#[tw: debts owed] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangdokja · 9 days ago

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You dress them up, strip them down, and cash out every time.

❤︎ Synopsis. In Sex City, flesh is currency, desire is power, and you sit at the top, pulling the strings. Your men dance, strip, and fuck under neon lights, their moans echoing in back rooms where love is just another transaction. They worship you like a god, but gods don’t bleed—do they? In a world where bodies are for sale and obsession turns deadly, the real question is: who owns who?

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Omegaverse! Sex City AU! Various x Fem. Omega! Reader

♡ Characters Include. Pornstar! Gojo, Enemy Kingpin! Sukuna, Virgin Stripper! Sunday, Brothel Escort! Boothill, Sugar Baby! Alhaitham

♡ The Master’s Collection. Five for Sale - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 10,065 (about 1.5k each character)

♡ TW. dom + top + older + scumbag + false sub yanderes, evil psychopathic + false dom and switch + apathetic + black flag reader, toxic + abusive relationships, non-con + dub-con, BDSM + DDLG, inappropriate use of kinks, degradation + humiliation, implied blackmail, dystopian setting, general manipulation + gaslighting + abuse + trauma, implied incest, abuse of authority, omegaverse inspiration, kidnapping, drugging, prostitution and sex industry + sexual exploitation and abuse, implied domestic abuse + unhealthy coping mechanisms + desensitization + unhealthy family dynamics, abandonment, god complex + religious analogies

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

The city bleeds for you.

Neon veins pulse through the streets, flashing filth in candy-colored lights—pink, violet, crimson, flickering over bodies pressed together in alleyways, moans drowned beneath the bass-heavy thrum of Sinthral’s heartbeat. Everything here belongs to you. Every touch, every dollar, every gasped-out name whispered in the dark. The men who fuck for you, the women who kill for you, the desperate souls who pray to you with trembling lips—they are all yours. You, the anomaly. The Omega who should have been broken. Who should have been sold, collared, made to kneel.

Instead, they kneel for you.

You sit at the top, high above the filth, in a tower of glass and steel where the scent of blood is scrubbed from the walls, where the air is cold enough to bite. Your name is whispered, breathed like an incantation, a warning, a promise. They call you The Master. The Devil. The Queen who made herself King.

The Red Ledger is your empire, but it is only one piece of the machine. Sex is the easiest currency; bodies are the most desperate wager. You own the brothels, the strip clubs, the underground fight pits where men break their bones for sport. You own the casinos, the high-rolling dens where fortunes are lost and lives are signed away. You own the ports, the routes, the supply chains that keep this city drowning in its own vices. Every transaction passes through your hands. Every debt owed, every sin indulged. And when the ledger runs dry, when the scales tip too far against them, they come crawling.

Even Alphas.

There is nothing more pathetic than an Alpha brought to their knees. No scent strong enough, no status high enough to defy the weight of power you hold. They look at you and see their ruin. You look at them and see profit.

Tonight, the ledger is wet with ink and blood. Five new bodies for sale, five new lives to crush beneath your heel. The auction looms, and the wolves have gathered, hungry and salivating. You watch them from the private box above the stage, your silhouette carved in the dark, a queen upon her throne of indulgence. Below, the bidding begins.

And as always, you are the one pulling the strings.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫! 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✦✧✦✧

The Red Ledger breathes. Not with air, but with power, wealth, and flesh. And tonight, your best investment is on display.

Gojo Satoru steps onto the stage, and the room tilts in his favor.

It’s not just his face—though that alone is enough to make men and women bankrupt themselves for the chance to taste his skin. It’s not just the arrogance, the unbearable, insufferable confidence that drips from every movement. It’s the knowledge that he owns this space, that the camera lenses are his playthings, that every breath drawn in this room will be spent speaking his name.

He is your number one. Your most valuable asset. The golden boy of Sinthral’s elite underworld, the untouchable king of the industry you built.

And he knows it.

Gojo Satoru is a pornstar, but calling him that is an insult to the empire he has created beneath your rule. He isn’t just an actor. He’s a god. He’s the industry. His films don’t just sell—they redefine pleasure, twist the limits of human depravity, push boundaries no one dares to cross. He isn’t just famous; he’s untouchable. He could walk through the streets of this city blindfolded, naked, and still leave a trail of bodies writhing in his wake.

Every single person in this room has paid a price to see him tonight.

You lean back in your chair, fingers drumming against the armrest, watching him with the cold satisfaction of an artist surveying their masterpiece. Gojo tilts his head, the silver-white strands of his hair falling into his eyes before he shoves them back with a grin. The way he moves is effortless, fluid—he doesn’t just walk onto the stage, he prowls, he demands attention. The way his hips shift, the slow drag of his fingers over the buttons of his silk shirt, the fucking audacity of that lazy smirk—he’s built for this.

"Come on," he says, voice slipping through the speakers like warm honey over broken glass. "You’re not gonna make me do all the work, are you?"

Laughter ripples through the room, but it's laced with something darker—hunger, anticipation. They would eat him alive if you let them.

You never do.

Gojo is not for sale. Not permanently, at least. He belongs to you, your most expensive commodity, your biggest gamble and your greatest return. He is the pinnacle of indulgence, the most sought-after star in a world that gorges itself on desire. And yet, despite all the money, the power, the control—you know one truth better than anyone.

He’s an Alpha. And Alphas don’t stay caged forever.

Except, you made sure this one did.

Gojo Satoru was made to be a god, and you made sure he was your god.

The auction is just a show. A tease. A chance for the city's wealthiest degenerates to bid for an hour, a night, a taste of him. But they never win. No amount of money will ever buy what belongs to you.

He knows this.

And yet, he plays the game so well.

Gojo’s fingers slide down his chest, the shirt slipping off one shoulder, baring pale skin under the cruel light of the chandeliers. His scent floods the air, that thick, intoxicating mix of sweat, expensive cologne, and something that burns at the edges of reason. Alphas aren’t meant to be like this, aren’t meant to be controlled, sold, displayed. But Gojo is different.

You made sure of that.

You remember the first time he stepped into your world—young, cocky, too beautiful for his own good. A rich boy from a powerful bloodline, born into privilege, into a life where the world bent over backwards to kiss the ground he walked on. He could have been anything. A businessman, a politician, a king in his own right.

And yet, he chose this.

Or rather, he let you choose it for him.

“You’re wasted on a normal life,” you had told him, a drink in one hand, a contract in the other. “What’s the point of being the strongest if no one gets to see what you can do?”

And Gojo—foolish, brilliant, greedy Gojo—had grinned, teeth flashing like a predator about to sink his fangs into something sweet.

“Alright, boss,” he had said. “Show me what I’m worth.”

And you did.

You broke him in, shattered every illusion he had of power, stripped him of the idea that he was untouchable. You taught him that in this world, power wasn’t about strength. It wasn’t about fists or bloodlines or the natural order.

Power was about control.

And you controlled him.

But Gojo was never the type to accept a leash. He turned it into a collar of diamonds and wore it like a crown. He made himself untouchable, undeniable, unstoppable.

And now, he stands on that stage, looking down at the world like a god preparing to pass judgment.

"You want me?" His voice drips with laughter, with promise. His shirt falls to the floor, and the room sucks in a collective breath. "Then come and get me."

The crowd erupts.

But no one ever gets him.

Not unless you allow it.

And you never do.

Because in the end, no matter how much Gojo Satoru shines under these lights, no matter how much he grins and teases and tempts—he is yours.

And in this city, gods don’t rule.

You do.

✦✧✦✧

Gojo wasn’t just a pornstar. He was an artist. A god. The most exquisite creature in this depraved Eden.

He could fuck, model, perform, and seduce with the kind of arrogance that made men weep and women beg. His mere presence turned money into water, burning through the pockets of billionaires and lowlifes alike. No one said no to him. No one wanted to. He was the star, the storm, the singularity. And he was yours.

Right now, he lounged against your desk, all six feet three inches of impossible beauty draped in a loose silk robe, porcelain skin illuminated by the amber glow of your office. His platinum-white hair was mussed, those absurdly blue eyes catching the city’s reflection through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The world outside begged for him. But he belonged to you.

“You’ve been quiet,” Gojo mused, sipping from a crystal glass of whiskey. “Planning my next show?”

You leaned back in your chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of your desk. Your office was the beating heart of this empire, a command center where deals were inked in sweat and blood. Surveillance screens lined the walls, each feeding real-time footage from the underground parlors, private suites, and filming studios. Every moan, every desperate gasp—it was all cataloged, archived, monetized.

“You’re restless,” you observed, tilting your head. “You need something to do.”

Gojo smirked, lazy and self-assured. “You know me too well.”

You did. You had shaped him, sculpted him into this unstoppable force of lust and spectacle. You knew what he craved, what made his blood race. And you would give it to him—because you were just as addicted as he was.

Without breaking eye contact, you pressed a button on your desk. The doors locked with a soft click.

“Strip,” you ordered.

Gojo’s smirk widened, but he didn’t hesitate. The silk robe slid from his shoulders, pooling at his feet. He stood before you in nothing but his own perfection—long, sculpted limbs, lean muscle flexing beneath smooth, unblemished skin. His cock was already half-hard, responding to the promise in your voice alone.

You rose from your chair, circling him like a predator inspecting its prize. The air between you was charged, thick with the unspoken history of every touch, every night spent pushing each other past the limits of pleasure. You ran a hand down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the barely restrained power beneath his skin.

“You belong to me,” you murmured, fingers ghosting over his hip. “Every inch of you.”

Gojo’s lashes fluttered, but he didn’t look away. “Then use me.”

And you did.

You shoved him back onto your desk, the papers scattering, glass whiskey tumbling to the floor in a splash of amber. Gojo laughed, breathless, as you climbed over him, pinning him down with your body. His cock was hard now, the head slick with anticipation. You traced your fingers along the length, watching the way his abs tensed, the way his lips parted on a silent curse.

“You love this,” you whispered against his throat, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. “Being wanted. Being taken.”

Gojo arched into you, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. “I love when you stop talking and fuck me already.”

You obliged.

There was nothing soft about it—this was possession, a claiming, the kind of raw, brutal intimacy that left bruises and bite marks in its wake. Your nails dug into his hips, your teeth marked his skin. Gojo was loud, unashamed, moaning unabashedly as you drove into him with ruthless precision. The desk creaked beneath you, the sound swallowed by the wet slap of skin against skin, the desperate gasps that filled the room.

He was exquisite like this—wrecked, ruined, his perfect image shattered in the heat of pleasure. He clung to you, fingers tangled in your hair, nails scratching down your back. His body opened up for you, took everything you gave and begged for more. He was insatiable, just as you had made him.

Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a plea, an invocation.

And when he came, it was violent—his entire body shuddering, his voice breaking in a desperate moan. You followed moments later, burying him deeper in your tight heat, marking him from the inside out.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the distant hum of the city below.

Then Gojo laughed, soft and breathless. “Fuck, that was good.”

You smirked, brushing damp strands of white hair from his forehead. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Gojo’s eyes darkened with excitement. “Good.”

Because in this city, excess was survival.

And Gojo Satoru was built to last.

✦✧✦✧

The afterglow was brief, punctuated by the distant hum of the city and the soft crackle of an old record spinning in the corner. Gojo sprawled on the bed, one arm flung over his forehead, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. The sheets were a ruin of sweat and bruises.

You lit a cigarette, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as you watched him. Even now, disheveled and spent, he looked like something divine. A deity draped in the aftermath of sin.

“What’s next?” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.

You took a slow drag, considering. “The board wants you for the Parthenon campaign. Full immersion, six-month contract.”

He snorted, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “You gonna let them keep me that long?”

Your lips curved. “I own you, Gojo. No one takes you without my permission.”

His grin was sharp. “Kinky.”

You exhaled another stream of smoke, watching the way the neon light painted shadows over his skin. In this world, there was no love, no innocence. Only survival. Only ownership.

And Gojo, your beautiful, dangerous investment, was the most valuable thing you had.

For now.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐩𝐢𝐧! 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 ✦✧✦✧

You didn’t believe in soulmates.

Never had. Never will.

That shit was for the weak—fairytales spun by scared little Omegas trying to feel special in a world that used their bodies like product, stamped and sold with a smile. But you were never that kind of Omega. No one even knew what you were. Alpha, they assumed—cold, powerful, untouchable. And you let them.

So when you crashed the auction in broad daylight, black coat flaring behind you, smoke still curling from the muzzle of your gun—you weren’t expecting him.

You came for his cargo. You didn’t expect Ryōmen Sukuna.

Blood King. Sex City’s nightmare. Not just a name, but a terror. An Alpha so mad he didn’t climb the ranks—he burned the staircase. Top of the food chain. Untouchable. Unkillable. Unfuckable… unless you wanted to die in bed. Rumor said he skinned traitors and wore their faces like masks.

And he was your soulmate.

He knew the second you walked through the bullet-riddled auction gates.

Because in this world, soulmates could see everything. Your lies. Your heart. The thing you’d spent years burying beneath ash and steel and sex and screams.

He saw you. The Omega you’d killed off. The one no one was allowed to find.

And fuck, he liked what he saw.

✦✧✦✧

"You're not an Alpha."

It wasn't a question. It was a verdict.

His voice was made of ash and wine—rich and brutal. The auction hall stank of blood, smoke, cum, and perfume, bodies still twitching on the ground, but he stepped through it like a king entering a ballroom. Not a scratch on him, even after the blast you set off five minutes ago. The man was built like sin had a muscle fetish. Shirtless beneath his blood-red coat, inked chest gleaming, scars slicing through tattoos like battle trophies.

