted it during the drive to and from campus. Once you read the online reviews and got their blessing you decided to check it out.

Christmas lights hang from the takeout counter where you wait for your order. There’s even a quaint bar-like area. But what catches your attention is the small section of things littering the walls behind the counter.

It reminds you of a scrapbook.

Various newspaper clippings clutter one side. A few blurry photos are folded and pinned to the board. Plenty of hand drawn images scatter among the collage and they range from adorable to terrifying.

All of these things are about one single moth creature.

The board itself is even titled -

The Moth’s Nest.

Moth nests can be disastrous. They infect fast and are hard to exterminate. Plus once they create a nest, infestation is soon to follow.

“Ah, looking at our board.” A smooth voice purrs into the air and you turn towards it in slight embarrassment.

A beautiful blonde woman grins at you from behind the counter now.

“I heard the town had a moth thing but this…” from the drawings, which all included a strange humanoid like creature, this is far from the high moth population count it was known for.

The woman barks an amused laugh and it crinkles her rather lovely eyes.

“You could say that,” she grins. “You new here?”

“Sort of.” You nod. You’ve been here for almost a full semester now and you wonder if the newness will ever melt away.

“Well then, welcome to town!” The woman’s name is Yuki and for being a newcomer she pays for your pizza.

“Even though you got this for takeout, why don’t you stay? Eat here and keep me company.” She winks and you happily slide into the open seat she pulls up for you at the checkout counter.

“So what’s a lovely thing like yourself doing here?” Yuki asks smoothly and you almost choke on your first bite.

After she cackles a warm charismatic laugh, you swallow through your surprise and tell her.

“An en-tah what?” She caws confused like a bird and even her furrowed brows make you snicker.

“An entomologist,” you clarify.

In simple terms, you study bugs.

“Oh!” Yuki’s eyebrows fly fast up into her bangs as her eyes twinkle excitedly. “So you’re all about the creepy crawlers then.”

“Not all of them,” you reply back friendly.

You favored Odonatology and Lepidopterology.

The studies of dragonflies, damselflies, butterflies and in this case-

Moths.

“Well now,” Yuki grins and turns to glance at the board. “Looks like you’re in the right place to find moths.”

It was one of the reasons why you chose this program. The university boasted a plentiful and hands-on ecosystem to explore right within the town’s backyard. You just never expected an urban legend to come attached to the critter population.

Curiously you nudge your face towards the odd journalistic collection and ask about it.

Yuki’s face melts into a wistful look that casts a surprising shadow on her.

“It’s a creature that apparently lives in the woods…” she begins, low and steady.

No one knew how or when it began inhabiting the forest. Some argued it’s a simple folklore meant to scare rowdy kids from venturing into the woods.

“The stories say it’s an actual demon.” Yuki explains.

“There’s a belief that anyone who sees it either dies soon after or calamity befalls the town.”

Yuki’s words conjure up a poisonous fear. She adds how any sight of the cryptid, even in the strongest of nonbelievers, brought a sense of unease.

“But,” Yuki shrugs easily turning back to you. “Some people say that thing is a hero.”

The word hero gets tangled in your ribs

Your new friend explains there are those who have seen the beast and lived to tell a different tale.

Multiple children on different occasions have got lost in the woods. Yet, they always found their way out. Most of them claimed the moth creature helped them.

“There’s even an elderly man who went hiking and still swears up and down that thing saved him from getting attacked by a mountain lion.” Yuki comments.

“That’s a big claim.” You admire the thought of this monstrous creature possibly being a silent guardian. However, it festers something dangerous in your heart that weaves a sticky web.

The pizza on your plate grows cold. The lone drink you were nursing now is a watered down mess. You’ve lost your appetite and decide to head home.

There’s not much for your mind to process. It feels like the same sensation of walking out of a horror film and trying to understand what you saw. You try to rationalize this disorienting simply the same sensation you’d also get hearing ghost stories at sleepovers.

Yuki urges you with a warm charm that you’ll come and visit again, you promise her you will.

Walking out with leftovers in the box, the night greets you with a soupy fog. The lingering storms coat the streets in a mystic cloud.

You wonder if this clouded fog is inside your mind as well.

You’re about to take a step out into the parking lot when a horrifying animalistic shriek pierces the air.

It sounds distorted, a static shrill cry summoned from an ancient abomination.

The screech shoots straight into your bones startling you and making you jump in a pause.

In that moment a car speeding way too fast for a parking lot flies by you. It drives by with a whirling speed rattling the wind.

The noise, the shriek, stopped you from stepping out into the car’s path.

You mind buzzes, maybe too much. The gloomy air seeps into your skin and brings a heaviness over your body. You exhale shakily trying to just settle yourself as you head home.

When you return to the tiny closet of your apartment, there outside against the balcony door your white moth flutters furiously waiting for you.

Sliding the door open you’re about to greet your extra house guest until the text chime on your phone draws your attention away.

As you check your phone charging on the couch, a sudden thud lands against your apartment floors. The flapping of wings flutters into the room.

Before you can even turn around, a shadow falls over you. The presence of something large looms like a ghost, silent and steady yet radiating a chill besides you. Then a firm fuzzy face suddenly dives into the side of your neck burrowing against your skin.

“You need to be more careful.” A voice crystal and aware, yet flickering as if it speaks through the branches of the woods, clicks at you.

You think of the car that blazed by.

“It happens and I’m okay.” You reassure.

The inhuman face hiding in your neck draws back. Then a firm head soon enough gently butts against yours. The action jolts you out of your thoughts and you rapidly turn towards the heaviness leaning against you.

Crawled straight from the shadow of the woods, from the whispers of terrified stories, the creature before you still doesn’t seem real.

You think of Yuki and the moth’s nest board at the pizza shop. All the pictures depict the creature with haunting crimson eyes.

You wish you could have told Yuki the monster’s eyes aren’t red, but instead a piercing sky blue.

And instead of two eyes, the creature holds six beautiful eyes all over his face.

All six eyes of those eyes blink at you with the depth of a haunted lake shimmering within their gaze.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

“Why do you want to study insects?”

Discovering the cryptid could talk was honestly more surprising than discovering he was real.

Also, he had a name.

“Sa-to-ru.” He had told you, pronouncing its syllables as if your little human brain might not get it. It made you scowl. Yet the name itself sounded like something that fluttered out of the forest breeze.

Currently the moth creature, Satoru, sits happily on your apartment balcony under the dark cover of night. You have articles you need to read, lab reports to finish. But, you stay sitting on the floor beside him.

“My grandfather studied them.” You explain, giving the same answer you always do when this question is asked.

“He loved almost every type of bug there was.”

“Sounds like my type of human.” The moth amusedly chitters. “Love to meet him.”

“Honestly, he would’ve loved to meet you too.” You truthfully admit and almost grin thinking of how excited your grandpa would’ve been to see this creature.

“Unfortunately, he passed away a few years ago.” You add simply.

“Oh.” The cryptid replies quietly. “I’m sorry.”

You politely thank him.

“Is he the one besides the moth?”

You’re surprised Satoru even noticed that.

The frame sits on your eclectic shelf filled with books and trinkets. There’s two pictures in that frame. One is a photo of your grandfather during his days when he moved out here to teach at the university you currently attend. The other photo is you and him both holding up big nets when you were a little weed of a thing looking so happy besides him.

Besides those photos is his favorite sketch.

“It’s a luna moth, right?” He’s right again. Though, you’re not surprise he recognized it.

“Yup, the lunar moth was his favorite.” You fondly agree.

Actias luna.

Your grandpa used it as his example of how beautiful and lovely moths could be.

“He’s a man of good taste.” The moth compliments and for some reason it tugs at your lips. You can almost hear your grandfather's voice warmly boasting in pride.

“I wanna show you something, little human.” The moth quickly changes topic and when you turn to him, you find him grinning.

Rows of dangerous sharpened fangs flash within his mouth. They are a visible warning to not trust this creature, but you do.

“After your class this week, I’ll take you somewhere.” Satoru urges.

“Are you going to eat me?” You ask a bit stunned.

Satoru laughs, a flickering chirping noise that bounces off your apartment balcony.

“Oh little human, if I did eat humans I would’ve done that already.”

You glare at him but sighing you agree to whatever he has in store for you.

On your last class of the week, there outside against the campus street light your white moth flutters excitedly.

You think about how dangerous it is that he sticks around campus, even in this form.

With a rapid flurry he flies around your face. You can’t help but snort at the tickling sensation.

“Yeah I’m here, let’s go.” You tease.

Under the twilight hazee, you follow the moth into the woods.

The setting sun casts a shadow over the stretching forest. The trees silently watch your hesitant trek as you follow the moth further into the thickness.

Eventually you’re in the heart of it. No noise greets you, not even the rustling of birds or the fleeing of other animals. It’s as if in this depth all life had stilled. No movement or sign of life encroaches into this space. You realize this might have been the most ridiculous idea, following this cryptid myth into the unknown.

Suddenly the moth stops in front of a large solid tree.

“This is what you wanted to show me?” You’re a bit confused. The insect flutters around you in a huffy flight then goes to spin around the tree.

Satoru himself now slides out from behind the tree in his humanoid form.

“It’s not just a tree.” His six eyes narrow at you annoyed. Your eyes roll exhausted with him already.

“Do you trust me?”

The question surprises you.

Hesitantly you nod, a quiet yes. Satoru then effortlessly scoops you into his arms as if you weigh nothing.

A wild squeak escapes you. His firm arms hold you in his grasp and your mind starts scrambling being this close to him. The fur of his body tickles your arms and the solid warmth of him curls around you.

Satoru’s chittering laugh bounces among the trees.

He then takes flight.

You swallow back a petrified screech threatening to escape and simply let the wind rush around you. A solid thud comes, a landing.

“Open your eyes, little human.” Satoru whispers excited.

You hadn’t realized you had closed them.

The nest before you is a cobwebbed cocoon. You had never seen one this big. The opening of it is carved out wide, a webbed open maw with secrets trying to draw you in.

“Go in, you can see more.” His wistful voice skitters out playful, so light it could get caught in the tree branches.

He’s eager to show you this.

Hesitantly you lean into the nest just to glance inside.

It’s actually rather cozy. Webs and branches twist in a delicate pattern to create a solid enclosing. Leaves scatter the inside floor that is rather large. You can even imagine his large form curled in here cat-like as he sleeps.

“So? What do you think?” He asks with an anticipated edge blooming in his voice. He’s showing you his home.

You remember when he first showed himself to you, even gave you his name.

The logical reasoning within you thought many times about studying this cryptid. There was even a fleeting moment you considered capturing him and returning him back to the lab.

Now you are here discovering his home. You find yourself wanting to unearth as much as you can of this incredibly infuriating but wonderfully interesting creature.

“It’s nice!” You earnestly admire the space. Yet, the truth whispers a harrowing fact.

The bigger the nest, the bigger the infection and danger.

So you instead turn to glance out to the forest around. You’re so high above in the canopy of the trees. Silence seems to settle thicker here among the sky and it mingles with the evening darkness.

The forest, even as tranquil as it appears, holds a sense of loneliness you can’t fully describe.

“Have you been here at this spot for long?”

He chirps a humming yes.

“The high placement keeps me safe and away from prying eyes.” Among the trees and leaves he is simply a shadow.

“Do people try to hunt you?” That grim thought arrives.

“A few try, but no one’s even come close.” A cocky pride brims in Satoru’s tone.

You understand why people would try and search for him. But to hunt him like some prized sport? So you have to ask why.

“Besides some humans believe killing me will solve and save them from all their disasters, a select few who want me for other purposes.” Satoru muses as his antennas twitch.

“What other purposes?” You glance back at the cryptid perched on the solid large branch beside you.

In the dark, all six eyes glimmer with an animalistic reflection, a haunting gleam and reminder of the creature's true nature before you.

All those months ago, these multiple eyes stared at you from the edge of the woods by your apartment and the campus like silent terrors. Now they watch you with intent safety right by your side.

“There’s an old legend…” Satoru answers. “It says my kind could bring someone back from the dead.”

The words spark a curious flame in you.

“Wait, really? Is it true?”

The moth being simply shrugs, an action so human you almost want to laugh.

“Some believe it. That’s enough to hunt my kind.”

So many questions cluster in your mind. You wonder more about his kind, about him. Yet there is no way to scoop all those questions out.

All you can do is gaze out at the scenery before you.

The trees pierce the darkness with their own spiked tendrils. The night sky blankets above you with twinkle stars, glimmering pockets of faint light so clear.

Yet, for some reason this again feels so lonely.

Even with the stretching comforting woods, you can’t shake the sensation of solitude slipping out.

“So why do you still stick around?” You suddenly ask not even understanding why yourself.

“What? Around you or here?” He asks.

“Both.”

A chirp of a sigh comes, heavy with an ancient weary.

“I’ve thought about leaving, migrating somewhere else, somewhere safer.” His voice drops gently, a small click in the wind.

“But…” His voice trails off even more delicate.

“Something just keeps…pulling me back here. Like I’m meant to be here. That I’ve been waiting for something.” You’ve never heard him this wistful and distant.

Then his response also has you curious.

“Do you have any idea what it is?” You cautiously and gently press.

“No idea.” His answer is rapidly too casual that you snort, shaking your head.

“And why am I still hanging around you? Who knows, maybe I just like to bug you.”

The pun isn’t lost especially on you and you groan annoyed even though a smile twitches at your lips.

Among the shade of stars and shadow of the forest, you sit with a creature of the darkness.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

The moth had first appeared at your window balcony dancing around the light like an ethereal wisp of a spirit. It happily flew around you and even spun around your entire apartment. You eventually had to shoo it out.

For a while, it was simply you and this strangely persistent moth.

After that, six eyes began appearing at night at the edge of the woods. Strange clicks like howls erupted in the air, haunting lingering sounds that rattled you.

That same week the moth showed up to your apartment flying in a bit of distress. The wings of it flapped slower and you wondered if it was dehydrated or dying.

As you had opened the sliding door to the balcony, that’s when you first witnessed it.

Like butterflies, moths go through a similar life cycle of emerging from a pupa or chrysalis. The new adult insects must crawl out of its old cocoon. The process is the blend of life and destruction.

You discovered the same applied to moth creatures.

The wings fell first then the twisting and emergence of a body from the small frame transformed to life a fully formed creature.

That first time the moth creature metamorphosed on the balcony you screamed so loud your neighbor across the hall came worriedly to check on you.

You had hoped it was all just a bad dream…

Now when you return home early, that monster rests in your bed instead of lurking under it like all the scary stories whisper where monsters lie.

Curled within the sheets, burrowed deep and taking up the entire frame, the creature slumbers. You barely can spot Satoru underneath all the pillows. A few of your shirts peek out from the swirl of blankets and you try not to linger on that.

The messy twisted bed cocoon however does make you think of the grand nest you saw.

A faint snore grumbles out into the room. The muffled animalistic noise should frighten you. Instead it echoes a soothing rumble as you go to make dinner.

In the meditative process of cutting, claws scratching against the tile floor startles you. Your heart skips at the sudden noise and your face whips to the entryway.

In this form, the moth cryptid has to hunch from touching the ceiling.

Satoru’s imposing frame fills up the entire space even with his thick wings folded to his body. The intricate beautiful antennas on top of his head flicker curious. Among the monstrous features, human-like qualities are visible in his arms, his legs, and the core of his body. Yet even in that familiarity, he is covered in sleek fur.

The sigh of this unbelievable being in this tiny kitchen almost has you laughing. Months ago this would have made you scream in terror. Now, his existence has settled into your life a strange blooming metamorphosis.

Then all six of Satoru’s clustered eyes go wide in terror.

His talons rattle rapidly on the floor as he scurries to your side.

“Your hand.” He comments sharply.

Glancing down, blood trickles over your hand and drips softly onto the cutting board. The cut thankfully isn’t deep, simply sliced the top of your finger.

“Guess that means I’m ordering out.” You mutter.

However your new companion immediately snags your hand.

Satoru’s grasp is hard, a terrified clutch as if he’s worried the cut will worsen. Flickering your gaze to him now, all six eyes focus at your hand with a startling petrified seriousness.

“I’m fine.” You reassure. “Let me just grab a band aid.”

The creature’s firm hold is unrelenting, refusing to budge even as you tug to release your hand.

“Hey-” you’re about ready to chide him and urge him to let go-

Until the moth cryptid leans down and with a long thin tongue begins licking at your wound.

Air gets knocked out of your lungs.

You mind can’t process the sight but the wet tickle of his tongue swiping along your skin grounds you. Satoru’s tongue swipes frantically and fast, a panic.

A dangerous heat runs up your arm and claws at your chest. This shouldn’t feel this intimate. Yet, it does.

You can’t even exclaim in surprise because in the small dimly lit kitchen, the moth has you under his spell.

Instead of the panic, there’s now an eased almost lazy and leisurely lap at your skin. The way his tongue slides across you is as if he’s trying to savor you. It slithers with a reverence between your knuckles, across your fingers, and your mind slowly melts.

Then with one last slow deliberate lick, Satoru draws back.

A daze has fallen over your foggy mind filled with smoke until you blink and notice your cut is gone.

Blood faintly lingers around his mouth, coloring the white fur of his face and it should scare you. And it does but the fear comes from how gorgeous he looks, and knowing it’s your blood…

The thin tongue immediately darts out to lick at the bloody traces.

The sight teeters into an overwhelming sensation and you forcibly break your focus to glance back at your healed hand.

“You have healing powers?” You croak out trying to process the sight.

“No.” For a creature that lives in the woods, he understands sarcasm rather well.

You glare at the creature who now tilts his face away. He avoids your eyes as he fiddles with the edge of your shirt.

“Moths can't heal.” You comment.

“I’m not like a typical moth now am I, little human?”

That damn nickname.

Annoying as Satoru is, you still can’t believe the sight of your healed fingers.

“Thank you for healing me.” You mutter still not able to process but are grateful all the same.

The moth creature hums a proud amused thing you quietly ignore.

Moths didn’t have healing properties. Hawk Moths could recreate antioxidants in their body to replenish themselves. You wonder if that’s how Satoru operates with his abilities.

Another part of you, one that sounds warmly like your grandfather’s voice, whispers that the creatures of this world simply hold mysteries we may not ever know.

You suppose the cryptid refusing to leave your side is the solidified truth of that.

Suddenly Satoru’s head softly plops against the top of yours.

With soft gentle rumbles he rubs his face into your hair.

“You know,” you begin softly as your fingers itch to run up against his fur. “You don’t have to keep sticking around here.”

“Hm?” Satoru hums out a bit dreamily.

“You can go back to where you’re from. You don’t need to keep staying with me out of obligation for freeing you or feeling like… you have a debt you want to repay.” You breathe the words out firmer.

The nuzzling against your head stops.

“Oh?” Satoru begins with a curious chirp. “That’s not why I stay.”

His confident reply stills you.

“Like I said maybe I just like bugging you.” He grins coy. “And besides, I stay because eating the fabric of your clothes is pretty nice free food and I like scaring away any humans that might come by.”

“You bring me closer to buying an electric fly swatter!” You screech and swat him away.

“Aw, don’t be like that!” He whines and flutters his wings almost taken back.

You ignore him and his annoying clicks vying for your attention while you order dinner for the night.

“I forget…Humans are so easily annoyed. You most especially.” He says bristly and it’s the last straw.

Healing your arm or not, this creature manages to wiggle under your skin in a way that no one else has. You blame the damn moth for how on edge you feel. Yet the truth lies in the strange unfathomable heat still brewing under your skin.

As you leave you get food you stare at him hard. You sling the balcony door open, a silent demand he leaves. His multiple eyes, shimmering sapphires, search your face.

“I see...” His reply is a brisk breeze.

Turning your back to him, you head to grab your keys. You don’t even see him leave and instead stomp to head out.

You even fully close your bedroom window. It’s the crack of an entrance you’ve recently been leaving open that allows him to flutter in when he’s a smaller moth.

Now as leave you’re thankful for the momentary space from the infuriating infestation.

Against the early night sky the pizzeria glows an electric beacon against the darkness. Clamoring chatter and an upbeat song greet you when you step inside. You’re not surprised it’s packed on a night like this.

Yuki yells a bright excited welcome at you from across the restaurant and it warms you.

Now leaning at the bar your attention can't help but find its way to the bulletin board by the entryway. Even with the annoyance and conflicting desire, seeing the arranged clutter about the local moth creature draws out a strange sinking feeling within you.

“You interested in the bug?”

A deep rumble of a voice drips out smooth and breaks your focus immediately.

Turning to the side, you discover you’re not alone at the bar.

The man is thick, solidly built and strikingly handsome. He seems older than you, with an aged weathered dignified presence about him. With only black hair and a scar across the corner of his lip, he sits looking bored at the counter with a toothpick in his mouth.

“It’s interesting.” You admit truthfully.

“Think the bug is real?” The man questions with the faintest hint of curiosity.

You shrug again. “Anything is possible I guess.”

“Indeed it is.” Now his voice holds an interested purr that sticks to your skin in an uncomfortable way.

Your eyes flicker back to him and you find his attention however is on the board.

“Some say it’s a demon.” He suddenly adds.

“I’ve heard.” You agree calmly.

“Whatever it is…it’s bad luck.” The mystery man says briskly.

You heard that as well.

“Some say it’s not.” For some reason, a small protective spike rises in you and you even think about Yuki calling it a hero.

“Yeah well, everyone can read an omen wrong I guess.” His words cast a dangerous thickness into the air that slithers up your skin.

“Besides, there’s an old legend I heard once.” he continues.

“It says…if a moth flies into your home it means someone is going to die.”

Dread crashes into your body and consumes you quickly. You’ve never heard that saying before and it bubbles an awful bile in your stomach making you feel sick.

“That’s awful.” You can’t help but answer back sharply it even surprises you.

You think of your grandfather, his belief moths were angels, and how that guided you to where you are now.

And you can’t help but think of the moth in question.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.” He leans back into his seat to stare at you.

No response for him seems to come to mind. If anything, a strange chill trickles down your spine as if you’re staring down a creature surveying and waiting to strike.

Yuki calls out your name and breaks your focus.

“Wish I could stay and chat but we’re a bit busy tonight!” She winks at you and now you grin, eased at her presence.

You wish her a good night and begin gathering your order to leave.

“Be careful out there.” The stranger mutters. Your eyes flicker to him. His attention is back on the slice of pizza before him.

“Don’t know what might be out there trying to fly into your house this time of night.”

His words create a sticky cobweb of emotions in you. You simply take your food and rush out.

Driving back to the apartment you glance at your hand fully healed and still lingering with the phantom sensation of the moth’s tongue licking at your skin.

You think of how effortlessly this strange creature carved a space in your life.

Now a sense of danger prickles against your skin, like the way the air tightens electric before a storm.

When you arrive home, a silent apartment greets you. The emptiness clouds your space and the walls creep in close and cold.

A piece of you expected him to return, maybe even hoped. But trying to sort through those emotions again bubbles a strange ache in your chest.

Before you go to bed you slightly open your bedroom window and settle under the covers. Closing your eyes, you accept the silence and solitude lingering in your room and heart.

Sleep trickles in faintly. You fade in and out of being awake.

Then your bed shifts.

A heaviness immediately curls against you. The softest brush of moth wings graze your arm. Soft chirps, faint and delicate, float into the room.

Satoru’s face burrows against the top of your head, a silent apology.

This is new.

He’s never done this before. He’s never slept on your bed with you. But your heart races too fast in your chest and your mind still feels so clouded from this night that you can’t even react.

Or, you don’t want to react.

This is new, yes. But a wild desperation inside of you sinks its claws into this new proximity. You simply keep your eyes closed and shift to settle deeper into the bed, deeper into his warmth.

The smell of the brisk forest, clear and earthy, lulls you to sleep.

Waking up the next morning, you’re alone.

A part of you wonders if you dreamed his return.

Yet on your nightstand rests a sweet plucked wildflower that wasn't there before. It greets you a bright good morning.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

Your open apartment balcony door brings in a warm evening breeze. A favorite series of yours plays on the television as you grab another mouthful of popcorn.

“Can I have some?” Satoru whimpers.

“No.” You answer through the mouth of popcorn.

“So mean! Why are you so cruel to me, little human!?” He pouts and you simply ignore him.

Even with the moth creature crouching on the floor his body still looks frightfully full and large. His fur is fluffed out more and he almost looks adorable like this simply sitting beside you.

His presence should create a distorted sense of reality. Yet no sense of panic rises within you. If anything, only more curiosity has started gnawing in you.

What kind of moth species did he originate from? Where was he even originally from? Did he have a family?

“What’s your favorite human activity to do?” It seems you were not the only one curious.

Recently Satoru has begun pestering you with a plethora of questions from what foods did you like the most to these more strange human specific ones.

“Don’t know, I have a lot.” You answer truthfully.

You rationalize all the questions you have and that he even asks are mutual inquisitive curiosity about the other’s species, a chance to learn.

Except, for you, the source of your curiosity masquerades as a yearning you don’t want to hunt out yet.

“Humans are terrified of the oddest things.”

Satoru’s comment breaks your thoughts.

You turn towards the creature who stares at the television with all six eyes.

The series you had put on had been an old favorite of yours, supernatural and fantasy based. The main heroes in this episode were being terrorized by monsters that came alive from a children’s book of old fairy tales.

“Well this series is older so the effects and monster makeup isn’t all that impressive.”

“Not that.” The moth corrects you quickly. “I mean that creature isn’t even scary.”

You want to make a comment about how of course a creature that crawled from the woods and haunts a town would not find this terrifying.

“What are you afraid of?” Again the moth humanoid questions.

You shrug. “A lot of things.”

“You don’t need to be afraid of anything.” He chirps so matter of factly it surprises you. “Especially because I’m here now.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his cocky boast. Yet your heart flips at the protective claim.

“But…I do think humans may be the scariest creatures of all.” Satoru notes with a wistful distance in his voice.

You wonder if he’s trying to tease you or even be a bit poetically pessimistic.

“I agree.” You nod reaching for popcorn. “Humans can sometimes be scary.”

In all the beauty that comes with being human, you know there is a darkness that comes with the territory. The lovely prickle of rain starting to fall soothes you as the episode jumps to the next.

It’s one of your favorites. The main character gains a secret wish stone that transforms into her love interest because she desires and wishes for him most of all.

You rise to the kitchen to grab a drink.

“What do you wish for most, little human?”

His words stop you frozen. They come out so simple, a curious purr almost.

Your mind tries to reach towards something noble and grand like to wish for world peace or wish for climate change to end. You think of wishing for a better car, better apartment, to get rid of your money problems.

Yet it all cultivates into a simple easy response.

“Love, I guess.” It’s a simplified answer.

“That?” Even Satoru sounds dubious.

“Yeah…love. If you have love, then everything else sort of just falls into place.” With love at the cornerstone, everything can build from there.

A chittering like sigh dances into the room.

“Boring. At least say something interesting like an endless supply of sugar or something like that.”

You can’t help but snort at such a silly answer.

“Is that you’d wish for then?” You now ask the creature.

“Mhm…maybe. Or maybe something extra special your little human mind couldn’t comprehend.” Such a coy response only makes you roll your eyes.

But for some reason, that answer feels heavy like it needs to be unearthed. You don’t push the answer, or him.

As you clean up around the kitchen, you glance back to the living room. There Satoru rapidly consumes all your popcorn as fast as he can.

“You freaking pest!” You screech annoyed and he simply blinks his six blue marble eyes at you as if he did nothing wrong.

“I’m not a pest.” He replies innocently and it annoys you even more.

“You’re literally a moth! What is more pest-like than that?!”

Satoru’s monstrous face flickers. It faintly crumbles until his eyes hollow out a cold downcast.

“Right there? You just sounded just like every other human.” His words, low, raw and sharp, rip through you.

He doesn’t say it but you hear the undercurrent.

I thought you were better than that.

A festering ache swells in your chest as the weight of his words drag you under.

Quietly you start making two bowls of popcorn now. You grab the chocolate syrup. Satoru had a fierce sweet tooth. It took you by surprise when your gas station candy treat went missing and his sticky fur said enough.

So you drizzle plenty of chocolate over the salty snack then you quietly speak.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

A moment of silence fills the space.

“It’s alright little human... Sometimes I forget your little human brain makes so many mistakes like that. I can’t get too mad.” He chirps so bored.

You’re tempted now to throw away the chocolate popcorn.

Thankfully the air seems to lighten as you head back to the living room two popcorn bowls in hand.

There Satoru’s multitude of eyes are entirely glued to the television now. The familiar dialogue comes and you whip your attention to the screen as well.

The big realization between the main heroine and her love interest unfolds as he realizes what her wish manifested as.

The moment is heated, drenched in undeniable chemistry. The magnetic pull even has you entrapped. Then the love interest without hesitation pulls the heroine and kisses her with a fierce released love.

Now it feels so intimate, too raw to watch. You turn away under the guise of grabbing more popcorn.

“Is that how humans show affection?” Satoru’s voice is a curious twinkle of a chirp.

“Yup,” you weakly agree while you check your phone hoping to seem disinterested.

“Seems aggressive.” For some reason his disgusted comment makes you snort.

“Uh, it depends. Kissing is…” there’s much you can say on the manner but you simply shrug.

“It’s nice.” A simple but true answer.

“What’s it feel like?” The question drips with an inquisitive click but for some reason it slithers dangerously under your skin.

“Uh…again, it depends. There’s different types of kisses for different situations and the emotions can change with them.” You explain.

“Sounds complicated.” Satoru muses and you snicker relaxed with the episode ending.

“I thought you knew all about human interactions?” You now ask, curious yourself.

“Not in that way.” That’s fair.

“Or really…I’ve just never been interested in seeing humans interacting in that way.” He adds rather low.

“Until recently.” That addition he gives cuts across you as if it’s covered with sharp glass edges.

“Guess this series does that, even to moth creatures.” You lightly try diffusing whatever shift starts to swirl in the room and drag you into its current.

Satoru stays quiet, curled into himself and his wings. Very faintly his antennas droop, enough that you notice it.

Rain now steadily prattles on peacefully mixing with the episode playing. Yet in the silence your skin crawls with something unspoken you can’t evade.

You close your eyes hoping to avoid any more questions and pretend you’ve fallen asleep. Naturally, a nap overtakes you and you jolt awake when a text message brightly wakes you up.

“So what episode are we on?” You sleepily ask, noticing the cryptid hasn’t left. Evening would be arriving soon, the time Satoru normally slipped back into the woods.

“A weird one.” He mutters and now curiosity flickers in you over which episode it is.

Your eyes widen.

Of course it would be this one.

The heroine’s best friend falls in love with a monster living in a cave. It’s another one of your favorites. Now, the obvious reality sinks its fangs into your throat.

“This is the most ridiculous one by far.” Satoru scoffs. “No human would actually love a monster like this.”

His words deflate something in you. All the nerves and prickling emotions scatter.

“I don’t know.” You offer back lightly. “Maybe there’s something extra human to love a monster.”

All six eyes rapidly blink towards you. Their glassy yet sharp attention focuses so intently and it’s unnerving.

“You don’t mean that.” He snips and it distorts his voice more than normal.

You shrug.

“What do you mean by that?” He annoyingly asks, persistent.

What you mean is sometimes humanity can see through what society deems as monstrous and instead love the core of what a being is.

“I mean, it’s like what the episode says,” you nudge towards the television.

“If love is fanged even between humans, why can’t a monster find that same love?” You quote it vaguely but enough to capture the core.

The same goes for humans you explain.

“Cause like what we said earlier, humans are a bit scary from time to time right? A little bit monstrous ourselves?”

So why not settle with a love fanged and coated in the shadows.

The episode takes a shift when the heroine’s best friend greedily kisses the bat-like creature. An electric desire jolts across your spine as it dries your throat.

“I never knew humans could…desire something like this.” Satoru’s eyes now unabashedly stare at the television with a religious focus almost afraid to look away.

“Some do.” You try sounding casual, but your voice croaks.

A heavy fog clouds your mind. Before he can ask or comment anything else you brightly announce you’re going to take a shower. You scurry to the bathroom without even once glancing at the moth monster.

It’s a pathetic excuse but it’s early evening now. This decision isn’t entirely out of the blue. You just need to cool down and take yourself away from the moment.

However, under the weight of the water, under the heat of the steam, you try washing away the festering arousal seeping into your veins.

The episode flashes in your mind. Except this time you picture yourself in the arms of the towering moth creature.

This danger has been brewing well beneath the surface and now slips past its shackles.

It rips you open raw and wild, unrelenting in a way that a slick heat already pools between your legs. You should not, by all rational means, be attracted much less so attached to this monster. Yet, you are.

You remember how easily he swept you into his arms, how solid and built his frame is. He is stunning. You can’t even deny that.

You even think about how comforting a presence he was in your bed. Those thoughts melt and mutate dangerously.

Now, you imagine how warm and solid he would feel against you, between your legs. What he looks like drunk on pleasure-

Exhaling shakily, you turn the shower as cold as you can.

When you return to the living room after the shower, the sliding door is still wide open. Rain continues to twinkle its beautiful song into the living room, a living room now very vacant.

No moth creature is in sight and the bowl of chocolate drizzled popcorn remains untouched.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

In the research lab you grade quizzes from the class you work assisting with. This time during the week the lab is thankfully empty and it gives you time

to catch up on your articles and work.

A surprise knock however disrupts that peace.

Your advisor walks in with a warm grin. Besides her is the man from the bar.

A confused anxiousness seizes your heart and you try keeping your face composed.

You politely smile as your advisor calls your name.

“This is Toji Fushiguro. He’s an agent from the local conservation group trying to investigate where our dear little moth friend went.” Your advisor explains polite and casual.

Your heart sinks rapidly.

The unknown moth had been in a large observation box the first time you saw it.

It had been a new and recent find. Being a first year in the program, you simply were allowed to watch and observe the new species.

Bigger than a typical silk moth, the unidentified moth had beautiful intricate designs on its wings you’d never seen. The little creature was also incredibly feisty. On multiple occasions it flew into the side of the box as if trying to push its way out.

Now that glass enclosure sits empty.

“Do you think it would be alright if he asks you a few questions?”

You happily agree hoping that cooperating will divert any attention from yourself.

With a grin your advisor leaves the room to give you and Fushiguro space. Now alone with the man from the bar, he sleepy grins a coy amused thing.

“So, we meet again.” That deep voice sulks out with a lure that feels poisonous and sticky.

“We do.” You nod politely.

“Shouldn’t be surprised you’re a bug fan.” He scratches at his jaw and for some reason his casual attitude towards you twists your stomach.

You want to make a witty comeback but nothing comes to mind. Instead you stare down this mysterious man.

“What makes a cutie like you get into bugs huh?” He asks casually.

“My grandfather.” You answer truthful and curt.

“Hm, that’s nice.” Fushiguro nods understandingly.

His eyes begin scanning the lab with that same boredom he wore at the restaurant bar.

“So when did ya let the moth escape?” His relaxed question makes you choke.

“Excuse me?!” You snap. “I didn’t let the moth out.”

Except you had.

The first night you stayed late at the lab you accidentally forgot to close the windows.

In that mishap, the moth escaped. You were thankful another class used the lab after you and disrupted the possibility of anything being pinned to you.

The department of course was a bit disheartened. However, everyone warmly joked about half of the job of being an entomologist is chasing after things way too fast to catch.

That happened months ago.

“I’m going to be honest with you.” Toji Fushiguro leans against the table with a brazen ease. “I’m here looking for that thing cause it’s dangerous.”

For some reason, you don’t fully believe him.

“Remember what I told you about moths? They’re bad luck.” His stare is unwavering and cold.

“That’s arguable.” You surprisingly fire back.

Toji Fushiguro shrugs. He slides his hands into his jogger pant’s pockets.

“If that’s all you wanted to discuss, then I need to ask you to please leave. I have work to do.” You answer sharp and composed.

He simply shrugs again and pushes himself off the table he leans against.

Without another word Toji Fushiguro simply heads to the door. Before he leaves the man stops.

“That bad luck I told you about? S’gonna catch up to you soon, pretty. Just want to give you a warning.”

It sounds like a threat instead of a warning.

At his words a venomous bile pools in your mouth and you almost want to snarl at this man. He leaves with just a casual wave of his hand and not another word.

The rest of the time in the lab you can’t focus on anything. You simply float in this strange inertia.

When you leave, no moth flutters outside to greet you.

A new wave of terror wiggles through your stomach.

Your apartment is also deadly silent. Worry prickles all over your body as you slide open the balcony door. You even peer out into the woods hoping to find six gleaming eyes staring out.

Yet only the darkness, eternal and empty, stares back an ancient unforgiving warning.

So try pushing aside this rattling worried energy. You try to make dinner, even put on a favorite movie for background noise.

Your mind however can’t leave the thought of Toji Fushiguro. Mainly, you worry about the absence of your moth. Fear eats away at you as if an actual creature has crawled inside.

And maybe he has.

You miss him. You miss Satoru. You’re worried about him.

He’s become a staple in your life, a strange fixture pestering you. You can’t imagine a day without his presence now.

Then a realization trickles in a slow and sticky truth.

He is a creature of the woods, a myth of the darkness. Maybe he never meant to be yours.

Now here you are. A selfish human simply trying to keep him all to yourself.

A sudden clash of something solid rams into the balcony rail. You can’t help but shriek.

Thee moth creature rapidly shoves his way into your living room. He crawls inside feral like something out of a horror movie.

“Satoru!” You cry out his name and rush towards him.

Satoru’s piercing sky eyes, all six of them, are wide and frantic. His gaze darts around the room. Then he begins sniffing around the space.

“Someone’s been in here.” Satoru’s voice drops, a waterlogged frantic gurgle.

“Wait what?” You ask terrified. “How do you know?

You start glancing around the room now and follow Satoru as he continues rapidly smelling the space. There are no signs of someone breaking in and entering. Nothing even seems out of place or stolen.

“I smell something new. It’s not either one of our scents.” Satoru’s voice drips with a sharp dread and it chokes you.

“What does that mean?” You croak trying not to get caught up in the terror and panic, but their current is so strong.

Suddenly Satoru whips around.

There in the hallway of your apartment he completely consumes the entire space with his imposing frame. The darkness of the hallway and dim lighting casts a grim shadow over him. His wide frantic eyes are animalistic, more than you’ve ever seen.

His shoulders heave with rapid breaths. In a blink Satoru suddenly crams his body against yours.

This giant of a monster curls down to crouch into you. His face begins rubbing against yours. Soft growl like purring rumbles into the air.

You can’t help but whimper his name as fear has you in its maw.

What’s going to happen? What could you do?

You try to voice these questions, these worries, but the words get tangled in your throat.

“Nothing will harm you.” Satoru snaps deadly as the edge of his tone wavers into a frayed growl.

Those strange humming clips and chirps he makes float into the air while he continues comforting you.

Clawed hands curl into your back with a noticeable pressure. There’s a hint of danger in his tight grasp. But then you realize you’re also clutching onto him with an iron hold.

Frustratedly you try blinking away tears managing to stubbornly spill down your cheeks.

Satoru, who still rubs his monstrous face against yours, immediately notices your tears.

A distressing chattering noise comes and you’re readying to reassure him you’re fine.

His tongue instead moves to lick at your tears.

The action stills you immediately. The slick appendage rapidly slithers across your face trying to quickly wipe away your tears.

You think about when he healed your hand, when his tongue wiggled across your skin to lap at your blood. Now here he is again, consuming you, trying to heal and comfort you.

His tongue however slides down across your cheeks tasting the salt of your skin. It immediately sparks to life an intoxicating heat that drowns out the panic.

A part of you wonders about the danger swirling around him and how there might be a possibility that doom is seeping into you.

This might be your doom, to adore a creature composed of myth and nightmare.

You blink and a few lingering tears rapidly run down your cheek straight to the corner of your lip.

Satoru, fast as ever, moves to lick them up. In the process his tongue slithers close to your lips, running across the edge of them.

You inhale sharply and your eyes can’t help but snap open wide. You’re breathing heavily. The way Satoru’s large shoulders begin heaving, so is he.

Suddenly he breathes out your name and it gets tangled in your heart.

“Mine.” Then his voice, animalistic and monstrous, cracks the air with a low possessive growl.

His tongue begins running across your lips without hesitation. The wet wiggling intense sensation has your eyes closing in absolute bliss. You sigh and want to open your mouth to let his tongue slip inside.

“You’re mine.” He snarls out feral and wild. Those strange clicks of his come faster and soon enough his claws draw you closer.

Suddenly Satoru inhales deeply against your skin.

Then he groans a terrible wonderful noise that makes your knees buckle.

“Oh you smell so good.” He slurs. He continues to smell every inch of your skin, trying to map and memorize your scent.

A whimper escapes you and Satoru rumbles out a comforting click.

He begins dragging his down your body with a focused intent.

“Stronger, it’s getting stronger.” He mutters against your clothes.

“Satoru-” you say his name a bit worried.

The moth creature shoves his face unabashedly against your clothed sex. He groans loud, almost debauched and all thoughts float out of you. His antennas rapidly twitch.

“Oh it’s here.” Satoru mumbles in awe, possessed, as if he’s found a deity. “You smell so good here.”

He growls frustrated as he tries burrowing his face closer and closer to your dripping arousal.

You croak out his name waterlogged.

Satoru snaps to look up at you from his knees. All six eyes are glossy and frantic.

“Please? Please, my little human, can I have more?” He begs.

That’s when you notice his mouth is wet drenched with saliva. He’s drooling at just the thought of you, drunk on your smell.

All you can do is nod, caught in the same intoxication desire.

Effortlessly he claws apart your pants at the seam and dives in. You can’t even chide him for that.

Your mind goes blank, consumed by pleasure and lost in its woods. As you cry out while his thin tongue runs up and down every inch of you, you realize Satoru is right.

You are his. And maybe he is yours.

Satoru arrived in your life and never left. He instead stayed in the safety of your light with you under the cover of his wings.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

“Don’t go to class today.” The moth mumbles.

Satoru has been glued to your side since the discovery of your intruder last week. He barely leaves the apartment and when he does it’s only because you need to leave. Currently he sits on the bedroom floor with wide sleep deprived eyes.

The antennas on top of his head flicker quickly. He’s tried been pushing himself to stand guard even during the day.

“I’ll be fine, it’s just a lecture.” You reassure him.

“Besides, you should take this time to sleep. You need to rest.”

“I’ll be fine.” He mirrors your words back to you.

Your monster’s six eyes hold a daze focused like he’s trying to be aware of everything all at once. Slowly and delicately you let your hand run against his soft face.

The delicate fur, now a tangible dream under your fingertips, is so sulky. The touch jolts the creature into awareness.

Satoru’s eyes all flutter you and instantly his face melts against your hand.

“Don’t go.” He whispers a static like mumble.

“I’ll be okay.” You even lean down to kiss the side of his face.

“Fine, then I’m going.” He snaps a firm unwavering decision and you can’t argue with him.

As you walk to the lecture hall building he flutters so swiftly and dizzying in his normal moth form. He even flies all around your face, another angry urging for you to not go.

You gently hold out your hand. Slowly the moth flutters to land on top of your hand.

He is gorgeous in every form including this one. Shimmering wide eyes, large intricate wings, all composed in this sweet creature furiously crawling over your hand.

“I know you’re still upset, but I’ll be fine.” You softly reassure him for the hundreth time.

He stops and stares at you. Gently you run a finger across his fuzzy little head careful to not touch his antennas.

He flies from your hand and lands immediately on the corner of your lips.

A goodbye kiss.

Your lips twitch amused and deeply fond.

“I’ll see you when class is over.” With that you head to class.

Walking into the classroom, one of your peers excitedly speaks to everyone present in the room.

“Did you guys hear?! Someone just saw the mothman thing on campus a few minutes ago?!”

Terror unfolds in you and your heart collapses among its cage. He must have transformed in the woods, or in flight.

“Really? Are you sure?” A skeptic quickly emerges and you cling to their words.

“No I swear! Everyone’s been talking about it online! So many people saw it fly into the trees by the woods!”

You haven’t been this terrified since the contained moth was missing or since you first saw six reflective eyes staring at you from the dark.

Chatter breaks out immediately with so many discussions. Some of your classmates show their disbelief while others eagerly ask for more information.

You try to keep your composure as you slide into your seat.

“Hey,” someone says your name. Your friend that sits next to you stares at you with a scrunched up face of concern.

“You okay? You look kinda sick.” She frowns.

You wearily smile and use the excuse that you have been under the weather. A cold chill even runs up your spine.

“Then head back home,” she comforts you with understanding eyes. “I’ll send you the notes from today and let you know if you miss anything.”

Grateful you wearily thank her and she nods warm, reassuring, wishing you rest. As you turn to head out you catch the last bit of conversation bubbling along with your classmates.

“Well…if someone saw the moth thing, doesn’t that mean something bad is gonna happen soon?”

“Yeah that’s what the legend says.” Someone grimly agrees.

Scrambling, you shove yourself out of the classroom before you hear anything else.

Now out of the room you shakily exhale trying to calm yourself down.

At this time in the evening the hallways are deathly silent, harrowingly so. Unlike the lab building, so open and light with its many windows and expanded hallways, the lecture hall building’s tight corridors create a haunting clustered stillness.

That stillness seems to be creeping in more and more.

As you walk towards the elevator, sudden footsteps begin stomping behind you.

They are solid and firm, staying a decent pace away from you. The anxiousness from these past few days create an unbearable itch that crawls over your skin.

So you turn around.

And the hallway is dead empty.

No one walks behind you.

Fear tastes icy and rotten as it infects your body. Instantly you whip around to rush to the elevator.

You clash straight into someone.

The collision knocks you out of your thoughts and you quickly blink into focus.

A rush of apologizes stammer out of you.

“Hey, it’s okay.” The man you ran into warmly reassures you.

You finally get a good look at him. He’s handsome with a strong jaw and a faint mustache. He looks official in his suit. The smell of cigarettes surround you.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could help point me in the direction of the main office.” The man smiles warmly.

This had to be the source of the footsteps you heard. The dread you have slowly simmers at the sight of him.

“Oh course.” You grin weakly at the man, thankful your fear is calming down. “You have to go down to the other end of this hallway-”

A sudden hand comes up from behind you.

It slaps over your mouth with a painful grip. Then something sharp pierces your neck.

The scream from your throat fades along with your focus.

The last thought flashing through your mind before you fade into darkness is that Satoru was right.

You shouldn’t have gone to class.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

The jostling of your body wakes you up.

Groggily you blink into focus. You first notice it’s late at night. Next, you’re laid across the back seat of a car and your hands are tied.

In the front seats sit the man you ran into at the school and Toji Fushiguro. You go to scream but a tightly wrapped cloth blocks your mouth.

“You’re awake.” Toji drawls out slowly and surprised.

You screech at him through the material.

“Yeah, I knew you were with the moth this entire time.” He grins at you through the rear window.

You continue to scream as best as you can, sounding feral and panicked as tears fill your eyes.

“Guess living with a monster makes you sound this wild.” Toji Fushiguro’s accomplice mutters without even glancing once at you.

He begins typing away on his phone.

“We got more buyers willing to pay if we bring the moth in alive.” The man comments.

Everything clicks.

They were after Satoru. And you’re the bait.

Maybe Fushiguro’s accomplice is right. Maybe living with a monster has leaked into you because the noise you make doesn’t sound human.

Your scream, still stifled, carries so many emotions. Your pain, terror, anger and frustration, all of it courses through your veins and rips out in waves.

“Hey.” Toji Fushiguro glances back at you from the rear mirror. “Keep it down. I don’t wanna get too aggressive, but I will.”

He casually pulls out a gun and waves it around.

The horrifying casual threat causes your eyes to go wide and now all the fight you had trickles out.

“Watch it!” Suddenly the man in the driver's seat screams out.

Your eyes flicker forward.

Against the darkness, illuminated by the car’s headlights, a looking figure stands in the middle of the road.

Six eyes stare out from the darkness a brilliant terrifying electric blue. Delicate wide moth wings flare out and break against the night.

Through the fabric you scream out his name, except it gets drowned out by the revving of the engine.

Toji speeds up with full intent to hit the creature.

“What are you doing?!” The other man cries out.

You even scream in panic. Your moth however flies up, missing the impact.

He’s gone from sight.

A solid clang lands on the roof.

A sharp stab pierces the top of the car with a snap. The screeching of metal being ripped away follows fast. The eyes of the monster stare into the car with a disastrous terror.

Satoru smiles wild and gleeful at the men, a predator that's captured its prey.

Then…Everything happens in a blink.

The car swerves. The speed makes you feel as if you are flying. The colliding noise of scraping metal and then a solid impact. Everything becomes distorted as if you are in a snow globe spinning and trying to focus on a dizzying fuzzy world.

An unholy monstrous scream rips into the air. It’s all you hear as you fade in and out of consciousness.

You blink and suddenly twigs from the forest floor press against your body. A sharp object pierces your side. Every inch of you screams in pain while also a numbing sensation starts creeping in.

An inhuman roar screeches out and your eyes snap open.

Off to the side along the trees you see the faint edge of Satoru within the darkness. Faintly you hear a wet ripping sound. It’s visceral, like a vulture digging into a macabre carnage.

You watch his clawed hands viscously dig into whatever he stands over. You try gathering your voice trying to say something, anything.

Then six electric eyes snap up to you from the dark forest. He is the terror of the woods, a feral monster interrupted from its hunt.

Your vision however goes blurry and it gets harder staying awake.

A wreck howl of your name breaks into the air.

Tender clawed hands scoop up from the ground. You’re cradled against him gently and tight. The fabric in your mouth gets ripped away and now the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth fast.

You wheeze out Satoru’s name. There’s so much you want to say. But you’re getting so tired.

“Stay awake!” He snarls desperately sensing your exhaustion.

Nothing feels real. Even staring up at your creature, his six eyes seem to become twelve, like clusters of galaxies carved out in the night sky.

But you’re fading. You know and he knows it.

Breathing hurts and now a cool chill runs across your body from the inside.

Your grandfather's words about moths being angels float into your mind.

You recall how terrifying angels are sometimes described. Some of them are composed of wheels of fire, with many wings.

Yours has many eyes.

You’re grateful Satoru is here with you at the end. You’re grateful this angel found you.

Water droplets plop onto your face and you wonder if it’s raining.

Satoru screams your name with absolute anguish. A darkness crawls over your eyes. Soft and peacefully, you fall into its waiting arms.

-.⊹˚₊⋆˙↟☾↟˙⋆₊˚⊹.-

A soft steady beeping pulls you out from the darkness.

Wearily you open your eyes. But the bright light of wherever you are immediately has you shutting your eyes tight.

A cold hand touches your arm.

The touch jolts you awake. In a panic your eyes immediately snap open and your body shoots up only to find yourself tangled.

Tubes run from out of your arms. One tube even rests under your nose. The beeping noise you faintly recognize is a heart monitor and realization hits that you’re in a hospital.

Then when you turn to the side, a man you don’t know sits beside you.

You have never seen a man as gorgeous as him. Striking cloud white hair, a chiseled jawline, broad shoulders and then…

The brightest blue eyes, clear as a summer sky, stare at you so frantic and hesitant.

The man says your name, his tone faintly pleading.

For some reason his voice sounds vaguely familiar. But that thought is put on hold when the door to your room opens and a nurse walks in.

“Oh thank goodness you’re awake!” She sighs genuinely warm to see you and even seems a bit surprised.

What happened? You were dying. You were sure of it.

“Do you remember anything that happened?” The nurse asks gently as she checks your vitals.

“I…” your voice wavers as the memory clips at you, terrifying and heartbreaking.

“It’s okay if you don’t.” The nurse says comfortingly. “It’s common for accident victims to have a foggy memory. Plus after the one you were in it’s understandable.”

Weakly you question about what happened, how you got here.

With soft eyes the nurse explains it all.

You were the only survivor of the car crash. A part of you vividly remembers Toji Fushiguro and the man with him. A part of you dark and hollow gleams grateful they are no longer here.

You however didn’t walk away unscathed. You have a few broken ribs, a very bad concussion and light internal bleeding being monitored.

“We even found damage near your heart that could’ve been deadly-”

Yet, you were alive.

“And….” The nurse’s eyes twinkle warm and adoring as they flicker to the man behind you.

“This man found you and brought you in. Came into the hospital with you in his arms like some kind of bloody guardian angel.”

You whip your attention back to him as well. The man’s blue eyes stay so intently focused on you.

They remind you so much of the pairs of six eyes that watched you with the same unwavering gaze.

Then the nurse’s words click.

An angel.

No. This couldn’t be…

The idea so wild and unbelievable barrels into you fast. It knocks you breathless that you can’t help but cough out.

Everyone instantly scrambles to grab you something to drink. It’s your mystery man who hands you a cold water first and you guzzle it down with a frantic speed.

“I’ll let you get some rest. Please hit the call button if you need anything.” The nurse squeezes your shoulder and you thank her with a weak cough.

Now in the quiet safety of the hospital room, your attention snaps to the man still intently staring at you with glossy blue lake eyes.

You take the jump. It might be the most far stretched idea and you can blame the concussion but -

You whisper out Satoru’s name.

The white haired man nods fast and a sob escapes you.

It’s him.

Through tear soaked questions you ask him how.

“Remember that legend I once told you? About us being able to bring someone back from the dead?”

His voice is now clear, so distinctly him even in this form you can’t miss it now.

His words are a chilling breeze.

“I died.” You whisper the cold realization.

And he brought you back.

“But you…what happened?” Your eyes so clouded with tears scan his very beautiful and human face.

The Satoru before you is so familiar yet so different. The deep inhale he gives moves his shoulders. You’ve seen it before when his wings moved with the same exhausted exhale. Instead now a weary weight, a very human one, colors his stunning features.

But a sudden eased smile tugs at his lips and the sight is stunning.

“We’re allowed to bring someone back…it’s just at a little cost.” His voice flutters out light and his words get trapped in your throat.

You can’t fight the tears. They come in waves and your shoulders shake as you cry.

“Wait,” Satoru rapidly panics as he slides closer to you. “What’s wrong?!”

He gave up everything. His form, his livelihood, his essence as a creature of the myth, he gave it all for you.

That solid truth rips so much sadness and guilt through you all you can do is angrily cry, frustrated.

“Why are you crying?” He asks concerned and a bit confused.

“Because,” you hiccup. “Because I did this to you.”

You would carry this guilt for the rest of your life.

“What? Don’t like the way I look? I thought I was pretty handsome in this form, yeah?” He lightly teases to perk you up.

You give him a look of disbelief wondering if you should call the nurse to escort this headache away from you.

“Okay okay,” he says, thankfully understanding your heartache.

Gently Satoru’s hand moves to rest against you on top of the itchy hospital blanket. Fondly he runs his hand over your leg. You watch as his eyes follow the path of his hand like he’s trying to solidify your presence beside him. A sadness shimmers within his blue pools.

“If anyone’s to blame…it’s me. I did this to you.”

Quickly, through a teary blubbering mess you reassure Satoru he did nothing wrong. His hand softly squeezes your knee.

“Do you remember when we were watching that weird show and you asked me what I’d wish for? What I wanted more than anything?”

Suddenly Satoru speaks firmer, eyes still not facing you.

“I wished I could be with you. I wanted to live a full life by your side.” His answer is low, but so beautifully clear it’s like dawn breaking over the forest.

Those endless blue eyes turn to you.

Gingerly Satoru raises his hand. He runs his fingers against your face with a tender touch, a delicate brush like that of a moth’s wing.

“Never feel guilty about what happened. I would make this decision over and over again. I don’t regret it and never will.” He says firm, absolute and devoted.

Tears return again but this time for another reason, one so beautifully overwhelming it consumes you.

Satoru gently draws you into his arms to hold you steady against his sturdy chest.

“Can't get rid of me now, little human.” He teases but the faintest edge of emotion cracks his voice.

A laugh escapes you among the tears.

“You’re a little human now too, bug boy.” You joke as the new nickname comes so easily to you.

“There’s nothing little about me, especially in this form.” He deeply purrs.

You’re about to snap at him for being crude until he shrieks.

“And bug boy?! You never even called me that before! If anyone is the bug freak it’s you!”

You laugh, truly laugh, and a warm buoyancy floats within your entire body. He joins in alongside you. His laugh is such a wild and free noise you want to keep it forever.

“This being a human thing,” he suddenly mutters against the top of your head. “Might take me a little while to get used to it.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper back, fully resting against him. “We’re all still trying to figure it out too.”

Satoru’s hand begins rubbing against your back effortlessly, so human and natural.

“You already seem to be doing a good job.” You mumble feeling sleepy again.

He hums amused. “I know. I’m just that good.”

You want to make a snide remark but then Satoru kisses the top of your head. Your heart jumps at feeling his lips.

“I get to do this all the time now.” He whispers slightly in awe, like he spoke a hidden thought out loud.

You can’t help but grin giddy.

Before, you had begun experimenting very enthusiastically about getting to learn how to kiss him in his old form. But you understand.

This felt right. It always did, even when you never wanted to admit it before.

“No more mothman.” Satoru mutters a quiet realization and you clutch his shirt.

“You’ll always be my pest.” You reassure him.

“Hey.” You can hear the mock frown in his voice and you snicker.

You think about Satoru as your cryptid emerging straight from legends.

If he was seen as a harbinger and warning of danger, it strangely has you thinking about love.

For what is love if not a warning? A ‘be careful, don’t run too fast, please be safe, please let me protect you’ warning morphed into a wish and want to keep someone safe. Horror and love sometimes walk hand in hand together after all.

In the arms of your harbinger, you wearily start falling asleep. Satoru senses it too and places another kiss on your head.

When he gently moves to rest you back on the bed your eyes glance to the window. The dark evening night stretches out deep and wide

Against the glass, you notice a fluttering movement.

Soft green delicate long wings catch the light from the hospital room.

Actias luna.

More tears brim in your eyes.

The beautiful lunar moth dances against the window, against the darkness, as if to greet you a warm hello and wish you well.

unckuna 🥹

Sukuna is heavy.

It's a nice weight, you think. Blanketing and comfortable as he bears down on top of you. The weight makes sense; he's firm and sturdy and broad through his shoulders, tapering down into a trim waist that you can't think about for too long or it makes your head spin.

He's warm too.

There's a heat that seems to perpetually radiate from him, regardless of the climate, against all odds. It's just as soothing as his weight to seek out and leech from him—particularly when the two of you are out in the cold, inching closer to him on the sidewalk just to fight the frigid breeze or twining your fingers through his own to keep your fingertips from pricking with the chill. His hands are one of your favourite parts of him, usually.

But not at the present moment.

"Sukuna—" the warning is lost to his esurient mouth, mumbled into soft lips and swallowed down before it can elicit any actual response. Sukuna has you pinned down on the sofa, underneath his warmth and weight, and those hands you usually like so much are creeping dangerously up, up, up under the hem of your t-shirt—even in spite of your repeated insistence that this wasn't allowed to proceed any further.

His breath huffs against your slick lips, a laugh you think, and that familiar heat of his hands slithers back down towards your waist like it has every other time you've cautioned him.

"Stop bein' a tease," he mutters, slipping one hand underneath your back and pulling up so your spine arches and presses the two of you even closer together in that impossibly narrow space you occupy on the sofa.

Your breath hitches as your hips grind against his, and the look on Sukuna's face is deeply pleased by the sound. You huff a little. "I'm not teasing."

"Yeah fuckin' ri—"

"Yuuji's only down the hall," you don't even let him finish his snark, chastising him firmly.

"He's asleep," the man above you tries to reason, dipping down to nip at your pulse. Sukuna's nephew had only fallen asleep a short while prior, and as sweet a little boy as he may be, you were all too conscious of his bloodline—you didn't trust Yuuji to stay asleep any more than you trusted his beloved jichan to keep his hands off you, just because you said so.

Using the hand he still has tucked underneath the small of your back, Sukuna effortlessly tugs you up against him. Everything spins as you're righted, and before you know it you're straddling his lap on the sofa in his older brother's humble apartment, peering down the dimly lit hallway in the direction of Yuuji's bedroom. Sukuna mouths at your chest through the thin material of your shirt, sucking against the visible bud of your nipple. He'd weaselled you out of your bra soon after the two of you started fooling around—what had started off as a bit of innocent heavy petting—slipping it off and tossing it somewhere in the living room, and you've lost track of it now that things had kept spiralling out of your control.

You should have known this was how things were bound to turn out when Sukuna had asked if you'd accompany him to babysit his nephew that night. You had plans to see a movie, maybe grab dinner, and then almost assuredly end up bent over some piece of furniture in your/his/a hotel room by the end of the night. That's how things usually go with Sukuna. But then Itadori Jin had called his younger brother only a short while before the two of you were planning to meet, pleading with him to watch Yuuji for the night since he had to stay late at work.

When you first learned Sukuna had a nephew, more by accident than anything, it had surprised you. He didn't strike you as the type to get along with children when he barely gets along with other adults. Then you met Yuuji—even more by accident than simply finding out, happening to cross paths with them one afternoon—and it surprised you even more to see with your own two eyes just how deeply he cares for him. Upon first impression, Sukuna is rough and crass and unsympathetic—and while yes, those things might be true to some degree, the more you've come to learn about him, the more you've come to see other sides of him that you're not sure many (if any) other people have the chance to.

You spent your evening playing games and colouring with Yuuji while Sukuna prepared his dinner (which Jin had left in the fridge, but still, there was a certain level of preparation involved.) The three of you ate together at the kotatsu in the living room, and you laughed every time Sukuna barked at his nephew to stop trying to sneak his vegetables onto your plate. You watched Sukuna and Yuuji roughhouse before collapsing into a pile on the sofa to watch a movie, watched the six year old fall asleep on his uncle's arm, watched said uncle pluck him up (more delicately than you've ever seen Sukuna treat anything) and eventually take him to his room and tuck him into bed.

The Sukuna you thought you met six months ago would have never changed all his plans, with relatively little hesitation or complaint, to babysit a six year old, and he certainly would never have invited you along to accompany him—a bit awkwardly, endearingly clumsy—just so the two of you could still spend time together.

Sukuna pulls away from your chest, a little string of saliva stretching from his mouth to the wet stain he's suckled into the material of your top. He blinks up at you, eyes heavy lidded and gaze hot. You trace your fingers through his unkempt hair, brushing it back from his brow.

"What?" he asks, his tone guarded, as though he's suspicious of how gentle you've suddenly become. "Aren't you gonna tell me to—"

"Hey," you cut him off, your hands settling on his shoulders. He pauses, his lips still parted in speech though the words have stopped. "Kiss me?"

There's not a moment wasted before he cranes up, obeying your request without any hesitation. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to give you the chance to change your mind. Maybe it's because he can't say no to you. Maybe it's because he wants it just as bad as you do.

This time you don't stop Sukuna when his hands slip up your top. Don't stop him when he takes it off all together, either. He's not as talkative as he usually is, having grown used to the way he likes to mouth off when the two of you are intimate like this. He's as conscious as you are of his nephew sleeping only a few rooms away. He's careful with you, not unlike how like he was with Yuuji, in his own particular way.

You don't plan to stop him at all, anymore. Your resolve to deny him (and yourself) having melted under a strange warmth you feel kindling in your chest. You're happy to let him—the Sukuna you think you might be the only one who knows—have you.

Or, you would be, if not for the unexpected return of his older brother, who flicks on the light in the living room with absolutely no idea what he's about to expose.

Thankfully you've learned from experience that first impressions aren't so important after all.

This is Love, Right?

Part two of Can My Friend Join?

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

Sum: You're starting to grow used to Suguru, maybe evening learning to accept his love.

TW: Yandere Behaviors (Cameras, Obsession, Manipulation, trapping), Really toxic relationship, dubcon, oral (F and M receiving), Brief smut, Reader is going through it. SatoSugu (Just a warning in itself), Angst

WC: 4.7k

A/n: Listened to a random Mitski playlist and it lowkey made me depressed while writing this, expect some fluff after this one.

This is love.

You keep telling yourself that, don’t you?

Even as silent tears streak down your cheeks in the furthest bathroom—the one tucked away from the master bedroom, the one even Satoru’s Six Eyes can’t reach.

This is love.

The way Satoru leans down, his snowy white hair falling across his forehead in that effortlessly tousled way, pressing a fleeting kiss to your lips before heading out on a mission. His crystalline blue eyes, so striking they feel otherworldly, linger on you for a moment too long before he straightens up, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips. Suguru follows, his dark hair tied neatly back, though loose strands frame his sharp, beautiful face. He gives you a casual wave, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, teasing smile as he murmurs, “I love you.”

You’ve never seen Satoru happier than he’s been since Suguru joined your relationship. Happier than back when it was just the two of you, curled up on the couch, his long legs stretched across the cushions while you laughed at some cheesy anime. Back then, his laugh was unrestrained, carefree. The way his shoulders would shake, his hand coming up to push his blindfold up and wipe away a tear—it felt real.

You miss those days.

You didn’t cry as much back then.

But they love you, don’t they?

They still pay your tuition, still ensure your life is cushioned and cared for. Suguru, always measured and composed, suggested once, “Maybe you should switch to online classes.” His voice was soft, his tone coaxing. It made sense, didn’t it? His reasoning was sound: “There was a special grade curse at the school the other day. We just worry about you, baby.”

Suguru always seems so calm, his velvety voice soothing and warm yet guarded dark eyes giving him an air of quiet authority. You begin to find comfort in that. However, the weight of his presence feels heavy, suffocating even some days.

Satoru, on the other hand, radiates energy. His presence fills the room like sunlight—blinding, inescapable. His tall, lanky frame always seems so relaxed, but you know better. Behind the teasing lilt of his voice and his constant grin lies a man who rarely lets his guard down. The way he looms, leaning just a little too close, reminds you of the distance he refuses to let exist between the two of you.

They worry about you so much. Yet whenever you voice concern for them, they hush you. Suguru’s deep voice reassures you, as if he’s talking to a child, while Satoru’s lips curl into a too-bright smile, his hand patting your head like you’re something fragile.

They love you. They take care of you. It would be selfish to leave them, wouldn’t it?

And Satoru—he’s never been this happy.

He’s working less, smiling more. Suguru’s return has lifted a weight off his shoulders. He’s not carrying the burden of being the strongest alone anymore. You can see it in the way his smile softens when Suguru speaks, in the way his gaze lingers on him longer than it ever lingers on you.

And yet, you tell yourself:

This is love.

Still, you wonder… wasn’t Suguru supposed to be going to therapy? You think back to his promises—vague, half-hearted reassurances—but did he ever actually leave for a session? Ever join a voice call?

You don’t recall.

You try to push the thought away, like so many others. Ignore the red flags. Focus on the green.

The relationship has its moments. You’re growing used to Suguru.

Especially your drunk self—the one that gravitates toward him, curling up on his lap like a loyal dog, seeking out his touch and the warmth of his arms. He always accepts you, his large hands stroking your back or brushing through your hair with a tenderness that feels almost too loving, almost cruel. You wonder what side of yourself that is, the part that craves his affection so desperately, the part that lets the lines blur between love and dependency.

You might even say you’re learning to love him—or at least the version of him that exists in the quiet of the night. The version that pulls you close under the weight of darkness, his voice low and unguarded as he whispers, “I love you.”

It’s in those moments that he feels human, almost fragile. A man with calloused hands and a broken heart trying to mend himself through you.

And it’s hard not to wonder—are you really learning to love him, or are you simply surrendering to the inevitability of it all?

Satoru, though… he never used to cuddle at night. Even before Suguru entered the picture, he always sprawled out in his ridiculously expensive sheets, claiming restlessness from the constant hum of his cursed energy. He needed the space, he said, and you told yourself he deserved it.

Suguru, however—Suguru surprised you.

At first glance, he didn’t seem the type for soft affections, but you quickly learned otherwise. Every night, his arms would find their way around you, wrapping you in a firm but gentle embrace. His warmth seeped into you, grounding and comforting, as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips would brush your skin with soft kisses, a tenderness you hadn’t expected from him.

Sometimes, his deep voice would murmur, “Sorry we came home so late,” heavy with sincerity. Other times, his words were more vulnerable, whispered just above a breath: “I love you,” spoken in the dark when he thought you were asleep.

It’s hard not to love him in those moments. Hard not to feel your resolve slip as his presence surrounds you. His breath fans against your neck, steady and warm. His rhythmic breathing eventually syncs with yours, as if his body is learning the cadence of your every inhale and exhale.

For those fleeting moments, you almost forget the cracks beneath the surface.

Other good moments were the intimate ones, the kind that left no room for doubt about how thoroughly they possessed you.

Suguru’s lips would meet yours in slow, deliberate kisses, his touch soft and coaxing, as Satoru’s tongue worked between your legs. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room, clouding your vision and overwhelming your senses. Satoru’s tongue moved with precision, his mouth relentless as he lapped at your cunt, delving deep until your mind felt as hazy as your breathless moans.

Suguru’s fingers never faltered, rubbing tight circles around your clit in perfect rhythm with Satoru’s ministrations. Their combined efforts dragged you over the edge again and again, your body trembling and giving in to the relentless waves of pleasure.

It became impossible to think of anything else—impossible to care about anything other than the bliss they brought you. Their hardened cocks stretched you beyond your limits, filling you completely, their stamina nearly too much for your quivering form.

Suguru would cradle your face in his hands, his dark eyes soft yet intense as he cooed sweet nothings. He’d murmur praises, soothing and possessive, as Satoru pressed the tip of his cock into your overstimulated, leaking cunt. The stretch made you gasp—a sound Suguru captured with his lips, his kiss slow, methodical, leaving you no room to shy away.

Satoru’s hands gripped your hips harshly, his long fingers digging into your flesh, ensuring you stayed exactly where he wanted you. You could already tell the marks would bloom into bruises by morning, a physical reminder of their claim. Suguru, ever attentive, would turn your face gently toward the camera, his voice a low murmur against your lips. “You’re such a good girl,” he’d praise, his thumb brushing your cheek before pulling you into another kiss.

When they were finally spent, when your body gave out completely, Suguru always carried you to the bath. His embrace was steady, grounding, as the warm water soothed your trembling form. You’d lean against his chest, your body limp, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

Sometimes, Satoru would join, his tall frame slipping into the water beside you. Their voices would soften as they spoke over you, discussing mundane things or recounting their mission. Occasionally, a kiss would press against your temple—a fleeting gesture, tender and claiming all at once—as you drifted in and out of sleep.

For a little while, it felt like you belonged.

And then, when he thinks you’re asleep, Satoru murmurs, “I knew you’d come around.”

You’re never sure who he’s talking to—Suguru, the man who swore to eradicate non-sorcerers? Or you, the girl who’s finally learning to love the monster who holds her at night?

It’s in these moments that you find yourself slipping out of bed, mumbling an excuse to use the bathroom. Suguru always lets you go with a teasing “Come back fast, or I’ll come get you.” You never linger long enough to see if he’s joking.

Once inside the furthest bathroom, the one that feels like your only sanctuary, you clutch the edge of the sink and sob. Quietly, so no one hears. Until your knees give out and you’re on the floor, shaking and clutching yourself.

This is love. Right?

They loved you. So why were you crying in the bathroom?

Why did each love bite feel like a brand, etched into your skin with every lingering gaze in the mirror? Why did their cum, warm as it seeped down your thighs, burn like it was searing itself into you, a mark you couldn’t erase? Why did the blank, soulless stare of the camera lens feel like an accusation, making you flinch away from any piece of technology?

Before too long, you would wipe your tears, force a smile to your lips—steadying it just enough so it wouldn’t wobble—and return to Suguru’s waiting arms. His hum would vibrate against your back as his dark hair tickled your neck. He’d cradle you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Goodnight, baby,” he’d murmur, and you’d close your eyes, pretending his embrace felt like comfort instead of confinement.

But mornings brought their own discomforts.

You found yourself rifling through the master bathroom, searching the countertop with rising panic. Where is it? The nagging thought ate at you.

Satoru, brushing his teeth beside you, glanced over with those striking blue eyes. His tone was soft, almost too casual. “What’s up, baby?”

“I can’t find my birth control,” you admitted, the words trembling as much as your hands.

“Did you misplace it? You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” He walked over, his long arms wrapping around your waist. A kiss brushed the top of your head, his voice gentle but firm. “Go ask Sugu. He’s the one who organizes everything.”

So you did. Suguru was at the desk in the living room, working through a report. From over his shoulder, you could see the numbers—charge rates, payments for missions—enough to know your schooling costs barely amounted to a fraction of what they earned in a single week.

“Your birth control?” he repeated absentmindedly, his tone light, almost dismissive. “You’ve been misplacing that a lot, haven’t you, baby?”

His words felt condescending, like you were a child searching for a lost toy.

“Where is it?” you asked, voice still soft but with a growing edge of desperation. You were five minutes late—exactly.

“Ah-ah, no need for that tone, baby,” he chided, his eyes still glued to his paperwork. “Check the kitchen counter. Your purse? Maybe your school bag.”

It took thirty agonizing minutes of searching, panic simmering under your skin, before you found it—perched on top of the fridge.

You stared at it for a moment, unmoving. You would have never put it there.

Suguru’s behavior had become harder to ignore. There were moments when his touch lingered, his eyes softened, and his voice carried a wistful tone. He had baby fever—you could tell. Maybe it was tied to the twins he lost.

You’d asked him about them once. His face shuttered, dark and unreadable, and he didn’t respond.

You tried asking Satoru, but he had simply glanced away, his usual bravado vanishing for a moment too long.

You decided not to ask again.

Some questions weren’t meant to be answered. You had a sinking feeling the truth lay buried somewhere with the higher-ups, in a place you weren’t allowed to tread.