Your gun was aimed at his head. His eyes never left your face.

Fuck. Soulmates.

You could feel it. That awful, acidic pull in your gut. The way the bond whispered mine like a disease. The way he smirked because he could feel you too.

You stayed calm. Detached.

"Move, Sukuna. You're blocking my exit."

"You blew up my fuckin’ merchandise," he said, glancing lazily at the dead brokers twitching at your feet. "That was cute. Dangerous. But cute."

You cocked the gun. "Last warning."

And then he did the last thing you expected.

He stepped closer.

One step. Then another. Until the muzzle of your gun pressed against the center of his chest, right where his heart should’ve been—if he had one.

"You think that scares me, baby?" he murmured, leaning in, his voice dropping to a growl. "We’re bonded. You shoot me, you feel it too."

Your lips parted. Not in shock. But in fury.

"Then I’ll bleed happily, asshole."

✦✧✦✧

You pulled the trigger.

Pain exploded in your ribs like lightning. But you didn’t fall.

Neither did he.

The bullet had torn clean through him. Crimson splattered across his chest like paint on canvas. But he only chuckled, licking his lips, watching you stumble.

"Told you. Cute."

He yanked the gun from your hands and slammed it against the wall behind you, pinning you in a blink. His palm wrapped around your throat, not tight enough to choke—but firm. Dominant.

You didn’t flinch. You looked him dead in the eye.

"Touch me again and I’ll take your balls for trophies."

But Sukuna’s grin only deepened. He leaned in until his breath kissed your ear, body pressed sinfully close, the bond between you two crackling like live wires.

"You’ve been hiding, Omega," he whispered. "All this time… pretending to be Alpha. Bet no one even knows what you smell like, huh? But I do."

You jerked your knee up. Missed. He caught it mid-thrust, gripping your thigh and shoving you harder against the wall.

"You're not gonna scare me off," he growled. "I’ve waited a long fuckin' time to find you. And now that I have?"

His eyes glowed like fire. His voice dropped to something terrifying and reverent.

"You're mine."

✦✧✦✧

You escaped. Of course.

Slit two guards' throats, kicked a flaming chandelier at him, jumped out a second-story window.

Standard shit.

But you didn’t forget what he said.

You didn’t forget the way his bond clawed at your chest whenever you see him again. How your slick betrayed you. How the memory of his hand on your throat lingered like a bruise.

You didn’t forget how he looked at you. Like prey. Like salvation.

And he didn’t forget you, either.

✦✧✦✧

Your vision was a smear of lights and color when you woke up—languid, heavy, high as fuck. The silk sheets under you whispered wealth. The scent in the air was spiced sandalwood, musk, and him. Always him.

Your limbs felt treacherously soft. You hated it. You hated him.

"Took you long enough, princess."

The low, silken voice pulled you fully awake. Sukuna stood at the foot of the bed, the bastard kingpin dressed in fitted black slacks and a wine-colored shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows to reveal the tattoos curling down his forearms—symbols of power and possession. Eyes the color of dried blood and smoldering heat traced over your sprawled, vulnerable body. There was hunger there. Possessive. Dark.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to panic. Refusing to let him see your heart pounding.

"Drugging me, Sukuna? How romantic."

His grin stretched wide. Too many teeth. His tongue flicked over one canine. "You never pick up your fucking phone. I had to improvise."

"You’re obsessed."

"Obviously."

You forced yourself upright. The sheets fell, and you were naked underneath. Of course. You knew him. Knew he’d stripped you himself. You also knew he hadn't fucked you. Not yet. Not until you said yes.

Unfortunately for him, you’d rather die.

"You think this will change anything?" you sneered. "You think tying me to your bed like some—some omega bitch will make me fall in love with you?"

He walked closer, gaze hooded. You hated the way your body heated. The chemical edge still fogged your mind, but it wasn’t the drug making you wet.

It was him.

The worst part? He could feel it. Soulmate bonds were sick like that. You'd long stopped believing in that fairytale, even when the universe spat his name out for you. Even when you tasted him in dreams, saw the future in flashes when he touched you.

He was your match. Your perfect hell. The psychotic bastard who would burn kingdoms for a kiss.

"You fight me so hard," Sukuna murmured, crawling onto the bed. His weight dipped the mattress, muscles coiled and raw as he loomed over you. "But your body never lies to me."

He pinned you easily, wrist to the headboard. The metal cuffs were already there. You cursed.

"Sukuna, I swear—"

He slammed his hips between your legs. You gasped—your thighs betrayed you and parted. Instinct, curse it.

His cock pressed hard through his pants, hot against your mound.

"You want to be fucked like a bitch in heat," he growled, lips brushing yours. "You want to forget how smart you are, how cruel you are, how cold your little brain is. You want me to break that."

"Try it," you spat.

He did.

The sound of his zipper was thunder in your ears. Your breath caught—no preparation, no warning. Just heat, pressure, intrusion. He speared you in one brutal thrust.

You screamed—not just from the stretch, but from the sick, sick pleasure.

"That’s it," Sukuna growled, eyes glowing now, mad with lust. "Moan for your mate."

"Fuck you—"

He thrust harder.

You arched, the drug making everything ten times worse—every drag of his cock set your nerves on fire. Your omega body betrayed you, slick gushing around him, gripping him. You bit his shoulder to muffle your sob.

He laughed like a demon.

"I could fuck you stupid, sweetheart. Knot you so full you never think again."

You wouldn’t let him. You couldn’t.

But your body was already spasming, climax crashing through you—fury and disgust and fuck, you hated this. Hated how much it felt like belonging.

He leaned down, tongue in your mouth, teeth scraping your lip as he fucked you through it.

"You don’t get a choice anymore," he whispered, voice ragged. "You’re mine. Always were. I’m done playing nice."

He came with a brutal snap of his hips, knot swelling—oh fuck, he was actually—

You screamed again, nails digging into his back.

He kissed your temple.

"Let the whole world come for me," he murmured, panting. "I’ll kill every last one of them. But I’ll die with my cock buried in your cunt."

And your traitor heart beat louder in your chest.

✦✧✦✧

You didn’t speak for hours after. Not while his cum leaked down your thighs, not while he wrapped your limp body in Egyptian cotton sheets, not while he lit a cigar and watched the skyline with that possessive gleam still glinting in his eye.

You lay there, head tilted to watch him. No shame. No apology. Just arousal and hatred burning slow in your blood.

"You think this means anything," you finally muttered. "You think I’ll be soft to you now."

He didn’t turn. Just exhaled smoke, the faintest smile curling his lips.

"No," he said. "I think you’ll keep fighting me. And I’ll keep fucking you. Until you’re too broken to keep lying to yourself."

You stood. Limped, actually. Your legs ached from the brutal pace, the knot. Your inner thighs were slick and sore. Still, you walked like a queen—naked, bruised, head held high.

You found the robe he left for you on the chair. Slipped it on. Tied the sash with a sharp, practiced jerk.

"Next time you drug me, I’ll cut your cock off in your sleep."

"You’ll suck it first."

You gave him a sweet smile. "Don’t count on it."

You reached for the phone on the table beside his bar. Dialed a number.

"It’s me," you said. "Tell them the deal’s back on. But I want double. And full ownership of the port."

Sukuna’s head turned slightly. His grin widened.

"You’re still doing business with me?"

"You’re a useful bastard. Doesn’t mean I trust you."

"You will. Eventually."

"Don’t bet on it."

You hung up. Walked back to him. Stared down at where he lounged like a devil made flesh.

He reached out, curled a hand around your hip. The bond buzzed between you—hot, electric, like a chain coiling tighter.

"You’ll never escape me," he said quietly.

"I don’t plan to. I plan to win."

He chuckled, yanked you down into his lap.

"Then try, omega. Let’s see who breaks first."

You kissed him with teeth.

This wasn’t love.

It was war.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫! 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 ✦✧✦✧

Sunday is the rarest of creatures in Sinthral—a virgin in a world where every inch of flesh has been sold, every body twisted into something unrecognizable. In a city where desire runs rampant, where bodies are commodities, and no one escapes unscarred, he is untouched. A canvas still pure, a thread still unbroken. And it’s not because he’s weak, or too innocent to survive. It’s because you saw the value in him, the potential in keeping him pristine.

You are the one who saved him.

Not many people know this. Not even Sukuna. But you remember the night.

The night you watched Sukuna—your enemy, your rival, the man who built his empire on blood and ruin—turn Sunday into a puppet. The gleam of pleasure in Sukuna’s eyes as he tore apart that angelic face, making him dance for the highest bidder, was the most repulsive thing you had ever seen. But you couldn’t intervene directly. Not then. Not with Sukuna watching every move, every inch of the gameboard under his control.

But you knew. You had your sights set on Sunday long before that night, long before Sukuna’s twisted hands could sully him. You saw his value, the purity he held—his body, untouched by the brutality of the world around him. It was the one thing that separated him from every other man who stumbled into your world. And when you make an investment, you don’t break it.

So, you bided your time. And when Sukuna finally turned his back, when the window cracked open just wide enough, you took your chance.

Sunday came to you, trembling at first, unsure whether he was walking into salvation or into a new cage. But you were patient. You were always patient with him.

It took only one look for you to recognize the kind of man Sunday was—quiet, angelic, his eyes wide with the fear of someone who had been broken, but not yet completely corrupted. He was still young, still naive enough to believe in something other than survival. You could see that glimmer, a kind of purity that shone even through the filth of Sinthral’s underbelly.

And that purity? You would protect it.

The first time you spoke to him, you said only one thing:

"Stay untouched. It will make you more valuable than any of them."

He didn't ask why. He didn't ask how long. He just nodded, a silent acceptance in the hollow of his chest. The trembling stopped. He knew you were a force he couldn’t oppose, that you held the reigns on his fate. But you also knew that he wasn't like the others. He wasn’t a tool to be ground down, stripped, and thrown aside once his worth was spent. No, Sunday was an investment for the long haul.

You had raised him like a prize, like a rare flower in a garden of rotting corpses. In the time you spent together, you learned that Sunday was more than just a pretty face or a body meant for a one-time use. There was a depth to him, a grace. His fragility wasn’t weakness, but a strength that couldn’t be replicated.

Women adored him—more than just for his looks. They adored the way he moved, the way he could look at someone without the usual raw hunger that burned in every other man in the city. There was something almost otherworldly about him. Something… angelic. And you, of all people, understood the value of angelic things in a city that devoured everything pure.

He doesn’t work for you like the others. He doesn’t dance, doesn’t strip, doesn’t sell his body. Instead, he is a vision. A symbol. A dream. A commodity that remains in mint condition, untouched by the dark undercurrents that threaten to ruin everything in this world.

But God, does he make them beg.

It’s an art, the way he moves. His every step is calculated, every glance a spell. When he enters a room, silence falls. There’s an ethereal quality to him that makes the air crackle, like an angel walking among demons. His soft, unblemished skin glows under the dim, neon lights, making the most hardened men lose control. He is beauty in its purest form. Untouched.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sunday knows. He knows what they want. What you want. But more than that, he knows what they can never have.

You stand in the shadows, eyes on him as he makes his way to the center of the stage. His white shirt clings to his frame, his jeans sitting just low enough to tease without revealing. The crowd shifts, restless, eager, but you can feel the difference tonight. The energy in the air is heavier, suffocating with want.

For once, Sunday isn’t the prey. He is the hunter.

He turns his head just slightly, catching your gaze from across the room. His lips curl into a soft, knowing smile—faint, but enough to send a wave of possessive hunger through you. The way his eyes flicker with the glint of understanding makes your heart stutter. It’s like he’s reminding you—reminding you of what you’ve made him. What you’ve molded him into.

Untouched.

But he still belongs to you.

As Sunday takes a single step forward, the crowd shifts closer, some of them daring to reach out, but never too close. They know better. You’ve made sure of that. The moment anyone crosses a line with Sunday, they’ll find themselves in a pit of ruin they’ll never claw their way out of.

But even in the face of all their yearning, he remains calm. Controlled. Innocent. His gaze remains locked on you, eyes full of something far deeper than obedience. He’s not a dog to be caged; he’s a partner, an equal. An investment so valuable, you would never let anyone soil him.

The auction for him is coming. It always is. But for now, he remains yours. And that’s how you like it.

✦✧✦✧

You don't touch Sunday like you touch the others. That’s what makes him valuable.

You'd rescued him from Sukuna’s quarters—shattered wings, fractured pride, half-naked and pale with dried blood threading down the inner curve of his thigh. Not his, you found out later. He hadn’t cried then. Just looked at you with that same muted elegance he’s never lost, even now, months later, draped in the softest silks and walking like he’s already in a cathedral.

He’s your angel. And angels, unlike playthings, are best left untarnished.

Until now.

Tonight, he stands before you like he was summoned. Like he’s yours because Heaven whispered that fate into his spine. Still dressed from his shift—glitter kissed across his collarbones, the bare skin of his chest glowing beneath translucent fabric. There’s a grace to the way he waits. Always waiting. Patient and pure.

You step closer. His breath doesn’t hitch.

"Sunday," you murmur, voice sliding over his name like velvet soaked in oil. "Do you know why I haven't fucked you yet?"

His eyes—golden, fathomless, quiet—stay on you. "Because I work better like this," he says. Not a question. A truth. A law.

You smile. Slowly.

"That’s right. You shine brightest with your halo intact." Your fingers brush his waist. "But you’ll be teaching them seduction now. Can’t do that without knowing how to weaponize your own body, can you?"