Suguru’s baby fever didn’t fade, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

When the three of you went to the store, you’d catch that soft smile tugging at his lips whenever he saw a child. It wasn’t the type of smile he gave just anyone—it was warm, tender, hopeful. And it was always followed by a kiss pressed to your temple. A gesture you used to pull away from, but now, you found yourself smiling through.

Sometimes, he’d suggest wandering into the baby section, his tone casual, almost playful. “Just in case. Want to see what’s out there.”

The words always made your skin crawl.

Because no matter how innocuous they sounded, your mind couldn’t help but spiral. It always went back to the hidden birth control, the misplaced pills, and the monthly pregnancy tests he insisted on. He’d stand there, watching you pee on the stick, his arms crossed but his expression almost serene—waiting, anticipating. He wanted to know right away.

You tried to shove those thoughts into the furthest corner of your mind. Tried to convince yourself it was all harmless.

Satoru, by contrast, didn’t seem to care much for babies. He never lingered in the baby aisle and rarely commented on Suguru’s behavior. But he’d hum softly, his hand clasping yours, and flash you a loving smile.

You liked to think that as long as everyone else was happy, Satoru was happy.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Occasionally, when they left for long missions, the apartment felt suffocating in its emptiness. You’d pad softly through the vast, cold space, the silence amplifying every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet.

Your eyes darted around, searching for the hidden cameras you knew were there. You weren’t sure where they all were, or when they liked to check the footage, but you’d found one blind spot: the hallway closet.

You moved slowly, deliberately, ensuring you didn’t do anything that might raise suspicion. Even though you were alone, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

All because they loved you.

Slipping into the closet, you nestled yourself on the floor, silky yukatas hanging above like a shroud. Your laptop glowed faintly in the darkness as you opened it and began your quiet rebellion.

You searched for apartments—something small, something within your budget. Each listing felt like a whisper of hope. You lingered on them, imagining the freedom they promised, before methodically deleting your browser history. Clearing the cache. Erasing every trace.

It was a silly idea. A foolish one, really.

But for a few stolen moments, it was yours.

It didn’t seem so silly after the heated argument with Satoru when he got home.

He was already overstimulated, frustrated, and teetering on the edge of losing his patience. Those moments were the worst—when the teasing lilt in his voice faded, replaced by something sharp and mean. His cerulean eyes, usually playful and glinting with mischief, turned cold and calculating, the glow of his Six Eyes adding an eerie sharpness to his gaze.

All he wanted was release. That was all.

“It shouldn’t be a big deal,” he said, his tone flat but brimming with expectation.

Except you weren’t in the mood.

“I’m sorry, Toru, I just—”

“I do everything for you, and you can’t even provide me with a little comfort?” His words came out harsh, the grin curling his lips into something too sharp to be soft. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you. His presence always felt overwhelming—broad shoulders, perfectly sculpted face framed by stark white hair, and a lean body that seemed to hum with restrained power. You swallowed hard. Did he get taller?

“I just got off my period, so it’s—”

“It’s what?” His voice cut through your hesitation, his hands flexing as if he were trying to leash himself. “Come on, baby. Just a quickie. Or let me use your mouth.”

The fight drained out of you before you even realized it.

You ended up on your knees, the cold tile biting into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your flushed face. His long fingers twisted tightly into your hair, guiding your head as if you were nothing more than a puppet for his pleasure. His pale chest rose and fell steadily, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light, glinting like cruel punctuation to his earlier frustration.

The tip of his cock pushed past your lips, the stretch almost unbearable as he moved with slow, deliberate thrusts. His head tilted back, exposing the sharp lines of his jaw, tightening with every wet sound that filled the room. A low groan rumbled deep in his throat, vibrating in the space between you like a growl of satisfaction.

Your throat burned, gagging and gasping as you struggled to adjust. Your hands clutched at his thighs for balance, fingers digging into the hard, taut muscles beneath his impossibly smooth skin. His hips began to move with more force, his breaths growing heavier, the faintest smirk curling on his lips as he reveled in your struggle.

His moans grew louder, rougher, until with a sharp tug of your hair, he pulled out. Hot ropes of cum painted your face, the heat of it stark against your flushed skin. You blinked through the haze, barely catching your breath, the sting of humiliation bubbling up in your chest.

Before you could even reach for something to wipe yourself clean, the sharp click of a camera shutter echoed through the room.

You didn’t need to look up to know what he was doing. You could already imagine him grinning at the screen, tapping a few buttons with casual ease. You could picture the caption as clearly as if he’d whispered it into your ear:

"Our girl is so beautiful, isn’t she? <3"

The thought sat heavy in your chest, a mix of shame, anger, and something else you didn’t want to name.

And then, as if nothing had happened, Satoru turned sweet again.

He brought you a towel, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he wiped your face. “Come on,” he coaxed, his voice softening. He guided you to the bathroom, his fingers lacing with yours, and drew you into the shower.

Under the warm water, he washed your hair, his hands threading through your strands with care. His crystalline eyes softened as he began to tell you about his mission, his lips quirking into a small smile. From the counter, he produced a small box of mochi, your favorite snack.

“You’re everything to me, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. His arms wrapped around you, his broad chest pressing against your back. “I’m going to marry you one day. You know that, right?”

And just like that, the storm passed, leaving behind only his affection.. 

Your heart sank at the mention of marriage. With them, you knew they’d find a way to make it happen—the three of you, bound together, no matter how impossible it seemed.

After the shower, you slipped into bed, craving the comforting warmth of the sheets. It was a small solace, a fleeting moment where you could envelop yourself in something soft and familiar.

Satoru liked to cuddle during naps, and true to form, his lanky arms found their way around you. He pulled you close, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into you. His kisses came next, peppered across your lips with deliberate exaggeration, loud and obnoxious.

You used to giggle when he did that. You used to squirm and laugh, batting him away as he grinned and pulled you closer.

But now, you stayed still, letting him press his kisses and settle into a nap with you.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d giggled like that. Or the last time you’d laughed at all.

On their next mission, you had exactly six hours.

Exactly six hours for a stupid idea. A fleeting thought. 

You’d planned this carefully, down to the second. When they asked where you’d be, you made some excuse about a doctor’s appointment. It was believable enough—Suguru always asked to see the summary of your visits when you got back, a habit you knew was less about care and more about control.

But this time, you lied.

There was no appointment.

Instead, you booked a one-way trip. Far, far away from Tokyo. Far enough that they wouldn’t be able to find you, at least not right away.

The States. It was the only place you could afford with the small stash of cash you’d scraped together over the years—birthday cards, Christmas cards, anything you’d managed to squirrel away without raising suspicion. You even bought a prepaid flight gift card, ensuring it couldn’t be traced back to you.

No suitcases, no sentimental keepsakes, nothing but the clothes on your back.

Before you left, you scrawled a simple note, placing it where you knew they’d find it. Just three words:

"I love you."

Ironic, isn’t it? 

As you sat at your terminal, the minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. You told yourself a 14-hour flight wouldn’t be so bad. It was freedom, wasn’t it? The first real breath you’d taken in months.

But then, a familiar figure caught your eye.

Megumi.

He wasn’t alone—the other first-years trailed beside him—but it was Megumi’s gaze that stopped your heart. His dark eyes widened when they locked onto yours, a flash of recognition that made your stomach churn.

Your anxiety hit you like a freight train, crawling under your skin, seeping into your every bone as they walked past. Megumi glanced back at you one more time, his lips parting just enough to mouth the words: “I’m sorry.”

And then you saw it—his hand reaching for his phone, his fingers already dialing.

You didn’t have to guess who he was calling.

Your heart sank, but you told yourself it wasn’t his fault. You knew Megumi had his reasons—his own happiness to protect, his own precarious balance to maintain. He was trying to survive too, wasn’t he?

You understood. You really did.

But understanding didn’t make the fear any less suffocating.

You cried the entire car ride home, your sobs tearing from your throat, raw and uncontrollable.

Satoru didn’t even glance your way. His icy, dull gaze stayed fixed on the window, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might snap. The silence between you was deafening, broken only by your muffled cries and the hum of the car engine.

In the passenger seat, Suguru sat quietly, his expression unreadable. His hands rested on his knees, fingers drumming absently, as if the tension in the car didn’t weigh as heavily on him.

Poor Ijichi-san gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, clearly caught in a situation he didn’t want to be in. He glanced at you through the rearview mirror—sympathy flashing briefly in his eyes—before he quickly looked away, the moment shattered by Satoru’s cold, piercing glare.

The car felt suffocating, like the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of your despair and the oppressive silence of the two men who claimed to love you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched the familiar sight of your apartment complex slip past the window. Panic prickled at the edge of your already frayed nerves, your grip tightening on the fabric of your clothes. A small sniffle left your nose, your voice coming out hoarse and broken.

“Where are we going, Toru?”

You turned your gaze to Satoru, hoping for an answer, for anything—but he didn’t look at you. He didn’t respond. His profile was cold, distant, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Your stomach twisted, guilt clawing at your insides. You must have hurt him. He always clung to your love like it was his lifeline. You must have broken that lifeline, snapped it in two with your attempt to run.

You shifted your gaze to Suguru, hoping for some clarity, but his face gave nothing away. His dark eyes flickered toward you for the briefest of moments before returning to the road ahead, his expression as still and unreadable as ever.

The car veered away from familiar streets, the urban sprawl giving way to the shadowy embrace of the woods.

Your chest tightened.

Every nerve in your body screamed as the car crept deeper into the forest, the tall trees looming like silent sentinels. Your mind raced with grim possibilities. Were they planning to leave you here? Like an unwanted dog, cast into the cold for daring to run away?

But then, just as the panic began to claw at you, your gaze caught the sight of something familiar—something that made your heart sink even further.

The tall, imposing torii gates emerged through the mist, their vibrant red striking against the muted greens and grays of the forest.

Oh.

The Gojo Estate.

“I don’t think I can trust you enough not to leave again,” Satoru said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically calm, almost detached.

He wasn’t usually the one to chide you—that was Suguru’s role. Suguru, who would dole out punishments with a sharp tongue or a chilling, parental tone, as though you were a misbehaving child. But now, Satoru’s words held a gravity that made your chest tighten.

“So,” he continued, his crystalline eyes fixed ahead, “I figured here, you could have a few more eyes on you. Maybe even enjoy it more. Who knows? You might even come around to the idea of being Mrs. Gojo or Mrs. Geto. Your pick.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“We already filled out the documentation. You’re married.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, the weight of them crashing into your chest. Your mind spun, unable to comprehend the sheer audacity of it, the sheer finality.

You felt chained.

Like a dog, tethered to their will, stripped of freedom, and locked away under the pretense of love.

They didn’t say anything as they walked you through the grand, silent halls of the Gojo Estate, and for that, you were almost thankful. The air was heavy with whispers and disdainful glances from the servants. A non-sorcerer? Their murmurs carried through the air, sharp and cutting, as though your very presence was an affront to their world.

When you reached the bedroom, Satoru’s hand guided you forward with surprising gentleness, his fingers brushing yours as though nothing had changed. He led you to the edge of the plush, sprawling bed, and you forced a small, trembling smile to your lips—a weak attempt at peace, at hope.

His bright eyes softened, and for a moment, you thought maybe, just maybe, you could reason with him.

But then his hands caught your wrists.

A light kiss brushed your lips, so soft you barely registered it over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. The faint click of the cuffs was almost lost in the quiet, but the cold metal digging into your skin was impossible to ignore.

He stepped back, his expression unreadable.

It was Suguru’s voice that filled the air next, low and calm, like a lullaby that promised nightmares.

“You’re going to provide us an heir,” he said, his smile almost serene, even as your eyes widened in horror. “It was Satoru’s idea, actually.”

His smile deepened, almost teasing, as though he enjoyed the shock and betrayal etched across your face. “And you’re not leaving this room until you’re safe and pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating you.

Suguru’s tone carried a quiet, unmistakable happiness, as though this was something he’d always wanted. Maybe it was—he’d always longed for a child, hadn’t he? You turned your gaze to Satoru, searching for something, anything.

But all you found was the lovesick smile he gave Suguru.

Not you.

Your chest tightened as tears pricked your eyes, the overwhelming urge to scream, to sob, to lash out building inside you.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you sat there, the cold metal biting into your wrists, the weight of their love crushing the last sliver of hope you’d held onto.

You had grown numb.

Must be from all the love, right?

2024 collection part one

January

Condescending boyfriend:

♡ HOPELESS

Yandere kidnapper is a sexual sadist:

♡ RIBBED CONDOMS

Yandere kidnapper throatfucks you after anal:

♡ ATM

Awful nasty incel:

♡ drabble

Boss uses his assistant whenever he wants and however he wants:

♡ BOSS

Yandere captor using you as his pretty rope-bunny:

♡ ROPE-BUNNY

Simpy boyfriend is unabashedly obsessed with your ass:

♡ ASS

JJK—Hunter Gojo traps Nymph reader in the woods:

♡ FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Ex-boyfriend kidnaps you:

♡ LOVE ME

Yandere captor staking claim to all your holes:

♡ STUFFED

JJK—Gojo x maid darling:

♡ drabble

Yandere captor has too much libido:

♡ REMINDER

Another day waking up next to your yandere captor:

♡ MORNING WOOD

JJK—Senpai Gojo teasing Kohai reader:

♡ TRUTH OR DARE

You break up with your fuckfriend, and he doesn't take it well:

♡ FUBU

Creep captor dresses you up like a doll and takes pictures of you:

♡ DOLL

JJK—Yandere Gojo with a reader who is immune to his techniques:

♡ FINITE

Yandere captor loves watching you cum:

♡ THAT SPECIAL PLACE

BNHA—Childhood friend Deku never stops crushing on you:

♡ WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?

You're a popular airhead, and he's your loser tutor:

♡ BLIND TRUST

JJK—Immature bully Gojo picks on reader:

♡ MILK

You become the spoiled prince's personal maid:

♡ FARM ANIMAL

Poly yandere captors make you cum for them:

♡ A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

Yandere plays the good guy:

♡ GOOD GUY

Stepdaddy puts you in your place:

♡ BRAT

Businessman yandere comes home to his little trophy wife:

♡ STRESS BALL

JJK—Childhood friend Gojo doesn't want to share you with anyone:

♡ TOGETHER FOREVER

JJK—Boyfriend Suguru shares you with his best friend Satoru:

♡ FAVORITE PEOPLE

Poly wolfboys x bunny reader:

♡ BUNNYHOLES

Beast boyfriend x human reader:

♡ INSTINCTS

February

You try running away from your two poly yandere captors:

♡ ROPE OR BAT?

You're an older guy's pleasure pet:

♡ BEDTIME FEEDING

Omega reader tries running away from Alpha mate:

♡ SILLY LITTLE MATE

Jock bully asks you to tutor him:

♡ NERD

BNHA—Childhood friend Bakugou and you:

♡ NO ONE ELSE

JJK—Asylum patient Mahito x psychologist reader:

♡ EAT

Massive warrior claims you as his war prize:

♡ WAR PRIZE

Step-daddy puts you in your place:

♡ TRAINING

JJK—Bully Suguru is not like other bullies:

♡ BULLY

Snugglebug boyfriends who're just so clingy and hopeless:

♡ VIRGINAL

HAZBIN HOTEL—Adam is an entitled prick:

♡ GENESIS

JJK—Noaya falls for his favorite brothel whore:

♡ WHORE

Spending Valentine's Day with your incel kidnapper:

♡ HAPPY VALENTINES

Poly wolfboys x bunny reader:

♡ GROOMING

Delinquent childhood friend x reader:

♡ SUCKER

Businessman x trophy wife:

♡ TASTE OF MONEY

Rich boyfriend is condescending:

♡ SNOB

Pet collector buys bunny reader:

♡ BOUGHT & SOLD ♡ THE OTHER PETS

Sweet boyfriend won't stop talking about anal:

♡ SECOND VIRGINITY

March

Aromantic psychopathic yandere kidnaps you:

♡ NUISANCE

JJK—Okkotsu Yuta x mean girl curse:

♡ MEAN GIRL

Reader owes the mob:

♡ PROPERTY

DEATH NOTE—L is fascinated by you:

♡ PAPER SWANS

Your college roommate rubs you the wrong way:

♡ PERFECT STRANGERS

When the playboy finally falls in love:

♡ PLAYBOY

BNHA—You and Bakugou survive under a collapsed building together:

♡ SHARED TRAUMA

You let your bully fuck you in exchange for him leaving you alone:

♡ WORSE OFF

Boyfriend is embarrassed:

♡ POST NUT CLARITY

Ex-boyfriend wants you back so badly:

♡ UNFAIR

April

Ghost month! This month doesn't exist!

May

Rich husband owns everything you have:

♡ BARBIE

Ex-military yandere kidnaps you:

♡ EX-MILITARY YANDERE

Teacher teaches you a hard lesson:

♡ HARD LESSON

Your boyfriend is down bad, and it's threatening:

♡ BRUISER BOYFRIEND

Your toxic boyfriend is a little old-fashioned-minded:

♡ BENEVOLENT SEXIST

June

JJK—Sukuna adds virgin!nun!reader to his harem:

♡ UNHOLY

Breaking up with your bad boyfriend:

♡ BAD BREAKUP

BNHA boys as mythic creatures x darling:

♡ MYTHIC

JJK—God!Gojo x human sacrifice:

♡ DIRT POOR

Your childhood bully tracks you down:

♡ APOLOGETIC BULLY only avaliable on AO3 ♡ PART TWO

You make the big angry alpha blush:

♡ BIG ANGRY ALPHA

You were certain you were an Alpha, but as it turns out...

♡ TWIST OF FATE

Can two Betas do the work of one Alpha?

♡ TWO BETAS, ONE OMEGA

JJK—You stab Gojo. He kinda likes it:

♡ KNIFE

The old-fashioned boss with intern reader:

♡ NEW INTERN

JJK men as mythic creatures x darling:

♡ MYSTIC ♡ MYTHIC

You're not cheap, but you're worth it:

♡ FAVORITE WHORE

You open your heart to your fuck-friend:

♡ DAMAGED

Your Alpha Mate is so in love with you it's a little exhausting:

♡ LOVEY-DOVEY ALPHA

JJK—Gojo Senpai won't leave you alone:

♡ TAKE A HINT

JJK—Soft boyfriend Gojo headcanons:

♡ Boyfriend Gojo

♡ PART TWO COMING AFTER NEW YEAR'S EVE

Sweet Valentine [wri0thesley OC Lucas x reader]

Title: Sweet Valentine [@wri0thesley OC Lucas x Reader]

Synopsis: It's Valentine's Day and Lucas has some sweet surprises planned, but things don't go as well as you'd hoped.

Word count: 3164

notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of cannibalism, abusive relationship, mentions of violence, non-graphic descriptions of noncon and dubcon sex, reader is implied to be afab

“You… want somethin’ special for Valentine’s Day, sweetheart?”

Lucas’ voice is low and tender, and when you look up at him, you see a faint blush dusting his cheeks. It’s a familiar sight. He always gets like this, when it comes to romance. Or what he thinks is romance, anyway.

You think it’s all that vulnerability that comes along with romance; the possibility of rejection, as if you were stupid enough to outright reject anything he wanted to give you. Not unless you wanted to meet the sharp end of a glare

(Or an axe.)

But it’s there anyway, that vulnerability. In the way he sometimes glances away or the way his cheeks gain a deeper tint or the lilt in his voice. He gets awkward and when you’re feeling dark and low, you sometimes wonder what he’d do if you didn’t thank him for his gifts, if you didn’t lean into his arms when he opened them, if you wiped away his kisses, if you were as ungrateful and awful as you were currently too afraid to be. 

The answer always comes swiftly: He’d kill you, moron. 

Maybe not right away. But you’d chip at his goodwill, such as it was, bit by bit until nothing was left but raw steel. And where would that raw steel go? Right into your skull, stupid.

You’re a lot of things. Scared. A liar. Helpless. But you’re not stupid. 

So you return his blush with a practiced meek gaze. The kind where you glance up at him and then look quickly down, and cross one arm (but never both, that’s too petulant) over your chest. 

Shy, that’s what you are; or rather, what you’ve become in order to survive here. 

If he thinks you’re shy and quiet and meek, it seems easier for him to brush aside the way you tremble; the way you flinch; the way you sometimes find yourself begging him to wait, just wait oh please, you’re not quite ready to go all the way yet. 

And if you have to debase yourself by taking his length into your trembling hands, by letting him touch you until you trembled and came on his fingers, it’s what you’ll do to put off the inevitable for another day. 

“Nothing special,” you say, voice crackling with the dryness of the morning air. He doesn’t respond. He’s disappointed, you think. Nothing special isn’t good enough for Valentine’s Day. So you add, quietly but quickly: “But maybe… If it’s not too much trouble… some chocolate?” 

You glance up at him and he’s got an almost goofy smile on his face now. It makes you relieved--it makes you sick.

“Or--or we could watch a romantic comedy?” You suggest. You bite your lip then, a holdover gesture from your old life. “Oh, but you don’t really have any, so I guess we could just--”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.” He pulls you close without giving you a choice and you lean your head against his shoulder, just like you ought to do. “I’ll find you somethin’ in town this weekend. Gotta go get some supplies anyway.” 

You smile and press your face towards his chest, so that he feels the curve of your lips against his shirt. “Thank you, Lucas. Really… really any movie you like is fine, but if you can find one, that would be okay.”

He sighs and presses one large hand against the back of your head, trailing it down past your neck--he could snap it so easily--until he’s rubbing your back.

“You’re the sweetest, you know that, angel?” 

You don’t answer, because you don’t need to, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

You were good. You behaved well.  You did what he wanted. Did it matter that you didn’t want chocolates or to watch a movie with him for Valentine’s Day or any day at all? Did it matter that at home, your real home, you were loud and brash and your mother would have pissed herself laughing if anyone called you shy? 

No. Of course not.

If only the truth wouldn’t get you killed. 

You don’t want chocolates or a VHS copy of some outdated romantic comedy.

The only thing you really want for Valentine’s Day is to go home. 

--

The chocolate isn’t great, but it’s not awful, either. There was even a cherry cordial--your favorite--and Lucas’ eyes had lit up when you told him so. 

It was a nice surprise. 

After all, the cynical part of you imagined Lucas showing up with a dusty box of chocolates that tasted like stale sweetness; the kind you find overpriced at drugstores, boxes that forgetful husbands pick up on the way home from work on the day-of. 

But when he came home from town, he’d sheepishly handed over a bouquet of colorfully dyed flowers. A mixture of carnations that were an impossibly vivid pink and daisies with bright blue petals. It was just the kind of bouquet you used to pick out for your mom when you were a kid, because you were drawn to the pops of unnaturally colorful simple flowers more than you were ordinary red roses. 

“Know you like, uh…” He’d held out the bouquet and waited for you to take it from him before continuing. “Know you like this kind of pink, so…” 

You held the bouquet to your chest and felt something that might have been pleasure. It was nice to have something familiar. Something you might pick up at a supermarket on the way home from work. Real flowers were beautiful, of course, and you’d grown to love the sight of them surrounding the cabin. 

But these couldn’t be found in the wilderness in which you were now settled. They were a sign that people still existed out there, people that weren’t you and Lucas and the ghosts of people who came before you.

And that made them more special.

--

“Honey?”

“Angel?.”

“Darlin’.”

It’s the darlin’ that yanks you out of your disassociation. How long had it been going on? You glance down at your fingers and realize you’re holding a half-eaten chocolate bon-bon. Your elbow feels stiff, you must have been holding it up for a while.

You shakily set it back down on the box and force yourself to look over at Lucas, who is cuddled up next to you, holding you in a firm but warm grip, with his arm slung around your shoulder keeping you close. 

He looks irritated. Like you said something wrong again. Only you weren’t saying anything, but that might be the problem; ignoring him was just as bad (sometimes worse) as doing the wrong thing.

“You don’t like the movie?” His voice is gruffer than it should be today, of all days. 

The movie? 

Oh shit.

You blink and blink and slowly details around you come back into focus. The dim lighting in the cabin, to set the mood. The flickering light of the TV and the soft whir of the VCR that could only be heard faintly under the movie itself.

And the movie…

The movie was almost over. The VHS he’d found was of a vaguely familiar movie you remember seeing on TV a few times. It wasn’t a classic but it wasn’t a stink-bomb, either. 

“Angel…” 

He turns toward you and after a moment, takes your chin into his hands.  You quickly glance down--meek, shy, feeble thing that you are--so he doesn’t see the fear that must be blinking through the back of your eyeballs by now. 

“You don’t like the movie, do you? Did I pick the wrong one?” There’s none of the usual sweet compromise in his voice, though, that makes you think saying “yes” might be an option. Instead, you get the sense that he’s laying traps for you to step on. Traps meant for someone ungrateful who completely zones out during what was supposed to be a romantic evening snuggling on the couch. 

Dumbass, you think. I’m such a dumbass.

“Do you…” You speak suddenly and swallow hard. Talking is awkward with his fingers holding your chin, but he doesn’t let go. “Do you want a chocolate?” You offer up the box that’s half-empty by now. The cherry cordials were gone, and maybe you should have offered him one since they were your favorite. But there’s nothing to be done about it, so you hold up the last caramel-filled piece towards him. 

Maybe he’ll appreciate the gesture. 

He finally lets go of your chin and huffs out a snort through his nose. That’s good, usually. A sign he’s calming down. But he doesn’t smile at you, and you can feel the heaviness in the air, a sort of sick pressure that you need to relieve before it gets worse. 

“I’m not much for sweets.” He says this like you ought to know. And you do, actually, it’s just… you don’t know what else to do. 

Your lips quirk downward. You lift the piece until it’s close to his mouth. 

“I know, I just--wanted to share. Please? One bite?” It’s almost a reversal, really; the way he sometimes has to nudge you to eat, when your stomach is all twisted in knots from anxiety or when you can’t shove away the thought that what you’re eating is almost certainly not an animal. Sometimes he feeds you just because he’s in a particular mood, a mood where you need to be more fragile and helpless than you are, which isn’t saying much.

Lucas’ eyes widen then and he finally smiles softly at you. His voice is low and gruff but you think, not quite as irritated as before. 

“All right, angel. A bite.”

He opens his mouth and you slide the chocolate forward until it’s under his teeth. He takes a bite and you pull away, caramel dripping from the half-eaten chocolate that you set back in the box. 

Lucas chews with his mouth closed (he has impeccable manners when he’s not murdering people, thank God for that) but then there’s the thought of the chocolate and caramel being chewed by the same teeth that just ate a “steak” for dinner--what if there’s a stray piece of meat left in his molars and they mix? 

It’s enough to make the sticky sweet flavor of the cherry cordials rise in your throat, acidic and sour from the chocolate digesting in your stomach. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, nuzzling closer to him like an apologetic pet as he finishes chewing. “I didn’t mean to get distracted earlier.” 

Lucas hums and pulls you tighter against him, harder than normal. He presses a kiss against the side of your head. A hint of caramel wafts in the air.  

“Mind you don’t drift often again, honey.” 

-

Lucas is still upset with you. Although you can’t quite call this “still” upset, because this is different from earlier. He’s not still annoyed that you were distracted during the movie or, at least, that’s not the real source of his irritation.

But what--what did you do? You thanked him for the flowers and chocolates. You kissed him (on the lips!) after he gave them to you.  You snuggled on the couch and yes you fucked up during the movie, but you made up for it, you thought. 

You set the table for dinner without being asked, you ate without hesitation and complimented his cooking… you were quiet, you helped him clean up the eggs, you made a joke about Dolly the chicken needing a Valentine’s Day card from him and he chuckled at it. 

You didn’t argue when he insisted he scrub you up during the bath, even when his hand dipped between your legs and lingered on your chest. You quietly let him brush your hair and pick out your pajamas (a pink nightie, tonight) and did everything you thought he wanted.

So what in the hell did you do wrong today that has him practically glowering at you as you both sit on the bed? You’ve re-read the same page in your book a hundred times while you tried to figure it out. You can’t go to bed like this, wondering if he’s angry, wondering if you’ll wake up in the morning to find him hovering over you with a glare and a weapon. Or maybe you won’t even wake up at all. 

“Angel?” There’s a gruff edge to the word tonight that tightens your chest.

“Yes?” Your voice is squeakier than you intended. You tuck a bookmark into your pages and set the book down on your nightstand, and look up at Lucas with practiced meekness that is made all the more real through the gnawing fear in your belly.

Lucas hesitates before he speaks. Emotions shift on his face. Irritation, disappointment, even something you think is sadness. They only make the feeling in your chest worse. What did you do? Why is he acting this way?

“I… wasn’t expectin’ nothing fancy, you know. But I thought you’d at least make somethin’ for me today.”

Make something for him? 

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

In all your worries about behaving perfectly, you didn’t even think about getting Lucas something for Valentine’s Day. Making him a card or throwing together a quick embroidery hoop or--something. That’s what a good spouse would do, right? It’s what he would expect from you, on today of all days. Sure, he wasn’t big on presents, and he’d told you a few months ago not to worry about Christmas (you’d embroidered a scene outside the window of his bedroom, the trees and snow and a little silver rabbit) but this was different. 

It was a couple’s day, and you were part of that couple. 

And you’d fucked up.

He’s not done, either.

“I went outta my way to get you everything you wanted. Drove all the way into town… An’ you didn’t even pay attention during the movie.” If you weren’t increasingly terrified,  you might be able to snort at how petulant he sounded, complaining that you didn’t watch the movie well enough. But there’s nothing funny about the way his voice is starting to raise or the way you can practically feel his muscles getting tenser by the moment.

“Did you even appreciate any of it?” It’s more to himself than to you, and that scares you more than anything else has in recent memory. 

Your mouth comes up with a plan the exact moment that your brain does.  You’re not sure if your brain would have let you go through with it, if it had more than a split second to think. 

“I did get you something!” 

Lucas shifts on the bed and looks at you questioningly. He doesn’t look convinced. Not yet. There’s a swift moment in which you have to convince him and you jump into it, feet first.

“I… I just didn’t know how to wrap it, that’s all.” Your throat bobs when you swallow and you look up at him with a soft expression that’s part nerves, part hope. 

“I don’t know what y’mean, darlin’.”

 His eyebrows furrow and you take a deep breath before you reach over and take his hand. You give it a squeeze and shift on the bed yourself, this time leaning backwards on the pillows.

“My gift is…” Oh,  you don’t want to; but you have nothing else you can give him now. You swallow again and fiddle with the end of your nightgown. It’s a flimsy thing, isn’t it? 

“I’m ready to… that is--I’m ready to…” 

You can’t finish the words but you don’t need to, because both of Lucas’ eyebrows raise before his lips curl into a delighted smile as he realizes what you mean.

He looks giddy. He looks drunk, despite not having a drink tonight. He looks like he’s going to devour you, and you can only be mildly grateful that it’s not in the way you normally fear. 

“Oh, angel.” 

In moments, he’s shifted above you, his body looming over your own, filling up all of your space with his size and warmth. 

“This is the best gift you could give me.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, then again; a kiss to your cheeks, to your eyes that close so he can kiss the lids. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Oh, honey, you must have been thinkin’ about this all day. No wonder you were so distracted.” 

There’s nowhere to go, if you wanted to go. Nowhere to run, if you were capable of running. He’s here and you’re here and this is going to happen now.

No more putting it off, no more gentle pleas, no more convincing him that you can do that and not this, not yet.

All because you forgot to make a damn Valentine’s Card. 

His hands hold the edge of your nightie and begin to lift it up, exposing the soft cotton underwear underneath. 

“I love you so much. You know that, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t take the nightgown off; instead he bunches it up against your neck, exposing your chest. 

“I love you too,” you murmur, because you’ve had enough of your own stupidity today not to answer his declarations. 

Your eyes flick up to the ceiling as he begins pulling down your underwear. 

It’s going to happen now. He’ll fuck you. And once that happens, well. It’ll keep happening. Every night? Every other night? You don’t know, but he’ll expect it. Things are changing and you can’t stop them. All you can do is try to scramble for what little pleasantries this isolated, captive life can give you. 

Like not-bad chocolates and bunnies outside the window.

Lucas’ hands grip the meat of your thighs and pull them apart with little resistance on your end. You don’t want to make it worse, do you? And it was your idea, you can’t even pretend to be anything but meekly nervous, can you?

He murmurs something in appreciation at the sight of your naked sex and your fingers clutch the sheets underneath you in anticipation. 

You don’t want to look down. It’s like being at the doctor’s--looking away when they give you the shot. You hear the sound of his trousers being pushed down. But he doesn’t push into you just yet.

Instead, he leans down, pressing a hot, wet kiss to your mouth that opens without argument. 

There’s  a faint taste of peppermint toothpaste and a hint of lingering caramel--he didn’t brush his molars well enough, maybe--in his mouth. 

“Love you,” he whispers against your lips. Maybe he sees the nervousness in your gaze and for once, is fine with it. It’s normal to be anxious about your first time, after all. “It's gonna feel good, I promise… I know what I’m doin’.”

Damn, you think vacantly, stomach lurching against your thoughts when you feel the unmistakable press of something hot and hard and wet against your naked thigh. I wish I saved the second cherry cordial for tomorrow.

the solace of banality - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (6.6k)

your time in the hospital has made you miss the simplicity of a life not held captive by a madman in the woods - and has made you just foolish enough to ask him about it.

cw: dark content, yandere, kidnapped reader. hospital setting. chubby fem reader, references to past dub-con and non-con, references to cannibalism, forced intimacy and domesticity, physical abuse.

a/n: for a primer on lucas, see here or his tag on my blog.

this was a commissioned work.

Lucas had not taken his hands off of you the entire ride from the hospital, back into the woods. He'd mumbled something about needing to make sure he moved the truck later on, as he'd stepped out and helped you down in return, strong arms wrapping around you so that you have to do the bare minimum of exertion yourself. His grip is as assured as ever, but there's a tightness there that you haven't felt for some time - as if he needs to press himself into you, just to be sure that you're still there.

And, too, to make sure that you don't run. 

You suppose he doesn't like the idea of you knowing where the truck is parked, but it's not like you could drive it even if you did remember. Lucas treats it like a spooked animal, a strange little creature whose quirks and foibles he has learned over time - you're almost certain that if you were to get behind the wheel, it would not obey you the way that it obeyed him. So you keep your mouth pressed shut and concentrate on the slow journey from the truck to the front door of the cabin. Your gaze returns to it, just once, parked closer than you've ever seen it - but Lucas coughs, and his brows draw in, and you guiltily return your gaze to your feet. 

It's getting colder. It's the end of November, and the ward at the hospital had been decorated early (to give some festive cheer to the people who were stuck there, you suppose). Frost crackles beneath your feet. The moment you'd been signed off as able to go home, Lucas had rushed you out of there, tension tight in his shoulders - so the sun has barely risen, and there's been no time for the cruelty of winter to be tempered any by what warmth it has to offer. 

"Want you home, sweetheart," he'd grumbled, as he'd signed papers at the hospital desk with a surname you do not recognise. He'd let you keep your first name, but he'd given 'Smith' at the hospital as your surname (are you missing, you wonder? Would your real name have been too much of a giveaway?), calling you his wife, smiling tightly as he'd said you'd wanted to keep your maiden name in a very good imitation of a husband a little frustrated by this. "Sooner the better. This place makes me nervous." 

His hands do not move from you as he unlocks the front door, either. As he ushers you in, as he breathes a sigh of relief at the comfort of the cabin around you. 

He'd gone home, just to tend to the chickens. It was the only moments you'd had free from his stifling company - well, that and the surgery. You breathe out, tight and controlled, counting in your head as you feel the twinges of pain. Cold air. The doctor had said you might feel it in the scar for the rest of your life. You'd had maybe an hour and a half at most a day, to be alone with your thoughts and the room--

You'd thought, only once, about telling the doctors the truth. About begging them to help. Do something. 

But you'd remembered the hissed warning in your ear, when he'd driven you to the hospital with a fear you'd never seen spread over his features. If you did that - if they knew - he'd said he wouldn't hesitate to bring as many people down with you both as he could, and the thought of what he might do in an enclosed space to strangers and doctors with no worries as to who got hurt--

No. Better to keep your mouth shut, and pretend everything was fine. 

"Let's get you on the couch, darlin'," Lucas murmurs, still tightly holding onto your waist as if you don't know every inch of this cabin as intimately as you know the back of your hands. "They said for you to stay restin', didn't they? I ain't lettin' you get worse. Not takin' you back there if I can damn well help it." 

You nod, as he lifts you up with ease and deposits you onto the crease of the sofa, the deep comforting dip that is usually Lucas's space. For a moment, you look up at him, and he looks down at you. 

You take in everything about him. The worry etched into his features, the bags beneath his eyes, the coiled tension ready to snap at any moment if you don't do exactly as he says. You take in, too, that he's been wearing the same shirt for three days, that his stubble has grown out some, that he looks at you like he can't believe you're back here on the couch. 

(He'd been afraid he'd lose you, you think. It's the only explanation you can possibly conjure for why he'd taken you out of the cabin, to a place teeming with life, risked everything he had here in order to make sure you didn't die. You'd been here, in this exact spot, the night he'd taken you to the hospital, curled up and sweating and nauseous and too weak to make it to the bathroom to do anything. You'd thought you were going to die right there too). 

You wonder what he sees in you, in turn. 

He'd brought you new pyjamas from the hospital gift shop. They were cheaply made, pink and white stripes, that kind of satin that pulled if you so much as rolled over in bed. But they were new, and they'd been bought for you, so you hadn't mentioned the pulls under the armpit to Lucas. You're wearing them now (they'd laundered them at the hospital for you), with an old dressing gown wrapped around you that you've only ever seen Lucas wear. It smells like him. 

You wonder if you look wan yourself; if your eyes are shadowed, if your mouth is drawn, if your hair is lank. You'd been able to shower, you'd been able to use the bathroom on your own - but you'd almost . . . missed his cloying presence. The nurse had helped you, when you were still too weak, but . . . her hands lathering shampoo through the strands of your hair had not been as gentle, as slow, as thorough as Lucas's always were--

He lets out a slow, controlled breath. 

"You really gave me a fright there," he rumbles, and summons a smile from the pit inside of him for you. "I really thought . . . Well. Don't wanna dwell on nothin' too dark there, do we?" 

It's a question he expects an answer to, you realise, that stern green gaze stuck on you. You shake your head - and then, trembling, put forth;

"I . . . I was scared too. I . . ." Swallow the confused feelings that come swimming up in you before you say it; you've learnt to play this game. It's better to be alive than it is to be chopped to pieces, and if you weren't so good at this part you're certain Lucas wouldn't have bothered to take you to the hospital. "I didn't want to leave you."

His face softens. 

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning forward, to press a lingering kiss on the crown of your head. "I wasn't about to let you go nowhere, y'hear? Now. Let's get a blanket 'round you. Let's get you tucked in, and I'll bring you somethin' to eat. I don't trust the food they gave you in there."

When they'd done the blood tests, the nurse had said that your iron levels were the most perfect she'd ever seen, and you'd thought about Lucas's meals. The meat bleeding dark juices onto the plate. You'd swallowed your disgust and smiled at her, shrugging modestly, telling her that your husband handled the menu and you just ate what he gave you. 

He'd been sat beside you, and he'd shifted when you'd called him your husband, his mouth twitching at the corners. She'd congratulated him on it, a smile on her face - taken in by the size of him, the dog tags shining around his neck, his obvious care for his poor invalid wife--

If only she'd known. 

It's strange to be back in the cabin again. 

Altogether, you'd been in the hospital for nine days; there'd been some complications, they'd wanted to keep an eye on you, they'd had to do a more complicated surgery type than they'd originally thought-- and those nine days had been . . .

You don't want to call them blissful. Nearly dying is not blissful, oxygen tubes and cannulas and blood tests and the smell of antiseptic are not blissful things, really. But it had been so different from the life you'd been accustomed to living! It had been so different to be somewhere else, to see other people--

You don't know quite how long you've been with Lucas, but if it's November again you think it's been over a year. You'd been taken in September, you remember - and he'd mentioned Christmas, that first year, but you'd still been too scared to really think much of it beyond giving him a trembling kiss on Christmas Eve and letting him dress you up in one of the more scandalous pieces from the wardrobe, as a gift, that night-- 

A year of solitude can do a lot to a person. The only other human being you've interacted with is Lucas - and one lost hiker, once, who'd come limping out of the trees whilst you were feeding the chickens with Lucas in the doorway and had called out to you. You'd been too startled to call back, but you'd waved your hand in greeting - and then Lucas's own hand had been on your shoulder, and you understood in no uncertain terms you were to go back inside, and you'd put the record player on when you'd heard the first scream. 

You don't know if that really counts, all things considered. 

But suddenly, you had found yourself surrounded by people! Nurses came and spoke to you, and doctors, and other patients (though Lucas had insisted that you needed a private room, you'd still come across them in the hallways and the corridors when you'd moved around, when they'd taken you out for walks to ensure that you were recovering well). You'd heard more voices than you had in forever, different accents and different inflections and you'd been bombarded with names you didn't always remember. 

Some of the strangers stuck in your mind more than others. There'd been a nursing student who got all red and awkward and stuttery when Lucas spoke to her. There'd been a doctor who had also been a veteran, who had made Lucas's spine stiffen and his words go clipped and rough. There'd been a mother of a young woman who had her granddaughter with her for visiting, who'd mistakenly barged into your room thinking it was her daughter's - and though you'd expected Lucas to lose his temper at them both, he hadn't. He'd crouched down on the floor and asked the little girl about the stuffed bunny she was carrying with a perfectly serious expression, and for a minute you had forgotten about the axe and the blood and the snarl and the lies, and you'd thought what a good father your husband would make. 

You'd had to give yourself a stern talking to inside your head, when the visitors had been sent to the right place and Lucas had turned back to you to fuss over your blankets and his eyes had still been soft with a longing that you did not want to think about. In a different world, maybe. In a different time. In different circumstances-- 

And there was everything else, too. All of the other little freedoms you'd forgotten about.

Food and television and human contact, being alone, a bed to yourself. 

You'd thought, then, how much you'd taken it all for granted.

"Is your husband not here?" The nurse says, cheerfully bustling into the room with your breakfast on a tray. She looks around for him, before she winks at you and pulls from her pocket a tiny packet of chocolate spread, which she lays on the plate next to the toast and the packet of butter and the tiny jar of jam. 

The first time you'd asked for toast, they'd brought you chocolate spread, and Lucas had shaken his head and taken it off your plate before you could even think about it. 

"It ain't good for you," he'd said, sagely, with all of the assurance of a man who was used to being listened to. "Have the jam instead, if you've gotta. The butter on it's own's plenty rich enough though, I think."

He'd watched you like a hawk, and you'd been too scared to put more than a sliver of the strawberry jam on the toast, so you'd eaten exactly what he wanted. 

"He's gone home," you say to her. Your voice still feels a little rough and croaky - you'd been told that they'd put a tube down your throat for breathing, during the surgery. You haven't had much experience of hospitals before, so all of this is a novelty in more than just the freedom from Lucas. "He has to feed the girls - h-his . . . o-our chickens, I mean."

She shakes her head, smiling. 

"I'm sure he means well," she says, perching for a moment on the chair by the bed that Lucas usually occupies. "I mean! He clearly cares about you - I almost never come in here and see the room without him, he's part of the furniture! - but sometimes a girl just needs a treat, you know?" She winks again, and you laugh. 

A part of you feels guilty about it - that same part of you that occasionally looks at Lucas and does think about him as a spouse, that same part of you that sometimes drives you to press a kiss onto his cheek when you're not thinking because he says something sweet. It's the part of you, you think, that wants you to give in and accept and be what Lucas wants and forget everything else, just to make it easier. 

But it's a part that's easier to quell amongst the hustle and bustle of the hospital. 

"Now," she says. "You're going to be in here for a few more days, so I've brought you the menu - just circle what you want and I'll take it to the kitchens. If he doesn't see it, he doesn't know if you chose the unhealthy options!" You laugh aloud again, and reach for the menu, flicking through to see all of the other options. So many foods you haven't had in over a year - so many things you'd never dare ask Lucas to make--

You feel another twinge of guilt when you circle the roast chicken and vegetables, but you tamp it down as you circle apple pie. You'll give Lucas a bite or two, and he'll forget that he'd said you were a vegetarian--

"Good choice," the nurse says approvingly, as she takes the menu from you and tucks it into the pocket of her uniform. She gives you a conspiratorial nudge. "Honestly, I shouldn't say it, but you'd be amazed how many vegetarians take the meat option in here! Good for them, I say. You need to keep your strength up! Now - where's that remote? Shall we put it on that horror channel you wanted and I'll take it with me, so you can say it's lost and he just has to put up with it?" 

You do war within yourself before you dare ask him. You know Lucas's temper - it's hard not to know it, living out here with him for so long. Ordinarily, you do anything possible to make sure that it doesn't flare too openly; you act soft and sweet and agree with him and avoid any topic of conversation that you think might set him off. It's terrifying to see how the way he stands change, the curl of his lip and the grit of his teeth and the slightest tilt of his brows - it reminds you of all of those other people, out there, who have not been so lucky as you. All of those people who have seen him get angry and then learnt his anger in the swing of his axe instead of in the blade of his words. You could so easily have been one of them, you are usually able to sternly remind yourself when the whisperings at the back of your mind get almost too loud to handle. If you hadn't been soft and sweet and scared and what Lucas had found pretty, if you'd screamed instead of begged or fought instead of cried, you would have met your end in the woods too and your flesh would have been parcelled up into the old chest freezer and none of this would have happened--

But that was before the hospital, wasn't it? 

That was before he'd shown you that he cared about you enough to take you into town if things were dire enough - before you'd shown him in turn that you could be trusted to keep his secret. You'd had so many chances to blurt out the truth, but every time you'd held your tongue and you'd smiled and laughed and called him your husband as if it were real. 

The fourth day, Lucas had come in and had slipped a plain gold band onto your finger as a doctor had watched, taking your blood pressure. 

"Found it," he'd said, gruffly, and you'd seen that there was a matching one on his own. "I know y'don't like to be without it." 

You'd kept it, even when you could take it off and you were back in the truck and were free of the ruse. Now, as you slowly bring yourself to the kitchen doorway with a blanket wrapped around you, you play with the ring on your finger and hope he notices that, and that the little movement wins you points. 

"Lucas?" You ask, to get his attention - but you don't need to. He has already heard, his head up and cocked, and he shakes his head and sucks his teeth when he sees you standing there, bare feet on the cabin floorboards. Of course he'd heard the couch creak, of course he'd heard the pad of your footsteps - this is a man who'd heard you so much as sit up in bed from the couch, back when you'd first gotten here and he'd slept on the sofa instead of intertwined with you. He'd always come, always asked you if you were alright, if you needed him to help . . .

"Darlin'," he says, shaking his head. "You shoulda just called. You ain't s'posed to be on your feet too much. I'll bring you anything you want."

You swallow, still absent-mindedly twirling the ring on your finger. It's perhaps a size or two too big; if it were really your wedding ring, you're sure you'd have lost it doing the washing up or getting it caught in your clothes or something by now. 

(It's not yours though, is it? You wonder if Lucas bought them in a pawn shop - but no, that would have caused whispers around a small town that might have gotten back to the hospital eventually. You know the far more likely scenario is that he's had them this whole time, pried from the fingers of some poor unsuspecting camping couple who pitched their tent a bit too close. You don't like to think of the little metal band that warms your own wedding finger on the cold hand of a corpse. You haven't taken it off since he gave you it. 

You're too afraid there'll be an engraving inside, a name that isn't yours, a promise that only means something to two people who are no longer on the earth. 

At least, you suppose, they died together.)

"I . . . I've just been thinking," you say, gathering all of your courage up to try and screw it to the sticking place. Lucas is still being a little too indulgent with you; letting you get away with things that he wouldn't normally. A later bedtime, a bit of pouting, a VHS he'd gotten for you of a fantasy film that he didn't much like played at night instead of one of his own. He's still too raw and open at the thought that he could have lost you, and you don't think you'll ever get a better chance than this one. 

And he's noticed the ring, still on your finger, and there's the faintest dusky flush up his cheekbones. You let your gaze flick down to his own hands, to see that the matching band is still in place on his finger. 

(Lucky, then, that they both almost fitted. You're certain that Lucas would have taken that as a sign; another piece of proof that the two of you were always meant to be. That thought makes your stomach roil uncomfortably, but you try to ignore it. The more he thinks the two of you were destined, the more attached he is to you, the more he loves you - the more likely he's going to be to agree to the thing you're about to ask him). 

"C'mon then," he says, shaking his head in fond exasperation, moving from the kitchen counter to come and take you by the waist and propel you back towards your comfortable nest on the sofa. "You can tell me just as well in there as out here, an' I won't worry half so much. I bought some ice cream one of the days we were in town, y'know. Been waiting for you to feel a bit better. How's about I go grab it from the freezer and make us a bowl and you can tell me what it is that's on your mind, huh?"

"That would be nice," you say, fluttering your lashes, looking up at him from under them in a way you've learnt makes him swallow, his throat bobbing. "Thank you." 

"Aww," he says. "Anythin' for you, darlin'." 

You wrap yourself back up in the other blankets left on the couch and let Lucas leave the room to go out to the freezer and fetch the ice cream. You force yourself not to think of it nestled in the chest freezer, surrounded by cuts of meat - an incongruous tub amongst flesh and bone, a ropy thigh pressed against the lid, a fleshy cheek pressed against the bottom. 

There's no sign of that when he returns with a chipped willow-pattern bowl full of vanilla ice cream and he passes you a spoon, cuddling up close to you on the sofa. You let yourself be manipulated half into his lap, his chin on the top of your head, the warmth he kicks off enough to make the ice cream melt to a pleasing consistency. He insists on feeding you the first bite, and you do not protest it - all the better, to make him soft and adoring. You even force yourself to giggle like an idiot, in a way that makes him growl in approval. 

"Well then," he says, between spoonfuls, and you're grateful that at least you won't have to look him in the eyes when you ask the question. "C'mon, let's get it outta you. What did you wanna ask?" 

Last chance saloon, if you want to backtrack. If you want to think of some other silly question that might not set him off - for another pair of new pyjamas, a colouring book and some fancy pencils, anything that he'll see as an indulgence but not as a declaration of war. 

But, oh . . .

The freedom of those days. The sound of people around you had made you miss the sound of the city, the smell of antiseptic had made you miss any smell that wasn't Lucas's aftershave and the chickens and the frosty air. Controlling a television, choosing your own menu, seeing other people going about their days and knowing that despite the isolated existence you're now living, people are still out there living their lives in a way you know Lucas will never let you. 

It doesn't matter, you force yourself to think, if you will never get that freedom back. Lucas would never let you go, and you're not foolish enough to so much as think about it, let alone ask. You're never going to fulfil so many of your dreams (you'll never see Tokyo, or Paris, you'll never see the Northern Lights or try that fancy hotel in your hometown and you'll probably never know how your favourite manga ends) - but just a taste of it, every so often, with Lucas's hand in yours and him beside you to watch over you--

That's not too much to ask, is it? 

You swallow again, feeling heat rising to your own cheeks. 

"I've just been thinking," you say to him, careful and calm. "About . . . the town? The one that the hospital was in?"

He stiffens all over, and you feel it where you're pressed against him. Like a coiled up spring, tension in every curve and line of his body. 

"Yeah?" He says, his tone warning - if you were smarter, you'd stop there, but you've opened the floodgates now. Your mouth seems to be operating without the express consent of your brain, and the words come flowing out awkwardly smashing into one another in a rush of noise. 

"It's just - couldn't we do something there? Together? See a movie? Run errands or go shopping or surely they have a bowling alley or something we could go to on a date?"

"Sweetheart."

It's rough and dark and angry, but now you've started you cannot stop. 

"I mean, they've seen me! They know I live with you, they're going to ask questions about me, and I don't mind I'll tell them exactly what you want me to tell them but it would be so so nice to do something with you, even if it's just once every few months, I'd just like to be outside--"

The bowl of ice cream clatters to the floor, the remainder of the sticky yellow-white treat oozing across the floorboards like spilt blood, and your brain finally catches up with you and you go stock-still like a deer in headlights as Lucas eases his arms from around your waist and shifts so that he can be next to you, so that he can look you in the eye before he tells you he's going to kill you. 

His gaze catches yours, stern and forbidding and cold as the frost had been when you'd stepped out of the truck. Your hands start to shake as you desperately try and reassure yourself that, if you're lucky, the first blow will kill you and you won't feel any of the rest--

But to his credit, Lucas doesn't jump straight to blazing anger. 

You can feel it simmering in him, like it's rising off of him like steam - but instead, he says, his voice cold and deep and barely restrained;

"No."

"Lucas--"

"I said no." 

He doesn't soften the phrase with a pet name, and this is a bad sign. His gaze remains affixed onto yours, pinning you in place, as much a captor as the man himself. You feel like you will bow and break under it, but you have gotten this far - your foolish heart cannot resist just one more attempt, as if you will somehow find the chink in his armour that will allow you this one tiny freedom. 

"Not often. Just--"

He stands up suddenly, like a tree being shaken to its foundations, and your heart jumps into your throat. He's going to pull down one of the weapons mounted on the wall in the hallway, you know it - he's going to drag you outside and you're going to bleed out on the frosted grass and he'll prise the ring off your finger and wait for someone else it will fit, he'll bury you in an unmarked grave, he'll spin some story next time he's in town about why you're not there--

"I need some air," he says instead, shortly. "I'll be back home in a bit." He reaches to pick up the bowl, not looking at you now. You can see that his grip is white-knuckled, that the veins in his wrists are more prominent than usual. His mouth is set in a grim line. 

"L-Lucas--"

"When I get back," he says, as if he hasn't heard you at all. "I don't wanna hear another word about this nonsense, understand? I keep you safe. I keep you fed and warm and safe an' loved, and I'm not gonna take you out back into a world that doesn't deserve you just so it can fuckin' chew you up and spit you out." 

He turns away and walks, the thud of his boots heavy on the floorboards. 

"We're gonna have an early night," he says, pausing at the door. "I think all that time in the hospital's scrambled your brain good and proper. But don't worry, sweetheart," he looks over his shoulder, gaze like frosted green glass, words a bladed threat. "I'll make sure t'remind you." 

You know you have gotten off lightly. 

It is hard not to think that if you had been someone else, if you hadn't played your game so well, Lucas would not have suffered the question as coolly as he managed to. Or even if you had asked such a thing a few months ago - he would have taken it as a personal attack, as you saying he was not enough for you. 

The fact that he comes back, that he manages to give you a tight smile when he sees that you haven't moved from the sofa where he'd left you except to pick up a battered old fantasy book from the shelf full of mismatched paperbacks - that seems to calm him. You suppose that he's thinking at least you listened to him, hopefully you've taken everything he's said to heart . . .

But that's not the truth. Not really. 

Despite what you know is sensible, you have been thinking about freedom for every moment whilst you've been alone. 

Or, 'freedom' in a sense. You have been thinking about the laugh of the nurse and the buzz of the television and the food in front of you on a clean white plate that has never before played host to a hunk of meat that was once a person. You've been thinking about the sounds of the city and the feel of warm worn leather beneath you in Lucas's truck. You've been thinking and plotting and rewriting in your head exactly what to say to try and convince Lucas that maybe, just maybe, it might be alright. 

Once or twice a year, even! Christmas shopping, perhaps. A Valentine's Day movie - a sappy romance, or a musical, or something he couldn't object to. Something all romantic and soft and chosen specifically to be done with him, so he doesn't feel as though you're trying to escape. 

Lucas lifts you from the couch and guides you into the bathroom - kisses the top of your head and presses against you wanting and needy in the shower, as the hot water cascades over you both, as his fingers brush oh-so-gently the scar left on the soft roundness of your flesh in wonder. His eyes soften as he looks at it, as you suppose he remembers how close he came to losing you - and it's that look, the soft devotion in his gaze, knowing that despite it all Lucas cares about you enough that he broke his own rules to take you somewhere safe, that makes you think that perhaps it might be safe to bring it up again. 

He brushes your hair before bed; helps you put on one of the pretty cotton nightgowns patterned with sprigs of flowers that he always chooses, when he gets the choice (your pink and white striped pyjamas are in the laundry basket, waiting to be washed, Lucas wrinkling his nose and mumbling about the smell of that place). 

You sit up in bed as he pulls out his own sleepwear, and you clear your throat before you speak. 

"A-about earlier . . ."

"If it ain't an apology," Lucas says, voice tight, his back to you - your eyes are drawn to the scars that decorate his body like badges of honour as he pulls the old shirt he sleeps in down, "I don't wanna hear it."

"C-can't we just . . . talk about it? Like a . . . like a married couple would?"

Lucas turns around now. He does not lower himself onto the bed, as he stares at you with something inscrutable in his gaze that makes you trip over your words. 

"I don't want to run, Lucas! I love you!" That's a lie, but you hope he won't notice, won't care, because you said it yourself and not because he demanded you did so. "I just . . . I want to show you off, I want to do normal things with you! Even if it's just the groceries, even if it's just picking up flour or sugar--"

"I've already said no," he bites out. "I've already said no, and I've already told you to stop askin'."

"Lucas, please--"

"Stop."

You'd been wrong. You feel it slipping out of your grasp - the thought of that tiny freedom, grabbed with both hands, slipping through your fingers like fine sand. His words are horribly final, obviously designed to get you to stop asking, to keep your pretty mouth shut and be the quiet and well-behaved little spouse he wants you to be, but . . . 

The thought of something that is so close just being stolen from you like this is too much for you, and you can't let yourself be cowed.

"Can't we just talk about it--!"

"I think you've done enough fuckin' talkin'." 

He looks at you with murder in his gaze and you cringe back into the pillows. Here it is. He's going to beat you to death. He's going to kill you. You've really fucking done it now, haven't you?

But he doesn't.

He looks at you for one more beat, before suddenly a slow smile spreads across his face. 

"Okay," he says, and the change in his demeanour is scarier than anything else you've seen in months. "Okay, yeah. Get outta bed, sweetheart. C'mon. Let's talk this through in the kitchen like grown-ups."

He doesn't help you to the kitchen, this time. He leaves it to you, and you're slow about it - your body protests being taken from the warm embrace of the bed and back out. The nightgown tangles uncomfortably around your ankles, and you stumble more than once.

Lucas, though, had left immediately. Consequently, you're not surprised to see him up and at the stove when you get into the kitchen. The kettle is on the hob.

"We'll talk it through with a hot drink," he says, pleasantly enough. "The way real married couples do, yeah? Sit down, darlin'. Just let me get this to boilin'."

You can't believe how reasonable he's being. You wonder what it is that you said that brought him to this point - the married couple thing, perhaps? The profession of love, that maybe hadn't pierced him properly until a few minutes later? Whatever it is, you're grateful for it, as you sit down on one of the wooden kitchen chairs and let out a soft sigh. 

"Y'know," Lucas says, from over by the stove. "I thought about just fuckin' cuttin' your tongue out so you couldn't ask me anymore."

A cold shiver down your spine, but Lucas's tone is conversational, and you do not see one of his big knives out in the kitchen anywhere. Maybe he is going to apologise, you think. 

"I . . . I'm glad you didn't," you say, voice soft and thready. "Thank you."

Lucas snorts. 

"Yeah. Thought 'bout what you said . . . People in that town sure do know you exist now. And though I ain't planning on takin' you back, just in case . . . Thought that a missin' tongue might be kinda hard to explain, y'know?" 

The kettle whistles, high pitched enough to make you flinch. You notice, suddenly, that he has not put any mugs or cups on the table, and your entire body seems to feel as though it's made of ice. 

He has one of those old-fashioned kettles; enamel, white and blue, a long spout and a metal handle that needs to be warmed through on a hob. He picks it up by the handle now, and walks towards you. 

"So I thought," he says to you, his tone still pleasant, but his voice rough and low. "How am I gonna stop her runnin' her mouth? How am I gonna teach her that when I tell her to stop bringin' somethin' up, she oughta heed my words?"

"Please don't--" You babble out, as he lifts the kettle up. You can hear it bubbling inside, boiling away against the enamel and tin. You've burnt your tongue on a hot chocolate before, sure, tried to drink a coffee before it was cool . . . But the thought of what Lucas is about to do seems far, far worse than that. 

With the hand that is not wrapped around the kettle's handle, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it back fiercely until his hand meets the back of the chair, forcing your face up and pinning you in place. 

"It's just a lesson," Lucas says, infuriatingly calm. He lifts the kettle up, and you feel the heat radiating off of it as it comes too close to your skin. "I didn't wanna do this, darlin'. But you ain't left me much of a choice."

"I won't bring it up again!" Lucas lets out a snort, and the barest drop of water snakes from the spout. It splashes onto your bare neck above the nightgown's collar, and you swear you hear the flesh sizzle as you squeak out in pain. 

"It's a bit too late for that now," he tells you. "C'mon. We don't want this to get cold now, do we?"

"Lucas, please--!"

"Open your fuckin' mouth," he says, his eyes glittering. "And swallow like a good girl, and I'll only make you drink this one kettleful. I can boil another as easy as pie. I can keep fuckin' going until you can never talk again, y'hear me?"

You're shaking, but he has slowly, slowly started to tip the kettle now. The spout is coming far too close to your lips for comfort. 

"You'll wanna wrap your mouth around it," he says, and you do not miss that it's not the first time he's said that kind of thing to you. Hot tears of fear and frustration well in the corner of your eyes. "If you make me pour it into you like you're a teacup, you're gonna panic and just get burns all over your pretty face too."

The spout nudges your lips. 

"Open your mouth," Lucas coos to you, and you squeeze your eyes shut. "Open your mouth, and we'll just do one kettleful, and I'll get you s'more ice cream once you've learnt your lesson. One kettleful and it'll prob'ly only be a week or so 'fore you can talk again." 

You try and will yourself to think of something to get out of it, but Lucas is getting impatient. He tugs roughly on the hair in his fist and lowers his own mouth close enough to hiss into your ear;

"Don't open it and . . . well. You don't really wanna find out, do ya'?"

Outplayed. 

You open your mouth.

protection - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (5.3k)

halloween has always been your favourite holiday. with your captor, though . . . perhaps not so much.

a/n: if i cannot be self-indulgent and write a fic about my cannibal murderer yandere oc for halloween when he is such a horror pastiche of a man, when can i? if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!

cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con.

Lucas has one of those perpetual calendars upon his mantelpiece.

You’ve never had much cause to look at it before. It’s another of those mix-and-match décor pieces that are so prevalent in the cabin; a boring block of wood and blocky white font that you suppose someone might describe as ‘minimalist’. It’s certainly not something you’d choose for yourself – and from what you’ve seen of Lucas’s own choices, his clothing, the items he gravitates towards in his little slice of home, it’s not something he’d have chosen either. Had it not, perhaps, been chosen by someone else.

You ignore the way your gorge rises when you consider that it’s one more piece of somebody who must be long dead by now. Lucas’s cabin is full of those reminders; embroidered tablecloths (your own hands are not so steady), handmade blankets (the wool used makes you itchy), clothes in the wardrobe three sizes too small and two sizes too big. A bookshelf of tattered paperbacks; crime novels and romance novels and horror novels, an eclectic mix you can’t imagine belonging to the same person.

That’s not important.

What is important is the morning after breakfast, when Lucas and you have gone out to collect eggs already and he’s held onto your waist while you carefully fried them along with the something-that-might-be-bacon that you’re growing more and more accustomed to cooking.

(It doesn’t even make you throw up any more).

He’s casual as he walks over to it; you’ve never really paid much attention to it before. It’s simply one of those rituals that he does; he likes the domesticity of a daily routine, and though you’ve always been rather more spontaneous . . . You’re hardly in a position to argue about it.

He moves the cube around and you glance vaguely towards it and you see the month and date, clear and bright as if illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.

The thirtieth of October.

You stop breathing, just for a moment. It’s been three months, then – time had lost meaning for you somewhat, after you’d realised you had no choice but to play along if you wanted to keep yourself away from the sharp end of an axe. But . . . three months. Three months of smiling nicely and forcing your mouth around the name ‘darling’ and letting his weapon-calloused hands curl about your waist, slide over bare skin. Three months of making yourself smile, of showering with a stranger in the bathroom (three months and he is still a stranger, though you suppose you know him intimately; three months, though, and you still do not know his surname), of sleeping beside him at night--

“I love Halloween.”

You don’t realise you’ve said it until it comes out of your mouth like the dry squeak of a frightened mouse.

Lucas looks up in surprise. You don’t often volunteer information readily; you answer his questions, but otherwise you’re a quiet obedient little home-maker for him, the way you think he likes you. That’s not to say you think he’d mind, but . . . you still keep some of yourself held close to your chest. You share hearth and home and body with Lucas; you think you’ve earnt the right to not have to share everything.

“S’that so?” He rumbles, after a moment. He doesn’t smile, the way he does when you tell him that you like the present he’s brought you back from town or when you let slip once that the western film he’d been watching on VHS reminded you of your childhood. “I’ve never been all too fond of it myself.”

His green gaze stays steady on you. He lets the moment stretch, waiting for your answer. You are walking a tightrope, as always; there is a right answer, you think, and a wrong answer. Which one are you supposed to pick? You’ve seen Lucas angry – that smouldering, teeth-grit explosion when he’d caught you, early on, trying to open a window.

(You’d sobbed and promised, sworn on everything you loved, that you just wanted some fresh air – that the August air was stuffy and pressing. Enough tears, and Lucas had repented, finally, drawn back his blistering anger. Calloused thumb wiping your tears away and a gruff apology, followed by; “Aww, darlin’, don’t cry like that. C’mon now.”

Followed by kissing your eyelids. Followed by the press of his body upon yours. Followed by hands on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs to part them. Followed by him murmuring for you to cry for a different reason.

He likes the tears. It’s a good lesson to learn so early on in your life with him).

You shrug helplessly.

“I like the atmosphere?” You give him, your voice quavering at the end. “All of those kids in cute costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, cuddling up warm and cosy on the couch with a scary film on--”

His shoulders relax minutely, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah,” he says to you. “I s’pose those things ain’t so bad. I’m not a scary movie guy – there’re enough things to be frightened of out there in the real world, y’know?” He walks towards you, joins you on the couch. His arm wraps around your shoulder and you let yourself be drawn into his embrace, because you risk upsetting the balance again if you shy away. With a sigh of pleasure, he drops a kiss onto the top of your head. “Gets real busy up here around this time. Trespassers. I prob’ly won’t even be around mosta the night; gotta patrol the area. Think we can rustle you up a pumpkin and a coupla’ videos though, huh?”

You swallow. You know what he means by ‘patrol the area’ – you think of teenagers in local towns, daring each other to spend the night in the woods. You think about twenty-somethings with their tents and their camping and coolers full of beer, telling spooky stories about huge cannibals who live in the woods--

You think of Lucas’s weapons, the axe shining bright mounted on the wall, and the sound it had made as it had thwacked into the ground beside your head as Lucas had realised you were trembling and whimpering and sobbing and merely lost, not some ne’er-do-well out here for any other reason.

How much fuller will his freezer be, come the first of November?

He’s true to his word, as he so often is. Despite everything, he looks at you hopefully when he presents to you the things he brings back from his little foray into town; his head cocked, an echo of the earnest young man he might once have been beneath the scars and the greying.

He presents to you: one large pumpkin, three VHS tapes of movies you haven’t heard of that look like schlocky 90s B-movies, a multi-pack of sweet treats obviously intended to be poured into a bowl for trick or treaters, and a bean-filled plush of a fat black cat.

“I thought we could carve the pumpkin together,” he says, which you think is just an excuse not to leave you unsupervised with sharp implements. He trusts you to cook, now – but he still likes to be in the room, even if he’s not guiding your hand with his fingers entwined around your own over the knife.

“That would be nice,” you cautiously reply, and he smiles at you all soft and gooey-eyed. Your spine still feels like a rod has been shoved in it; being around Lucas can so often seem like a balancing act, and normally he does not come back from town in anything resembling a good mood. But giving you presents and the pleasure that had sparked in your eyes and the truth tinging your thanks have clearly set him well for the evening; he’s whistling as he rattles around in the kitchen to find the implements.

“C’mon here then, angel,” he calls, and you tuck the fat little black cat into the corner of the couch - it will be nice, you suppose, to have something to hold when you are alone later. You doubt the movies will provide much in the way of stone-cold terror, but the knowledge that Lucas is out there stalking the night and it would not take all that much for him to turn his rage on you certainly does.

It will be nice, too, to have something to hold that is yours and is not haunted by the echo of ghosts of Lucas’s past. Once, you had been uncomfortable in bed, rolling and writhing and whimpering through a nightmare – and Lucas had gently shaken you awake and placed a bear into your arms you had never seen before.

You might not have ever seen the bear before, but it had clearly once been loved; visible stitches re-attaching an ear, the velvet flocking rubbed off on its nose, the fur compacted from many nights of cuddling.

You try not to think about someone else, after you, having the little cat placed delicately in their arms.

When you enter the kitchen, you see that Lucas has spread newspaper out all over the floor, placing the pumpkin carefully in the middle with an array of carving implements and pens laid out for you. There’s a waiting candle and a box of matches on the table, waiting for the final touch.

The newspapers are all nearly twenty years old. The matches have packaging you’ve never seen before, the kind of retro artwork you’d see hipsters hang ironically on their apartment walls.

You crouch to get onto the paper he’s laid out, but Lucas clicks his tongue in annoyance at you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, and he pats his knee where he’s knelt with them spread apart. “Come sit between my legs and let’s do it together.”

It takes you a moment to gather the courage to do it – touching him voluntarily is always harder than when he makes the first move – but you see that shimmer of frustration in the air, the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and you clumsily climb over to situate yourself between them. You feel him let out a satisfied exhale as one of his arms wraps around your waist possessively.

“There,” he murmurs, directly into your ear. “Ain’t that better? More . . . cosy?”

You can feel every hair on the back of your neck, the thrum of your heartbeat, as Lucas’s hand fastens over yours and works at removing the top of the pumpkin. His chest is solid behind you, a barrel of muscle and scar – and when he shifts, and his crotch in his fatigues snugly presses against the curve of your spine, it takes all of your grace not to whimper at the feel of him hot and wanting.

Domesticity always seems to stoke something in him – and you suppose this would, under other circumstances, be a perfectly lovely Halloween evening. If Lucas were somebody you loved, and not a madman who kidnapped you from the middle of the woods. If that were so, Lucas’s breath against your ear wouldn’t make your head pound – his calloused fingers over yours wouldn’t make you wonder how he got all of those scars. The sight of a sharp instrument in his hand wouldn’t make you wonder how many have met their maker at Lucas’s behest.

There is none of the joy you would normally find in this activity, doing it with Lucas’s arm around you and his body bearing down over yours. There’s instead, the knowledge that he could break your bones if he wanted to – and a desire beating at your ribcage to get this over with as quickly as possible without alerting him to how much you hate it. Lucas hums softly under his breath as he helps you scoop out the insides of the pumpkin--

You feel your gorge rise at the sight of his hands scooping out the insides alongside your own, at the sensation of the stringy sticky pulp and seeds as they coat your fingers. The viscera of the pumpkin, laid out on the newspaper, as if some grisly crime has occurred right here in Lucas’s cosy cabin kitchen.

(He doesn’t like a mess inside the house. You know about the storeroom that you’re not allowed in, having peeked in it once when he’d left the door ajar to go and pick some meat up for breakfast whilst you stood in the kitchen with the chickens pecking around your feet. When he’d come out and seen you there, you’d stammered something about Dolly the silkie having wandered off – and though there’d been mistrust in his gaze, you’d kept your eyes wide and hidden trembling hands behind your back and eventually he seemed to have believed you).

The flash of a sharp knife in his hand makes you start against your will, your back pressing against him, your rear pushing into him. He lets out a noise that’s half a strangled huff and half a breathy chuckle.

“What’re you scared of, angel?” He murmurs, and you are stiff and frozen as he gently, gently, presses the flat of the blade against the palm of your other hand. “I won’t ever hurt you. Not less you give me a reason to. And you aren’t gonna, are you?” You’re glad he can’t see the deer-in-headlights look on your face, even as you give him a jerky shake of your head, and to your immense relief returns the knife to carving. “Good. Hurts my feelings thinkin’ you’re afraid of me.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

“I—I’m not?” You guess, stammering it out, trying to weigh out all of the options in your mind. If he was threatening you – one of those late night murmurs of “I’d break you into pieces if you ever tried to leave me, darlin’,” - then perhaps you wouldn’t have said it. But right now, he is pretending the two of you are a perfectly ordinary couple doing a perfectly ordinary thing, and so--

He laughs again, good-naturedly pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The pumpkin has taken shape now; a classic jack-o’-lantern face, jagged triangular eyes and teeth.

“You’re so cute,” he says into your hair. “Here. Look at that. Ain’t that adorable?”

Shakily, you nod. It’s not your best work – in your own kitchen, at home, you’d mastered the art of silhouetting elaborate scenes in your pumpkins. You’d used your favourite horror stills as inspiration (you force yourself not to think of last year’s pumpkin, of spending so much time carefully carving that iconic scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre into the orange flesh, Leatherface holding his chainsaw aloft – it’s better not to dwell too much on fictional monsters when there’s a very real one sitting behind you, holding you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek and resting his chin on your shoulder as he admires your handiwork).

This pumpkin is a little lop-sided; one eye bigger than the other, the cuts jagged and messy. But Lucas is smiling at it, and you force yourself to smile too.

“Where shall we put it?” He asks you, as he pulls himself up and offers you a hand to help you too. He’s a little too rough with it; pulling you against him with a throaty chuckle as you stumble, off-balance. Little reminders of your own fragility, your clumsiness and all of the things you struggle with always seem to put him in a good mood. “Windowsill?”