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He lets you undo the knot of silk at his hip, lets the fabric spill down like petals, feet bare on the cold marble floor.

He’s beautiful in the way ancient statues are beautiful. Ethereal. Unyielding. But built for worship.

And you? You’re the God he kneels for.

You don't ravage him. You sculpt him.

Fingers dragging across his stomach, your voice low, instructive. You guide his palm to your mouth and kiss the base of each knuckle.

“Seduction isn’t desperation. It’s dominance.” You bite gently on his ring finger. “It’s knowing every gaze belongs to you, even before they look.”

You make him mirror you. Make him press his mouth to your skin—not in need, but in performance. A dance of grace and learned control. Your hand guides his hips down to your lap, teaching him pressure, rhythm, angles. Every breath you steal from him is deliberate. Measured. Like prayer.

“There,” you whisper against his collarbone, licking sweat that barely exists. “That’s it. That little tremor—I want you to memorize it. That’s the sound of a heartbeat when they’re about to break.”

He doesn’t blush. Doesn’t gasp. His skin is too noble for that. But his spine arches with the next roll of your hips against his. He learns by feel.

And you teach with your hands on his throat. Loose. Not choking. But there. A reminder.

“You’re not here to enjoy it,” you say, forehead against his temple. “You’re here to master it.”

He nods once.

And when he comes—silent, graceful, devout—it’s not for pleasure. It’s for knowledge.

After, you dress him again with your own hands. Delicate, almost reverent. He leans into your touch the way a blade leans into flesh—calculated, quiet, inevitable.

"You’re mine now."

He doesn’t answer.

But he kisses your throat like a prayer.

"You’re still pure, Sunday. Still mine. Don’t ever forget—I only let you touch me because you’re different."

You know he believes it.

You know he will never touch anyone else.

And that’s the sweetest seduction of all.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥 𝐄𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐭! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦✧✦✧

He always smelled like sweat and gunpowder.

Even when you were kids—barely scraping by in the rot-choked gutters of Sinthral—Boothill smelled like violence. It clung to him, sunk into the pores of his skin like the smoke in your father's study. You remember the first time you saw him bleed.

Some older brute had tried to shake him down for smokes and creds, cornered him in the alley behind that rust-bitten chapel where the whores went to weep. Boothill didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. He gritted his teeth, pulled a rusted blade from his boot, and carved the bastard up like meat for market.

You watched from the shadows. Silent. Unblinking.

When it was over, when the blood had sprayed your face like warm rain, you stepped out and offered him a cloth. No words. Just the press of your small hand against his cheek, wiping the red away. He looked at you like he’d never seen a girl before—like maybe you weren’t real. Like maybe he’d dreamed you up from the hell he lived in.

“Damn,” he’d muttered, voice low, drawl thick even then. “Ain’t you a strange lil’ thing.”

You didn’t speak. Not then. But your eyes said everything.

You never left each other after that.

✦✧✦✧

Boothill was raised by bullets and bourbon. The bastard son of a gunrunner and a prostitute, he lived in brothels and barfights, slept in beds soaked with other people’s sins. By the time your father found him, Boothill was sixteen and already killing for coin. Your father took one look at the boy, saw the broken thing inside him, and smiled.

“This one,” he’d said to you, dragging the bruised boy in by the collar, “will follow you into hell.”

And he did.

You were eight then. Silent still, but smarter than any of your tutors. You didn’t need to be told Boothill was meant to be yours—not just as a bodyguard or a tool, but something more. He was betrothed to you before either of you bled. An unspoken contract signed in trauma and sealed with your father’s ring.

He slept outside your door every night. Never came in, never asked. Just waited. Loyal as a beast on a chain. But sometimes, you’d wake in the middle of the night, padded footsteps silent as breath, and curl beside him in the hall. No words. Just the soft press of your body against his, the warmth of shared nightmares.

✦✧✦✧

Sinthral chewed boys like him up and spat them out in pieces. But not Boothill. No, he adapted. Got meaner. Smarter. Sharper. While you learned diplomacy from your father’s enemies and seduction from his whores, Boothill learned how to kill without blinking. How to make a man talk without ever laying a hand on him. How to snap necks with that easy smile still on his lips.

You taught him to read. He taught you to shoot.

He kissed you for the first time when you were eighteen. You’d just slit a diplomat’s throat in the bathhouse, hands still dripping red when you stepped out into the marble steam, and there he was—leaning against the wall, smoke curling from his lips.

"Hell, darlin’," he drawled, voice molasses-thick, eyes darker than night. "You just keep gettin’ prettier."

You didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just walked up to him, blood soaking your gown, and kissed him like it meant nothing.

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it never did.

But that was the night you started fucking him.

✦✧✦✧

Now?

Now you share bodies like weapons, use each other for release and control. He’s the one you go to when your nerves are frayed, when the city whispers too loud and your father’s ghost won’t shut up. He lets you ride him raw and reckless, lets you choke him until his eyes glaze over. He calls you ‘Mistress’ when you have him on his knees, your fingers in his mouth and your knife at his throat.

You don’t trust him. Never will. Not fully.

But he’s the only one you let see you cry.

The only one who holds you after.

He doesn’t ask for more. Doesn’t need to. Boothill knows exactly what you are—what you were made to be. And still, he stays. Your enforcer. Your monster.

Your first love, even if you’d never call it that.

He’s the only one who ever came close to mattering.

And that? That makes him dangerous.

Because if there’s one thing your father taught you, it’s that love is leverage.

And Boothill? He’d burn the whole city down if you asked.

So you keep him close. Real close.

Just in case you ever need to put him down.

✦✧✦✧

Thunder cracked overhead as if to warn the world that sin was about to happen in this lonely brothel on the outskirts of a rotting, post-collapse city. The air smelled of dust, sex, and low-grade liquor. Neon bled through the fogged windows, painting your bare back in bruised pink and violent red.

You didn’t flinch as the door creaked open behind you.

"Y'know, sugar, if you keep temptin' the Lord with that ass, He might just come down and punish ya Himself," came that slow, familiar drawl.

You didn’t need to turn around. That voice alone was enough to make your thighs press together. Boothill. Your guardian, your jailer, your occasional executioner, and—most conveniently—your fuckbuddy. You trusted him as far as you could throw his cocky, ten-gallon-hat-wearing ass. Which wasn’t far. The only thing consistent about him was the way he made you come like sin was salvation.

You smirked, flicking ash from your cigarette into a chipped glass ashtray. “Didn’t know you were back in the city.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” he said, boots thudding on the wood floor as he approached. “But hearin’ you were mixin’ business with that snake from Sector 9 made me think twice.”

“Jealous?” you asked, still not turning around.

He was behind you in a second, his calloused hand gripping your jaw, tilting your head so he could breathe against your ear. “Nah. Ain’t jealous, darlin’. Just territorial.”

His other hand slipped under the thin strap of your dress, and he tugged it down your shoulder, baring one breast to the room’s cool air. His tongue was hot when it followed the path his hand had made.

You finally turned to face him, pressing your palm flat against his chest. Beneath the threadbare shirt, his body was hard, muscular from years of running, killing, and surviving. Boothill smelled like whiskey, leather, and gunpowder—danger wrapped in a smile.

You grinned up at him, lazy and poisonous. “You here to remind me who fucks me best?”

“No, sweetheart,” he growled, pushing you back until your thighs hit the edge of the bed. “I’m here to make you forget every damn other man on this planet.”

Then he was on you.

Boothill moved like a storm, wild and unforgiving. He shoved you down onto the mattress and yanked your dress up, baring your thighs, your cunt already slick from anticipation. You spread your legs without shame, watching his eyes darken with hunger.

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered, thumbing over your clit as he bent down to mouth at your throat. “Always so fuckin’ ready for me. You’d think I was your husband or somethin’, the way this pussy begs for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whispered, but your hips lifted into his hand anyway, betraying you.

He chuckled against your skin, low and thick. “Too late, sugar. I know you like it when I talk filthy.”

His fingers sank into you, two at once, spreading you open. You gasped, biting your lip to stay quiet, but he growled at that.

“Don’t you dare hold back on me now.”

Boothill’s voice was thunder and smoke as he worked his fingers inside you, curling them just right, pressing into the soft spot that made your whole body twitch. When he kissed you, it was brutal—teeth and tongue and ownership. There was no gentleness here. Only need.

He pulled back, only to shove your legs further apart and drop to his knees at the edge of the bed. You opened your mouth to snark something, but the moment his tongue hit your clit, your words melted into a moan.

“Fuck—Booth—"

He held your thighs down like a man possessed, lapping at you like he was starving. The edge built fast, hotter than fire, and when you came, you saw white. You barely noticed him unbuckling his belt until you heard the jingle of metal and the hiss of denim being shoved down.

“You ain’t done yet,” he growled, crawling over you. “Not by a damn long shot.”

His cock was thick and hard and pulsing when he pushed into you, one slow, dragging inch at a time. The stretch burned, perfect and terrible. You dug your nails into his back.

“God,” you hissed.

He laughed, fucking into you like he meant to breed you—deep, rough strokes that knocked the breath from your lungs.

“I ain’t god, sweetheart,” he whispered against your neck. “I’m the devil you let back in.”

And you did. Again and again. Each thrust made your back arch, your legs wrap around his waist, your cunt flutter around him like you wanted him to own you. You fucked like animals, your bodies colliding with vicious desperation.

He kept one hand on your throat, just enough pressure to make your vision swim, while the other gripped your hip and fucked you into the bed like he’d carve his name into your womb.

“You feel that?” he groaned. “This dick was made for you.”

You came again with a scream, clenching around him, dragging him down into your madness. Boothill didn’t slow. He was a machine, fucking you through it until your nails bled from clawing at his back.

And when he came, it was with a long, guttural sound, hips jerking as he filled you with his heat. He collapsed over you, panting, sweating, his forehead pressed to yours.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, softly:

“You still don’t trust me,” he muttered.

You smiled, lazy and satisfied. “Nope.”

He chuckled darkly. “Smart girl.”

You stroked his hair, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. “You’d be the one to kill me if the price was right.”

He didn’t deny it.

But for tonight, you were safe.

And still full of him.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅ 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲! 𝐀𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ✦✧✦✧

Alhaitham is always the quietest in the room, the most calculated. He’s the one who watches without making a sound, a shadow on the wall, moving through life like a thread in the fabric of your empire, each moment orchestrated with perfect precision.

He was never meant to be a part of this world—at least, not the way you’ve made him.

He was just another high-class consultant, a well-educated man who walked the fine line between legal and illegal with a quiet grace, as if the world owed him something.

But then came you.

And you found him, like a predator scenting the smallest whiff of weakness. He never thought anyone would have the power to bring him to his knees. But you did. And you’ve kept him there ever since.

It started innocently enough—or as innocent as anything in this city ever could. He had what you needed. Information. Access to people in high places. Connections. And you, always in control, knew how to exploit that.

The blackmail was the final push.

Alhaitham thought he could simply walk away, walk out of the twisted mess he’d found himself in. But you know him too well. You always know. It was his arrogance, his belief that he could outsmart you. The moment he tried to use his own games against you, you snapped him back into place. A few whispered words, a few carefully placed pieces of leverage, and suddenly, he was under your thumb.

But that wasn’t the real punishment.

No, the real punishment was when you took everything he valued—his family, his reputation, his pride—and turned it into dust.

You forced him into a corner, and just when he thought he could escape, you showed him the truth. There was no escaping you. Not when you owned everything, not when every move he made was already written in the ledger of your control.

Now, Alhaitham is yours. A sugar baby, yes, but so much more than that. He’s your spy. Your tool. Your weapon.

But you know, better than anyone, that no one can be a puppet forever without starting to cut their own strings. Alhaitham’s intelligence makes him dangerous. He’s always two steps ahead, calculating, thinking, plotting. His eyes burn with a quiet fury, one that he hides beneath the mask of calm indifference.

And yet, even as you squeeze him dry, as you send him off to other clients to be used and discarded, you know the truth. He’s playing the game just as much as you are.

The difference? He doesn’t realize that he’s already lost.

You lean back in your chair, fingers idly tracing the edge of a glass, your eyes fixed on him from across the room. Alhaitham stands by the window, looking out into the neon-lit chaos of the city. His silhouette is sharp, composed, like a man who has been trained to be invisible. But there’s something in the way he holds himself tonight, something about the stillness of his form that tells you more than words ever could.

"You’re always so distant, Alhaitham," you say, your voice low, like a teasing whisper in the silence.

He doesn’t turn to look at you right away. It’s almost like he’s savoring the tension, the moment where you think you have control over him. But you know better. You know the game he’s playing, and it only makes the chase that much sweeter.

Finally, he turns, his eyes locking onto yours with that cool, calculating gaze he’s known for. "What do you want me to say?" His voice is smooth, almost detached. "You know I’m not one for small talk."

You smile at that, leaning forward, the glass in your hand reflecting the dim light. "You can start by telling me how it feels to be so far from home," you say, letting the words hang in the air. "To know that you’re nothing more than a pawn in my empire."

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. "I’m not a pawn," he says, his tone a little too sharp, a little too sure of himself. "I’m your spy. Your...asset. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You’re lying," you reply smoothly, taking a slow sip from your glass. "Because you know as well as I do that you're more than that to me."

Alhaitham’s eyes flicker for a moment. The faintest twitch in his expression. It’s small, imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know him the way you do. But you know. You always know.

And that’s where you strike.

"You’re not just a spy," you continue, your voice dipping into something more intimate, more dangerous. "You’re mine. I own you, Alhaitham. Every part of you. And don’t think I don’t know the way you want to be owned."