You swallow.

“C-can we put it outside?” You whisper, softly. “I know we won’t get any trick-or-treaters, or anything, but . . .”

You trail off; he’s looking at you again, the green in his gaze impossible to understand. He might be thinking about exploding into anger, he might be thinking about kissing you – but as you feel your knees threaten to knock together, he smiles instead.

It’s another smile that, on someone else, you would read as utter infatuation. Love, in all of its gooey, saccharine sweetness. On Lucas, though--

“Of course, darlin’,” he says. “Come put it out with me.”

You reach for the box of matches, but Lucas’s palm comes down over your hand before you can get a hold on them.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, as he picks it up himself, and strikes a match against the striker strip. You flinch at the sudden light, and Lucas makes a soft noise of satisfaction. “You'daa just hurt yourself. Leave this kinda thing to me, sweetheart.”

He lights the candle and places it in the lantern himself, before he turns to you and gives you an indulgent smile again.

“D’you think you can carry it?” He asks you, voice soaked in honey. “Don’t drop it, now.”

You nod shyly as you take it, hating yourself for playing along with him. If he wants a sweet, naive little thing who can barely take care of themselves and needs the big strong hunter in the woods to do it for them . . . well, you suppose your dignity isn’t so bad a price to pay for staying alive.

You are allowed out of the cabin, supervised. You’d earnt that right by being sweet and soft and obedient, by doing what Lucas asks and doing it the way he likes. You go out to collect eggs in the morning and you’re allowed to help him in the garden, planting vegetables and tending to those he already has. But still, every time you open the front door it feels like a treat – a thrill running through you at the reminder that there is a world beyond the four walls of home that have become your prison.

Lucas takes in a hissing sigh through clenched teeth as he opens the door.

“It’s getting’ later than I thought,” he says, to himself more than you. “I’m gonna have to get goin’ soon, sweetheart.”

You nod, and carefully place the pumpkin by the front door, where the candle inside flickers and wavers in the light breeze. You find yourself wishing that it would somehow escape its own cell of pumpkin flesh and set the cabin afire – wondering if it would really be so bad, to perish like that.

(How many more Halloweens will you spend with Lucas? Is it worse if the number is small or large?)

“Do you have to go?” You ask him, voice tremulous.

You don’t know if you want him to go. You don’t want to be with him; he terrifies you, leaves you feeling rattled and confused and conquered all at once, his presence looming over everything you do. But at the same time – you can’t in good conscience want him to go out there, to cut down Halloween revellers who merely thought the woods would be a good place for a spooky experience. Are you far enough away from wherever he might go that you won’t hear the screams?

You wouldn’t be able to pretend even if you don’t hear them. You’ll meet them later on, at the end of your fork.

“Awww darlin’,” Lucas simpers at you, grasping your chin in a hold like iron. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I told you. I ain’t gonna let a single thing near this cabin; you ain’t gonna be in a jot of danger. I promise.”

Your face must betray your anxiety, because Lucas tugs almost painfully on it.

“Don’t you trust me, angel?”

Sickly sweet and bladed like ice, you mutely twitch your head in a meek nod.

“Of course I do . . .” You whisper, and Lucas smiles in satisfaction.

“Stay here at the door for a bit while I get ready, okay? Fresh air’ll make you feel better.”

Unspoken goes the ‘don’t you dare try and run’. You can’t see yourself doing it tonight of all nights, either – though Lucas has been sweet throughout the pumpkin carving, you can already see that as he considers the blanket of night out beyond the cabin he is shifting into a predator. So you stand there, breathing in deep, slow, controlled breaths. Trying to think about how pretty the stars are and the candy that Lucas has brought you to eat in front of his crackling old television. Trying not to hear the thud of Lucas’s boots and the sound of him getting down the axe from the wall, the swish of the displacement of air as he gives it a few practise swings.

“There we go,” Lucas says, as he comes back. His axe is slung over one shoulder, and he’s smiling at you. He hasn’t made a single allowance for the cold; he wears the same shirt in a shade of forest green, straining tight over his shoulders and biceps. The silvery skin of his scars shine in the moonlight. “Don’t stay up for me, okay? Get yourself to bed. I’ll try not to wake you up.”

(Will you wake up, hearing him drag a corpse into the store-room? It doesn’t matter – you know you won’t get much sleep tonight).

He stands there in front of you for a long moment. Anxiety sends a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck. He’s waiting for something – he wants something, and you don’t know what it is, and he’s going to be angry at you for being a bad beloved and he’s going to lodge that axe in your skull--

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

His tone is teasing, but laced with simmering anger. Grateful he has thrown you a lifeline, you practically trip over your tongue as you reply in the affirmative.

One slow, lingering kiss – possessive. You’re shivering as he pulls away, and he smiles as he wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth with something that might be fondness and might be triumph, like a hunter who has his prey cornered.

“See you later,” he says. “Don’t scare yourself silly, now.”

You stand at the door-frame, waiting for Lucas’s hulking figure to disappear into the darkness of the trees. His axe is swung over his broad shoulders. The jack-o’-lantern beside you flickers and gutters in the breeze, your only companion out here. Lucas turns and waves one hand at you, and then makes a very firm ‘shoo’ gesture that you interpret to mean ‘that’s enough, now. Get back in the house before I make you’.

You close the door behind you and turn the key as he disappears fully from your view. You’ve always felt awkward being alone in the cabin – about three weeks after your arrival here, he had given you heavy warnings and set out to the nearest town for the kind of supplies he couldn’t make himself – but tonight, it feels all the worse.

You jump at shadows and feel like you hear screams with every footstep, your brain already playing out thoughts of Lucas in the woods surrounded by corpses, bloodied and grinning and feral-bright. You have to try twice to get the video into the player, and your hands are trembling as you attempt to open a packet of M&Ms and spill them all over the sofa. You pull the curtains closed for full immersion and almost give yourself a heart attack when you see light flickering outside, until you remember the jack-o’-lantern.

Eventually, though, you do relax into the movie.

It helps that it’s a movie about a werewolf stalking a suburban town; you don’t know if your nerves would hold out if Lucas had brought you some kind of killer in the woods movie. Even he, though, seems to have realised that – a quick glance at the other movies show you that one is about giant bugs attacking and the other is set in a hospital.

It’s not a good movie. In a different lifetime, you’d watch this with friends and laugh and joke over the cheesy special effects and the over-acting. On your own, though, you at least feel somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the horror recipe. The coquettish blonde in the hot pink outfit will die first; the outcast girl in her too-big denim jacket will survive to the denouement and will perhaps kill the werewolf herself.

There’s a sound from outside.

You’re half-asleep in front of the sagging middle act of the movie, but the crunch of leaves under feet has you bolt upright. Lucas can’t be home already, can he?

Time stands still. There’s a muffled giggle, and then a low voice murmuring something. You slowly, slowly, pull yourself up from the couch. You’re grateful to have pulled the curtains closed. At least they can’t tell you’re in here.

A hundred scenarios run through your head, none of them ending well. You think of every home invasion movie in a holiday home in the middle of nowhere you’ve ever seen. You could laugh at the absurdity of dying like that, when you’re literally the prisoner of some cannibal psychopath already . . . all of that, and some other horror trope catches up with you instead?

Three knocks on the door, and a voice jokingly calls;

“Trick or Treat!”

Oh, saying all of that stuff to Lucas about trick or treating was so stupid. Wanting a pumpkin out there so you could pretend to have one little bit of normalcy left in your life.

A rumble of conversation floats through the walls; something about a dead phone battery, needing to find somewhere with a landline, a map that didn’t seem to have any of the landmarks they’d seen marked on it.

(You can sympathise with that; the map you’d been using, once upon a time, hadn’t made a single lick of sense after you’d gotten into the heart of the woods, like some nature spirit was messing with you).

But that could just be a way to make your defenses fall, you think. You’ve seen that in movies time and time again – I need the bathroom, I need to use your phone, I’m sorry I fell over and I’m injured can I rest here--

One of them has the nerve to try the door; the key jingles traitorously in the lock.

You’re shaking as you approach. You can hear conversation now; a male voice and a female voice, arguing. They sound about your age.

“There’s a fucking jack-o’-lantern burning, and there’s a key in the front door, of course someone’s in--”

“Look, this is some horror movie bullshit, I don’t like it--”

“Do you think anyone keeping fuckin’ . . . those fluffy-ass chickens is gonna be a murderer? C’mon. It’s probably some old couple with their hearing going. I’m gonna knock again--”

Three raps on the door and you find yourself collapsed against the cabin wall, your knees trembling. You know you should answer the door and you should tell them what’s going on here. You should beg them to run and take you with them.

But now you’re faced with it, you don’t know what to do.

“Hello?” The girl’s voice is louder now. “Is anyone home?”

Oh, she shouldn’t be shouting. Lucas can hear when you drop a fork doing the washing up from halfway across the yard, and always comes hurrying to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself.

“Look,” the boy, “We just need to use your phone, we’re lost—”

Another voice cuts across the squabbling – one deeper and darker and grittier. A thick Southern accent.

“You sure as hell are,” it says, and there’s outright hate in it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ on my property?”

The girl screams. You can’t blame her; at six foot four and bound in scars and muscle, Lucas is a frightening prospect at the best of times. But when he’s appeared from nowhere, holding his axe, like a horror movie villain . . .

“Shit!” The boy is swearing. “Look, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

You do not see the axe come down – how could you, from the hallway, behind the door? But you hear two screams, this time – both his and hers – and you hear the wet sound of something sharp meeting something soft. Blade striking bone – the slick noise of an axe blade being pulled out of a body and then swung back in. The sound of someone choking on blood, of someone sobbing--

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Your knees give out long before the girl gives up on screaming, as you sink onto the floor and hug yourself tight and squeeze your eyes shut against the noises.

It could last forever. You try and think of something else; somewhere happier. What would you be doing right now, if you were at home? How different would your October have been?

But the slosh of blood and the hacking noise of blade and flesh worm into your consciousness, the very real massacre going on outside the front door seeping into every memory you try and recall. Your pumpkins smashed to pieces, accusing staring eyes of the corpses of your friends at last year’s Halloween party as a man with an axe mows them down in your living room--

The noises have stopped. There’s not even heavy breathing, now.

“Darlin’?” Lucas calls out, from behind the door. “C’mon. I know you’re there. You can open the door now. You’re safe.”

You can’t disobey him, you remember, as you shakily climb back to your feet, using the wall as leverage. If you don’t do as he says, then you will also meet the business end of his weapon – and he’s already said, in those jealousy-fuelled threats that he whispers into your hair at the most intimate of moments, that for your betrayal, he’d make it hurt.

You turn the key with a trembling hand, and have to force your fingers to close around the door handle. Slowly, slowly, you pull it open--

The front porch is a mess of blood and flesh and organs and other things you carefully do not look at. These people have been butchered for more than just meat – but you look up at Lucas’s eyes instead and ignore them. You can’t think too hard on it.

There are splashes of blood all over his face, flecks of red in his stubble. His clothes are ruined.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, and he steps forward and the tang of blood invades your mouth and your nostrils and gets on your clothes as he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry. I told ya’, I won’t let nothin’ happen to you. Not tonight, not ever.”

He says it like this poor lost couple were a threat, and not just unfortunates who happened upon the wrong woods at the wrong time. The wrong house.

(If you hadn’t put that pumpkin out, they wouldn’t have thought that there was anyone here. It’s your fault.)

His grip around you is tight. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest for a moment, and try to pretend nothing has happened.

It can’t last. Lucas pulls back, takes hold of your shoulders.

“Well?” He says – and bile rises in your throat as you realise you have to say it. You have to do it. If you want to stay on his good side--

“Thank you,” you breathe out, hating yourself for every syllable. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

And as you stretch onto your tiptoes and Lucas bends down to meet your lips for a thank you kiss, you pretend that there aren’t two corpses outside of the front door.

You carved a pumpkin. You ate candy. You watched a shitty horror movie. It’s like every Halloween before it--

He pulls back; a hand ruffling through your hair, a smile on his face.

“Happy Halloween, darlin’. You get back inside while I clean this up, okay? Night ain’t over yet.”

Title: The Fawn Instinct.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 5.0k.

TW: Implied Non/Con, Implied Dub/Con, Kidnapping, Prolonged Captivity, Social Isolation, Stalking, Obsessive Behavior, and No Actual Incest, But Boy If Those Freaks Aren't Trying. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

If it’d only been Bruce, you might’ve been able to live with it.

You didn’t love him, but you could imagine a world where you tried to. Most of it was circumstance; as upset as you were about the whole kidnapping thing, it wasn’t exactly a Herculean feat to endear yourself to the idea of being a handsome vigilante millionaire’s stay-at-home captive-spouse. You had no room in your heart for the stoic, reclusive, untouchable Bruce Wayne, but you could remember the adoration you’d once held for your masked hometown hero, the pride that’d once given you the force of will to all-but carry a half-conscious man in a torn cowl and a familiar suit into your apartment and lie to the cops when they came knocking. If the conditions had been different, if he’d spent a little more time as something more intimate than a stranger and a little less damning than a captor, then maybe, you could convince yourself to love him. Or, convince yourself to try, at least.

But, the conditions weren’t different, and you’d never quite had the time you would’ve needed to align Bruce Wayne with his more heroic alter ego. It’d been doomed from the start – Icarus jumping from his tower, already knowing his wings were destined to fall apart.

That aside, though, there was the more glaring issue: all his fucking kids.

Calling them kids might’ve been too generous, actually. Only Damian and Duke were younger than eighteen, and as far as you were concerned, they were your saving graces – Duke for meeting the bare minimum requirements for human decency and Damian for adamantly denying you were anything but an unwanted burden on his father. The rest were more-or-less adults, as little as you wanted to acknowledge the nonexistent age-gap between you and your gaggle of stepchildren. They were grown. They should’ve known better.

Tim, for example. He had to be… what? Nineteen? It wasn’t the pinnacle of maturity, sure, but he should’ve known you’d be able to hear your own sheets rustling through the bedroom door, should’ve assumed that you’d know he’d know Bruce would be out on patrol until sunrise. He should’ve known to wait until you were in another wing of the sprawling Wayne estate, somewhere far away from the master bedroom, or better yet, skipped rummaging through your things entirely. You knew better than to dream, though.

The door was still shut, but what was happening behind it and who was responsible were both foregone conclusions.  It was Tim, because of course it was Tim, and he going through your meager possessions, because what else would he wait until Bruce was gone to do? Cringing, you rested your shoulder against the steady wood and knocked gingerly. “…Drake? Are you in there?”

Immediately, the rustling stopped. You went on. “I think Bruce is out, if you need him. Is there something you’re trying to find?”

It was a good out. An easy out. Thankfully, he was smart enough to take the bait. A few seconds later, the door cracked, a disheveled Tim emerging with a dark blush spread over his pale cheeks and his hands shoved conspicuously deep into the pockets of his hoodie. It was a struggle not to roll your eyes. He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d come out with his dick still in his hand.

Your cheeks ached as you put on your dozenth unstrained, unworried, everything’s-fine-because-why-wouldn’t-it-be smile of the day and moved aside to let him out. “I’ll let him know you were looking for him when he gets home,” you assured, like you couldn’t see the way his bright eyes were fixed to the carpeting. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help. You all are just so heroic – it’s still a little hard to believe I’m a part of this at all.”

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, and you pretended not to hear him, cocking your head to the side. When he corrected himself, his voice was a bit louder, a bit clearer. “Don’t worry, I… I found what I was looking for. You don’t have to bother Bruce.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He’s so proud of you and your siblings, after all – it’s practically all he talks about.” A lie, but a fair one to tell. There was no reason Tim should have to know Bruce spent the majority of your time alone with his teeth buried somewhere in your neck, muttering paranoid fantasies about how many different ways you could be killed, mutilated, or otherwise indisposed by the members of his rouges gallery. “Honestly, sometimes, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve been here for years, rather than just a couple of months.”

You only realized your mistake when those bright eyes shot to you, suddenly wide and blown out with desperation. A hand darted towards you, and you stumbled out of the way, but not quickly enough to avoid Tim’s vice-grip on your forearm, to spare yourself the feeling of something cold and wet sinking into your sleeve. “You’re leaving?” The words seemed to slur together, spilling out too quickly to be restrained or refined. “You can’t leave. Bruce won’t be able to handle it, and Steph, she’ll—I mean, security-wise, we won’t be able to make sure you’re—”

Internally, you were keeping up a steady mantra of ‘Thisissogrossthisissogrossthisissogross.’

Externally, by some miracle, your smile never wavered, only growing sweeter as you cut him off with a chirping laugh. “I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, and then, after a slight lapse, “Would you mind letting go of me? It’s—uh, it’s kind of starting to hurt.”

As if on a switch, he let go of you entirely, pulling away as abruptly as he lashed out. There was a mumbled ‘I’m sorry’, and he made a swift retreat, disappearing around the next corner before you could so much as think about bringing up Bruce, again. You watched him go, only letting your expression fall once you were sure he was out of sight.

Without further caution, you slipped into your bedroom, glazing over the mess of pulled-out drawers, overturned clothes and scattered dirty laundry in favor of falling into bed, rolling onto your chest, and screaming into your pillow as loudly and for as long as your lungs would allow.

~

You tried your best never to be alone. It was a little draining, to be honest – having to keep a running chart in the back of your mind of who you could trust and who you couldn’t, constantly trying to guess whether it’d be safer to be alone with someone or if you were better off taking your chances on your own – but you’d learned your lesson the first time you’d fallen asleep in the Wayne’s at-home movie theater and woken up to Cassandra spread over you like a human weighted blanket, staring unblinkingly at your face and playing half-consciously with your hair. You tried not to leave yourself unguarded, after that.

Alfred was your first choice, Barbra your second, with Bruce as a distant third. Sometimes, you could get away with loitering near Damian (something you hated nearly as much as he did – you could only stand to be addressed as his father’s “jezebel lover” so many times), but Bruce was at one of Damian’s school events, leaving them both conveniently unavailable, and Alfred would be locked inside of his underground shooting range for another hour and a half, an activity you knew better than to interrupt. Meaning, you were on your own.

Meaning, you’d picked a very bad time to need something to drink.

The kitchen was deathly quiet, but you still made an effort to keep your head on a swivel as you made your way carefully to a corner cabinet, like stepping on the wrong tile would trigger a pit trap, or a flurry of arrows, or one of another million terrible things you hadn’t thought were possible before Bruce dedicated himself so entirely to proving you wrong. Mentally, you reviewed your haphazardly assembled schedule as you fumbled with the wood paneling and reached for a mug from the highest shelf. Tim was definitely out, touring local colleges on Bruce’s behest, Step was supposed to be in class, and Dick—

Your fingertips made contact with cool ceramic half a second before another, larger palm wrapped around yours, a broad chest pressing into your back as your mug was stolen out of your hand. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

And Dick was on bed rest with three broken ribs. Right. Of course.

You really shouldn’t have bothered leaving your room at all. Suddenly, dehydration didn’t sound like such a bad way to go.

“Let me get that, baby bird.” You cringed at the petname, but nodded, letting Dick confiscate your mug and with it, your ability to make a swift exit from a conversation you’d rather not have. “Green tea, right? I know it’s your favorite.”

“On the mark as always, Dick.” There was just enough enthusiasm in your voice to overshadow the despair. You waited until you heard the muted click of an electric kettle before turning around and settling against the counter. “I wish you wouldn’t dote on me, though. I already feel useless enough as it is.”

“Don’t sweat it, I’ve been going stir-crazy all week.” He flashed you a quick smile – tooth and beaming – before pulling open the silverware drawer and rummaging through it, like Alfred would keep his teabags with his cutlery. He was topless, wearing the same pair of black sweatpants he must’ve slept in. He didn’t plan to go out, clearly, and it wasn’t like you had much of an alternative. “This is just the basics, too. For a while there, I had your breakfast, lunch, and midnight snack preferences memorized.”

You forced yourself to smile, albeit, not as brightly as him. “…did you, now?”

“Mhm. B had us running in-person surveillance before he finally bit the bullet and brought you home, and—” He cut himself off with a sudden laugh, shaking his head. “And, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part. Oops.”

Mercifully, the kettle whistled before you could start to consider the implications, and you reached behind you, fishing two bags out of a teacup-shaped jar. It was easy enough to edge him out of the way, but not having to worry about pretending he’d ever made himself a cup of tea meant he could devote more of his energy to talking, so you still managed to lose, in the end. “He’s stingier with the surveillance footage, now. I’ve never seen him so jealous.”

“He can definitely be a little overprotective.”

You tried to keep your tone even, polite, but Dick was like his siblings – quick to action and slow to take a hint. A hand curled around the counter next to you, and you dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into the darkening water. “It’s just us in the manor, right?”

Another spoonful, just to be safe. “I think Alfred is—”

“Out for the day. Wayne Enterprise emergency – I let him know as soon as he finished down in the range.” In your peripheral, you watched his other hand come to rest on your opposite side, caging you in. “I wouldn’t mind the company, if you were starting to get lonely.”

Another spoonful. It’d be too sweet to drink, but anything not to have to look at him. “I’m afraid wouldn’t be a lot of fun, Grayson. Honestly, I was just planning on getting a little sle—”

“That’s perfect,” he cut in, too eager to wait his turn. “I’m a great cuddler.”

You curled your hand around your mug, hoping the warmth would be enough to ground you. Instead, it only burnt your palm, and for a second, you could imagine a world where your teeth weren’t buried in the plush of your cheek, where you didn’t have to remind yourself that turning around and splashing boiling-hot water on an all-but superhero’s face wasn’t a good idea. For a second, you genuinely considered it.

And then, a sound not totally dissimilar to thunder filled the kitchen; loud enough to leave your ears ringing and your adrenaline spiked. You flinched into yourself, but it only took a moment for fear to shift to relief as you noticed the bullet lodged into the wood less than an inch from your head. Your expression lit up just as Dick’s fell.

Without waiting for him to let you go, you slipped away – sprinting across the kitchen and throwing yourself into Jason’s – brave, bold, beautiful Jason – chest. He caught you one hand and finished re-holstering his handgun with the other, laughing as you hugged him as tightly as you could manage. Dick huffed, playful offense failing to mask real agitation, and you felt Jason brace against you. “Jerk off and shut the fuck up, Oedipus.”

Dick’s smile turned uneasy. “It’s good to see you too, man.”

“I didn’t come here for you,” he snapped, as short-tempered with his siblings as you wished you could be. He looked down, holding you that much tighter. “How’s my best girl holding up?”

“I’m just fine, Jason. I do think we have to have a talk about how you treat your brother, though.” You glanced over your shoulder to Dick. “A little privacy? You really ought to be staying off your feet, too.”

Reluctantly, Dick slinked out of the kitchen, hesitant to go but eager to nurse his wounds. You only went on once you were sure he was gone.

“It’s been awful. I found another hidden camera in my bedroom, and I think Tim’s tapping my—”

“I’ll do a sweep.”

He let you go, but you caught his arm. “Please, I know it’s important, but—” You cut yourself off, swallowing. It was irrational – the way you let your guard down so quickly around Jason. The mask never slipped around anyone else, whether you were afraid of them or they were one of your rare, precious exceptions. Jason existed outside of the Wayne family, though, outside of Bruce’s corrupting influence. He wasn’t going to hurt you. More importantly, he wasn’t going to let anyone else hurt you, either.

“But I really don’t want to think about that, right now,” you finished. “Just… just for a little while, alright? I don’t want to constantly feel like I’m walking on eggshells, at least not while you’re here.”

Jason stood strong for all of three seconds. With the fourth, he sighed, buckled, and shook his head, his exasperation brimming with affection. “How long until Bruce gets home?”

“Six more hours. He’s not due to check-in for another three.”

“I’ve got my bike out front. How do you think he’d feel about a joy ride?”

And just like that, you lit up. “It’d give him a heart attack.”

Jason pulled you close, kissing the top of your head.

“Perfect.”

~

Unfortunately, Jason’s visits were few and far between. You had to find ways of fending for yourself, in the downtime.

“I miss the city.”

Bruce glanced over his shoulder, gaze flickering over you before returning to the buttons of his dress-shirt. You sunk that much deeper into the mess of sheets and pillows, taking some small amount of solace in the way the cool silk felt against your warm skin.

(Sex wasn’t something Bruce came to you for often, but when he did, you gave it to him willingly, albeit with no more enthusiasm than was absolutely necessary. You rarely enjoyed it and always regretted everything you did or said during the act, but it was better than the alternative. Part of you trusted him, trusted Batman, enough to believe that he’d take your refusal for what it was, that you wouldn’t have to say anything more than ‘no’. The remaining overwhelming majority was able to look around you, to remember the way he’d held you down as he forced a needle stocked with medical-grade sedatives into your throat, and recognize that your opinion probably didn’t mean very much to him. Still, you couldn’t let things get that bad. Even if you had to surrender every other facet of your being, you couldn’t let things get that bad.)

“You hated the city. You said your landlord was a tyrant and that even the criminals were living paycheck-to-paycheck.” And then, after a second of thought, “And that there were more rats in Gotham than people.”

“Well, he was, they are, and you know I love animals.” You pushed yourself up, keeping a sheet bunched against your chest as you slumped against the headboard. “I was tired and overworked – you could see that. But, things would be different if I was staying with, say, my wealthy trillionaire boyfriend in one of the penthouse apartments that I know he has because his youngest son got in trouble for bragging about them in school last week?”

Bringing up his kids was a dirty tactic – the fastest way to get Bruce’s undivided attention. This time, when his eyes shifted in your direction, they stayed there, and he made his way back to your side of the bed. He collapsed next to you and, with no resistance on your end, pulled you into his lap. He didn’t seem to care whether or not his immaculately tailored, freshly pressed suit was creased in the process, but you did your best not to squirm. “You want to leave the manor?”

The first half of a frown tugged at the corner of your lips. “That’s not what I—”

“Elevated pulse, avoidant eye-contact,” he muttered. “Something’s bothering you.”

It wasn’t a question. He wasn’t wrong, either, but still. You would’ve preferred to be asked.

“…it’s your family,” you admitted, feigning guilt. “They’re all—” Horny, depressed, creepy little orphans. “—great kids, but it’s just been so much so quickly, and I think it… I think it might’ve been too much too quickly. For them and for me.”

“They adore you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Dick was close to moving back in when I decided it was too dangerous to leave you to your own devices.”

You melted into his chest, sighing. Reflexively, he curled around you – a good thing, if a bit claustrophobic. Bruce liked feeling like a shield between you and harm, between you and the world he couldn’t control. Hopefully, eventually, he’d realize he had more to shield you from than greedy landlords and villains who always seemed to be just out of sight. “It’s not that easy. It’s just been such a rocky adjustment period, and…” You curled your hand around his wrist and squeezed, hoping the force would be enough to communicate what you couldn’t put a word to. “I’m really afraid something bad might happen, Bruce.”

For a moment, he seemed to consider it. There was a kiss to your shoulder, solemn and lingering, then another to your cheek, more fleeting. “I’ll talk to them. They’ll give you space, if they’re told to.”

If he told them to. You doubted you held much authority, here. “And the apartment in the city? On the highest floor, tall enough to see from Gotham to New York?”

Bruce smiled, and your heart soared.

Then, he started talking, and it crashed back down, dying upon impact. “Once I know it’s safe for you, sweetheart.”

There was another kiss, this one to the nape of your neck, then another, lower down on your spine. A calloused hand slipped underneath the sheet still hugged against your chest, and you allowed it to.

Honestly, it would’ve been kinder if he’d cut you into pieces and fed you to the wolves himself.

~

You made a run for it as soon as the arguing started.

Arguing, not yelling – the distinction was minor, but significant. Yelling would’ve meant an injury, or a mission gone wrong, or something else that signaled a sudden complication that couldn’t be smoothed over with sugar-sweet sentimentality or orders issues with an ice-cold strictness. Yelling would’ve meant Bruce didn’t mind letting you overhear, which usually meant you didn’t need to be involved. Arguing, all hushed whispers and hissed explanations and vague warnings, was different. Arguing meant, more often than not, that they were arguing about you.

It was Tim’s fault, as far as you could tell. Barbara had been the one to find the conspicuously encrypted file on one of Dick’s civilian devices, the one to mention it to Stephanie as a point of concern who went to Tim within the hour, but it was still his fault. He’d gotten Bruce involved, let his need for approval tip the tenuously balanced scales that kept his family whole and you safe. He’d talked them all into waiting until Dick was close enough to confront in-person, stopping by for his weekly equipment pick-up and check-in. He was the reason you’d gotten close enough to hear something about ‘pictures’ and ‘inappropriate use of reconnaissance material’ before fleeing to the mansion’s foyer – the only part of the house you could be sure wasn’t occupied. If you were lucky, you’d only be there for half an hour or so, enough time for them to compromise on some non-solution and return to your carefully maintained status quo. If you weren’t, you’d spend the early hours of the morning—

Something small but forceful hit the nearest window, shortly followed by another projectile, then another. The glass was too thick and the world outside too dark to make anything out, but you didn’t need to see anything to know who’d come to your rescue.

Jason.

You rushed to the door, then hesitated. Jason would only get a slap on the wrist for luring you out of the estate, and Bruce could never bring himself to be that strict with you, but now might’ve been a bad time. Tensions were already running high. Your little disappearing act wouldn’t—

A sudden rush of footsteps clattering through the ceiling from the floor above you, hushed voices raised just to the point of audibility. None of it was entirely coherent, but Dick’s came the closest. You managed to make out a half-choked “If you’d just let me—” before someone cut him off.

With your better judgement reduced to buzzing static, you pried open the closer of a pair of huge, mahogany doors and slipped out of the estate entirely.

Of course, Jason was waiting outside, a small stock of pebbles still in his left hand and, of course, you threw yourself at him, letting him catch and spin you twice before setting you back onto your feet with an airy laugh. A pitch-black sports car was waiting at the end of the driveway, the engine purring loudly enough to drown the rest of the world out. “Rough night?”

“You have no fucking idea,” you muttered, breathless. “I don’t care where we go, just get me out of here.”

There was a reason Jason was your favorite. There was no argument, no prying, just his arm around your waist as he herded you into the passenger seat. Fifteen minutes and a little over fifty miles later, the mansion was little more than a dull glow on the horizon, and you could pretend you’d stopped thinking about Bruce entirely.

There was no effort to make conversation, as bad as you felt about pulling Jason into your prolonged tryst with self-pity. Instead, you sunk into the leather of his seat and fixed your gaze on the passing landscape, clinging to any detail you were able to latch onto as it flew by. It was possible, between the subways and boarded-over windows and perpetually overcast skies, to go days without seeing the sun in Gotham. Still, your life had felt brighter there than it ever did in Bruce’s estate.

Jason turned down a road you didn’t recognize, and you managed to find your voice. “Are we going into the city?”

“Even better.” He flashed you a smile, the engine purring as he accelerated. “You’ll like it, I promise. Just sit tight.”

As if you had much of a choice.

Road gave way to forest, forest to empty plains, and empty plains to the dilapidated remains of what you could only label as a long-abandoned amusement park – like Disney World if there’d been some terrible, possibly nuclear accident followed by twenty or so years of absolute neglect. Jason’s car glided past the rusted remains of an iron gate, past the corpses of rides buckled under their own weight, and came to a stop in front of a paint-stripped merry-go-round almost entirely sheeted be vines and weeds and overgrowth. You let out a low whistle as he threw the gear shift into park and, for the first time in any vehicle you’d ever shared with him, pulled his keys out of the ignition. He’d always left the engine running while visiting the mansion, but then again, you’d always been pretty eager to make a hasty escape, too.

“I love it, Jason. I’ve always wanted to get tetanus from a broken down carnival.”

“A fair, actually,” he corrected, slipping his keys into his jacket pocket. Like he expected you to try and steal them while his back was turned, or something. “My parents used to take me here, before I met B. There weren’t a lot of Ferris wheels after that.”

There was a short lapse, the sound of lips moving against teeth. You made the mistake of humming, of glancing over to him, of leaving yourself open for another question, and Jason, as nice as he was, was more than happy to take advantage of you. “So, when did you and B start…”

He trailed off, drumming his fingers against the wheel. You filled in the rest with a breathy chuckle. “When did I start sleeping with your dad?”

He jabbed an elbow into your side. “First of all, you can admit you’re fucking him or call him my dad, but you’ve gotta pick one.” You opened your mouth, already ready to spit out some dumb joke about what Bruce would’ve preferred to be called, but Jason cut in, sniping your stupid joke out of the air. “Secondly, answer the question. I get enough of your diversions back at home.”

“Being a buzzkill must run in family,” you sighed, but gave in quickly enough. “It happened once before the whole kidnapping thing, when he was staying at my apartment and sleeping off a broken leg. I hadn’t even seen him without his mask on at that point, but I figured it was a sign – destiny, or something.” You did your best to smile, slumping against the door. “It was dumb. He gave me a couple weeks after bringing me to the estate, mostly because of the crying and stuff, but things started up again pretty quickly.”

“Do you… like it?”

“Do you like asking about your dad’s sex life?” He flinched back, and laughing, you went on. “I guess I don’t care. There’s not a lot else to do.” You swallowed. “Would it matter if I didn’t?”

For someone with so many questions, he didn’t leave a lot of time for yours, the hypocrite. Moving on swiftly, he asked, “And the others, have they…?”

“No.” And then, after a beat, “Not yet.”

He seemed to relax, at that. His back was still straight, his shoulders still squared, but his grip on the wheel loosened, his jaw unclenching ever so slightly. You tried the handle – locked. Obviously. As if you’d ever get that lucky.

His voice was soft, sweet. The kind of tone you’d use on a child, or an animal, or a doll. “This would probably be easier in the backseat, right?”

“Let me out.”

“So you can go where,baby? It’s just us out here.” He laughed, resting a hand on your thigh. You slammed your shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge. “Hey, hey, this doesn’t need to get rough. I’m not going to be like Dick. The others – they’ll do it wrong, treat you like a cut of meat they have to get to before anybody else. I just need to make sure you get out of this in one piece.”

Nails embedded in leather, body crammed as far from him as you could force it be. You weren’t hyperventilating, but only because you’d stopped breathing entirely. “Let me out, Jason.”

“I love the way you say my name. It’s pretty, and delicate – just like you.” He sighed, shook his head. “I know you don’t get it, but I’m just trying to take care of you, like you’ve been taking care of me for the past few—”

“Stop acting like I’m your mom.” A sob fractured the final syllable, another bubbling up from deep in your chest a moment later. Your body was beyond the point of rationality, but the soft, preservational part of your mind wasn’t so beyond the point of seeking refuge. There was a way out of this, as ghoulish as it seemed. You couldn’t stop it from happening, but you could make it better. You’d regret it in an hour, when it came time to explain yourself to Bruce, but what happened in an hour didn’t matter, not if you couldn’t survive the next few minutes.

You might’ve done it, too – or, you might’ve tried, at least. You wanted to. You planned to. And yet, when you opened your mouth, there was only one thing you could seem to say. “I don’t want to do this, Jason.”

His nails bit into your thigh, his smile easing at the corners. For a second, you almost thought he’d pull away. For a second, you almost thought he’d sigh, straighten back up, and admit this was all part of some cruel, unfunny joke that the two of you would remember fondly, later on.

Then, he laughed and leaned forward, lips brushing against the top of your head. You felt him speak before you heard his voice, but the cloying reverberation alone was enough to tell you that you would’ve been better off never saying anything at all.

“Welcome to the family, sweetheart.”

tumblr isn't a social media it's actually my bed and u all are my plushies watching me talk to myself

Yandere! Kyojuro Rengoku NSFW Profile

Yandere! Kyojuro Rengoku x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, mentions of non-con, dub-con, breeding, non-consensual touching, dry humping, masturbation, panty sniffing, a brief mention about virginity being sacred but no explicit mention of whether reader is a virgin or not, Kyojuro is a virgin tho so corruption kink kind of, pillow humping, coercion, allusions to lactation kink and pregnancy kink, choking, spitting, Kyo gets sex advice from Tengen, Kyo picks you up at one point but remember he's literally a Hashira and could pick anyone up no matter their weight, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 12K

HABITS:

In general, Kyojuro isn’t an incessantly horny man. Not only does he hold women in a high respect and doesn’t inherently sexualize them, but to be quite honest he simply doesn’t have time to be regularly indulging in sex or even masturbation. He’s a busy man, and when others are settled under their covers, either sleeping or moaning in another’s ear, he’s out in the dark, dangerous night hunting demons.

And so despite being in the sexual prime of his life, Kyojuro doesn’t have a huge amount of experience. He’s never considered actually touching a woman before, mostly because he didn’t feel the urge to and because he firmly believes in the idea of saving himself for his wife and life partner.

And even once you step into his life he doesn’t magically become some sex-crazed monster – eventually he is, sure, but it’s gradual. It takes a while to reach that stage, for him to both desire you enough and desire sex enough to be wasting his time fantasizing about you and your body.

Little seeds will be planted in his mind as the weeks and month pass, his obsession slowly developing and leaving him floundering when small, inappropriate thoughts begin seeping into the edges of his mind.

He’s noticing the way your kimono dips down just a bit one day – your collarbones are pretty, and he can’t help but have a fleeting thought of how soft the skin of your neck and shoulders must be.

(He’ll return home that night and try to forget that thought, going through an even more extensive training regime than normal, but even by the end of the some four hour session, he’s still imagining how the skin of your collarbones must taste.)

He’s suddenly noticing that your voice gets higher when you get flustered, the pitch raising just slightly, enough for him to notice and mentally file away for future reference.

(Would your voice get higher if he were to fluster you? How would you sound when he’s just kissed you, your lips swollen and your eyes dazed? How would you sound when he’s touching you, his hands settling at your waist or cupping your breasts, or perhaps even slowly, carefully dipping his fingers inside of you, feeling you tighten up and clench down and gasp and writhe and moan his name - )

He becomes acutely aware of the way you always seem to bend over to pick things up, your clumsiness coming into play as he finds himself unconsciously moving to stand so that he has an unobstructed view as you bend over, his eyes blatantly fixed on the curve of your ass, his lips slightly parted.

(He’s definitely thinking of that image later that night, one of his rare nights off, with his hand wrapped deathly tight around his cock as he imagines you bending over for him - perhaps over his dining table, or maybe even over his knee as he gropes and squeezes and plays with you.) 

The thoughts feel largely out of place initially, more often than not leaving him slightly dazed and confused because he’s never thought about how soft and smooth a woman’s thighs must be, nor about how your hands feel so small in comparison to his: less calloused and rough and warmer.

It’s strange, but as his delusions grow deeper and his feelings for you only intensify, Kyojuro finds himself rationalizing that it isn’t so disrespectful to be thinking this way – you’re practically already courting, and while you may not yet possess the Rengoku name, you will soon enough.

And once you’re wed?

Well, surely you must know what married couples do – pleasuring one another, loving one another, spending hours tangled in the sheets with gasps and cries ringing through their ears, sweat and kisses and cum covering every inch of their bodies. And if that’s your future – which he’s positive it is – then what’s the harm in imagining it?

He imagines all sorts of domestic scenarios with you, so why should it matter if the clothing is removed and your pretty smile is replaced with a pretty moan?

It’s fine – and so, while he still doesn’t wring himself dry to you every day, he’s sure to settle down and explicitly imagine being with you in an intimate way at least three times a week – even if that means unzipping the pants of his uniform with a demon’s blood still staining his hands, freshly killed and sending adrenaline through his veins.

(Adrenaline that then gets channeled into imagining the way you’d be so proud of him for outsmarting the demon and successfully eliminating it – perhaps you’d be so proud that you’d be willing to get on your knees for him, your soft lips wrapping around him and sucking, your little moans making his head spin and your nimble fingers kneading and groping at his balls. Ah yes, what a lovely thought…)

So while he’s not the most horny yandere of his comrades, he’s certainly no saint. But really, how could he be when you’re so damn alluring?

When it comes to actually touching himself, Kyojuro finds that his pleasure comes easiest when he’s actually doing the work, actually putting effort into getting himself off. It feels okay to simply pump his fist up and down, but it’s not enough – because being with you would be so much more overwhelming, even just your body heat alone making the experience ten times more powerful, more intense, more enjoyable.

He wants to immerse himself in the fantasy of actually having your soft body to kiss and touch and love, and he finds the best way to really achieve this is to fuck something rather than fucking his fist. But he’s a loyal man, and would sooner end his life than fall into the arms of another woman, even if only for a night.

And so, he compromises by fashioning a pillow – one with a covering of your favorite color, of course – into a substitute for yourself.

And while it feels good to have the pillow at all, Kyojuro finds that even just the simple pillow isn’t enough – it needs more, to be more representative of you, to just be better at convincing him that it’s really your wet, warm cunt he’s sinking into with every thrust rather than the dense plush of the pillow.

And so, with dark ink, he musters up every bit of artistic talent he possesses and carefully, oh so carefully draws in your features as much as he’s able to. He’s certainly no artist, but he’s slow and methodical with bringing to life this poor stand in for your own body – paying attention to every small detail, wanting everything to be as life-like as possible.

Your eyes are drawn on, correct down to the shape, even going so far as to try and ink on every eyelash, the flecks of color in your irises, any eye bags or wrinkles you may have.

He’s drawing your nose, the outline of jaw and neck, and, of course, your lips. He’s drawn them so that they’re permanently parted, leaving you looking like you’re gasping in pleasure, even going so far as to try and shade them so that they appear to be wet.

(Presumably with spit, or perhaps something a bit thicker, a bit hotter – it depends on the fantasy.)

The drawings continue down your body, making sure to outline your neck and shoulders, even down to your hands and fingers. (One hand is drawn with all your fingers curled and your thumb touching your index finger, so that a circular hole is made.)

He’s drawn your breasts, nipples, the swell of your tummy, your hips and thighs, even your calves and the arch of your ankles.

(He’s drawn you so that your thighs are spread slightly, giving him a view into what lies between – he’s not entirely sure of the technicalities of female anatomy, so he’s negating drawing any specifics and instead simply leaving the area blank, not willing to misrepresent your lovely, gorgeous figure – that’d feel disrespectful to you, as if the fact that he’s essentially created a sex doll in your image isn’t. He’s seen enough mothers breastfeeding children to have an idea of the upper half of a woman’s body, but he still shivers in excitement at learning how your upper body looks – though he thinks he has a good idea based upon how your clothing fits you, his eyes greedily observing the way the material is taut around your chest.)

Once everything is drawn, it’s easy to tear holes in the pillow – one between your legs, one in the curled circle of your hand, one between your pretty, parted lips.

Once he’s completed his work he'll eagerly, gingerly bring the pillow to his bed, gulping excitedly and immediately stripping off his clothing. His cock is already rock hard, swollen and pressing against his lower stomach, the tip a bright red and shining in the firelight of the room, precum soaking the skin.

He’d managed to get a guaranteed night off-duty this evening, which means there won’t be a single interruption. He’ll set the pillow down flat, excitement already licking at his every muscle, the room feeling incredibly hot already. He’s quick to settle himself above the pillow, his weight resting on both knees and his forearm that’s pressed against the ground. His free hand comes up to lightly trace at the drawn-on curve of your jaw, his face mere inches from where he imagines yours to be.

My flame, you are so beautiful… He’ll tell you, tongue flicking out to lick at his lips.

His cock twitches as he leans down to softly press his lips against your drawn ones, the kiss soft and slow and meaningful, the Hashira pouring every ounce of affection he feels for you into the action.

He imagines you kissing back; would you be hesitant, embarrassed and shy? Or would you be just as eager, perhaps wrapping your arms around his neck and running your hands through his hair, maybe even pulling on it, biting his lip and letting him know how badly you need him?

He groans, his eyes closed, lips working harder against the pillow, his tongue coming out to dart against the hole cut out, imagining your own tongue tangling with his. His hand wanders down from your jaw to your breast, fingers groping and squeezing at nothing but cotton, but the motion alone has his hips bucking, cock brushing slightly against the pillow. It makes him hiss, pulling back from the kiss and licking his lips, his eyes already half lidded and dazed.

Forgive me, I can’t wait any longer, I must be inside you.

His voice is breathless, and as he shimmeys upwards slightly, he’s spreading his legs a bit, thighs flexing as he leans back, audible inhaling as he nudges his tip against the hole between your drawn on legs, already smearing precum against the material from just a bit of contact.

His fingers are trembling slightly as he pushes in inch by inch, going slowly just like he would if it was really you, wanting to make sure you adjust to him and he feels good, so that you’ll be ready for him to absolutely ravish you.

He’s groaning as he bottoms out, balls pressed tightly against the pillow, his chest heaving as he stares wildly at your drawn on face. You feel – you feel amazing, my flame, oh –

He presses his forehead against yours as he slowly pulls back, the muscles of his ass and lower back going taut, before sinking in slowly again, an uneven sigh of your name slipping past his lips.

You feel so tight around me, does it feel good? Does it feel good to have me inside you?

Just the phrasing of that makes his head spin, the idea that he’s inside of you (even if he’s really not) making his hips snap to life, his previously slow pace picking up quickly.

He’s panting already, all the breathing control he’s mastered flying out the window because this is different – it’s your body underneath him, your pretty pussy sucking him in over and over and over, your moans ringing in his ears as you cry out his name again and again.

Kyojuro Kyojuro Kyojuro, please it feels so good!

He’s imagining the way you’d moan his name, how your voice would get so breathy, your fingers raking down his back, your legs wrapping around his hips.

He groans your name again, hips snapping into yours hard enough to push the pillow up with every thrust, his mind running wild as he imagines how your breasts would bounce at the force, practically begging to be squeezed and sucked at. A hand comes up and begins groping at nothing again, his thumb brushing over where he’s drawn on your nipple, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as the pleasure begins mounting.

It just feels too damn good – it’s so easy to imagine you below him, crying out his name as he fucks you hard enough to leave you utterly destroyed, your perfect little cunt massaging him in just the right ways.

He’s chanting your name under his breath, his eyes wide and staring down at your inked face, his voice getting faster and more strained as his muscles start clenching, his balls tightening and his hips stuttering and his heart racing because oh god oh fuck oh fuck –

He’s pulling out at the last minute, cum spurting all over the pillowcase, his moans of your name filling the room as his hand quickly tugs, wrist twisting and moving so fast it’s nearly a blur. The pleasure is immense, leaving his toes curling and every hair on his body standing up straight, feeling as if fire is running through his veins.

After the last few sad spurts dribble from his oversensitive, swollen tip, he’s left gasping, swallowing hard and letting a broad grin slip across his face. With still heavy breaths, he pushes back any stray hair from his forehead, the bit of sweat gathered there leaving him sighing. He’s quick to lean down, pressing a soft, long kiss against your drawn-on lips, a whispered I love you murmured against the pillow.

He has to swallow hard as he pulls back, euphoria still swimming in his veins at the intensity of his orgasm. Pleasuring himself to the thought of you is nearly too much - it leaves him breathless, feeling a high that doesn’t fade for hours after, and as he lays down beside the pillow, still stained with cum as he pulls it against his chest, imagining spooning you, he can’t help but shiver.

Because if it feels this good to simply imagine, how would the real you feel?

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your thighs

In general, Kyojuro thinks you’re absolutely beautiful.

He finds you to be the single most attractive woman on Earth, and even if he’s never seen your body in anything more form fitting than a kimono or a slayer uniform, he’s absolutely sure that whatever awaits him beneath the cloth will be heaven, the thing of wet dreams.

And the moment he finally, finally has you bare below him, your pretty skin on display and waiting to be kissed, fondled, marked as his, he finds that he’s not disappointed in any way.

You’re gorgeous – and, naturally, the most gorgeous part of you is your thighs. There’s something about the sight of them that gets him swallowing hard, his eyes growing a bit brighter and wider.

His palms get a bit sweatier when he sees the way they splay out when you sit down, the fat jiggling with every step you take, the way they just look so touchable and squeezable. He nearly has a full body reaction the moment your thighs are out on display, his body temperature rising to extreme heights and his attention straining to stay on you rather than your pretty legs.

Even in settings where soft, loving affection is occurring, he's still eyeing them, appreciating the way you look in his clothing, the simple overshirt you’d put on that morning stopping mid thigh and leaving very little of your upper legs to the imagination.

 (You’ll notice the way his fingers slowly creep down from your waist, moving inch by inch until they’re finally laying over the curve of your thigh, idly rubbing and pressing into the warm flesh, marveling at just how soft you are.)

And when you’re both intimate with one another, his enjoyment of your thighs will be more than apparent – he’s always touching them, his hand coming down to squeeze and stay there, almost latching onto you as he throws your leg over his shoulder, his hips never stopping the brutal pace he’s established.

Every position he fucks you in involves your thighs somehow – he’s forcing you to wrap them around his hips when he's hovering above you and pressing down on you so tightly you’re only able to breath in him.

When he’s folded you into the deepest mating press possible, he’s holding you in position by pressing directly against the back of your thighs rather than your knees, often leaving fingertip shaped bruises there from the sheer force and strength he has to keep at bay every time he slips inside you.

Even when he’s fucking you from behind, your pretty ass on display as he sinks so deeply into you that it drives him crazy, he’s making sure to line his own thighs up to press against yours, relishing in the way his balls clap against your clit and the soft, plush fat of your upper inner thighs.

He’s paying extra attention to nip and tease you when he’s got his head between your legs, sucking hickeys and pressing kisses against your inner thighs as he slowly trails up from the inside of your knees.

He wants you to cage in his head when you’re nearing your orgasm, to squeeze as tightly as possible while he licks and moans and thrusts his tongue into you, the only thing he can see and taste and feel and hear being you you you.

Even when you’ve got your lips wrapped around his cock, his eyes are fixated on the way your thighs look splayed out while you kneel on them, his hips bucking as he zones out slightly, the pleasurable feeling of your mouth making him moan and struggle to maintain his composure.

He just really, really likes that area of your body, and while there’s certainly no part of you that he doesn’t like, his penchant for touching you there and always having a hand on your thigh will be very, very apparent to you.

So if you want to tease him, to see the way his eyes darken a bit and his smile grows a bit sinister, sit down with your legs slightly spread, stare at him with those pretty, pouty eyes of yours, and tell him that you’ve been feeling sore, will you please give me a massage, Kyo? I miss your touch…

You’ll have trouble walking the next day, and the littering of bruises, hickeys, and bite marks against your thighs will serve as proud trophies for Kyojuro, who will insist you not cover them up.

His mouth

In the context of sex, Kyojuro lives to please. He’s being completely honest when he firmly tells you that your pleasure is his, because he really does feel that way.

When you touch him it makes his head spin and his hips involuntarily buck, but when he touches you?

Well, more often than not he’s coming alongside you when he’s fingering you, that telltale groan of o-oh and the wet warmth you’ll feel against your skin letting you know exactly how watching you fall apart is affecting him. And similarly, he gets very, very into it when he’s got his mouth working at you, his talented tongue drawing tight circles over your clit and his hair tickling the inside of your thighs.

Every sexual encounter with Kyojuro will involve him eating you out in some capacity, both because he wants you to feel good, and also because he genuinely enjoys the taste of you and the feel of you against his tongue.

And he’s good at it too – he starts off slow, teasing you with playful nipping and smiles against your skin, his eyes looking up at you the whole time, forcing you to keep eye contact because he wants you to see how he pleasures you, for you to see how right he looks between your legs.

He’ll ghost around where you really need him for a while, making sure to pepper kisses at the juncture between your pelvis and thigh, the area right above your clit, even your lower tummy and hips.

He’ll kitten lick at your folds, humming against your skin and letting the vibrations send shivers up your spine, his tongue dipping just a bit deeper each time, until he’s using his thumbs to physically spread your lips, lewd slurping noises filling your ears as he licks and sucks, pleasure making you sigh his name.

After he’s sufficiently teases you, he’ll press a few more kisses to your thigh, then move upwards, still staring you in the eyes, before licking his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your clit.

He’ll tell you that he loves your body, my flame, especially this special spot that always makes you moan my name, before flicking his tongue along it, enjoying the way you jerk at the acute stimulation.

He’s perfected the art of keeping a steady, consistent pattern against you, making sure that the rhythm can let the pleasure build, a dull warmth spreading through your entire lower body.

Meanwhile, he’ll always slip a finger inside of you, curling and pressing against areas he knows you like, feeling the way your thighs twitch and your moans get louder.

He likes when you run your hands through his hair as he uses his mouth on you, especially if you lightly tug or pull; the pleasure tinged with slight pain makes him blindly hump at whatever is closest to him.

And he’ll always, always keep going until you’ve reached your high, even if that means spending hours between your legs; anything to feel the way your cunt flutters against his lips, how you gasp and practically wail his name, your thighs seizing up and your slick coating his chin and lips.

His eyes close as he eagerly laps it up, addicted to your taste – and as he pulls back, his lower face glistening with your arousal and spit, he’ll kiss you, pulling you into a passionate, tongue-heavy kiss.

Even outside of going down on you, Kyojuro finds ways to utilize his mouth in regards to you in every situation he can – he’s always pressing kisses against your lips, cheek, forehead, neck, and knuckles, liking the way that it flusters you and leaves you biting your lip.

He’s taking your hand in his and pressing kisses against your fingertips, singing your praises between presses of his lips, until he’s eventually slipping a finger into his mouth, holding your gaze as he sucks and runs his tongue up and down your skin, the intensity of the moment making you simultaneously aroused and uncomfortable.

He’ll even go so far as to share your toothbrush, just because he likes the idea of a little bit of him being in a little bit of you.

(You’re very aware of this, even without the whole toothbrush misfortune – his penchant for always, always finishing inside of you makes this abundantly clear.)

DRIVE:

Despite Kyojuro’s delusions about your relationship and how you feel for him, even he can’t misread the way you react so negatively to his mentions of being sexual with you. You always freeze up, eyes going wide, your head shaking no and your voice hurried as you tell him please, please no Kyojuro, I’m not – I’m not ready for that, please don’t!

 He’ll respect that, firmly nodding and tell you to not worry, my love, I can wait for as long as it takes!

He doesn’t really understand it, however, because in his mind there really shouldn’t be a reason why you aren’t ready – you’re his, and you know it.

 You’re living together (even if that wasn’t your choice) and you share a bed together when he’s home. You bath together (something that Kyojuro enjoys very, very much, his hands always wandering, his breath hot in your ear as he tells you that you’re beautiful, something hard pressing against you when he’s washing your hair), share a toothbrush, eat together and wear his clothing – you’re a couple, a partnership between a man and a woman, and wanting to express your love physically is a natural urge.

It’s normal and healthy, and something he wants so, so very badly to do with you. But he understands that perhaps you’re not comfortable with that level of intimacy quite yet – he’s aware of how society views women who’ve lost their virginity (he’d never explicitly asked you if you’ve touched another person, but he assumes you’ve saved yourself for him as he’s saved himself for you), and although you’d be giving it to the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with, he can respect that you might simply be afraid to lose something you’ve learned is cherished.

He’s disappointed by your rejection of sex, but he means it when he says he’ll wait for you to be ready and won’t force it upon you. That does not, however, mean that Kyojuro will completely abstain from interacting with you sexually. He just can’t help himself – sure, he may not be actively fucking you, but he finds other ways to placate the carnal desires practically begging him to rip off your clothing and press you against him while he makes you moan and writhe and fills you with him him him.

It starts small – he’s kissing you every chance he gets, letting them get longer and deeper, lasting sometimes minutes at a time while small moans and groans slip from his mouth into yours. His hand initially starts at your shoulder when he does this, but as time passes he gets bolder – it moves to your waist, your cheek, your hip, even over your ribcage right below your clothed breast, the edges of his fingers brushing against the underside of the pudge fat as moving up slowly, up until he pulls away from the kiss for air.

When kissing you becomes not enough, he moves to hugging you for longer periods of time, getting tighter and purposefully pressing parts of his body against you. He’s always been touchy, and you’ve been getting hugs for nearly as long as you’ve known him (even before his infatuation formed, back when his feelings for you were strictly platonic – now, though, they’re anything but).

But these hugs are different – he’s wrapping an arm around your waist and forcing you flush with his body, smiling at you with those wide, unsettling eyes while his breathing picks up ever so slightly, his pelvis pressed tightly against your own so that you can feel something – something warm, big, almost feeling like it’s moving against you, like it’s throbbing.

He’ll ask you to give him a pair of your panties when he leaves for missions, smiling so brightly and boyishly when you hesitantly deliver the piece of cloth to his outstretched palm, licking his lips and bringing the garment up to inhale deeply before stuffing it away into one of the many pockets of his Demon Corps uniform, telling you with a laugh to choose a pair that’s been used next time please, my flame.

(You never ask why he wants the underwear while he’s gone, simply because you think you know the answer already, but somehow hearing it from him would be worse, like confirming a truth you desperately wished to be false. Plus, you’re sure he’d tell you in extreme detail exactly how he uses them, too, perhaps even giving you a visual demonstration because he’s just so eager to interact with you, to feel your pretty eyes on him.)

It’s disturbing, but it’s a small comfort to know that he may be pushy and make you uncomfortable but he’ll never truly force you into sex. Kyojuro may be many things, but he’s at least a man of his word – even if he very, very badly wishes he wasn’t sometimes.

And so as wonderful as kissing you deeper and hugging you tighter and fucking his fist to your panties is, Kyojuro eventually decides that he needs more. He needs to get as close to actually fucking you as he can without being inside of you, just as he promised.

And so the perfect solution is really just that simple – running through the motions without violating your wishes. Kyojuro is ecstatic just thinking about – which is why, when the mood strikes him, his cock straining against his trousers and his fingers itching to reach out and touch, he’ll strip off his clothing, smiling at you and running his knuckles against your cheek while telling you to take your clothing off please, love, I want to make you feel good.

And really, as much as you don’t want to, it’s easier on both of you if you just do – your options are let him hump you like a dog, or be forced to touch him, your own hand wrapped around his cock as he moans and sighs and thrusts into your hand while telling you how good you look. And so, once your clothing is off, Kyojuro will look at you with those eyes, licking his lips slowly and walking up to you, pressing himself against you again and letting his hands sit firmly at your waist.

My flame, he’ll murmur to you, his voice low and his breath a bit hitched because his cock is pressed up against your thigh and god, even that touch alone is enough to make his knees feel weak. Lay down for me.

He’ll have you lay on your back, your legs spread for him and your arms over your head. He’ll stand for a while, simply staring at you, the sight of you in such a provocative position making his cheeks tinge pink and his throat feel a bit dry. But soon there’s too much precum dribbling from his tip to ignore, and he’ll climb over you, hovering over you and wrapping your leg around his waist, so that his face is mere inches from yours and his cock is pressed against your navel.

He’ll swallow, leaning down a bit to press his lips against yours, relishing in the warmth of your body pressed against his own. Kisses are pressed against the corner of your mouth, then down the length of your jaw, down your neck and finally to your shoulder, the movements slow and meaningful despite the near painful aching between his legs. His hips seem to move on their own, slowly rocking forward and backwards, the friction of his cock rubbing against your skin and against the tufts of hair making him hiss slightly.

His lips find purchase at your ear, deep sighs and heavy pants impossible to ignore as he slowly picks up his pace. The stimulation feels good, but it’s not enough for him - he has to move faster, harder, be better, because this is really a chance for him to show you exactly what you’re missing out on. This is his opportunity to show you that if he were to do this inside of you, it would feel so much better for you – it’s his opportunity to convince you that sex with him would feel good, that you’d be satisfied, that he could please you.

And he commits to that desire – one forearm is pressed against the bed right beside your head supporting his weight while the other wanders from your waist up to grope and squeeze at your breast, deft fingers pinching and rolling your nipple between them. He’ll groan your name, leaning down to lick at your lips and tell you that you’re so very beautiful, his voice strained. He’ll bring the hand down to ghost over your stomach, right above where his cock is grinding and thrusting, moving to bury his nose against your neck while he chants your name. His voice is a bit slurred, the pleasure making his brows draw tightly together, his hips snapping and flexing harder and harder.

He’s close, and he tells you as much – muffled against your neck, his low groan of f-feels too good, you feel so good love…

 With his orgasm approaching, he resorts to kissing your neck again, his hair tickling you and the feeling of his cock dragging against your skin over and over making your toes curl involuntarily, because even as humiliating and uncomfortable as this is, isn’t there something oddly sexy about this big, strong man making himself a fool on you, losing him mind from just the feel of you?

He’s desperate for the pleasure he’s right on the brink of as he blindly reaches out to find your hand, his fingers interlocking with yours tightly, the moan that rises in the back of his throat high and uneven and raw. His whole body shakes as something warm and thick spurts against your stomach, a few drops landing on the undersides of your breasts, his breath heavy in your ear as he slowly, oh so slowly thrusts, riding out the last waves of his pleasure.

His hand is still gripping yours, and after a moment he pulls back and kisses you again, his tongue immediately pushing into your mouth and insistent, the red on his cheeks even more pronounced now.

It’s still not ideal, grinding and humping against you like this, but Kyojuro is content to do it as many times as it takes until you finally, finally feel ready to let him love you like you deserve, to let him make you gasp and cry out his name and gush around him until you’re too incoherent to even think.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Praise

Kyojuro is very vocal in bed. He’s constantly talking to you – telling you how good you feel, telling you when something in particular feels best, warning you when his orgasm is dangerously near, just producing a constant stream of commentary as he fucks you. His voice is breathy the whole time, always turned up at the ends of his sentences because the pleasure is too strong, forcing him to slur his words together because fuck you feel good.

A lot of his vocalness stems from the fact that he’s just so excited to be intimate with you – he’s been fantasizing about this for a long time, long nights spent with his eyes closed and his cheeks a bit pink,

imagining the way you’d look underneath the pretty kimonos and clothing you wear.

He’s imagined what your face would look like when he’s cupping your breasts, thumbing at your nipples and making your brows twitch, biting your lip as you tell him to squeeze just a hair harder, pressing yourself against him because having his hands on you feel too good.

He’s imagined how your thighs would tremble when he’s got two fingers buried in your cunt, curling and scissoring and rubbing against your sensitive walls while you curl your toes and whine his name.

He’s even imagined the way your pussy would feel as he’s fucking you, how it would clench down on him hard, practically begging him to stay inside, begging for every last drop of cum he can possibly give.

He’s fantasized and daydreamed and imagined for months on end, each scenario only making him more anxious to finally have his hands on you, the buildup to actual intimacy with you leaving him wildly excited. And so, now that you’re finally with him, your perfect body warm and soft to the touch just as he knew you’d be, Kyojuro can’t help himself from telling you every little thing he’s thinking and feeling. He’s rambling on about how pretty you look when you’re underneath him, your body spread out for him and completely bare.

He’ll smile at you and kiss at every available inch of skin as his hands squeeze and knead at your sides, leaning back to admire the view of a flustered, bashful you underneath him all with a dreamy sigh and a small you’re so perfect, my flame, exactly as I imagined you’d be. And really, it would be sweet if it weren’t for the way he continues on to tell you exactly what he’d imagined, explicit details about how he'd fucked to his fist to the thought of you writhing below him, what pace he’d used, how he’d tightened up his grip to simulate how tight you’d grip him, even going so far as to tell you that this particular fantasy had him producing much more cum than normal when he eventually came.

It’s too much information and will leave you feeling disturbed and a bit scared, but Kyojuro doesn’t seem to notice – he’s too deeply enthralled with the pleasure you’re giving him, the words seeing to slip off his tongue without him even realizing it as he thrusts into you with an almost inhuman speed.

But of course, even as lovely as it is to detail all of the fantasies he’s had of you, what you’ll most often get with him is praise. He generally thinks that you’re enchanting, viewing you as something perfect and lovely and so, so very wonderful, but when he’s intimate with you this perception of you only intensifies.

Every small burst of pleasure you give him only solidifies his infatuation with you, and he can’t stop himself from telling you how beautiful you look on your knees for him, your pretty lips wrapped around his cock and your eyes prickling with tears because he’s too big for you to take down your throat. He’ll just smile, hand cupping the back of your hand and slowly easing you down his length, biting his lip at the sight and sighing out that you’re doing so well, you feel so – so good, yes love oh, suck just like that, it feels amazing when you do that.

He’ll have you perched on his lap, tits bouncing in his face while his hands clutch at your hips and move you up and down his cock, his eyes rolling to the back of his head and a moan of your name falling past his lips, small chants of yes yes yes and gasps of your name filling the air between you.

He’ll lick and suck at your clit with his head buried between your thighs, a lithe finger working in and out of you as he moans appreciatively against you, your taste on his tongue forcing him to pull back a moment to lick a long, flat stripe against your folds, his chin and lips visibly glistening as you tells you that you taste so delicious, I can’t get enough of you, give me more please my flame, I need more of you.

And when you’re gushing around his fingers a few minutes later, desperately grabbing at the pillow under your head and his hair, Kyojuro can only brokenly groan, his own orgasm not far behind yours as he thrusts his hips against the floor. You’re just so pretty and perfect and wonderful, and how can he not tell you?

And after he’s emptied himself inside of you, he’ll curl you into his arms and hold you, breathing into your ear and telling you how good you did, how you did so well and made him feel so good. Kisses are pressed against the crown of your head while he does this, his compliments sounding so genuine and reverent that you’ll be equal parts flattered and uncomfortable because god, he really means it when he says you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, doesn’t he?

Kyojuro of course loves to be praised in turn – any positive comment from you is met with eager and wide eyes, his ministrations and motions only increasing, his desperation to please you and make you feel good nearly palpable. Your moans of his name and cries of yes and right there and please making something smug and warm swell in his chest, his obsession only deepening because you just look so right when you’re falling apart on his cock.

He lives to please you, so please praise him – he’ll return the favor with so much passion and vigor that you’ll almost be embarrassed for him at how high and whiny and lewd the groan he lets out when he spills inside you is.

Almost, because he’ll follow it up with heavy breaths and a stuttered that – that was for you, because of you, because you feel so fucking good.

Oral Fixation

There’s something about the taste of you that he simply can’t get enough of. Even before he stole you away, Kyojuro was quick to snatch any small item of yours that could potentially taste like you.

He managed to snag the small vial of lip balm he’s seen you use – the one that his eyes always get stuck on, watching the way you pucker and pop your lips, the smacking noises obscene and provocative and sexy. You’d left it on the table after a lunch he’d invited you to, and Kyojuro – ever the gentleman – had pocketed it with the intention to return it to you later. Only, he didn’t – it stayed in his pocket until later that night when he’d fished it out, carefully opened it, and pressed the nearly empty balm against his own lips, closing his eyes and sighing because oh, if he licks his lips now he’ll taste you…

He’s got a cloth he keeps in his pocket that’s reserved specifically for you – when you’re eating with him, going on outgoings that are strictly platonic to you but are anything but to him, he’ll use the cloth and wipe off bits of food sitting on your lips, some stray sauce on the corner of your mouth. The cloth is kept in his pocket until later, when his cock is bright red and swollen and drooling precum for you, his lip caught between his teeth as he uses the cloth to tug and twist at his sensitive head, the friction of the cotton against his skin making him shiver and writhe and curl his toes all the while your name falls from his lips.

And once he’s done, he’s quick to bring the cloth up to his mouth, tongue lolling against the material as he tastes his cum and you mixed together, a flavor that gets the last sad little spurt of cum oozing from his swollen tip, the sensation making him groan lowly.

Really, he just likes the taste of you – and once your physical relationship begins, this penchant he has for tasting you only increases.

Now, he doesn’t have to be sneaky – no longer does he have to rely on placing your used utensils in his mouth in order to get even the slightest bit of you on his tongue.

Now he can just wrap an arm around your waist and press you close, mouth dipping down to slot his lips against yours, a moan muffled against your mouth because god, you’re so sweet and warm and he wants to drink in everything you can give him.

(Yes you’ve watched him kiss you and pull back, swallowing and licking his lips, telling you that your spit tastes delicious, my flame, please give me more before diving back in, kissing you and sucking on your tongue so hard you can practically feel his desperation.)

Now he can press kisses against your neck and jawline, tongue lathing up and down your collarbones while he licks and sucks, the dark bruising making his eyes light up and his breathing a bit uneven.

(Normally Kyojuro is strictly against harming you, but there’s something about hickeys that makes him sway ever so slightly on this rule. Perhaps it’s because he’s the cause of the dull pain, or maybe it’s because every time he’s working at your neck and shoulders you always let out these little whines that go straight to his cock, your fingers gripping tighter at his hair. Sometimes, when he’s particularly pent up and desperate for you, he swears he can even feel your cunt throbbing through the layers of clothing separating you, as if you’re just as needy and frantic for him as he is you. Ah, what a lovely thought.)

Now he can just gently press you against the wall, getting to his knees and throwing your leg over his shoulder while he pushing the pretty robe he’d bought you up to your hips, exposing the skimpy panties he'd bought for you as a present.

(They’re red, of course, with pretty lace details around the edges and a little bow at the very top, almost as if you’re a present for him to open and play with. He’d bought them for you before he’d stolen you away, gifted them to you with a bright smile and not an ounce of shame, and had insisted you wear them despite your discomfort after noticing an odd stain on  them – one that left a dark spot that Kyojuro refused to explain, only laughing and pressing a kiss to your cheek when asked.)

He’ll lick over your clothed cunt, humming against you and chuckling when you squirm at the vibrations. He’s suckling at your clit over the cloth, those eyes of his staring up at you from between your legs, the taste of you strong and making his mind spin even before he’s actually touching you.

But soon, Kyojuro can’t settle for just your phantom taste – he needs more, needs you, and so he’s suddenly standing up, picking you up with no effort and settling you down onto the bed, immediately laying between your legs. He’s spreading your thighs and licking his lips, rolling your panties down and off your legs before absolutely devouring you – he’s licking and sucking loudly enough to make lewd, wet suction noises fill the room.

There’s wet schluck-schluck noises ringing in your ears as he pushes a finger inside, all the way down to his second knuckle and curling them, the pads of his fingers brushing against the spot that gets you moaning and your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. All the while he’s playing with your clit, tongue tracing shapes and spelling his name, humming and moaning and sucking at you like a man starved. His stamina is high, and he’s keeping up the pace until you’re clutching at his hair and moaning his name like a prayer, the pleasure making you writhe and gasp and gush all over his fingers and chin.

But once Kyojuro gets a taste of you, he’s not simply satisfied with just one orgasm – he needs more, to feel you clenching down on his fingers and your clit throbbing as he fucks you through the high.

He’ll simply laugh at your whines of too sensitive, I can’t Kyo please, keeping his steady pace and pressing a kiss against your clit that makes your hips jerk.

You can do it, he’ll tell you, slick and your cum smeared all across his lips, chin and cheeks. You can give me another one, let me make you feel good, my flame.

And even while he’s fucking you his fixation doesn’t decrease – you feel like heaven around his cock, sure, with your warm, soft walls clenching down on him and your slick coating his thighs, but that doesn’t stop his fingers from snaking up and pressing against your lips.

He'll push them inside two at a time, hot breaths against your ear telling you to suck, ngh suck for me, his hips snapping into you with more fervor as he feels your lips close around him, throat tightening and your little gagging noises as he thrusts his fingers in and out.

You’re just so beautiful, and although his fixation mostly manifests as him using his mouth on you, he certainly won’t deny you if you were to flip the script. You get on your knees for him, licking your lips and pawing at his cock over his pants?

The pants are off faster than you can blink, his hand already at the back of your head and guiding you down his length, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he lets out a low groan of yes, o-oh, you’re so warm, I’ve been thinking of this all day-!

He won’t deny you when you press kisses against his exposed chest, your tongue tracing around his sensitive nipple and feeling the skin pebble, even grazing your teeth against the sensitive skin just to hear his breath hitch and the audible gulp that follows.

He just thinks the ultimate form of intimacy is to taste each other, and Kyojuro is always eager to get closer to you, and to prove just how much he loves you – and, of course, just how depraved you make him.  

Breeding

Kyojuro will get you pregnant. It’s not even a matter of discussion as far as he’s concerned – yes, it’s a sexual fantasy for him to stuff you so full of his cum that you’re literally leaking it, but it’s more than that. He genuinely wants to build a family with you, to have you as his sweet little housewife that he dotes on and provides for and cares for, and to complete the fantasy he needs a few children running around.

He gets this dopey grin and blushing cheeks when he imagines you with a toddler clutching at your leg and a baby nursing at your breast, something inside his chest swelling with pride and happiness. And so, every time he fucks you he will be finishing inside, stuffing you as full as he physically can.

The image of you pregnant gets his breathing shallow; something about seeing you round, your breasts swollen and nipples so sensitive you sharply gasp when he so much as brushes against them making him shift his pants, his skin feeling hot and clammy. He likes the idea of knocking you up so that you’re completely, utterly dependent on him for every little thing – you’ll be so sweet and lovely and incapable, allowing him to attend to your every need. You’ll need him to walk any significant distance, to reach things on high shelves, to help you get up and out of chairs, to help with anything, really, and Kyojuro is more than happy to aid you in your time of need.

But even outside of actually getting you pregnant, the kink also satisfies some of his more shameful needs, some of his more masculine and carnal needs. After all, breeding you means coming inside you, filling you to the brim with his cum, something only he can provide you.

There’s just something about the idea of leaving you full with something so utterly him that gets him hot under the collar, his fingers twitching eagerly because just the thought makes him desperate to get his hands on you. He's not too terribly possessive, all things considered, but something about the idea of his cum settling inside you just feels right in a way he can’t describe, almost as if you were made to take it. As if you were made to take him, really, if the way your perfect little pussy sucks him in so well is any indication.

Besides, every time he finishes inside he’ll pull back and just stare, watching with bright eyes at the way his cum slowly dribbles out of you, white staining against the curve of your ass, his fingers coming up to scoop up the leaking bits and stuff them back inside you.