Alhaitham stands his ground, but there’s a wariness in his eyes now. A flicker of doubt.

You reach out, brushing a finger across his jawline. His skin is warm beneath your touch, but he doesn’t recoil. No, Alhaitham doesn’t flinch. Not anymore. His entire body is taut, like a bowstring stretched to its breaking point.

"You’re always so clever, so elusive," you whisper, letting your fingers trace the curve of his neck. "But you can’t escape me. You can’t escape this. No matter how many games you play."

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, his eyes narrowed. "I don’t need your games."

"You don’t?" You tilt your head, your lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "Then why are you still here, Alhaitham? Why do you keep coming back? You don’t have to. But you do. Every time."

He lets go of your wrist, but his gaze doesn’t soften. If anything, it hardens, like a wall being built around the part of him you’ve yet to reach.

"You’re a mistake," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "But I’ll play along, for now."

For a moment, the silence between you thickens, heavy with unspoken words, with the crackling tension that builds between predator and prey. You know he’s trying to outsmart you, trying to find a way to escape your grasp. But you also know that every step he takes only leads him further into your web.

And you? You’re more than happy to keep him there.

Because despite the fact that Alhaitham is a spy, a traitor in the making, you know the truth.

He’ll always come back to you.

Always.

✦✧✦✧

Your private quarters were dimmed to a soft, honeyed glow, filtered through silk curtains like whispers behind closed lips. Everything about the room was designed to invite sin—red velvet draped from the ceiling, the scent of sandalwood curling through the air, and a glass of half-sipped whiskey sweating in your palm as you lounged on your throne of decadent pillows.

You didn’t look up when the door slid open with a hiss. You already knew who it was. The cadence of his steps was unmistakable—leisurely, deliberate, self-assured. Alhaitham never rushed. He didn’t need to.

“Late,” you murmured, taking a lazy sip.

“I brought intel,” came his low, smooth voice. Just that. No apology. No excuses. Just results. Typical.

You tilted your head, finally glancing at him. And there he was: tousled hair, white-smooth skin, lips too full for a man who spoke so little, and eyes that held galaxies and guile. He wore your favorite today—a deep green silk shirt that clung too well to his sculpted chest and dark slacks that hinted at thighs forged by gods. Not a wrinkle in sight. Calculated.

Your silence drew him in. He dropped a USB on the table beside you like a cat dropping a mouse—look, mistress, I’ve hunted for you.

You didn’t reach for it. Instead, you let your gaze drag down his body like a whip. "You want something."

His lips curled, slow. "You always say that."

"Because you always do."

Alhaitham stepped closer, slipping one hand into his pocket, the other resting lightly on the back of the chair beside you, leaning just close enough that his scent—clean, cold, addictive—wound around you like silk ribbons. "They’re asking for me again. The senator’s wife. And the foreign diplomat."

You smirked. "Of course they are."

He bent slightly, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. "You send me to them, and I perform like the perfect whore. But you keep the best parts to yourself. You like playing puppeteer."

You tilted your head back, exposing your neck. Daring him. "You like being my puppet."

That did it. His hand slid to your throat, not squeezing—just resting. A reminder of control. Yours? His? Who cared?

He kissed you then. Slow. Filthy. With a groan that vibrated against your teeth. His tongue was hot and knowing, sliding against yours like it already owned your mouth.

You moaned into it, grabbing a fistful of his hair, dragging him down to straddle you.

He obliged with practiced ease, hips slotting between your legs like he belonged there—which he did. He always had. You could send him to any bed in the world, and he’d still come back to yours, feral and greedy.

“Say yes,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “To the thing I want.”

You arched a brow. “What thing?”

“Freedom for a week.” He started trailing kisses down your neck. “No clients. Just you.”

You laughed. Cold and amused. “You think I give that out for free?”

He bit your collarbone. “I know exactly what you want in exchange.”

And when he pulled back, those fox eyes met yours, dark with lust and dangerous knowing. Then he dropped to his knees.

It was a show. Everything he did was. The slow unbuttoning of your robe. The reverent way his lips trailed down your body. The tongue that circled your nipple before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl.

He sucked like a man starved. Like he hated being beneath you but loved it more than anything. That was the thrill of him—he was smarter than you, maybe, but you had the power. And it made him vile in how he worshipped you.

When he kissed down your stomach, he paused over your core, breath hot against it. He looked up, eyes glazed and teasing. “Say yes.”

“Make me.”

And he did. Tongue slow at first—testing. Then faster, crueler. You gripped the edge of the chaise, knuckles white, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a moan.

He sucked your clit like he was punishing you. Fingers curling into your entrance, curling just right, and when your hips bucked—

He smirked against you.

Bastard.

You came with a cry, legs clamping around his head. He kept going, coaxing more out of you until your thighs trembled and your voice cracked.

And when he rose again, face soaked, lips swollen, he wiped his chin with the back of his hand like a sinner licking his fingers after communion.

“Now,” he rasped, voice ruined, “do I get my week?”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into another kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.

“Not until you fuck me stupid.”

His grin was feral.

He didn’t undress. Just unzipped his pants, pulled himself free, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

You gasped—not in pain, in delight—at how fast, how hard, how deep he went.

No gentleness. No hesitation. Just the sound of skin slapping and your moans echoing off the velvet walls.

“Say it,” he growled, biting your shoulder. “Say I’m your favorite.”

You bit his neck hard enough to draw blood.

He fucked you harder.

He gripped your throat again, squeezing this time, just right—not enough to cut air, but enough to make you dizzy.

You laughed, breathless. “My favorite. Always.”

He groaned. And when he came, it was violent—deep, full-body shuddering, collapsing against you, his hips still grinding, still chasing more.

You held him there, nails digging into his back. Not letting go.

Not yet.

Not ever.

He was yours.

And he’d never really be free.

But you’d let him believe it.

For now.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You remember the first time your father taught you how to make a man beg. You couldn’t have been older than ten.

He didn’t use his hands—not at first. No, he used words. His voice like silk dipped in cyanide, slow and lethal. You watched him lean over the trembling junkie chained to the radiator, smile like a phantom, and whisper things that turned fear into submission. You memorized every word. Every cadence. Every tremble. It was better than any lullaby.

He turned to you afterward, lighting one of those handcrafted, tar-black cigarettes he always smoked, the ones he rolled with opium, crushed petals, and a whisper of something that made your head float. You reached for one too. He let you. Said you were ready. You remember the burn in your throat, the dizziness. You remember how he watched you, pride gleaming in those godless eyes.

“Pain is leverage,” he said. “Desire is control.”

And you? You never forgot.

Even now, years later, you carry that same cigarette between your lips. Your own blend, stronger. Your concoction—laced with enough euphoria to numb the ghosts, but not enough to forget him. Never him.

You miss him more than you’re willing to admit.

That crooked smile, the way he touched your hair after a good kill. How he taught you to cut a man open without flinching. You didn’t learn love from him. Not in the way others did. But you learned loyalty. You learned control. You learned how to keep someone under your thumb with a whisper and a touch. How to reward obedience with ecstasy and punish defiance with pain.

He never raised a hand to you, not unless you wanted him to.

You were his masterpiece, after all. His perfect creation in a world gone feral.

Other children had dolls and birthday parties. You had body bags and blood-slicked hands. You had evenings in the red light of Sinthral’s back alleys, watching as your father auctioned souls for favors, letting you sit on his lap while he bartered with pimps and politicians. You were quiet then. Selectively mute, but never unheard. When you spoke, people listened. When you smiled, men wept.

You were made to rule.

He said so every night as he curled around you in the velvet dark, smoke curling from his mouth like a blessing. "You're better than me," he'd murmur against your ear. "Smarter. Colder. You'll have more blood on your hands than I ever did. And they’ll worship you for it."

And you do.

Now, Sinthral pulses beneath your feet like a living thing. The city bends to your will—its underbelly, its deviant heartbeat, its red-lit temples of flesh and sweat. You own it all. Strippers, killers, junkies, saints. And they all bow to the woman who learned everything from the only man she ever called god.

You lie to lovers with soft sighs and cold hands. Let them take you, fuck you, ruin themselves in your name. You moan for them. You choke on them. You straddle their laps like a girl in love. And inside? Nothing. Not even a ripple.

But when you light a smoke, lean back, and remember his breath against your skin, that emptiness almost feels like something.

You keep his ring on a chain around your neck.

You wear his cologne.

You fuck men who remind you of him and kill the ones who dare try to be more than that.

You let yourself cry once, years ago. Just once. Genuinely. In the room where he died. On the silk sheets still stained with your blood and his. And then you lit a cigarette and never looked back.

Now, they call you Queen. Goddess. Monster. And they’re all right.

You never loved anyone. Not really.

But you were his. And he was yours.

And in this city of sin, you wear your grief like a crown and your past like armor.

Let them come. Let them worship. Let them die.

You’ll smile like he taught you. And light another smoke.

♡ Fun Fact. Sinthral is based off an actual setting I created in my epic. This is a vanilla / lighthearted version of the place.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles , @xileonaaaa , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @poopooindamouf

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❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6 [you are here]. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

♡ Book 8. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.

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pineconepie · 2 months ago

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Parental yandere mafia dad who kidnaps you takes you in <3

TW: Mentions of death, platonic yandere, forced age regression, infantilization

...

You know this is stupid, but you have no choice in the matter.

The worst thing is, its not even your fault you're in this situation. A family member made some horrible choices with a huge, well-known mob, and they died before they could pay off the debt they owe.

So, it falls on your shoulders now.

They said if you could do some favors for them, they'd let you live a peaceful life and never bother you again.

But either way, it seemed like death was almost inevitable.

"Hey person who has no experience with mob bosses and cartels, go gather intel on one of the world's most feared mob boss without getting caught! We're sure you'll do great!"

You're sure they're aware you probably won't turn up alive.

That's besides the point. You had a job to do.

And this is why you've found yourself here, entering a huge building with obnoxiously bright neon lights, the air smelling heavily of alcohol.

Its both a casino and nightclub, you figure, as you see a few gambling tables along with a large dance floor, and a bar in the far back. The ground is a little sticky beneath your shoes, and some weirdo bumps into you, clearly drunk.

The guy they asked you to gather information about is none other than Vincent Brewer. From what you've heard, he's ruthless, sadistic, fearless, and loves to flaunt his wealth and success.

His group, Cryo, dabbles in a little bit of everything.

Selling guns, manufacturing weapons, running casinos, killing those that piss them off... All things like that.

So of course, you're terrified out of your mind.

But you manage to make it past the bouncer and enter inside.

Its a nice place, despite all the crimes you're sure happened here. A lot cleaner than you'd expect for such an area.

Almost immediately, you see none other than Vincent himself.

He has short blond hair, hazel-green eyes, and a black suit with a trench coat draped over his shoulders.

He's smirking as he talks to what you presume are other members of Cryo. Vincent is pretty well-known for that smile. It's rare he ever drops it.

You wonder if its because he genuinely finds joy in anything and everything or because he feels the need to come off as tough or domineering. Knowing how much power he wields, it's probably both.

There's no time to stand and stare, though.

You approach, pretending to be one of them, but before you can back out and regret your decisions, he already has his eye on you. You feel like a rabbit trying to convince a den of wolves that you're one of them. And this is the biggest, meanest, hungriest wolf in the world.

"Well, hello," Vincent says. His smile doesn't leave his face, but softens a tiny bit. He looks you up and down. "I don't believe we've met. Are you new?"

Your hands are clammy and trembling, but you put on a fake smile and offer to shake his hand. "Yeah! I'm... (Y/n)." For a moment, you hesitate, considering maybe you should give a fake name just in case, but looks like it's too late for that.

Now that you think about it, you're definitely sure you were sent on a death-mission. Those people didn't even give you proper training.

"(Y/n), huh?" Vincent asks, shaking your hand. He's got a firm grip, as you expected. "Nice to meet you, kiddo. You seem a bit young to be one of my recruits, though." He brushes some hair out of your face, making you tense.

"I guess I look a bit younger than I am," you mutter. "I'm an adult, if that's what you're worried about."

He laughs at that. "Well, that's good! I'd hate to hear how a kid ended up with us!" Then he ruffles your hair, which is a bit embarrassing, but he seems so nice about it that it's not unbearable. "You're just a baby compared to almost everyone in this room. I think I'll need to tell the employees to make sure you don't drink or gamble. That's for grown-ups."

You relax when you realize he's teasing you.

Maybe that's a good sign? "It's okay, I don't really do either of those often, anyway."

Vincent lets out another chuckle, putting a hand on your back, leading you through the crowds and towards where the tables are. There's lots of other people sitting, talking, drinking, laughing. Playing cards or chess or something like that.

Just a bunch of regular casino things.

So far, so good.

This might actually end up working out after all...

"So why exactly did you want to join us?" Vincent asks as he sits you down at one of the chairs, pulling his own chair up next to yours. "Come from a wealthy family? Orphans? Wanted to get off the streets?"

You rub the back of your neck awkwardly, thinking of a suitable lie you'll remember for later. "Ah... I needed the money... Medical bills and stuff. Don't have any family to rely on anymore. Thought maybe if I could save up enough money, I wouldn't need to worry anymore..."

It's kind of true. After you get the information, they said they would reward you with enough cash to pay off whatever was still owed.

But whether that will ever actually happen is yet to be seen.

The more pressing issue was how Vincent would react. So far, so good. He hasn't questioned anything. Just nodded his head sympathetically and hummed at your explanation.

You continue. "And plus, Cryo seems really cool. No pun intended."