(And he will finish inside every time he fucks you, and even when your fist is wrapped around his girth or your lips are pressed against his base, tip making you gag at how deep he is in your throat. He’ll warn you with a near-yell of ‘m close before pushing you down and spreading your legs so quickly that it knocks the breath out of you, nestling his tip just inside you and coming, the sheer volume and force of the spurts making you squirm because you can feel it.)

There’s lots of talk about how you mustn’t waste anything he gives you, how you must keep every last drop inside you, his voice strained and breathy as he groans that into your ear, a thrust punctuating each word and making you clutch onto him for dear life because he’s fucking you meanly, every clap of his hips against yours making you physically scoot up until you reach the edge of the bed.

There’s something about the idea of stuffing you full of his cum that makes Kyojuro near feral, his hips seeming to have a mind of their own as they snap and pound against you, his cock pushing deeper and deeper and deeper, tip nestling further inside you with every thrust.

While he’s fucking you, the only thing running through his mind (aside from the constant stream of compliments towards you and the indescribable feeling of how fucking warm you are) is a mantra of needing to get deeper, to go as far inside you as he can, to press right up against your womb so that when his abs flex and his pace stutters, a shallow gasp and low groan rolling past his lips, his cum can shoot directly where it needs to go. It can spurt and splatter and flood your cute little pussy, each twitch of his cock giving you more and more and more, until it’s literally leaking out of you, even while he’s still stuffed inside you.

And Kyojuro, ever the talkative lover, is more than happy to narrate the process – his orgasms always follow a rather wanton groan of your name, his voice strained and uneven as he tells you to take it, o-oh take it take it take it, take every fucking drop ngh yes yes yes!

He’ll press down on your stomach as he finishes, the sensation making you impossibly tighter, the motion forcing his cum to shoot even deeper into you, his eyes wide in wonder and lust as if he can see the way his cock is twitching and throbbing, pushing out everything it can give you.

His voice nearly awed as he asks if you feel that, my love? I’m breeding this lovely pussy, does it feel good? It’s feels likes heaven for me, and soon you’ll be rounded and glowing and carrying my child.

He’ll pause to press a kiss against your nipple, tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive skin, before cupping it with his hand and squeezing, his own voice turning a bit darker as he tells you that soon your breasts will be so swollen and heavy, you’ll be feeding our child, nursing our baby…

He sucks at your nipple, hard. I’m sure you’ll taste divine – you’ll give me a taste too, I’m sure.

He’ll run his hand along your stomach, sucking in a sharp breath and telling you that you’ll be full soon, that you’ll be swollen and big and his, your body proving to him exactly who you belong to, exactly who kisses you and fucks you and gives you what your body is made for.

He just really, really wants a family with you, so don’t be surprised when he forces you to lay by his side for hours after sex, his cock keeping you stuffed full, not allowing a single drop of cum to leak out, his hand pressed firmly against your stomach as he rambles on and on about baby names and how he’ll be there for the entire birth, how he hopes the baby has his hair and your personality, how he’ll protect the both of you from demons until his dying breath.

It would be sweet, really, if he wasn’t so insistent, if he didn’t have twenty names already picked out for you to choose from, if he wasn’t telling you that according to Shinobu the part of your cycle you’re currently in is your highest window of fertility, if he wasn’t clutching onto you and saying when you’re pregnant instead of if.

And when his cock slowly hardens once more inside of you, you’ll feel the palpable change in the air as he kisses your neck again, his hips slowly starting to move as he tells you that he has to make sure it took, I have to make sure you’re carrying my child… Open your legs for me, my flame, let me give you more of me.

And when he comes with a gasp of your name a few minutes later, even more cum flooding you and sending some dripping down over his cock and onto his pelvis, Kyojuro can only lick his lips, the sight of you with a rounded belly and swollen breasts making him near feral.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Marking

While Kyojuro isn’t the most possessive, there’s something about the idea of physically marking you as his that gets his blood rushing, heat blooming on his cheeks, a wide grin splitting across his face.

Just the thought get him eagerly pulling you closer, nudging his nose against your neck, sighing heavily and letting you feel the way his pants slowly grow tighter, his breathing growing heavier as he groans your name.

There’s just something about the idea of claiming you as his own that makes some primal, animalistic part of him light up, so be prepared to be absolutely covered in marks as your sexual relationship progresses.

Hickeys will cover nearly all of your skin, leaving no area untouched by his lips and teeth. He’ll leave love marks (as he calls them) in the shape of a heart situated on the plane of your chest, nestled right up your breasts. As he’s fucking you he’ll kiss over the area again, his hips never slowing their pace as he starts whispering your name under his breath, nearly chanting it with every clap his balls against the curve of your ass.

A ‘K’ and an ‘R’ are placed on your inner thighs, so that when he sits beside you he can reach over and grip the area, sending you a blinding grin and telling you that even under all the layers of clothing he can feel your love. Once the marks fade he’ll spend hours between your legs again, remaking the hickies so there’s a letter per leg, so that every time he spreads them, excitement bubbling in his chest, he’ll see his letters, a mark of ownership, a reminder that you’re his and his alone, that your pretty skin and plush thighs and that lovely little pussy of yours is completely and utterly his.

It’s just fucking hot to Kyojuro, so when he pins you down, your body nude and bared for his eyes, know that he’ll kiss you, lips working eagerly against your own, tongue coaxing yours in an effort to get you to engage, groans and grunts tumbling into your mouth as his hands wander down to grope at your breasts, squeezing your side, toying with the pubic hair settled on your navel.

He’ll kiss you, then let his lips travel down, dipping to your neck to suck harshly against the skin, then down to your collarbone to lick and suckle, then to your nipples to bruise the area beside your areolas, then down your stomach and to your thighs, mumbling praises and sweet words of affirmation as he goes.

You’ll wince and avoid looking at yourself in mirrors after he’s through with you, but just know that Kyojuro does it all out of love.

He doesn’t enjoy hurting you, but the pleasure and pride that swells in his chest when he sees you with his markings outweighs his small worries at your bruising.

Just let it happen, really, because he’ll be getting his way, one way or the other, and while eventually the dull throb and sting as he works section after section will grow slightly painful, at least his fingers are talented – after all, you can handle the hickies when he’s making you gasp his name, cream on his fingers and beg for more, more, more, right?

Choking

While Kyojuro is generally the more dominant partner in bed (regardless of your personal tastes – he likes to feel like your provider, so even if you want to peg him until he’s a sobbing, begging mess, little mewls of your name and p-please, need to come so bad slipping past his lips, you’ll likely be the one trapped below him), there’s a certain allure to letting you take charge for a night every few weeks, letting you take the reigns for a few minutes.

There’s something oddly sexy about watching the way the power slowly goes to your head, how your eyes grow darker, your actions more passionate as you bounce up and down on top of him, your hands planted against his chest, pinching at his nipples, shoving your tongue down his throat all while he groans and enjoys the view.

He just likes to see the way you use him, his body simply a toy for you to get off on. It’s the ultimate form of caring for you – and seeing the way you’re so unabashedly pleasuring yourself gets his blood pumping so hard he can hear it in his ears, the sight of you so raw and natural and not at all the shy little thing you were when he first spread your legs all those months ago making him lick his lips in anticipation.

And yet, there’s a certain habit you’ve developed in these moments that Kyojuro absolutely cannot get enough of – that is, when your soft fingers wrap around his throat, your skin against his, pressing just hard enough to disrupt the blood flow to his brain, the feeling dizzying and disorienting and wonderful.

His eyes literally roll to the back of his head when you do this, your hips snapping and scooping above him as you tell him to hold it in, be a good boy, don’t come yet.

He’s groaning and wildly bucking his hips, face turning slightly red as you lean down to kiss him, your lips harsh and demanding, the kiss rough and forceful.

It’s heaven, Kyojuro thinks, as you clench around him, your fingers following suit, his cock twitching inside of you, his hands coming up to grope and knead at your ass as he bounces you harder and harder, the desire to come inside you suddenly washing over him.

It’s something he finds himself craving as time goes on, and so while he’ll more often prefer to be the one on top, in charge, calling the shots, be prepared for the nights where he wants to let you do all the work.

But really, once you’re straddling him, sinking down onto his drooling, leaking tip and grinding, your hand wrapped around his throat, he’ll often do most of the ‘work’ – desperate, sad little humps up into you with his heels planted against the futon mat that’ll leave you gasping and going limp, his cock reaching parts of you unexplored by your own fingers.

And when you lean down over him, your pretty face just inches away from his own flushed you’re your fingers wrapped around his neck, Kyojuro will eagerly obey when you tell him to open wide, his cock throbbing inside you as your spit lands against his tongue, your taste and the lewd sight of you spitting in his mouth making his orgasm hurtle towards him. As soon as he eagerly swallows his eyes are going wide, his words rushed and slurred and strained as he tells you that it’s so fucking good, oh here it comes, shit it’s coming, it – it’s-!

He just really, really likes the way it feels to have your pretty fingers around such a vulnerable area, so get used to it – because Kyojuro is a passionate man, and as his lover, you must be just as passionate, too. 

BIGGEST FANTASY:

As a general rule, Kyojuro is vocal about every sexual desire he has with you. He doesn’t believe in keeping secrets, especially in the context of sex where you could both be benefitting.

He wants to share every explicit, lewd fantasy he has of you simply because he thinks you might enjoy it – you might have even been dreaming of doing the same thing, you were just too shy to tell him.

(He knows how you are – how you’re so very shy, always seeming to skirt away from him when he nears you, your wide-eyed looks you send him when he’s talking to you, how your hands are clammy and you’re shaking ever so slightly when he pulls you in for a kiss with far too much tongue.)

And so, Kyojuro is open and honest; painfully so, really. He wakes up one morning with you in his arms, your eyes already open as he leans in and kisses the shell of your ear, sighing and pressing his navel against your ass, telling you in that husky morning voice of his that he’d dreamed about tasting you until you cry, my flame, doesn’t that sound nice?

(And of course, you’ll not be leaving that bed for hours after the fantasy is spoken out into the air – Kyojuro is nothing if not determined, and his tongue seems to never tire.) After returning home from a mission, he’s announcing to you that he’d passed by a risqué local shop and saw a drawing of a man and a woman where the woman was on top and oh, why didn’t you tell him that women sometimes enjoyed being the more dominant partner?

You’ll be left to flounder, unsure of how to respond, but it’s too late because Kyojuro is already laying down on his back, his pants pulled down to his knees and his expression eager, the smile across his lips blinding as he tells you to come here, my love, the woman in the drawing looked to be enjoying herself, and I want to see that on you as well!

However, because he has no sexual experience before you, he doesn’t harbor any particularly intense fantasies for you. He’s excited and aroused by the simple, straight-forward sex that he knows produces a child – missionary, mostly, or positions that involve spreading your legs and maintaining eye contact while he slides in, a hand cupping your cheek while he groans and tells you in a strained voice that you’re so beautiful, you feel so – ngh, so good!

And so, after a one-off chat with Tengen about wifely matters (he’s announced to the other Hashira that he has a wife, though none of them have met you or know that you aren’t actually his partner, just the woman he considers to be his wife), Kyojuro asks with complete sincerity if his friend has any advice in the bedroom.

Tengen had just laughed and clapped Kyojuro’s back, telling him that sex should be flashy, so don’t do the same things over and over! Mix things up – women love variety, so try some new positions, or a different method of pleasuring her!

When asked what other positions to try, Tengen had grinned, his eyes widening a bit as he said bend her over, she’ll feel you deeper and the view will drive you crazy.

And so, that night after coming home to you, he’d gulped, his eyes narrowing in on your ass, his voice a bit gruff as he told you to come with me, my love, I want to try something new.

“Are you comfortable?” Kyojuro asks, though he sounds distracted.

Swallowing, you nod, embarrassment clear on your face. This position was beyond humiliating – Kyojuro hadn’t explained much when he approached you earlier in the evening, simply looking at you with those unblinking eyes and telling you to get undressed because he had something new he wanted to try out.

And now, here you are, on your hands and knees on your shared bed, clothing neatly folded in a corner of the room. It’s cold, and the air is making goosebumps prickle along your skin and your nipples stiff.

If Kyojuro notices you shiver, he doesn’t say anything – instead, you hear him gulp, the sound suddenly much closer.

“You’re very beautiful…” He whispers, so quiet and unlike him that it makes you glance back over your shoulder. The sight you’re met with makes your embarrassment deepen, a mixture of shame and bashfulness seeping into your every bone.

He’s standing behind you, those wide eyes of his fixated on your exposed cunt, with his cock in hand. Thick fingers wrap around his base, visibly squeezing, his balls periodically twitching even without being touched. He looks entranced – awed, almost, presumably by the sight of your ass presented on display like this.

“Kyojuro…” You start, anxious to just get started so he’ll stop staring at you like you’re something holy and sacred. Wiggling your hips, you hope he’ll get the message.

Instead, you hear a muffled groan and suddenly feel air brushing against your sensitive folds, the sensation making your arms feel a bit weak. You feel a sudden slimy warmth, and wet noises ring in your ears as Kyojuro presses his tongue against you, dipping in briefly to taste and rub at anything he can reach. Heavy breaths are muffled against your cunt, but the insistent press of his chin against your clit makes it difficult to focus.

“Kyo – oh, Kyo please need you to fuck me, don’t tease me.” Your whines make him pause for a moment, before he slowly pulls back, pressing a single long kiss against your folds that has you biting your lip.

“Very well, you’ll have to tell me how it feels, love. Tell me everything you’re feeling.” He asks, gripping his base again and rubbing the tip through your folds, collecting your slick at the tip. His breathing is still loud, the way he’s sucking in air through clenched teeth making it obvious just how strongly the sight of you bent over and exposed like this is affecting him.

You look gorgeous – he’s intimately familiar with what’s between your legs, of course, but this view feels so lewd. He can see your pretty hole clenching every few moments, tufts of hair decorating the pretty sight, and he can even see your other hole, the one you always tell him not to touch with a squeak and a slap of his hand.

Soon he’s swallowing hard and pressing himself inside, the breath sucked out of his lungs because somehow you feel tighter like this, your cunt seeming to suck him in so tightly that it almost hurts, the sensation making his knees buckle slightly.

And you’re certainly not helping, either – as you’d promised him you’re gasping, telling him in an airy voice, “It’s so big – you’re so big, Kyo, fuck you’ve never felt so big, I can’t – you have to wait a second, please, ‘s too much-!”

And he does, with bared teeth and hands that find purchase at your ass, just as Tengen had told him to do. He’s groping at the soft flesh, grabbing handfuls and pulling them apart to get a full view. A whine slips out of him at the lewd sight of his cock buried to the hilt inside of you, the angle letting him see just how you stretch to accommodate him, even seeing the edges of his balls pressed against your thighs. It’s just too much, and as soon as your shaky ‘okay’ registers, Kyojuro’s immediately thrusting.

And the sight of him moving is even more erotic – pulling out of you and seeing the ring of white coating his base makes him lean more of his weight against you, trying to get more leverage as he thrusts back in so that he can fuck you harder, wanting to get impossibly deeper to feel more and more of you. He’s entranced, watching with wide eyes the way he appears and disappears inside of you again and again, almost lost in a trance.

Your noises have him grunting, the desperate whines and rhythmic gasps every time he sinks back into you making his orgasm come creeping up much too quickly. He’s just too overwhelmed, your pretty moans and cries of his name making his head spin.

Soon he’s bringing a leg up and pressing his foot flat against the ground, gaining better leverage and an angle that makes you scream, your cunt squeezing down on him so tightly that he struggles to pull back to just his tip. He’s seen animals do this in the wild – he’s fucking you like an animal would, mounting you and grasping at your waist to pull you back against him harder, anything and everything to get him deeper inside, to reach a part of you that he’s sure no man or even you have touched.

You’re just too damn pretty, and as he gasps your name and clutches onto you tightly enough to leave bruises while ropes of runny cum fill you, Kyojuro decides that he needs to try out all the other positions Tengen had told him about – perhaps he’ll try something called 69 with you tomorrow.

Maybe that’ll get you to scream his name like this ‘Doggy’ has.

tw: non con ish, toxic relationship

i need nate jacob’s complex bakugo or something

just… i know he gets massive character development later on in the manga, but if he had gone down the other path and given into his jealousy i could totally see him becoming a possessive, toxic masculinity ridden POS who has a death grip on his doe-eyed, nympho gf.

he walks behind you in the halls like a doberman, making other dudes who look at you cower with just a glare. everyone knows not to mess with bakugo - no one is stupid enough to think they’d get out with all their limbs un-exploded if they did - and to fuck with you, to talk to you, is fucking with him. bakugo doesn’t like people touching what’s his and you’re the most precious thing he owns.

bakugo is an angry guy, but something about you calms him down. you’re a pretty little thing - light, flirty, sexy - with baby soft skin and a smile that makes his chest tight. everyone wants you. you know it, he knows it, but nonetheless you stick by his side. his pet, his princess. god does it do something for his ego.

when he’s looking into your eyes he sees something good, something sweet that loves him back. he feels a swell of pride in his chest whenever he wraps a hand around your waist and you let him pull you in, or when you don’t fight when he grabs your wrist -burning small warning marks with his quirk - and tells you that you aren’t going out with your friends tonight. you worship him and he protects you. it works.

he wants to hoard you, consume you. he wants your life to be revolved around him and him alone. when he takes you to bed he spends hours between your legs, eating you out like a madman, forcing you to scream his name until your throat goes hoarse. “katsuki! katsuki! katsuki!” well into the small hours of the morning, until he’s positive your mouth knows how to say nothing else and the noise becomes more of a plea for mercy than an aroused encouragement. then he fucks you like an animal, thrusting into you violently, kissing you with tongue and teeth and saliva dripping down your chin, growling that you’re his and you’ll only ever be his.

and you, being the pretty, agreeable bitch you are, of course nod along, digging your fingers into his back as he cores you out.

but ultimately you aren’t surgically attached to him and you do have enough autonomy to leave, which, considering how HORRIBLE he is would probably be something that crosses your mind at least a few times. if you should choose to do that, prepare for his wrath. you can change all your classes, hide behind your friends, stay home all day - it doesn’t matter. bakugo will find you - he’ll break in through your bedroom window if he has too. crawling on top of you, pinning you down to your childhood bed, reminding you with flame dripping from his eyes that he wasn’t fucking lying when he said you’re his. now you’re gonna be good and lay still while he reminds you.

A Simple Cup of Tea [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: A Simple Cup of Tea [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: You have to be prepared and poised and perfect. But it’s hard to be all those things, even with the looming threat of your husband sitting next to you, when you’ve got a secret hidden underneath your clothes…

Word Count: 1875

Notes: yandere, forced marriage, abuse, bondage, NSFW 

Poised.

You must be poised. Every movement, every gesture, must embody a quiet grace. Your face must be pleasant, without seeming garishly joyous. Your voice must be soft, melodic, clear; yet loud enough to be heard without being required to repeat yourself. 

You must know how to keep a conversation going smoothly, like water in a stream, yet understand when to keep silent. You must know all of these things and so much more, and act on them at all times in the proper degree; all in order to avoid embarrass yourself and more importantly, embarrassing your husband.

In other words, you must be perfect.

And you try–you have to try, because what other choice does Scaramouche leave you?–but it’s difficult. You were never born for this stifled life he’s pushed you into, for a life spent mostly within the walls of his home or at most, behind the high, impenetrable walls of the courtyard.

Keep reading

mixed messages | r. sukuna

✮  tags ; gn + afab!reader, unhealthy relationships, not cheating but reader flirts with gojo while tipsy for fun, undefined relationships, fingering / making out, jealousy, modern!sukuna, sukuna and yuuji r brothers 18+

✮ wc ; 2k

✮  a/n ; a snippet / extension of my modern sukuna post for @arguablyferal. i hope it gives a clear-ish idea of what he's like!!

some more like. relationship explanation in an authors note at the end.

✮  synopsis ; you've never been able to get a good read on him. would he really come to a party just to keep you from flirting with another guy ?

somehow you doubt it.

He's hitting on you.

Gojo is, you think. Though you can't be sure since it feels...a little conceited to believe that a guy like that suddenly developed a genuine interest in you. You can think of a couple reasons he would hit on you, all of them to do with getting on Sukuna's last nerve in their never-ending rivalry.

But it's weird because it doesn't really feel like he's just messing around. As in, it doesn't seem like it's just for that reason.

You know Gojo. Not as close as Shoko or Getou might but enough to comfortably call yourself a distant friend. A little more than acquaintance but less then close.

He's facetious—melodramatic, really—totally by design. By necessity, some of it is an act, but you're good enough at reading him to know what's playful and what's not.

That's why you think that Gojo is really hitting on you. He's using the fact Sukuna, your...whatever, isn't here attending with you. He was supposed to be here but he flaked last minuted on coming with you. You ended up taking Yuuji and his friends though, anyhow.

You're letting him do it. He's serious about hitting on you, and he probably knows you're not very serious about returning his feelings.

But you're entertaining it, despite yourself.

Everyone you know is looking the other way while it happens too. Gojo is leaned close, sitting next to you in a plastic chair, and you're just a little bit buzzed. Humid summer air warms your skin, makes you want to sink into the night.

You're not touching, but you're too close for not-quite-friends. Gojo edges on touchy. A soft nudge here and there, the kind of proximity you shouldn't have. Gojo is a breath away, sober because he doesn't like alcohol.

And he's super friendly, which is nice.

A beat of silence settles between you as the night rolls in a little heavier.

Gojo says you what you assume he's been thinking about all night, without any real introduction.

"You should break up with him," He says, just over a can of soda with a kind of sincerity that makes you restless. You feel your nerves flip.

Your mouth moves before your mind has a chance to fill in the answer. You laugh. "I know."

"You're really too good for him, tsk," Gojo laments, clicking his teeth. Playful again, using just enough drawback so that you don't suffocate in the honesty. You shouldn't entertain this but the attention is nice. "And gosh, you're so much more fun without that dark cloud hanging around you, y'know"

You giggle unconsciously at the thought of Sukuna as a dark cloud. Big and broad with a deep voice—it's an astute comparison. Shaking your head, you give him a playful glance. "Am I really more fun? I feel like I'm not as good a conversationalist as a certain someone,"

Gojo smiles at you proudly. "I'm having fun at least."

You close your eyes and take another, much longer drink. "Yeah, me too."

"If you know you can do better, why bother with him? I figure that bastard might be holding you hostage but," He's serious again, brows raised. "You've got more options, you know?"

You shrug, absently. You don't know the answer yourself. It's one thing that Sukuna never quite lets you leave but it's another thing you come back to him every time. You settle on your reply with closed eyes then laugh a little too loud. Gojo doesn't startle.

"Who knows? But you know, thank you anyway. It's good to have options. Maybe it'll knock some sense into me,"

Friendly again. He's a nice guy you think.

"If it doesn't, make sure to give me a call. I'm pretty great too, y'know."

You give him a lighthearted smile.

It's hard to hear much over the loud thump of music. You're not very in touch with your surroundings and the pleasant air around you all but swallows you.

It takes you a minute. Longer than you care to admit, to realize that someone is approaching you. Even longer to realize who.

Sukuna is looming over you and Gojo when you finally look up.

"Having fun?"

You blink, pulling away to make sure you're hearing correctly. Sinking back into your chair, your eyes flicker up to whats casting shadow overhead. His voice almost bellows, deep and coarse but not loud.

"I thought you weren't coming," Is all you can think to say. Sukuna rolls his eyes.

"Yeah. I thought so too,"

He doesn't ask you to get up as much as he tugs you towards him. He's careful not to pull too hard but you come up still on a stumble, drink still in hand, and face in his chest. Your heart thumps, embarrassed by the sudden warmth. His hand sits on your lower back and suddenly there's a conversation happening overhead.

"Quit sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," He spits. He's talking to Gojo you realize.

"Be careful there, nii-san. You're gonna make it seem like you care."

Sukuna tenses under you before he relaxes again - rolling his eyes. He's not happy about it but you can hear that he's trying not to let it show.

"Stay out of it." Sukuna demands. Gojo whistles.

"Sure, sure. You two have fun there."

Sukuna turns you around like that, your face still in his chest as he drags you away. You hear Gojo laugh faintly as you walk further away from the crowd.

__

You don't really get any explanation from Sukuna as he packs you and himself in the backseat of his car.

He's quiet the entire walk there, and the air is so heavy your lungs can't find a breath around it. He doesn't say anything to you even as he opens the back door. He tells you to get in but doesn't show any emotion you discern.

Instead you end up laying in the backseat with Sukuna over you - cramped as his tongue slips all the way into your mouth and his hands grab your waist. All too sudden, without any ceremony at all.

You kiss back because he's being so suffocating and it's all you can think to do to appease him. As soon as he lets you breathe, you put a hand on his chest and push him away.

You make eye contact but he still hasn't said a word. "Are you mad?"

He sneers. "You tell me,"

He ducks down again to kiss you and you let him this time, doing your best to gauge what exactly he's thinking. You know he's upset, rather - but it's weird. Something is different about it.

His mouth is hot as he hands slide underneath your shirt further- his knees keeping your legs apart as his thigh presses against your clothed sex. You shiver, moaning into his mouth and Sukuna swallows the noise. Gasping, you pull back again.

"All you do is piss me off you brat," He tugs your lip back between his incisors as he speaks, voice bordering on a snarl. "You should know better than to cozy up to that idiot."

You squirm. "I wasn't cozying—"

"You think I'm fucking stupid? Think I don't got eyes to see with?" And then, like he's predicting your next question. "Yuuji texted me."

"And you came?" You stop, keeping him from going any further. "You came 'cause Yuu-chan sent you a picture of me and Gojo-kun....?"

He ignores your question. "Take your pants off,"

You make a face at him but oblige, hands unbuttoning your jeans as Sukuna practically tugs you out of them and your panties in one go. He sits back up on his legs and maneuvers carefully to keep his hands between your thighs. His middle finger runs through your slit, palm putting pressure on your clit.

He's rushing more than normal, mouth crushing yours again in a kiss so heavy it makes you gasp. You feel like you're imagining it but each time you pull back - his teeth sink into your lips until they're throbbing from how hard he's bitten them up.

He's possessive. Always has been. He's territorial over you in one way or another over everything, but it's usually only when you threaten to leave. There's a merit to what Gojo said about keeping you held down. But even in that, there's never any emotion stronger than annoyance to follow your little tantrums. You wouldn't call what you feel now desperation by any stretch.

But it's something more then simple possession and it makes you ache.

"I wasn't gonna do anything with him." You say half-way between a breath. You see his jaw tick with irritation at the mere thought. "It was just for fun—"

He quiets you with his fingers. With his hands, rough - spitting hard on your clit from where above making it splatter against your thighs. His fingers fingers the thick layer of spit and drag them down against your throbbing clit to make it wetter. He touches you hard and fast, places kisses against your jaw and collar before sinking his teeth into the clothed shape of your tits.

His fingers find your pussy not long after. Thick, scarred, intrusive - he slips them in one at a time. As much as he knows you can take until he touches that spot inside of you that leaves your whole body tingling. Knuckle deep, he presses his palms up against your clit to make sure you have the right friction. You moan his name loud, eyes rolling up into your head,

The windows are starting to fog.

"Sukuna,"

He grabs hold of your face with free hand, bordering on a snarl. It's mean you think, but more then that there's a genuine frustration to it that makes you shiver almost shamefully.

"You're mine." He sneers. You feel your cunt twitch unhelpfully at but Sukuna doesn't budge. Doesn't even go to make fun of you He just keeps growling, leaning in to kiss you - forcing his tongue into your mouth and pulling away again. "Get close with that bastard and I'll kill him."

Your stomach flutters in arousal at the aggression in it. The unreasonable, unhelpful, trained part of your brain nearly screams. He wants you, he wants you, he wants. It makes you wanna—

"G-gonna—gonna cum, fuck, Sukuna."

He kisses you again, murmuring against your lips. "Cum,"

Your thighs clamp around Sukuna's wrists as he continues to finger you, grinding yourself the edge of his palm as you ride out your high. Your voice pitches into a high whine, spine arching. It's rushed but intense, scratching the itch but not enough to tamp down the heat completely. You squirt around his fingers in a full blown gasp and find you can barely get your head above water.

You cum hard, convulsing. He doesn't move his hand until you grab him by the wrist and shake your head. Surprisingly, he listens easily and pulls away.

You pause and stare at him after you've caught your breath.

"What's wrong with you today?"

"Stay the fuck away from that guy."

You roll your eyes. "He's right. It's starting to sound like you love me or something. I wasn't gonna sleep with him anyway so chill out."

He scoffs. "Don't even fucking dream of it. I'd kill you both."

You take a second to look at him. You can't read him to save your life. But he's looking back at you, into you maybe, in a way that makes you wonder if there's something about him you're missing. You wrap your arms around his neck just to see if he'll tell you to stop clinging.

He doesn't though.

"Did you really come all the way here 'cause of what Yuu-chan sent you?"

He glares at you. "Are you deaf? Didn't I say that?"

"But then it sounds like you were jealous."

He rolls his eyes. "You're stupid."

"....You were jealous? Really?"

"Shut up already," He says. And maybe it's the alcohol but you swear his face goes warm. "And seriously stay away from that idiot. If I see some shit like that again I'm locking you in the house and chaining you to my bed."

"Weird proposal but okay."

"Dumbass."

"You love me,"

He rolls his eyes and goes to kiss you. Doesn't deny it, you notice. You pretend not to be giddy.

"Whatever."

✮ extended authors note ; hi!! i hope sukunas personality made sense here.

my point with sukuna in modern is that i think it takes away a lot of his unsavory aspects but the deep sense of possession and ownership sort of stays. this is a modern au so he's different from canon in many ways.

he has a hard time committing but he also does not do things he doesnt want to so him spending time with you and wanting your loyalty are both genuine desires. he understands why you're entertaining gojo's flirting and rationally knows it's unfair to want loyalty from you.

but he's into you so he gets. fucking pissed anyway. skjsjd. anyways i hope u liked it and i hope it made sense!! i just wanted to add this incase!!!

General Yandere! Osamu Miya Profile

Yandere! Osamu Miya x fem! reader

Warnings: kidnapping, stalking, extreme possessiveness, unhealthy/toxic thoughts, mentions of dub-con, slight misogany/traditional gender roles, mentions of motherhood/forced motherhood, mentions of harassment, basically Osamu is obsessed with you congrats love </3, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

DARLING PROFILE

Introverted

It’s not that Osamu isn’t capable of being attracted towards a more social darling, but rather that there’s something very endearing and appealing about a darling that isn’t out with friends 24/7.

He doesn’t like the idea of other people monopolizing their time, and consequently it would make him much happier (and quell his protective tendencies) to have a beloved that spends most of their time at home.

Even a homebody would be perfect for him – of course, he wants his darling to have hobbies and activities that take place beyond the four walls of their home that they enjoy, but he likes knowing that ninety percent of the time, they can be found in pristine shape inside their home.

It fuels his more domestic fantasies as well; he likes to imagine spending lazy Sundays with his darling, snuggled up on the couch while rain pours outside, watching Top Chef or other favorite movies and shows, popcorn and other snacks slipping past their lips as he criticizes the chef’s cooking alongside Gordon Ramsay.

He likes to imagine the way his darling would look so pretty wearing his clothing, the hickeys he’d decorated their neck and collarbone with in last night’s passionate throws of intimacy standing out like a beacon as they sleepily rub their eyes, yawning out that fucking adorable morning ‘Samu.

He just likes knowing that his darling is mostly content with staying home most of the time – he hates the idea of them being out with strangers, with people that could potential hurt them or have ill intentions, and in his mind this is a perfect win-win. He’s a homebody too, and this way he can spend all of his time with them, by his side, preferably cuddled into his chest or with his tongue down their throat.

He just loves the way his darling slowly sees him as the most important person in their life, because he’s the only person in their life – it’s a dream come true, and to see their face light up when he gets home from work not only gets his heart racing and his palms sweat, but his pants so fucking tight.

Artistic

Now, this particular trait isn’t a must-have for Osamu, but it’s definitely a factor in what attracts him to his darling.

He likes the idea of a beloved that has hobbies of their own – someone who finds passion in their lives, and devotes a substantial portion of their time to practicing and perfecting their chosen art form.

This could be quite literally anything – painting, playing an instrument, drawing, cooking (Osamu’s personal favorite, though he must be a better cook than you, no exceptions), writing, sewing, crocheting, anything that gets his darling’s creative juices flowing.

He loves to watch them practice; there’s something about the expression on their face as they concentrate that really gets him going. Maybe it’s the way their tongue sticks out just slightly as they put the final touches on the cupcake batter they’re mixing, the way their brows twist together as they brush the ink over the paper, how they tap their foot as they try to keep their rhythm while playing a difficult passage on their instrument.

He just loves the way they look so invested and passionate, and if Osamu is being honest, a lot of this fascination comes from his hopes that one day they’ll think of him with that degree of devotion.

He loves the idea of his darling paying him so much mind and attention that he becomes their hobby, that their artistic urges get focused onto him – maybe the little scarves and knickknacks his darling makes start being his size or having gray hair and gray eyes.

Maybe the poems they write start depicting a man of strong build, with callused fingers and a heart of gold.

Maybe the pottery they mold starts resembling two hearts beating together, symbolizing his and his darling’s everlasting love.

It’s sappy and he knows it, but there’s something about his darling being passionate that really speaks to him – maybe it’s because he sees himself reflected in them, but regardless it only fuels his obsessive tendencies, pushing him to learn as much as he can about the craft so he can impress you, just as he desperately wants to.

Smart

Again, this particular trait isn’t hard and fast for the chef, but it’s most definitely a plus in the stages of his infatuation forming. He’s always had a thing for smart, capable women; he likes the idea of a girl who isn’t afraid to be right, who doesn’t try to dumb themselves down for other people.

Of course, humility is important too (no one likes a braggard, do they?), but Osamu takes pride in the fact that his darling is so smart, that his darling is so talented. And this can take the shape of many different things – perhaps his darling is a gifted mathematician, able to solve equations with little trouble because they just get numbers.

(He likes to imagine the way their math skills might falter as he holds them over his knee, their pretty ass bare to him as he spanks them again and again, hearing them count aloud and grind their pussy against his knee in a way they think is oh-so-subtle.)

This could be his darling being strongly empathetic; able to understand the way others feel, putting them at ease and investing in making sure they’re okay while Osamu flounders to understand why they’re crying in the first place.

(He likes to think this is a sign that his darling would be a perfect mother, always able to calm down their children and make them giggle and smile, even while their knee is scraped up or their favorite toy is broken.)

It could be that his darling has knowledge of a very particular, niche topic; he could listen to them talk for hours upon hours, never losing interest as he nods along to their words, watching the way their lips move and form words, part of him forcing himself to listen while the other part wars to reach out and shut you up with his own mouth.

He just really likes the idea of a smart darling, one he can be proud to call his own, and if you were to tell him off with some logical, well grounded argument? Well, he’s still not letting you out of the basement, but fuck it all – one glance at his pants is enough to show you how your little speech has affected him, and he has no qualms showing you, either.

Optimistic

While Osamu isn’t necessarily a pessimist, he’s most definitely in the middle of the spectrum in terms of his outlook on life. He likes to consider himself a realist; he has no delusions about what life is (though, he most certainly does have delusions about what the two of you are), and he’s not embarrassed to say that more often than not, life has a way of choosing the non-ideal routes.

Of course, things could obviously be much worse (how can he say life is bad when it’s led to him meeting you, the single best thing that’s ever happened to him), but they could be better too. He’s neutral, really, which is why a darling that’s more optimistic would be a perfect fit for him.

Overwhelming negativity is exhausting, and if his darling only ever complains without anything positive to say, Osamu would quickly grow annoyed and tired of their presence, snapping at them to shut up, I can’t listen to you bitch anymore.

It’s not that his darling has to be always happy, always looking at the bright side (as this, too, can be equally as annoying as constant negativity), but he likes that his darling just naturally assumes the best in people.

Of course, it terrifies the protective part of him, the one that’s always paranoid about their safety and the intentions of others regarding them, but even for as much sleep as it causes him to lose at night, it’s just too damn cute. When they’re smiling at others and encouraging them through difficult times, Osamu can’t help but swoon; they’re just too adorable, too motherly, too fucking perfect.

He likes that they’re just genuinely a happy person – he’ll always lend an ear to them when they inevitably have a bad day or need to complain, but he’s quick to give them kisses all along their face and neck, whispering that they’re absolutely right babe, I hear ya.

He just likes how sweet it makes him, and only furthers his idea that they need protection – the world has a nasty way of dimming those that shine brightest, after all.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS

Controlling

While it isn’t necessarily purposeful, Osamu has a bit of a problem when it comes to being a prominent figure in your life.

He’s used to having to share everything, from the limelight to the occasional toothbrush, socks to volleyball shoes with his twin. He’s used to being known as ‘the other Miya’, as the chef with the famous athlete for a brother.