"Well, that's nice of you to say," he replies with a laugh. "We try our best around here. You seem a little jittery, though. I hope I don't scare you, kiddo?"

"I mean..." You can't really admit the real reason without outing yourself. He sounds like a man that wants to be feared by everyone. "I think this is just a new environment to me. I don't do too well with crowds."

Vincent nods understandably, patting your shoulder. "Makes sense. It is kinda noisy in here, huh? Sorry about that. Normally we're not like this, but tonight is a party night since we made a pretty big deal recently, as you're aware."

You nod, pretending to know what he's talking about. "Oh, yeah, I heard about that." This means you've already failed step one of your task - being updated on current deals - but that's okay. There's plenty of time to get the intel later. Right?

His eyes darken slightly, but his smile never leaves. "And besides... Can't say we're the nicest group of folks, either." He pokes your cheek and laughs again. "I'm worried this might be too much for you."

"Really, its okay!" you argue. "I'm a lot tougher than I look, I swear!"

He snorts. "You look like a puppy surrounded by wolves. Even if you're tougher than you look, it makes you an easy target. People are gonna be more quick to try to take you out instead of someone bigger than them."

Is he insulting you or genuinely concerned? You hope he's joking and teasing again. "I'll prove I'm strong enough to fit in! You won't have to worry about me one bit. And I can help out Cryo a lot, I promise!" You don't know why you're getting defensive over his condescending tone.

Vincent only seems amused by it, more than he already was. He pinches your cheeks between his fingers, smiling sweetly down at you. "Ohh, I'm sure you're veerrry strong, sweetie."

He sounds patronizing, in that overly-sweet way, as if speaking to a toddler.

He rubs your cheek a few times before leaning back and releasing you. "I think I'll let you stay if you answer one question for me, how 'bout that?"

You nod. "Of course. Anything."

His smile becomes more sharp. "Who sent you?"

"W-what?" Your mouth feels dry. The whole mood shifts, and suddenly it feels much less welcoming, making your stomach churn in panic.

Did you get caught that easily? How did you mess up? Maybe he's just bluffing.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Vincent stares down at you, eyes now narrowed. "You aren't fooling anyone, doll. We have extensive background checks before any of our members can even begin to be considered eligible for recruitment. I personally meet every single one of our new recruits to approve them and remember all of their names. Not only that, but I lied about a recent deal. There was no recent deal."

Your heart starts beating faster in your chest. You feel cold sweat dripping from your forehead.

He saw through you so quickly. Does he already know why you're here?

If you lie again, you're not sure you'll make it out of here alive. "Scarlet Syndicate sent me. I owe them debt, I'm not part of them... please don't kill me."

The man snickers and leans back against his chair again. "Oh, you poor thing. Its pretty clear they aren't expecting you to come back to them with info. They probably sent you here to die or get lost and forgotten about. That's cruel, even by my standards. They set you up for failure." His voice softens up. "You're shaking..."

You're hyperventilating a little, panicking. "I don't wanna die."

Vincent coos at you gently, wrapping a secure arm around you and pulling you into his lap. "Shhh, shh, hey... relax, kiddo, I'm not gonna kill you... I would never hurt such a precious little sweetheart." He kisses your head. "Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out..."

You listen to him and do as instructed.

Taking in deep breaths through the nose, letting them out from your mouth slowly. He rubs gentle circles along your back until you relax against him. He secures you in a firm hold and lifts you up against his chest.

Even for a mob boss, he has an impressive amount of strength to carry you with almost no effort.

You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck.

He smirks at you again. "Aww... does baby wanna be carried everywhere now?" Though its teasing, its also affectionate. You find yourself nodding regardless.

Vincent walks out with you still in his arms, ignoring his colleagues' confused gazes. You can see the exit sign coming closer and closer.

Once you leave the building, he puts you inside a limousine with him, shutting the door behind. He gathers you in his arms after shedding his long beige trench coat, wrapping it around you and engulfing you like a blanket.

This man you hardly even know just called you 'baby.'

You're not quite sure what to make of that.

"Home," he tells the driver. And then he looks down at you. "You really are a little baby, huh?"

You don't know how to react to this sudden display of parental behavior, except stare in confusion.

He pulls you into his lap. "I always wanted a kid of my own, you know. But unfortunately, fate decided I couldn't have any of my own. Well, guess it doesn't matter now!" His eyes flicker across your face. "As soon as I saw you, I could tell you needed someone to take care of you. Like a dad."

"But..." you sniffle. "I'm not a kid."

"Maybe not physically, but I can tell mentally. And you should be grateful for that. I usually don't let any spies live long enough to see another day," Vincent says. "So what do we say?"

You hesitate. "...thank you?"

"You're very welcome, munchkin. When we get you home, we'll have some late dinner and then its bedtime for you," Vincent coos.

"I usually go to bed a lot later than this," you protest.

"Nope, not anymore," he argues back, petting your hair. "As much as I want to be the fun dad, rules are rules. Bedtime will be 8:30 PM for you everyday starting from now on, got it?"

You guess you don't really have a choice.

Not in a million years did you expect this outcome of you being caught spying, but hey, its better than death by gunshot!

The limousine stops outside a huge penthouse.

Vincent carries you out of the vehicle and holds your hand as he leads you to the elevators. Inside, there's a deskman who waves at him. You shyly wave back, a bit unsure.

"This is (Y/n). They'll be staying with me from now on," Vincent explains to him. "If you see them trying to leave without me, call security and tell them to escort them back to my place. And notify me."

"Yes, sir," he agrees, then looks back at you. "Nice to meet you (Y/n). I'm August. If you need anything, feel free to ask!"

You stare at him, then Vincent, dumbfounded.

Vincent pulls you along. "Come on, baby. Let's go home."

Inside the elevator, you're left in shock, speechless. It goes high up - the top floor - before arriving at a large, fancy room.

He unlocks the door to reveal his apartment.

The entire thing is covered with plush rugs, sleek furniture, shiny marble floors, beautiful lights... Everything you'd expect in a multi-millionaire's home, including but not limited to a grand piano sitting in the middle of the living room and two full-size couches in front of a flatscreen TV, and what looks to be some kind of bar or wine cabinet.

"You can explore more tomorrow," Vincent tells you. "Until then, let's get dinner over with and then bedtime. Tomorrow we can discuss how you want your room to look like, clothes, toys, that stuff. Sound good?"

"Yeah," you mumble in agreement.

Vincent sets you down on the sofa, where you watch him grab a remote off of the coffee table.

He turns on the television and flips through channels before settling on something he deemed suitable, which happens to be some sort of children's cartoon.

He begins cooking in the other room, and you're still in too much shock to even think of trying to escape.

This all feels so surreal.

Twenty minutes later, he calls you into the kitchen and has you sit down next to him while he serves you both food.

It's decent, his cooking skills aren't amazing, but decent. You don't mind eating it, though he does give you a stern look when you don't eat all your vegetables.

Afterwards, he guides you upstairs into what appears to be the guest room, saying he'll redecorate it to fit you later. He excuses himself for a moment, coming back with yellow silk pajamas for you to change into. You do so as he turns around to give you some privacy.

When you finish dressing up, he has you brush your teeth, then wash your hands thoroughly. Finally, he helps you climb into the bed, tucking you beneath the blankets.

You can't help but admit that the mattress is really nice.

Vincent smiles down at you kindly. "I'm glad we found each other today, kiddo." He kisses your forehead. "Dad will stay here until you fall asleep, yeah?"

Of course, you don't argue. He watches you like a hawk until eventually, you close your eyes and drift away.

#yandere #parental yandere #familial yandere #platonic yandere #forced agere #forced age regression #tw infantilization #tw infantilism #yandere oc

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allfearstofallto · 27 days ago

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When it Comes to You

Yandere! Childe x Fem! Reader

TW: 18+ MDNI, Yandere content, bribery, blackmail, Dub-con, Reader works at a brothel (is not a courtesan)

AN: I've just been watching a lot of apothecary diaries tbh and I needed to write something

A job is a job, you often thought to yourself as you tried not to cough from the smell of booze and tobacco, and mora is mora. You didn't have the luxury of denying yourself a single cent. Every little piece of gold, shiny and polished or scuffed and dirty was one step closer to your goal and another away from your debt. Away from him, who didn't try to hide that he was finding his pleasure in watching you drowning under the weight of your obligations.

You were to pour drinks. Whether it be tea, water, or wine. Scurry around the large main hall, entertain the guests waiting for their chances with a lady of the night and pour their drinks. Keep a smile on their faces and their pockets empty. Keep them distracted from just how much they were spending, keep their cigars lit, keep them cheerful and drunk. All simple tasks, in theory. In practice you ran around like a chicken with its head cut off, all while the guests leered at you like a piece of meat. It was dehumanizing, but it paid well and paid quickly. You'd receive a bag of mora at the end of every shift, the amount varying based on how well you'd done that day.

Most of it, you couldn't keep. After paying for necessities, you'd walk on your aching feet to the northland bank and pay off a bit more of your debt. You were barely chipping at the high fortune that you owed, but anything was better than the alternative.

And much to your dismay, the alternative was sitting at one of your tables. With that same empty eyed smile and one long leg casually crossed over the other. He tapped his finger against the rim of his empty glass, taunting you in the one place where he knew you couldn't retaliate. Another lady approached him, head bowed while she attempted to pour his wine, but he shooed her away just as quickly with a wave of his hand. He didn't want her, he wanted you. He wanted you to see and know that he wanted you.

You couldn't look angry, nor annoyed, anything less than an enthusiastic smile meant less pay. So with your lips curled too tightly, to the point of near pain, you kneeled next to his table and filled his glass with the cooled liquid. Ajax seemed pleased with your service. Although, he always seemed pleased when you were around. He kept a smile on his face in your presence , not because he had to, but because he wanted to, like he was incapable of looking anything but smug when near you. With that same expression, he took a singular sip of his wine before sitting the glass back on the table.

“Stay,” he ordered quickly when he saw even the flicker of possibility of you leaving. You stayed kneeled next to his table as you were told, the last thing you needed was him complaining to your boss, a habit he'd made to keep you as in debt as possible. And Ajax was a high paying customer, one that they wanted to keep. His words were like law to your employers, anything less than perfection with his service would be met with the dock of your pay.

Ajax wanted you to be as poor as possible. He wanted you to be pressed under his thumb, to be weak to his will and in need of his favors. It was those same favors that'd gotten you into this mess now, and those same favors were only digging your hole deeper. You owed him a lot. Not him, per say, but the Northland bank. Usually owing money meant you'd be shaken down by a low level fatui foot soldier, yet Ajax had taken a particularly notable interest in you. One that did more harm than good. It bordered on obsession, although he'd play that observation off with a smile.

“You're late,” his words were followed by another sip of wine. He didn't have to tell you what you were late on, you knew he was referring to a payment. There was a happy chirp to the way he spoke, a playful sweetness to his tone that would've been charming, had he not been smiling at your misery.

“I paid yesterday,” you insisted. It was difficult getting your anger across with a forced smile on your face, but your strained voice and gritted teeth would have to suffice.

“You paid the principal,” he playfully tapped your nose with the cold tip of his finger and you resisted the urge to snap and bite, “Not your interest.”

“I was told I could pay it later, I'll have it by the end of the week,”

“Told by whom? Was it me?” He looked so proud of himself as he spoke watching you grow more and more frustrated while being unable to express it, “If it wasn't by me then it wasn't part of your arrangement.”

“I can pay at the end of the night if you wait for my shift to be over,” you sighed, letting the smile drop for only a moment. You thought it strange how sweetly the teller at the bank was when she insisted that you could pay the interest later. Against your better judgement, you listened. Why were you dumb enough to think you had allies on your side? To think that he wasn't still pulling strings, even when he was nowhere near.

An expression crossed Ajax's face. A familiar one. A bad one. The look he made when an idea struck him. Or, perhaps when he knew he'd finally be able to get what he wanted. That's the look he gave you, and felt your heart sink.

“You won't make enough,” there he was again, saying those harsh words with a singsong tone, reveling in your misfortune, “With the late fee on top, you'll be short.”

You scoffed, letting the cheerful facade drop. There'd never been a late fee before, but Childe was insistent in getting what he truly wanted from you. Your one slip up was going to be your detriment, and his greatest achievement so far. You could see it in the sparkle in his dead, hollow blue eyes. He was anticipating just this, almost as if he'd plotted the entire thing himself. A conspiracy like that wasn't far off in terms of what the man in front of you was capable of, the one who was looking down upon your pitiful kneeling form in delight about the ownership of you that he dangled over your head.

“Take me as a client tonight and consider yourself cleared of this weeks payment-”

Your glossed lips parted quickly to stop his train of thoughts, but he cut you off by placing a finger against them. You couldn't see it, but you could feel the soft shade from your lips smear across his digit and onto your cheek.

“-and the next,”

You felt your world stop at this statement. Suddenly, the brothel that was so noisy and overbearing, was silent. Two weeks with no payment? Childe was never that generous. But he was also a man who was always two steps ahead. He'd been wanting to bed you since the day you walked into that bank the first time. All smiles with a hand resting too low upon your waist while selling you a loan that would essentially take your entire life to pay back. You were naive then. Naive and desperate. And somehow, you were worse now.

When things were rough and you knew you didn't have the money to pay him, he'd accept little things. A date. Handholding. A hug. There was even a day where he accepted a kiss upon the lips in exchange for a week's payment.

A real kiss.

He wanted you to initiate. He wanted you seated on his lap, your tongue in his mouth, he wanted to claim you completely, while making it feel like you desired it too.

The kiss was suffocating and vile, not romantic at all. It was a kiss that screamed ownership and possession, nothing close to a true affection. You couldn't even pull away when you wanted to, his hand was holding the back of your head, keeping you in place while he lapped at the inside of your mouth, slurping at your tongue while simultaneously tracing his fingertips over your cheeks.

“I don't take customer's, I'm not a-” you couldn't bring yourself to speak the word, but all he did was cock an eyebrow at your silence.

“Anything can be arranged,”

A deal that feels too good to be true, is usually just that. His smirk, mischievous and cold spoke of a desire that wouldn't end with one taste of your body. Silently, you were cursing yourself for even considering it. Having your head above the water, even if just for a week more would be like a balm to your soul, but at what cost?

“Two weeks?” You peaked up at him through your lashes. The way his smile spread told you that you were already making the wrong decision, but you didn't turn back, “You have to promise me Childe, do you mean it?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” his words made you feel even sicker as he mimicked the childish gesture.

His hand was outstretched to you, fingers long and lanky, still wet and cold from the condensation of his glass. The sight of that hand was familiar. The last deal you'd made with the man being the reason you worked yourself to the bone now. The last time you'd shaken that same, cold hand, you'd done something stupid. It was a bad deal. It was always a bad deal with him. There was always some hidden clause or play of words that you didn't decipher quick enough, always something hidden up his sleeve, especially when it came to you.

And despite your better judgement, you still shook his hand. Instead of feeling the weight of the world fall off of your shoulders, you only felt it grow heavier upon your already weak body. It was better to give it to him now, than have him take it later, right? Who knew what he had planned for you if you couldn't pay.

“Shall we take a room upstairs?” He pointed to the staircase. Only courtesans and their clients used those stairs. You were sure he knew that, yet he spoke as if he also knew that there would be one free for the two of you to use together, like he'd planned this very scenario from the get go.

The thought wasn't lost on you. Ajax always planned things to a tee, when it came to you.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin yandere childe x reader #yandere childe x you #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere male #male yandere #yandere #tw yandere #yancore

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itsthewritergal · 1 year ago

Text

don't tell Bucky - B.Barnes x reader

Summary: Reader is broke and refuses to tell mob!bucky the extend of it

TW: fluff, happy ending, little swears, mention of money, getting fired, (think that's everything)

ENJOY!!

Y/N was used to the biting cold in her apartment, it had been a long few months with her hours being cut down and bills piling up she was in debt. Badly. She had started cutting costs where possible, heating was the first to go, she had opted for not turning the heating on despite the freezing temperatures outside, food was the second thing to go, she had starting making meals stretch and eating less and slowly things seemed a little more manageable. The bills continued to pile up, yet things seemed a little easier. Every single penny was put to the side to clear her debt. She had been seeing Bucky as much as possible but she couldn’t talk to him about it, he would just offer to pay her debt off and then she’d owe him for almost the rest of her life. She couldn’t ask him. She wouldn’t. Bucky had picked her up from work, it was a surprise, and something Y/N was grateful for as she wouldn’t have to pay for the bus home.

“Do you want to stay at mine tonight?” Bucky asked gently pressing a kiss to her cheek as they finished their heavy make-out session in the car

“I’ve got work in the morning,” She said softly, breath slipping through her lips

“Call in sick” Bucky said between kisses “You can go without one shift can’t you?” Bucky asked

“We’re short staffed Buck, I need to be there” She lied easily,

“Let me come in? I just want to hold you tonight” He said softly pressing another kiss to her lips. Y/N nodded in agreement, how could she ever say no to an offer like that?

Bucky followed Y/N up the stairs to her apartment, she unlocked the door and was met by an icy breeze. Bucky shuddered.

“Why is it so cold baby? Your heating broken?” He asked

“Hmm?” Y/N asked turning around to face him

“Your apartment Y/N, it’s cold”

“Oh, sorry Buck I turned the heating off”

“For good?” Bucky asked closing the door behind him “Or is it broken?” He asked

“Oh, no I just turned it off whilst I was at work” Y/N said softly,

“Why would you do that?” Bucky asked again pulling Y/N into an embrace

“It was just while I went to work Buck”

“That’s not safe doll, you should keep the heating on so you don’t get ill, even when you’re not home. You need to come into a warm house” Bucky said, Y/N resisted the urge to cry.

“I usually do Bucky, it was just a one off” she said.

Bucky didn’t mention the heating again that night. Y/N was grateful for that small mercy. What he did mention was the mountain of blankets that sat on her bed.

“Doll?” He called from her bedroom

“Yeah?” She replied coming into the bedroom, her eyes falling on Bucky’s metal hand clasping three blankets,

“You coming down with something?” He asked “I can call Banner to come and check on you if you want?”

“Oh Buck, no I’m ok. Just get cold when you’re not here” She said, it wasn’t a complete lie, just a small one. It made her feel a little better.

“You know you could just move in with me?” Bucky offered

“Don’t be silly Bucky, we’ve spoken about this” She said and Bucky stopped himself from starting an argument by pressing his lips to hers.

— — —

The next few weeks were tricky. Y/N had started picking up more shifts than she could count which lessened her time to do anything; most of all see Bucky.

When one fateful day put Y/N’s life into a tailspin,

“Y/N could you come into my office when you get a moment please?” Her boss’s voice cut through the noise, and Y/N felt a panic run through her body,

“I’ll come now” She said quickly, hurrying behind the shorter lady, “is everything ok?”

“Take a seat Y/N” She said, Y/N knew this wasn’t good, she never asked her to take a seat before, this had got to be bad news.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“No, Y/N you’re one of the best workers we have here” She said taking a deep breath “but we can’t afford to keep you on, with prices and wages going up we’re cutting down to less staff members and well it’s only fair that we let you go first. You’ve got enough experience to get another job quickly whereas the others don’t”

“You mean the others are cheaper because they are younger?” Y/N said noticing the true meaning behind her words.

“That isn’t what we are doing Y/N” her boss spoke halfheartedly

“When do I leave?” Y/N asked dejectedly, knowing it was a loosing battle

“Today’s your last shift, you are let go without holiday pay or leave notice” She said passing Y/N an envelope “All the necessary documents are in here, please hand your keys in at the end of the shift”

“No need to wait” Y/N said, pulling her work keys out her bag and putting them on the desk. Picking up the envelope, Y/N walked out.

The walk home was a cold one, not only because of the biting wind but Y/N felt empty, numb, like she’d just been caught in the rain. She wanted to call Bucky, but after her neglect of him she knew that he was probably mad at her and calling him to cry would not be the best way to go. However, her ringtone cut Y/N’s moping thoughts short,

“Hello?”

“Doll, oh thank god. Steve just told me he passed you on the street, he’s turning around to pick you up so don’t go anywhere. What’s happened?” Bucky asked

“Nothing Buck, I’ll talk to you later, tell Steve not to worry”

“No, he’s picking you up and you can come here or go home then come here, or just head home if that’s what you want but I’d rather Steve did it than you walk yourself doll okay?” He said

“It’s going to happened whatever I say right?” Y/N chuckled halfheartedly, the lack of reply on Bucky’s end confirmed it “I’ll wait for Steve”

“Good girl, I’ll see you soon” He said ending the call quickly.

As if on cue Steve’s car pulled into view,

“Hey Y/N, Buck’s waiting for you” He said opening the door for her,

“Thanks Steve”

After a few quiet minutes Y/N answered the question which was burning in Steve's mind,

“I got fired” She said quietly,

“They did what? Oh Buck won’t be happy, how dare they” Steve said forcefully,

“They can’t afford me apparently” Y/N chuckled sadly

“Bullshit”

“Promise you won’t tell Bucky?” She asked

“I won’t lie to him if he asks” Steve said “But I’ll divert attention so he doesn’t ask” Steve agreed quietly

— — — — —

Y/N had avoided Bucky for another two weeks, she hadn’t meant to. But she had been sending CV’s, babysitting, dog walking and selling small handmade bits online. Anything possible to make some money, she was yet to receive an interview or even any interest. It seemed that everyone was full of employees or was hiring younger staff, there was no place for Y/N.

She had been dodging her landlord phone calls, and the electricity company and even a few others who she knew were angry that she hadn’t paid. Stretching her legs out wide on the floor she took a minute away from her laptop screen and picked up her phone.

“I’m on my way, be there in 15” Bucky had texted around 15 minutes ago, Y/N let out a panicked sigh and started picking up the mess around her to try and make herself look presentable for Bucky, she had to keep up appearances.

“Doll?” Bucky called through her apartment,

“In here” She replied quickly shoving some dirty clothes at the bottom of her wardrobe,

“Hey doll” He said softly pulling her in for a kiss, not seeming to notice her dishevelled state.

“Hey Bucky” she pressed a kiss to his lips, something she had missed dearly.

“I need to talk to you” Bucky said pulling her down to sit on the bed, she sat down with his hands gripped in hers as if he was about to disappear.

“I know I’ve been awful Buck, I haven’t spoken to you and I’ve avoided you, please don’t be mad, I’ve just been so stressed and—”

Bucky quickly cut her off “I’m not breaking up with you Y/N”

“You’re not?”

“No, doll I’m not”

“Oh”

“I know what’s going on Y/N” he said sincerely

“Nothing’s going on”

“Doll I know”

“Bucky nothing is going on”

“You got fired, you’ve been trying to find another job, you’ve been dog walking, which I’m not happy with because that’s dangerous when you don’t know the dog or the owner, and you’ve been selling your adorably little crochet animals online” Bucky said

“You got someone to follow me”

“You started shutting me out” Bucky justified

“Fair enough”

“Did I miss anything?” Bucky asked

“No” Y/N said her eyes welling up with tears, she let go on Bucky’s hand to hide her face in them,

“Oh doll, come here” Bucky said wrapping his arms around her, letting her cry all her stresses and troubles away onto his shirt, he knew once she had cried they would be able to talk through options properly.

“I’m sorry” Y/N said with a sniffle

“Can I finish what I was saying earlier?” Bucky asked, Y/N nodded silently “I’ve paid off all your debts, I did the landlord, electricity, water and that loan you took out, you can pay me back if you want to if you have the money, if not it’s my birthday present to you I know you won’t accept it any other way” He said

“Bucky please”

“It’s already done”

“I should be able to do this better,I should be able to pay my fucking bills”

“No” Bucky said calmly

“No?”

“No you’re not doing that. You are doing as best as you can. And I refuse to listen to that shit. Now put on a nice dress, we’re going out to eat”

— — — —

That night when Bucky and Y/N were laying in bed cuddled up to each other, Y/N decided to be brave

“Bucky?”

“Yes doll?”

“Do you think I could move in with you?” She asked pressing a kiss to his chest “I don’t think I want to do this alone anymore”

“Doll, I’d be delighted”

#bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky angst #itsthewritergal #mob bucky #mob!bucky fluff #mob!buck #mob!bucky x reader #mob!bucky

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snail-day · 3 months ago

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Terms and Conditions Apply

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader - unwholesome edition

Sum: Normal college roommate activities, except your roommates, are madly in love with you and have a really weird way of showing it.

TW: Yandere Behaviors (manipulation, obsessive, possessive,etc), Omorashi/Piss, noncon/dubcon, oral (m! receiving), Abuse of showerhead, Reader is a bit dense, Power Dynamics, Alcohol consumption, unhealthy relationships, Infantilization, MDNI

WC: 6.0k

A/n: I will probably finish editing the wholesome edition later this week. :) I feel like I've been too angsty lately and I lowkey prefer the wholesome version a bit more, however, my beta reader likes this one so we'll see!

How far is one willing to go?

Willing to sell their soul to the devil—or in this case, devils. The ones you once called your best friends. The ones who stripped you of your rights because you owed them. Because they owned you.

Suguru and Satoru—two trust fund kids with more money than they could ever spend—had waltzed into your life during your freshman year of college, offering friendship cloaked in charm and generosity.

They’d given you a place to stay, sliding a 52-page lease across the table. A document so thick and dense that it had made your stomach turn. Your heart, your instincts, your very soul screamed at you to stop. To read between the lines. But you didn’t.

You trusted them. You ignored the red flags.

You brushed off the subtle proclamations of love buried in their actions, their words, their very presence. How they’d spoke of living up to your standards. How they hinted they’d have truly courted you—if only you’d given them the time of day.

But you didn’t. You dismissed their flirting as harmless.

And like any rich men who refused to be denied, they did the next best thing. They bought you.

You really should’ve let them court you.

Because if you had, maybe you wouldn’t be here now—trapped in their twisted acts of devotion. Acts they called love.

Satoru, with his dazzling grin and sharp blue eyes, always joked about wanting a dog. Something to take care of, to love him unconditionally, to always come when called.

Suguru, ever composed and calculating, never hid his desire for control. He wanted something—or someone—to care for, to command, to obey his every word.

And now, that someone was you.

You’d gone too far for free rent, hadn’t you?

It was almost funny, in a cruel way. You’d joked once about selling feet pics to creepy old men to make ends meet, and Satoru had flashed you that sharp, wolfish grin and asked, “How much?”

You’d laughed it off, calling him ridiculous. But he hadn’t been joking. Not even a little.

If you had said a number, he would have bought them on the spot, saving them for later use.

When you couldn’t afford drinks on karaoke night, you’d waved it off, saying you’d be fine with water. But Suguru had just smiled, handing over his black card without hesitation.

“Don’t worry about it,” he’d said, his voice smooth, almost tender.

The whole night, he had coddled you, his arm a steady weight around your waist as you sang along to the music. When you were tipsy and laughing, stumbling into him, he’d pulled you onto his lap, his hands lingering just a little too long.