So to finally have you, something all completely his own, how can he be blamed for being a little more paranoid? Can he really be faulted when he’s just trying to make sure that you stay his and only his?

He’s not even really conscious of the way he slowly begins becoming an omnipresent part of your life, how those cold metallic eyes are always watching over your shoulder, staying fixed on your figure because every little thing you do is riveting to him, fascinating and something he needs to see, to make sure you’re doing as you should, that you’re staying safe and healthy and happy.

He doesn’t mean to come off as the controlling boyfriend (though, his tendencies of being more intrusive than he should be will start much earlier than the boyfriend stage – when you’re both still acquaintances, friends, when his obsession is still freshly new), but with the way he slowly begins demanding more and more from you, the message will be pretty clear.

You’ll likely write it off at first; his insistent questions of who are you going with when you tell him you’ll be out for the afternoon seeming oddly serious, but it’s ‘Samu, right? It’s Osamu Miya, a man you know isn’t as petty as being jealous over your time being spent with another, who isn’t bothered enough to be weird about it, right?

You’ll just laugh it off, though this has the opposite affect on the man in front of you – your laughter has him on edge, wondering if you’re lying to him, wondering if you’re going out to meet another man – what’s Atsumu up to tonight?

Suna?

Ginjima?

The paranoia eats away at him as he paces around, terrified that you might be flirting with another man, chatting and making eyes at some piece of shit, that he could be touching you and fucking you and making you scream out a name that isn’t Osamu fucking Miya – the paranoia is really rather extreme, the deeply rooted fear forcing him to get more serious much quicker than he’d expected.

Soon he’s not only asking who you’ll be with, but where you’re going, how long you’ll be out, what you’re expecting to do, when you think you’ll be home, where and when to be checking your phone for texts or calls from him.

You’ll think it’s strange, confusing why he’s being so weirdly protective over you (and being so damn insistent, as he’s literally grasping your hands in his and forcing you to repeat back a promise to check yer damn phone every five minutes, what if something happened? Ya understand, right? I have to be able to check in with ya when I need to.), but, just like before, you’ll just brush it off, nodding hesitantly and slipping out the door, unease crawling up your spine.

You’ll slowly come to feel as if Osamu is suffocating you, his presence overwhelming and always there, as if there’s no escape from his probing questions, his insistence on you always contacting him (though, the tracker he’s placed on your phone makes it so that his demands to update him on your location via text aren’t really necessary, but it makes him feel better).

And from there, things only get more extreme – he’s catching your wrist as you go to pluck a piece of fruit out of the pile, narrow gray eyes watching you as he tells you to choose something healthier, why don’t I just make ya somethin’ to eat?

He’s sighing and blocking the door when you leave the living area, telling you to sit down and drink the glass of water he’d given you before you go lay down in bed, before you use the restroom, before you shower or brush your teeth or yawn or speak.

He quickly becomes the sole dictator of your life, making you ask permission for every little thing, making you feel subservient and below him, making you feel as if you’re nothing without him, as if you can’t properly take care of yourself without his guidance, without him metaphorically (and literally) spoon feeding you.

And frankly, as irritating and terrifying as it is, it’s difficult to get mad at him – after all, Osamu doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It’s not even about explicitly controlling you for him; it’s more about making sure you’re his and that no one else can get to you, to make sure that you aren’t being swept away or stolen by anyone else.

And of course, it’s to get you trusting him, relying on him, needing him, because isn’t that what relationships are about? Mutual love, dependence, desperation?

Protective

Going hand in hand with his paranoia and controlling tendencies, Osamu views you as someone who, despite your best efforts, isn’t really able to take care of yourself. He trusts you and loves you, at least as much as he can given his staggering devotion to you, and yet he doesn’t inherently trust you with you, with your health and safety and care.

No, that’s his job, him as the man and your caretaker and the only one who can actually take care of you, who can adhere to your every need, whether you’re aware of it or not.

He’s fairly domestic at heart, loving the softer moments, and you’ll notice this extremely early on with his obsession with you. He’s always trying to cook you things, and while it’s sweet, soon it’ll start getting a bit weird.

He’s got a full course meal for you every lunch, always your favorite foods cooked exactly how you like them despite never mentioning it to him in more than passing. He’s raising his chopsticks and telling you to say ahh, his voice soft and gooey, practically purring at you. He’s placing the sushi against your tongue and smiling boyishly at you, his cheeks dusted pink while pride swirls in his chest that you’re eating his food.

It’s sweet, at first, and damn can he cook, but once he starts showing up at your door with breakfast and dinner as well, inviting himself inside to eat with you and your family, chatting up your father and helping your mother cook, you’ll start growing uncomfortable, unsure of why he’s there.

You won’t know why he seems to care so much and why he’s subtly tapping your wrist under the dinner table, smiling softly and telling you to slow down a bit, you’ll choke if ya keep eatin’ like that.

It’s strange and it’ll feel beyond out of place, but Osamu is a charmer. He may not be as obvious or charismatic as his twin, but your parents will quickly be won over, everyone around you telling you how good of a person he is, how he’s such a catch, how he’s so sweet to you, won’t you just give him a chance?

He’s always pulling you closer to him, keeping you by his side so that you don’t stray too far, keeping a hand on your wrist or shoulder or waist or back, warm fingers pressing into your body as a discreet but strong reminder that he’s right there.

He’s grasping your hips as he maneuvers you to the side to avoid the crack in the sidewalk, sending you a strangely shy, boyish smile as his cheeks turn pink and he murmurs something about you being oblivious as hell, yer always getting’ hurt.

He’s quick to grab your wrist when you’re opening doors or grabbing something sharp or hot, sending you a small look as he does it for you, murmuring something under his breath about you being too delicate, can’t have ya doing something so dangerous.

He’s genuinely concerned about your health and safety, truly – he doesn’t mean to be overbearing. He’s not trying to be condescending by saying that you’re incapable of doing anything substantial on your own; of course not! He’s just concerned that you tend to be clumsier than he’d like, and what would happen if you tripped and skinned your knee, broke your arm, got a life threatening concussion that altered your life forever?

(Or, worse yet, made you forget about him?)

He’s just doing what he thinks of best, and the trouble with Osamu is that while he’s not particularly delusional, he’s also not particularly great at seeing the reality behind his actions. He knows he’s a bit more overboard on his protectiveness over you than he should be, but he’s able to honestly write it off as being chivalrous, as being a good, caring partner.

He thinks he’s being romantic and exactly what you want when he cuts the crusts of your sandwiches off for you (even if you didn’t ask).

He thinks he’s being attractive when he doesn’t let you package your own leftovers from the restaurants, claiming the food is ‘too hot’ even though it came out more than forty five minutes ago.

He’s just trying to help, and he’d never be able to forgive himself if you were hurt when he could’ve prevented it – after all, what does that say about his ability to take care of you? Does he even deserve to call himself yours if he can’t keep you from getting bruised or scraped?

Would you even want him if he can’t protect you like a man should?

Obsessive

Generally speaking, Osamu’s devotion to you knows no bounds.

He’s busy with his restaurant, cooking orders and managing paperwork, but in between shaping the rice and signing his name, every single thought is aimed towards you. He’s constantly idly wondering about what you’re doing, what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, whether you’re happy or sad or whether you miss him.

He likes to imagine the way you look at any given moment you’re apart; he’ll imagine the soft smile on your face as you see a particularly cute pet when you walk down the street, your fingers itching to reach out and give it some love.

He’ll imagine the way you’d sigh to yourself and roll your eyes when your coworkers are being annoying again; he’s told you so many fucking times to just quit so you don’t have to worry about it anymore, but you always refuse and laugh him off.

(It pisses him off that you so lightly reject his advice; can’t you see how being there is ruining your mental health? Can you not see how it’s deteriorating you, how you’re so much more stressed now, how the money isn’t worth your time? It infuriates him, and he’s sure that once you’re living together, your full time job will be taking care of the house, not your own finances. He’ll cover that, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.)

He’s imagining the way you shrug on your jacket, zipping it up until it stops right below your nose because it’s fucking cold outside, how you’d look like a cute little hedgehog all wrapped up for winter – no doubt warm and soft and perfect to hold in his arms.

He’s always thinking of you in sweet, domestic situations; you’re just too adorable to him, and it’s always been his fantasy to find a partner and live out those horribly cliché romantic tropes he always sees in TV or reads in books.

He wants to be the one spoon feeding you warm soup on cold days, watching as you flutter your lashes shyly at him and compliment to new recipe he tried out (or, more accurately, the recipe he made up knowing your favorite ingredients).

He likes to think about waking up in the mornings with you, the sunlight streaming onto your face as you let out soft little breaths and even the occasional snore, making his nose scrunch up and a snort leave his laugh because fuck, he’s heard that nose through your window for years and now that it’s right in front of him?

He’s imagining falling asleep with you, too, helping you with the skin routine he demands you set up and carry out with him – he wants to have dozens of photos on his phone of you making a kissy face in the mirror with him, a white mask covering your skin and making you look like some sort of slasher serial killer.

He’s plagued by thoughts and fantasies of you in every shape and form. (Some much, much more explicit than the kind, domestic ones – images of you on your knees with cum dripping down your chin and onto your tits, your fingers holding open your pussy and turning away your head in embarrassment as he stares from above you on the bed, the way you’d wantonly moan out his name and scratch down his back because he just feels too damn good.)

And so, the basis of his obsession with you starts out almost immediately with gathering information about you.

He wants to fantasize these sweet (and not-so-sweet) moments with you, but in order to this he needs to know more, to learn more. He wants to know everything he possibly can; when do you fall asleep at night?

Do you spend hours staring at your phone in the darkness of your bedroom, or are you out the moment your head hits the pillow?

What kind of food do you like?

Do you eat breakfast, and if so how would you feel about breakfast in bed, with you woken up to the scent of freshly scrambled eggs and a few (much too heated) kisses to your forehead by Osamu himself?

Do you prefer to spend time with others or by yourself?

Are you an animal person, and if so would you consider getting a pet with him as a trial run for your first child?

He wants to know every possible detail there is about you – and he’s frighteningly good at it. He’s just so unsuspecting; he’s nice, funny, a stand-out guy to everyone that knows him, and why would you have reason to think any differently?

Sure, it may be slightly offputting with how insistent he is that he’s always with you and making sure others don’t get close to you, but you’ll answer every question he throws at you.

After all, it may seem a bit odd to be asked what your greatest fear is, but you’ll just  at him and puzzle over the answer, pressing a finger to your lip as you hum in thought.

It may be strange initially to be bombarded with so many questions about your future plans (where do you want to live? What do you see as your ideal marriage? Your ideal house? Your ideal number of children? Could you see yourself becoming a housewife or a stay at home mother?), but you’ll shrug off the sense of unease coiling at your shoulders and answer him honestly, because that’s just what friends do.

However, once his questions start teetering to a more questionable side, things that you don’t feel comfortable sharing with him, with another man, red flags may begin appearing for you. After all, why does he need to know your bra size?

The package of fancy lingerie that appears on your front door the next day in delicate lace of your favorite color surely can’t be connected to him, right? Even if the fit is perfect?

Why does he need to know how heavy your periods are; what knowledge could that serve him?

(Quite a bit actually, if the some twenty boxes of pads, tampons, and menstrual cups he’s hoarded into his closet in his apartment is any indicator.)

You’ll slowly grows confused by his efforts to know more and more, but Osamu is slick; he’s good at keeping information at bay, at comforting your fears because he's just such a nice guy, now won’t you please take another sip of your beer and tell him what position gets you seeing stars every time?

He just loves you, and he expresses his love by overfilling his brain with information of his favorite variety – you.

DEALING WITH RIVALS 

While it would be a stretch to say Osamu never feels jealousy, he wouldn’t be lying if he said that the majority of his unease with other men earning your attention lies from the perspective of simply wanting to protect you.

Of course, he doesn’t like the possibility of your attention and love deviating away from him, your pretty eyes no longer focused on his, your smiles and laughter no longer aimed at his words and jokes. He likes that you seem to like him – he needs you to like him, after all, but that isn’t the entirety of what fuels his jealousy.

No, it’s the paranoia that eats away at him every time he sees you in public with any number of other people around you. He knows what kinds of monsters a lot of men are – he went to school with a number of them, and while he considers his friends to be good guys, even his closest companions have said questionable things over the years.

Hell, he’s though some questionable things over the years – of course, he’d never act on them, but idle thoughts of wow, she’s got nice tits or those pants are tight, wish she’d bend over again shocking him and making his cheeks flush red. He always feels guilty, immediately leaving the room and not able to look the woman in the eye ever again, but if he, Osamu Miya, someone who likes to think of himself as a feminist and non-threatening to women, is capable of such thoughts?

Then what do the men that don’t hold themselves to higher standards think? What kind of sick, perverse thoughts are rolling through their heads when they see a pretty woman nearby, a pretty woman like you?

It makes his skin crawl to just think about it, and so while he knows that rationally four out of five men would never hurt you, there’s always the what if eating at the back of his mind. He likes to think of himself as a the chivalrous, traditional male partner who cares for and protects his lover, and what kind of a man would he be if he wasn’t able to keep vicious hands – and heaven forbid, cocks – away from you?

What does that say about his ability to protect you, his ability to keep you happy and safe by his side? And so, while jealousy happens to him fairly often, most of the time it’s an ugly mix of his own personal jealousy, his protectiveness, and pure selfishness that cause him to tense up and watch the scene with an extra careful eye.

Towards the beginning of his obsession with you, Osamu was much more reluctant to actually interfere in situations in which he suspected something bad may happen. Of course, the moment anything bad actually did happen, like the man talking to you and reaching out to touch your shoulder, forced him to spring to life, to come to your aid and make him out to be not only the knight and shining armor, but also to get you out of that situation.

He’ll always remember the first time he did this – you ‘d been cornered by a man at a park while Osamu ‘happened’ – at least, you think it was an accidental meeting – to be passing through. The man had been sneering at you and backed you up against a tree in a less populated area, with no one seeming to notice.

You’d been visibly scared; shoulders tensed up and little stuttered pleas for him to move falling past your lips, but the man didn’t seem to care – or maybe, didn’t seem to mind. He’d been quick to swoop in, stepping between you and the man, and while Osamu doesn’t quite have the same physique as he did in high school, his height and the still very clear muscles coating his arms were enough to have the man scuttering off, spitting at the ground and glaring at Osamu.

He’d immediately turned around to help calm you down, leaning down and placing his hands on your shoulders, and it’s safe to say that the way you hugged him and whispered your thanks only further cemented his obsession for you – if you were to ask in the future, that’s the moment he’d say he knew he was in love with you.

And so, after that initial turning point, Osamu hasn’t hesitated much when it comes to defending you against unwanted (or, even wanted) attention from men – it’s his job, after all, and the reward of you clinging to him is so damn worth it.

The bell chimes right as expected, Osamu’s back facing the door to Onigiri Miya.

He can’t help the wide grin that takes over his features, even as he tries to bite it back so as to not lose his cool. He’s sure a flush is coating his cheeks; you always come in around five o’clock on Wednesdays like today, ordering your usual – onigiris that Osamu makes specially for you, but would never tell you is only willing to make for you.

He’s molding the rice with his hands at the counter, grateful for the open concept kitchen and eating area because as he turns around and sees you walking up to the register, the breath gets sucked out of his lungs.

Fuck, you’re so pretty.

And you’re looking right at him – chuckling as you call his name and wave your hand again, breaking him of the stupor he’d been trapped in. He clears his throat in embarrassment and fixes his cap, wiping down his hands on his pants as he approaches the register.

You greet him and give him your order, mentioning off-handedly you’ve been looking forward to his food all day – it must’ve been the only thing that got you through work, you’re sure. Osamu’s heart melts in his chest, the feeling in his fingers fully gone as he lets the compliment sink in, but he’s almost on autopilot as he rings you up and takes the money from your hand, already pushing the tray containing the onigiri your way.

(He’d already had it prepared, something you asked with a laugh as you took the tray, though you’d turned on your heel after thinking him before you could hear his small, vulnerable of course.)

His shift takes what seems like forever after that – he’s trying to focus on cooking, on making sure the seaweed lays perfectly against the rice, the filling being mixed to perfection, not letting any customers wait too long at the register, but it’s hard.

It’s hard to not watch the way you enjoy your food as you sit at the table by the window, the overcast sky shining in on you and making you seem to glow.

It’s also hard to ignore the way the man at the table next to you keeps sneaking glances at you, and when he opens his mouth to finally speak to you once you’re roughly halfway through your food, Osamu’s hand involuntarily crushes the rice in its grasp.

He curses under his breath as he sets it aside, perking his ears up and straining to hear the conversation. He’s flirting, Osamu realizes with a gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach – and badly, too. All compliments about your looks; you’re looking pretty today, love that skirt on you. Do you work out? You’ve got great legs. Osamu feels a shiver roll down his spine, and suddenly the mishappen rice is forgotten as he can only stare at the interaction, feeling his body temperature rising rapidly the longer the stranger talks.

You laugh weakly at the man’s comment, clearly uncomfortable as you shift in your seat to get further away from the man who’s clearly leaning in towards you. Your fingers tap nervously against the table you’re seated at, the shop suddenly feeling much too empty to you.

Oh, uh, that’s very nice of you… you trail off, hoping to end the conversation in its tracks. Unfortunately for you, the man doesn’t seem to pick up your hint.

He resumes on, rambling on about his own workout regimen, even going so far as to pull back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flex, cocking a brow at you and offering to let you touch his bicep.

You refuse, as politely as you can, and turn back to face your food. This seems to displease the man, and Osamu watches with a sharp, dangerous inhale of breath as the man reaches over and grabs your hand, setting it on his arm as he murmurs out a doesn’t it feel good –

Osamu’s moving before he knows it, having jumped the counter and practically sprinting to reach you. His wrist slaps away the man’s hand, your own fingers retracting immediately. He stares down in anger, disgust, barely contained rage, watching as the stranger’s lips part, anger and fear swimming in the man’s black eyes. Get out. Harassment is not tolerated in this restaurant. Get the fuck out, and don’t ever come back.

His voice is deep, the scariest you’ve ever heard it, and for a moment even you’re terrified – of Osamu, of all people.

But it seems to do the trick; the man is out of his chair in an instant, almost cowering away as he shakes his head and haughtily scoffs, walking towards the exit and keeping his shoulders taut all for show.

Osamu growls, before spinning on his heel and facing you, his hands on your shoulders as he searches your eyes with his own. He asks frantically if you’re okay, bombarding you with questions while you simply stare, before lunging at him and wrapping your arms around him, your shoulders shaking slightly as you whisper your thanks over and over. Osamu freezes for a moment, a pink flush spreading across the plains of his cheeks, before his arms return the embrace, squeezing you so much it nearly hurts.

He stays like that for who knows how long, before you pull back and he begrudgingly lets you go. You gulp and tell him you’re okay, that you’ll just finish this last bit of onigiri and then you’ll be off, and Osamu only nods, a displeased look on his face.

He scruffs your hair as he stands up, smirking down at you as you whine a bit, before he steps out the door, following the path he’d seen the man take.

It’s not hard to find him, nor is it hard to shove him against the alley wall, his fist meeting flesh once, twice, five times as the howls in pain. He’s clutching his face in his hands and crouching down by the time Osamu is done with him, but all the chef can do is spit at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and cursing under his breath.

Disgusting, treating women like that. Especially my women. Don’t you ever fucking come back, or next time I’ll kill ya. I’m dead serious. Yer fucking dead.

He seems happier when he steps back inside the shop, sending you a little wave to which you return, unknowingly making his heart flutter and his resolve harden.

Yeah, he’d do whatever it takes to make you safe and happy – even if it means roughing up his own criminal record.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY

To be quite honest, the prospect of kidnapping you occurs to Osamu disturbingly quickly.

He’s always seen himself as wanting to end up with a partner one day – a pretty wife that he cherishes and who cherishes him back. He wants to live in a nice, downtown apartment a few blocks away from his restaurant, the whole place painted shades of white and gray (he’d never admit it, but just to match his hair and because his skin tone looks best against the color), with maybe a cat or child running around not too long after.

It’s a fantasy, pure and simple, but while little fourteen year old him was embarrassed to be daydreaming about such a sappy idea (Atsumu had been more than willing to make him aware of how weird this was when he’d accidentally let it slip at sixteen), the embarrassment has faded with age until Osamu began viewing the idea as less of a desire and more of a sure aspect of his future.

And so, once his feelings of such magnitude for you form, you seem to fit perfectly into this image he’s built in his mind.

You’d be such a good partner – he’d love to live by your side, sharing the dinner table with you, a bed, a shower, even a toothbrush if you wanted to. (And in case you’re wondering, yes, he wants to.)

It’s remarkably easy to imagine stepping into a bath tub with you, his bare chest against your bare back as you lean against him, letting your wet hair fall over his shoulders and his chin hook above your head. He'd rub his arms up and down your shoulders, admiring the way you shiver in his touch before relaxing, the heat of the water making your muscles loosen as the shiny diamond on your ring finger winks up at him, validation that you’re his, that he earned you.

It’s surprisingly easy to imagine poking your nose with a dollop of whip cream as he makes a batch of eclairs, seeing the way your nose scrunches up and you giggle, wiping it off your skin and instead placing it on his lips, following it up with a kiss and mischievous tongue that licks away all the cream.

It’s disturbingly easy to picture the way you’d breathlessly whisper to him that the test is positive – we’re – you’re – you’re gonna be a dad, ‘Samu.

You just fit the entire fantasy oh so perfectly, and so it just feels natural to substitute in your form whenever he finds himself idly daydreaming about his future. It’s mostly during long shifts at the restaurant or late nights alone in his bed that the thoughts come, but after only about two months of his obsession reaching it’s full fledged rage that the notion that he needs to live out these fantasies really solidifies.

No longer is it something he sees himself eventually doing – no, he will be living out his hopes for his future life, and you will be the one doing it with him. And so, while he’d ideally have you consenting to this and choosing to move in with him, Osamu isn’t above forcing you, either.

Of course, he’ll ask you first; it’s intended to be casual, the way he brings up moving in together, your brows shooting up in confusion because we’re not dating, ‘Samu, right? So why would we move in together…?

And really, you don’t have to remind him of that – you’re practically dating, aren’t you? With the amount of time you spend together, the longing glances he gives you that he swears are returned, and the way you melt into his touch when he gives you what you think is a friendly hug or kiss on the cheek.

You’re basically already together – which is why Osamu decides that sure, you may be pissed at him for the first few days, weeks, hopefully not months of being his captive, eventually you’ll come around. You seem to have a soft spot for him, and he can treat you like he should – he promises.

He can make you happy, in ways you’ve never been happy before.

And really, as much as you won’t want to admit it, Osamu is right.

You are mad when you first wake up to a semi-familiar but not quite known bedroom, your chest rising and falling rapidly because this isn’t your home. You don’t remember going home with anyone the night before, so where are you?

It’s only once Osamu slips into the room, his face lighting up at seeing you awake that the pieces slowly start connecting, the lock he sets into place on the door’s deadbolt making panic eat away at your gut.

You’re mad, enraged, terrified, and all Osamu can do as you struggle and yell at him to let you go is sigh and nod his head, telling you that it’s okay, I understand this is scary, but it’s what’s best for you. For us.

Of course, that doesn’t get you any calmer – you’re quick to spit out allegations of him being crazy, telling him that there is no ‘us’, that it’s not okay for him to be locking you away with him for the rest of your life – as he so brazenly tells you.

Osamu is patient, though, at least at the start. He’s not delusional enough to believe that you’d be happy the moment you wake up in your new home, that everything would be rainbows and butterflies.

However, Osamu does eventually expect you to straighten up; maybe it’ll be Stockholm Syndrome, maybe it’ll be those feelings of attraction you’d held for him before being stolen away resurfacing once more.

Frankly, he doesn’t care – all he cares about is now you’re in his grasp, by his side, where he can keep you safe, secure, and his. And safe he’ll make sure you are; the entire house is nearly babyproofed, because while he doesn’t think of you as an infant or treat you like one, there’s a part of him that’s too terrified that you’ll see the knife and start getting ideas.

He’s scared that if he doesn’t have covers on all the outlets, you’ll take the fork and jam it in as far as you can go, hoping your heart will eventually stop beating. The thought is too much for him to bear, and so he’d begun planning to make his apartment (in a very exclusive part of town, thanks to Atsumu’s connections, complete with soundproof walls and more square footage than he could ever hope to use) as perfectly fit for the both of you as early as he could.

And so, once you wake up that fateful morning to his bedsheets, you don’t really have a chance at escaping. And despite being kidnapped, you’ll find that you don’t particularly want to; you don’t have too much anonymity, but at least Osamu respects you enough to let you do your basic hygiene alone.

He’s not accompanying you to the toilet, nor does he brush your teeth for you, nor does he dress you himself. Of course, he’d love to do any number of these things, but he still sees you as your own, respectable person – just a person that needs him, is all.

Some things Osamu will still force you to include him in, though; showering is an activity that is always done together, your wet, nude bodies hovering close as he runs the loofah over your back, dipping dangerously close to your ass as he breaths a heavy kiss against the shell of your ear.

Cooking is an event that while he mostly does alone (he doesn’t trust you with a knife yet), you’ll be seated at the dining room table, expected to keep him company while he flies around the counters with pots and pans.

He’s really not too terrible of a captor, really. He’s pretty physically affectionate with you, always pressing kisses against the crown of your head, your fingers, your thighs, your lips and neck, and his arms are always around your waist while he sighs and relaxes against you.

He’s touchy, yes, but every amenity under the sun will be yours when you’re under his roof – nice TV’s with access to every streaming platform you could want, because he knows you get hankerings for programs that are difficult to find.

You’ll have exquisite food, always prepared by him and hand made with love (and perhaps, other things as well, though you’d rather die than find out the secret ingredient of his famous fried rice).

You’ll have an assortment of fluffy, warm sweaters (all of which have been worn by Osamu and spritzed with his cologne, just to get you falling in love with his scent), and all the blankets and stuffed animals you could ever want.

He wants to spoil you, and his only rules are pretty easy to follow; obey him, don’t try to escape, and don’t try to do anything that could hurt you.

It’s not horribly complex, is it?

It’s really not, and after a while of being stuck with Osamu as your only human contact, his kind words, compliments, gentle touches and earnest desire to please you, you’ll slowly find yourself letting your guard down, developing begrudgingly loving feelings towards him. You’ll hate it at first, hate both himself and yourself, but at the end of the day you really don’t have a choice.

Because while Osamu may chastise you for attempting to crack your neck (you’ll break it, baby, don’t crack it like that) or wear something light weight when the heating is broken for a few days in January (put on yer jacket or my sweatshirt, can’t have you walking around in shorts and a t-shirt for Christs’s sake), it’s difficult to ignore the way he looks at you with such reverence and devotion.

And while it may have scared you at first, eventually you’ll come around to it – isn’t it nice to know how much Osamu needs you? Isn’t it nice to feel wanted and desired, to know you’re the reason your captor is living, breathing, smiling?

It’s a head-fuck, sure, but who cares? All you’ll ever know for the rest of your life is Osamu Miya, so why not make the best of it?

PUNISHMENTS

For the most part, it’s true that Osamu is a fairly lenient captor.

He’s not particularly harsh nor demanding, and he does genuinely want to see you smile and return his feelings. Those fantasies of having a loving domestic life with you that he’s harbored for so long bar him from any truly atrocious acts, like burning you or leaving scars on your pretty body.

He doesn’t want to hurt you, not only because it would ruin his fantasies of being your perfect, caring lover, but also because he’d never be able to live with himself if he knew he was the reason for you being in pain. He’s driven to madness by his love for you, but he’s still not fully detached from reality – he knows that causing you pain is wrong, particularly physical pain. He’d be no worse than all those men he was trying to keep you away from when he was still developing his feelings for you.

And so, Osamu tries to give you as much freedom as he can within reason. You’re obviously not allowed to venture into the real world by yourself, nor are you allowed to do anything he deems dangerous (though, while belittling at times, eventually you’ll start to agree that it is dangerous for you to handle knives and razors, that you should just let him cut your apples and shave your legs).

You’re not allowed to disobey him, either, because if there’s one thing Osamu can’t tolerate from you, it’s disrespect or purposefully going against his words.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy brats, and he wants to be able to trust you to keep yourself out of harm’s way; it would save so many stress induced headaches, his eyes wearily watching the clock as he desperately wishes time would hurry up so he could close up shop and head home to you. He’s not super strict, and frankly it’s pretty easy to placate him – just hug him and compliment him, tell him you appreciate everything he does for you, and let him pamper you for a while.

He’s more than happy to take care of you; grabbing water and whipping up a nearly Michelin level meal of your favorite foods, with a yummy dessert for the both of you to share.

(With only one spoon, of course.)

He’ll turn on your favorite movie and have you lean back against his chest, his fingers idly massaging at your scalp as you watch the bright colors and action, familiar with every line and making him chuckle as you recite it.

He’ll lift the covers over your tired form when you’re about to fall asleep, diving down below them as he trails kisses down your stomach and between your legs, wanting you to fall asleep while feeling good, even if it leaves him hanging and having to either fuck his fist or your pretty thighs while you sleep.

And so, you’ll discover it’s actually pretty hard to tick Osamu off enough to get him to punish you – but when you do, he’s remarkably good at shutting down the behavior, even if it kills him to do so.

Osamu’s always known he’s soft on you; he doesn’t claim to pretend that he’s the traditional man of the household, putting you into your place so that you’re always the subservient woman.

No, if anything, Osamu plays both roles – being the strong man in the relationship, and caring to your every whim and need. And so, while it makes his heart ache and his gut wrench in agony to do it, he knows that the best way to punish you is to stop taking care of you.

He thinks the fastest way to show you that he’s your everything is to stop being it for a while – not cooking for you, not holding you in his arms, not engaging you in conversation and asking about your day, not giving you more attention than you would ever know what to do with.

It hurts him (more than it hurts you, if we’re being honest), but it’s the only way – and so, as Osamu watches in displeasure as you shake your head at him, he’s internally sighing. You’d refused to let him bathe you again – you’d been feeling rebellious lately, and while you’d only been with him for about a month – not nearly long enough for the Stockholm Syndrome to set in to the degree he wanted it to – he was starting to get sick of it.

Can’t you see he just wants to give you the proper love and care you deserve? It’s so hard to properly wash yourself, and it’s such a sweet, intimate moment to let him take control of your body, to run the soap through your hair and down the expanse of your arms and legs. Your rejection of bathing feels like a rejection of him, and so he merely nods his head, those gray eyes fixed on you.

Okay, he tells you, sitting up from the dinner table.

The barely touched food in front of you is snatched away from you in the blink of an eyes, being scraped into the garbage bin before you can even utter a word.

You’re confused, your rebellious flare dying down as you stare at him, unsure of what he’s doing. Osamu doesn’t say anything more, merely washing the plates in the sink while willing himself to not glance at you.

(It takes an inhumane amount of self-restrain to accomplish this task, as he’s so used to stealing looks at you nearly every minute of the day, too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything more than gape like a fish, but he manages.)

And maybe it’s petty, but hearing the way you mutter his name has his resolve hardening, because fuck, you’re already cracking.

Once the dishes are done, he dries his hands and whistles a tune to himself, heading down the hallway to his office. Paperwork is strewn across the wooden top, evidence of the way he’d been procrastinating for days on doing it in favor of spending time with you, but now is the perfect time. With a heavy sigh, he plops down into his rolling chair, picking up the pen and getting to work signing and approving business transactions, visualizing where he wants the company to be this time next year.

He slowly grows immersed in the work, having chanted to himself too heavily at the start of the paperwork to ignore you, ignore you, make her dependent on you by ignoring her needs, it’s the only way.

And so, when you peek into his office room, biting your lip in worry, Osamu genuinely doesn’t notice. You’re not sure what’s going on – he’s never this dismissive of you, always asking you if you’re hungry or need anything, if you’d like to read a book together or take a nap.

He’s never gone this long with at least smiling at you, and while it’d likely only been forty five minutes since you’d told him in a moment of bravery that you didn’t want to bathe with him, it feels like a lifetime.

You watch for a few moments, before carefully sitting yourself in the plush armchair in the corner of the room, situated so that you’re watching his back as his pen flies across the paper and his finger across the calculator.

At some point, Osamu notices your presence, but he steels himself to remain visibly ignorant to you and your eyes that seem to be boring into him.

Soon he finishes for the night, groaning as he stretches his shoulders and arms, but as he gets up to leave he doesn’t bother to spare you a glance.

You heart aches; are you missing him? The thought has you biting your lip harshly, tears stinging at your eyes at the realization, but before you can anything you hear Osamu turn the faucet on the bath on, the sound of rushing water making you stiffen up. Perhaps… if you want his attention back, maybe you’d have to…?

Osamu's brows are tightly drawn as he strips himself of his clothing and steps into the tub, trying to let the warm water relax his tense muscles. He peeks at the (purposefully) open door to his left, wishing that you’d appear, but after five minutes of you not showing up, Osamu sighs.

This is the right thing to do, he just knows it – how else is he supposed to get you dependent on him, on his love and protection? He knows it, he swears, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, that his lungs don’t feel like they’re crushing under the weight of his heartache –

He’s brought out of his reverie as he feels a poke at his hand, opening his previously closed eyes to see you standing next to him, a nervous and somewhat embarrassed look on your face.

With a start, Osamu notices that your cheeks are wet and your eyes still a bit red, and immediately guilt is crashing into him; he made you cry, fuck. He blinks at you, trying to keep his face emotionless, and watches as you gulp.

I-um, can I get in with you? You’re asking in such a quiet, unsure voice, and for a moment Osamu threatens to break his careless façade, the urge to swoon at your cuteness nearly too much to handle.

He blinks once more, prompting you to keep speaking.

You play with your fingers as you stare down at them, letting the words fall off your tongue. ‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a brat. I’m just – I don’t know. I’m scared, ‘Samu, of how I’m feeling. You stole me away, and I’m not supposed to love you or even like you, but I don’t think I hate you anymore. I think – I don’t know, it’s confusing, but I think that I’m starting to need you.

Osamu’s heart is racing in his chest, your admission making his chest flush bright red, joy eating away at him because are you being honest?

Are you speaking from the heart?

The way you look so frustrated at yourself tells him that you are, and with a swallow much too loud to be unheard by you, Osamu speaks. Do ya understand that I’m just trying to take care of ya?

You quickly nod, chancing a glance at him, only to find his gaze stuck on you, the intensity making you shrink back.

It’s silent for a moment, before Osamu’s face splits into the softest, happiest smile you think you’ve ever seen, his arms opening wide as the water splashes lightly against his chest. Hurry up, cold water’s no fun to be in.

Your lips part and your eyes widen, and quickly you’re stripping off your clothes, too relieved at the way he’s looking at you to be embarrassed as every inch of yourself is revealed to his prying gaze. Soon you’re clambering in, burying your face into his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso, letting him return the embrace as you whisper against his skin.

I’m sorry ‘Samu, I know you love me and just want me to be safe, I’m sorry I acted out. I won’t do it again, just – just please, don’t ignore me. I need you too badly for that.

Osamu’s never had such a warm, pleasant feeling sit in his stomach before, and neither has he had such wonderful, romantic sex in his life as that night – with you clutching at him, not letting a single inch of space between your bodies, his name rolling off your tongue in waves as you came again and again and again, all for him.

OVERALL DANGER

Overall danger rating: 6/10

Osamu isn’t too terribly dangerous.

As far as yanderes go, he’s somewhat tame; he’s mostly just extremely devoted to your safety, and in turn devoted to making sure he knows everything about you so that he can properly fulfill his duty as your lover.

He’s a bit of a sucker at heart, and so while he’s capable of hurting others on your behalf (and isn’t afraid to do so, if he feels your safety is being threatened), Osamu treats you with delicacy.

You’re precious to him, something he can think of as truly and wonderfully his; he doesn’t have to share you with another soul on this planet, and he cherishes the idea of being your one and only in the same way. He’s lovestruck, truly, and while his protective tendencies may scare you at times, it’s truly coming from a (mostly) good place.

He just wants you to be safe and happy and his, and so while it likely doesn’t win him many points to be relocating you to his apartment, chasing off any rivals for your affection, time, or attention, Osamu sees it as a necessary evil.

He’s always wanted to have and be a loving partner, and you’re the one he’s decided has to be it. So while he may not be the traditional knight in shining armor, all Osamu cares about is you falling for him, just as you should.

All he wants is for your dependence on him to grow, so that the two of your can be mutually addicted to one another, unable to go nary an hour without at least some form of contact, be that a smile, a touch, a kiss, or feeling your wonderful, perfect little cunt squeezing around him.

Osamu just loves you, and try all you can, but eventually you’ll return his feelings. And how could you not?

There’s something wrong with him, yes, but have you ever felt so loved?

Have you ever felt so seen, validated, wanted?

You never have, and you never will, so just accept it. Accept him.