You didn’t notice.

You didn’t notice how his hands trailed along your thighs, how he tilted his head closer to catch the scent of your perfume, how his dark eyes gleamed with something dangerous.

They loved you.

They loved you so much that buying you was the easiest option.

Kidnapping you would have been messy, after all.

This? This was clean.

A lease. A signature. A series of favors and debts that quietly piled up until you were ensnared—unable to leave or even think about leaving.

You thought of them as just weird, quirky roommates. That’s what you kept telling yourself.

Satoru had the habit of barging into your room unannounced, sprawling across your bed like it was his own. He’d hug your pillows to his chest, burying his face in them, his bright blue eyes gleaming with amusement.

And behind your back?

He punched and slapped every single one of your stuffed animals.

All except for the ones he bought you.

Like the stuffed alligator he’d gifted you last month. “Because you’re so snappy,” he’d said with a wide grin, teasing you endlessly as he mimicked your glare. “And because you do those little alligator rolls when I try to cuddle you.”

He wasn’t lying. You did twist and squirm to escape his grip whenever Suguru was away, and Satoru found himself “too lonely” to sleep in a big bed all by himself.

“I need you,” he’d whine, tugging at your blanket as he wedged himself onto your mattress. “Friends can cuddle, y’know. It’s even in the lease—clause 22!”

You’d scoffed, rolling your eyes. “There’s no way that’s real.”

But, of course, you hadn’t read the lease.

You hadn’t read clause 22, clause 34, or any other fine print buried in those 52 pages.

If you had, maybe you’d have noticed the way they’d written their love into the lines of the contract. The way their obsession had been framed as something so mundane, so harmless, that you never thought to question it.

Instead, you dismissed it. Dismissed them.

They were just your weird, clingy roommates, right?

That’s what you told yourself every time Satoru squeezed the stuffed alligator to his chest, grinning as he teased, “See? It’s like me and you! You’re the snappy little gator, and I’m the big, lovable guy keeping you from biting anyone else.”

It was playful. Harmless, you managed to convince yourself.

But sometimes—especially in the dead of night, when the world was quiet, and there was nowhere to hide from the truth—you struggled to ignore the way his hands would wander.

How he’d press open-mouthed kisses against your chest, the wet heat of his lips leaving trails along your skin. The way his hands would squeeze your plush breasts, fingers digging in just a little too roughly, as if claiming them, claiming you, in his sleep.

You told yourself he was dreaming—lost in some haze where he thought you were someone else, or something else.

But when morning came, and you hesitantly brought it up, he’d blink at you with feigned innocence, his blue eyes wide and unbothered. “Did I really?” he’d ask, laughter bubbling just beneath the surface of his words. “Man, I must’ve been dreaming about something really good.”

His grin would widen, that devil-may-care attitude making you question if you’d imagined it all.

“Hey,” he’d say, throwing an arm around your shoulders as he steered you out the door, “let’s grab breakfast. My treat. Consider it a ‘thanks’ for not ripping my arm off in my sleep.”

The offer, so casually given, left you with no choice but to follow. To let him guide you down the street to the café he liked, where he’d order for you without asking—a gesture that felt less thoughtful and more… presumptive.

As he filled the table with plates of food you hadn’t asked for, his laughter echoing through the small, bustling space, you found yourself playing along. Smiling at his jokes, laughing when he wanted you to, pretending that everything was normal.

Because what else could you do?

Confronting him felt impossible. Denying him? Even more so.

It was easier this way—going along with the current, letting him pull you wherever he wanted, feeding you bites of his food like you were some cherished pet rather than a person with agency of your own.

“Open up,” he’d coo, holding a forkful of syrup-drenched pancake to your lips, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction when you complied. “Good girl.”

And you’d swallow it down, the sweetness coating your tongue as his praise sent a shiver crawling along your skin.

Because it was easier to pretend.

Easier to act like this was just how things were—how they’d always been.

But no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, the question lingered, heavy and unavoidable:

How far were you willing to go?

You kept telling yourself to endure. Just two more years until you graduate. Two more years, and you’ll be free.

You could play along until then. You had to. You needed the cheap rent.

And it wasn’t like you could even prefer one of them over the other. They were equally clingy, equally overbearing in their own ways.

Suguru, at least, had the decency not to invade your space outright.

He never barged into your room unannounced like Satoru. He didn’t sprawl across your bed or bury his face in your pillows. No, Suguru was different. His methods were quieter, subtler.

Whenever Satoru left for the weekend to visit his family, it was Suguru who kept you company. He’d coax you onto the couch with him, his deep voice laced with calm reassurance.

“You’ll keep me company, won’t you?” he’d ask, his tone so soft, so genuine, that refusing felt impossible.

And before you knew it, you’d find yourself in his lap, his strong arms wrapping firmly around your waist as he leaned back, settling you against his chest.

“It soothes me,” he’d murmur, his voice low and almost apologetic. “I’ve been so stressed with my master’s lately. You don’t mind, do you?”

How could you say no?

Suguru always had a way of making his needs sound so reasonable, so innocent. You didn’t even think to question it—not until his hands started to linger. His thumbs would trace small, deliberate circles against your hips, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

Clause 12.

That’s what he’d called it the first time you hesitated.

“Roommate will always provide emotional comfort,” he’d said, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as his dark eyes held yours.

You hadn’t read the lease, of course. But when Suguru spoke, his voice so calm and assured, it was hard not to believe him.

So you let him hold you.

You let him keep you there for hours, his hands warm and steady as they rested on your waist, his quiet hums vibrating against your back. You sat frozen, unsure of where the line had blurred—or if there had ever been a line at all.

Things changed after one night.

You’d gone out for drinks with some friends—a rare occurrence these days. Between their constant presence and your dwindling social circle, opportunities like this had become few and far between.

Maybe that’s why you drank more than you should have.

The alcohol buzzed warmly through your veins, leaving your mind foggy and your limbs loose as laughter spilled freely from your lips. You didn’t even notice how late it had gotten until someone pointed it out, and the world tilted slightly as you tried to check the time on your phone.

“Shit,” you mumbled, your voice slurred as you stared at the blurry screen. You scrolled to Satoru’s contact—he always answered first—and hit call.

When they arrived, it was like the entire bar shifted.

“Oh my God, those are your roommates?” one of your friends teased, dragging out the words as she nudged you with a playful grin. “You’ve been holding out on us! Are you playing games or something?”

A giggle bubbled out of you as you swayed in your seat, the room spinning slightly. “Nooo,” you slurred, shaking your head a little too hard. “They’re just—”

Before you could finish, Satoru’s tall frame appeared in front of you, crouching down to your level. “Having fun, huh?” he asked, his bright blue eyes glinting with something unreadable.

You buried your face in his shirt, giggling uncontrollably. “Satoruuu,” you slurred, your voice high-pitched and childlike. “I’m fineeee. I was just… just hanging out!”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said, chuckling as he shifted you in his arms, holding you upright as your legs wobbled.

Meanwhile, Suguru quietly slipped away to the bar, his expression calm and collected as he handed over his black card to settle your tab. When he returned, his eyes gleamed with something dark, though his lips curved into a faint smile as he glanced at your friends.

“Ah, sorry we haven’t announced we’re dating yet,” he said smoothly, his voice low, a grin playing at his lips.

The table erupted into laughter and cheers, glasses clinking together in celebration.

You blinked slowly, your alcohol-heavy mind struggling to process his words. “Wait… what?”

You tried to straighten up, but Satoru’s grip on you tightened, pulling you back against him. “Shh, don’t make a scene,” he murmured, his voice light and teasing, though the edge to his grin made your stomach twist.

“He’s joking,” you said, slurring as you waved a hand lazily. “You’re jokinnng, right, Suguru?”

But Suguru’s smile didn’t falter. He leaned closer, his hand resting on the small of your back as he said softly, “Does it sound like I’m joking?”

Your friends erupted into louder laughter, their voices blurring together as your head spun.

“Let’s get you home,” Satoru said brightly, steering you toward the door.

You were too drunk to argue, your body slumping against his as the cool night air hit your face.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you mumbled, your words barely coherent as Suguru helped you into the car.

“Say what?” he asked, sliding in beside you, his voice calm and measured.

“That… we’re dating,” you slurred, your head lolling against Satoru’s shoulder as he climbed in on your other side.

Satoru laughed, his hand ruffling your hair as he pulled you closer. “Oh, come on. It’s not a big deal. Besides, they loved it. Right, Suguru?”

Suguru’s hand brushed lightly against your knee, steady and deliberate. His dark eyes met yours in the dim glow of the streetlights. “Does it bother you?” he asked, his voice soft, almost tender.

You tried to answer, your lips parting, but your mind was too foggy, your tongue too heavy. The alcohol clouded your thoughts, dulling the sharp edges of your confusion and concern. The only sound you managed was a quiet, slurred mumble before sleep tugged at your consciousness.

When you woke up, the world felt too soft, too still.

Your eyes fluttered open, the dim light of early morning filtering through unfamiliar curtains. The silk sheets beneath you were far too luxurious, the plush mattress beneath your body a stark contrast to your usual bed.

You sat up slowly, a pounding headache hammering at your skull as the events of the night before came back to you in blurry flashes. The bar. Your friends. Satoru. Suguru.

And now this.

Waking up in their bed was unexpected.

You winced as the urge to pee hit you, the discomfort pulling you fully awake. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet brushing against the cool floor as you prepared to stand. But before you could rise, a hand shot out, gripping your wrist.

The sudden tug sent you back onto the mattress, your heart skipping a beat as you turned to see who it was.

Satoru.

His snowy white hair was messy, his eyes still half-lidded with sleep as he pulled you closer to him, his grip firm but not painful.

“Where are you going?” he mumbled, his voice groggy yet tinged with something along the lines of annoyance.

“I… I need to pee,” you stammered, your voice hoarse as you tried to free yourself from his grasp.

Satoru’s eyes opened fully then, his bright blue gaze locking onto yours. He looked at you for a long moment before his lips curved into a sleepy grin. “Mmm, can’t you wait a little longer? It’s too early to get up.”

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, heavy and unmoving, trapping you in place. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, as if he were anchoring you there.

“I’m serious…” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper as you tried to squirm away, but his grip didn’t loosen.

Instead, you felt his grin against the back of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“Shhh,” he murmured, his voice soft and drowsy but carrying that familiar edge of control. “You’ll wake up Sugu… You can wait.”

The mention of Suguru made you freeze, your eyes darting toward the other side of the bed.

Sure enough, there he was.

Suguru lay on his side, his face calm and serene in sleep, his dark hair spilling over the pillow. His breathing was deep and even, the rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic.

“You don’t want to wake him, do you?” Satoru hummed, his voice low and teasing, though there was something almost mocking in the way he said it.

You swallowed hard, the weight of the situation settling heavily over you as Satoru’s arms remained firmly around your waist. He shifted slightly, nuzzling into the back of your neck like a contented cat.

“Just relax,” he murmured, his voice already trailing off as sleep pulled him back under.

You lay there, stiff and silent, the dull ache in your bladder forgotten as your mind raced.

The warmth of their bodies on either side of you, the sound of their steady breathing, the oppressive weight of Satoru’s arm around your waist—it was suffocating.

But you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Because somewhere deep down, beneath the haze of confusion and discomfort, a single, chilling thought crept into your mind:

They weren’t going to let you go.

And for now, it was easier to stay still. To let Satoru’s grip keep you in place, to let Suguru’s presence loom quietly beside you.

To endure.

Because what other choice did you have?

You waited an hour. Generously. The way your bladder felt like it was going to spill if you even moved an inch made it agonizing, but what else could you do?

Why did I have to drink so much? you thought bitterly, biting your lip to keep yourself from groaning.

“Satoru…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, tinged with a small, desperate whine.

No response.

His soft snores filled the room, and you felt the faintest flutter of hope when you realized his arm had gone slack around your waist. It was loose enough—just enough—that you might be able to slip free without waking him.

Carefully, you began to move, inch by inch.

You winced at the painful, overfull feeling in your bladder, a burning reminder that if you waited even a second longer, you were sure you’d humiliate yourself. The thought of staining such expensive, silken sheets filled you with dread.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you managed to wriggle out of Satoru’s grip. He stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into his slumber.

You held your breath as you slid off the bed, crossing your legs tightly as you stood. The sensation made you want to scream, but you forced yourself to stay quiet, moving as carefully as you could across the room.

You reached the bathroom door, relief flooding through you as your hand grasped the handle.

But when you turned it, the handle didn’t budge.

It was locked.

Your stomach dropped, a cold wave of panic washing over you as you tried again, jiggling the handle more forcefully this time.

Still locked.

You glanced over your shoulder, your heart pounding as you looked back at the bed. Satoru hadn’t moved, his snores still soft and steady. Suguru remained motionless, his dark hair spilling over his pillow like ink.

You turned back to the door, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Why the hell was it locked?

You tried again, pressing your weight against the door this time, but it wouldn’t give.

Panic began to rise in your chest as you crossed your legs tighter, your body screaming at you for relief. You couldn’t go back to the bed—not now, not like this. You couldn’t face them if something went wrong.

Your bathroom was… across the apartment.

You could make it, right? You just had to waddle your way there.

The thought alone filled you with dread, but what choice did you have? The idea of pissing yourself in your weird roommates’ bedroom—on their luxurious, expensive sheets, no less—was enough to make your face burn with humiliation.

A soft, desperate whine escaped your throat as you shifted your weight. It’s too much.

But you had to try.

You moved carefully, every step a torturous mix of sharp, burning pressure and overwhelming panic. Your breaths came shallow and uneven, your legs trembling as you shuffled forward, praying the noise wouldn’t carry back to the bedroom.

It was just the hallway, the living room, and then the bathroom.

Easy, you told yourself, though the pounding of your heart and the sting of tears in your eyes screamed otherwise.

You barely made it to the end of the hallway before your legs gave out, your body sinking to the cold floor as a sob built in your throat.

Tears brimmed in your eyes, the humiliation of the situation crashing over you like a wave. You couldn’t stop them, hot streaks rolling down your cheeks as you clutched at your stomach, the pressure unbearable.

Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t the door just unlock? Why couldn’t you have made it just a little farther?

You pressed your forehead against your knees, trying to muffle the soft, broken whimpers escaping your lips. The silence of the apartment felt suffocating, every sound you made echoing in your ears like a cruel reminder of just how trapped you were.

And then, the sound you dreaded most.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, heavy against the hardwood floors.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the footsteps grew louder, closer.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Suguru’s voice was soft, calm, almost soothing, but it made your stomach twist into knots.

You didn’t lift your head, your body trembling as his presence loomed over you. You could feel his gaze, heavy like he could see straight through you.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, crouching down so he was at eye level with you. His tone was steady, almost kind, but there was an edge to it that made your chest tighten.

“I… I just…” Your voice cracked, the words stumbling over themselves as you tried to think of an excuse, something that wouldn’t make this worse.

Suguru tilted his head, his dark hair falling over his shoulder as his sharp eyes scanned you. “You could’ve just woken me up if you needed something,” he said softly, his lips curving into a small, affectionate smile.

Before you could respond, another voice chimed in.

“She’s crying.”

You flinched at the familiar, teasing lilt of Satoru’s voice, your heart sinking further as you felt him approach.

“Aw, did we scare her?” he teased, his grin audible in his voice as he crouched beside Suguru, his bright blue eyes gleaming with amusement.

“It’s not that,” Suguru murmured, his gaze never leaving you. “She’s upset.”

“Hmm,” Satoru hummed, leaning in closer, his sharp blue eyes gleaming with something that made your chest tighten. “Why’s that, little gator? What’s got you all worked up, huh?”

You wanted to disappear, to sink into the floor and vanish entirely. Anything to escape their piercing stares, the weight of their presence pressing down on you like a cage.

But then, you felt it.

The warmth spreading beneath you, dampening the hardwood floor.

Your breath caught in your throat as the realization struck you like a tidal wave. You’d pissed yourself.

Silent tears trickled down your cheeks, shame and humiliation crashing over you in waves as you dared a glance at Suguru.

His dark eyes flicked down to the wet patch spreading across the floor.

And then he smiled.

Not his usual small, measured smile, but something broader. Something that sent a wave of goosebumps.

Satoru followed Suguru’s gaze, his brows lifting in surprise before his grin widened into something almost predatory. “Well, would you look at that,” he murmured, his tone light and teasing but laced with something darker.

Suguru tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes meeting yours as he spoke.

“Clause 52,” he said softly, his voice calm and steady, like he was reciting something he’d known by heart.

Your stomach knotted further, anxiety pooling. You really should have took time to read the absurdly long lease.

“‘If a roommate is deemed unfit to take care of themselves, it becomes the other parties’ duty to assume full care of the roommate, gaining full autonomy over the party deemed unfit.’”

The words were a death knell, ringing in your ears as your tears fell faster.

“Unfit,” Satoru repeated, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned closer, his hand gentle as it brushed a tear from your cheek. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think, Suguru?”

Suguru’s smile didn’t falter, his dark eyes steady as his hand came to rest on your trembling shoulder. “It’s not harsh if it’s true,” he replied softly, his voice almost tender, but the weight of his words crushed any chance of denial. “She clearly needs us.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you tried to push away the rising panic. You clung to the last shreds of your dignity, your hands trembling as you tried to wipe your tears. “It was an accident. I just—”

“You just proved you can’t take care of yourself,” Suguru interrupted, his grip tightening slightly, his words cutting through your feeble attempts at an excuse.

Satoru chuckled, leaning against you, his sharp blue eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something darker. “You know,” he started, his tone almost conversational, “we could have enacted Clause 52 sooner.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes darting to him as he tilted his head, his grin widening.

“I mean, your grades this semester? Not exactly stellar.” He chuckled, shaking his head as if scolding a child. “And let’s not forget that blunt you took from Shoko a few months back. You do know weed is very illegal in Japan, right?”

The blood drained from your face as he spoke, your mind scrambling to keep up with his words.

“Could’ve gone to jail,” Suguru added, his voice calm and matter-of-fact as he straightened, his hand leaving your shoulder only to slide under your legs.

You yelped as he scooped you up effortlessly, your body trembling as you tried to claw away from him, your hands weakly pushing against his chest.

“But a grown woman pissing herself?” Satoru said, standing and shaking his head as he followed Suguru toward the bathroom. “Now that’s a pretty clear sign you need help. I mean, we’d be neglecting you if we didn’t take care of you at this point.”

“Put me down!” you cried, your voice breaking as you struggled against Suguru’s hold, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Shh,” Suguru murmured, his grip unyielding as he carried you down the hall. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

Tears blurred your vision as the door to their bathroom came into view, the realization of just how powerless you were sinking in with every step.

“We’ll clean you up,” Satoru said brightly, his grin firmly in place as he swung the bathroom door open. His tone was light and teasing, but the words twisted in your stomach. “That’s what good boyfriends—sorry, roommates—do, right?”

Suguru carried you inside without hesitation, his movements smooth and calculated, like he’d done this a hundred times in his head. He set you down gently on the edge of the bathtub, his hands lingering on your arms as though steadying you. The care in his touch felt unnervingly intimate, blurring lines you hadn’t even realized were being crossed.

“I don’t need—” you started, your voice trembling, but Suguru cut you off.

“Do we need to treat you like a child too?” He hummed as he turned on the water, you noticed Satoru take a spot on the floor, his hand….gravitating to….

You forced yourself to look away.

Instead pleading to Suguru that you can wash yourself, that he doesn’t need to climb into the tub with you pressing himself behind you. As he grabbed the handheld shower head, changing the settings as he deemed fit as you squirmed and sobbed.

“Have to clean you now, hm?” He hummed behind you, changing the setting of the handheld shower head to the highest setting, the pressure was too much as you squirmed and clawed at his hands shaking your head. You looked over at Satoru the smile on his face, the way he seemed blissed out as he stroked his…

Oh god.

They enjoyed this.

You couldn’t help the whine that escaped you as your cunt clenched onto nothing, as your clit was being tormented by the harsh pressure of the showerhead Suguru had directed.

“Shhhh, just let go… I got you,” Suguru murmured, his voice low and soothing as he adjusted the spray of water once more, there was purpose in his insistent touches, firm and absolute.

You couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked your body, your tears mixing with the water cascading over your skin. Your mind felt like it was spinning, your thoughts fragmented and overwhelmed by the unbearable mix of sensations and emotions crashing over you.

And then, you reached the peak—your body betraying you, shuddering in his grip as your climax washed over you. Shame burned hot in your chest, your face flushed with humiliation as the sobs came harder, raw and broken.

Suguru’s hand never faltered, his movements steady as he lowered the setting on the showerhead to a gentle spray, hushing you softly as you came down from your high.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his tone almost tender as his hand smoothed over your damp skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

You couldn’t muster the strength to respond, your body trembling as exhaustion began to creep in.

But he wasn’t done.

Before you could catch your breath, Suguru adjusted the water pressure again, the sharp sensation snapping you back into focus as he began once more.

“No, please…” you whimpered, your voice weak and cracking as you squirmed in his hold.

“Shhh,” he hushed you, his lips brushing lightly against your temple as his grip tightened. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t have the strength to fight him.

Again and again, he pushed you over the edge, your sobs gradually giving way to soft, broken whimpers as your body betrayed you. Your limbs felt heavy, your mind clouded with a haze of exhaustion and humiliation.

By the time he finally relented, your eyes were half-lidded, sleep tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

Satoru, who had been watching the entire time, stood from his spot on the floor, his sharp blue eyes raking over your limp form with a grin that made your stomach twist.

“Since Suguru did a good job cleaning you up, think you can clean my mess?” Satoru’s voice was light, teasing, but the sharp glint in his blue eyes told you there was no room for refusal.

Your head weakly shook in response, your body trembling with exhaustion as you tried to avert your gaze.

But Suguru didn’t let you.

“Be a good girl,” he murmured, his voice calm but firm as his hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face back toward them. His thumb pressed against your lips, prying them open with gentle insistence.

You whimpered, tears welling in your eyes again as his thumb slipped onto your tongue, the weight of his touch heavy and suffocating.

“There you go,” he said softly, almost soothing as though this was something to comfort you. “It’s easier if you don’t fight.”

Before you could protest, Satoru was pressing the tip of his cock onto your tongue, sliding his length down your throat despite your gags as Suguru ensured you wouldn’t bite down, keeping your mouth open.

“Good girl,” Satoru cooed, his voice low and saccharine as he watched you with amusement, the corners of his lips twitching upward as you instinctively flinched. “Be a good little gator, don’t bite”

You couldn’t stop the fresh wave of tears that trickled down your cheeks, your body frozen under the weight of their attention. Every movement felt heavy, every breath labored as you struggled to take the full length down your throat.

Suguru’s dark eyes bore into you, steady and unyielding. “See? You can do this,” he murmured, removing his thumb to help guide your head as you sucked on Satoru’s cock. “You’re already doing so well.”

“Better than I thought she would,” Satoru replied, a soft groan escaped his lips as he tilted his head back, gently rocking his hips forward despite your tears, Suguru was forcing your head to bob on Satoru's length, keeping his touch gentle.

“We’re going to take such good care of you,” Suguru hummed, his voice smooth and steady as his hand’s methodical movements, his dark eyes gazing at you in adornment as you choked on the sticky white ropes that trickled down your throat.

His words made your stomach twist, but the calmness in his tone—the way it almost sounded affectionate—made it all the more suffocating.

“I think we can work with this arrangement, right?” Suguru murmured, his lips curving into a faint smile as he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your ear. His tone was calm, almost soothing, as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

“We love you so much, don’t you know?” he continued, his voice softening further, as if the depth of their love for you was as much a burden for them as it was for you. “We’ll give you time to adjust to the new arrangement. Don’t you worry.”

You flinched, your body trembling from a cocktail of exhaustion and humiliation. The words wrapped around you like a cage, their gentleness only making the weight of them heavier. Your eyes darted toward Satoru, searching desperately for some sign of relief, some thread of normalcy—but his expression only made your stomach twist.

His smile was lovesick, almost dazed, his half-lidded eyes clouded with fatigue, likely from his final exam. Yet his fingers found their way to the top of your head, the touch soft and deliberate, giving you a gentle, almost affectionate pat.

The gesture should have been comforting. It should have eased the tightness in your chest. Instead, it felt like a reminder—a quiet assertion of control, of just how tightly you were bound to them.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, shall we?” Satoru said, his voice light and teasing, laced with his usual carefree charm. But beneath the playful tone, there was an undertone of finality, a quiet edge that made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion.

Suguru’s hands were steady as he adjusted the towel around your body, his touch disarmingly gentle, as though he were savoring the act of caring for you. Each movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were worshipping the process of drying you off. He ensured the towel wrapped around you modestly, yet his fingers lingered just long enough to make you question if there was more to his care.

When he stood, his tall frame towering over you, he extended a hand. His dark eyes met yours, calm and unreadable, as if silently urging you to trust him.

You hesitated. Every instinct screamed at you to pull away, to run, to do something. But the exhaustion weighed you down, rooting you in place. Your legs felt like lead, your thoughts foggy and scattered, a tangle of fear and resignation you couldn’t untangle.

“You’re tired,” Suguru murmured, his voice a soothing balm that did little to ease the tightness in your chest. There was an undercurrent of quiet authority in his tone, one that made resistance feel futile.

His hand enveloped yours, warm and steady, guiding you to your feet before you could summon the strength to protest. “Let us take care of you,” he said softly, the words carrying a tenderness that felt at odds with the unease curling in your stomach.

Satoru was already waiting by the door, leaning casually against the frame. His bright blue eyes watched you with his signature grin—a grin that normally felt harmless but now carried an edge that made your chest tighten. “Come on, little gator,” he cooed, beckoning you with a casual wave. “We’ve got everything ready for you.”

You let them guide you, too drained to resist. Suguru’s hand rested lightly on your lower back, steadying you as Satoru walked ahead, his playful hum filling the quiet hall.

When you finally crawled into the cool sheets, your body sagged into the mattress, the weight of the day pressing down on you. The bath had left your skin warm and your limbs heavy, the overstimulation making it impossible to think straight. Exhaustion was a tide, pulling you under, and for a fleeting moment, you were grateful for the comfort they had so carefully orchestrated.

Perhaps you were too far gone to notice—or to care—about the faint noises behind you. The soft murmur of voices, the rustle of fabric, the low, intimate sound of Satoru’s moan as he lowered himself onto Suguru.

Your mind barely registered it, the sound blurring into the background as sleep took hold. You ignored the quiet gasp, the rhythmic creak of the mattress in the other room, and the muted groan that followed.

The warmth of the blankets, the scent of lavender, the haze of exhaustion—all of it conspired to drag you deeper into unconsciousness, letting the world fade away as your body surrendered to sleep.

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere satosugu #satosugu x reader #yandere satosugu x reader #yandere satoru gojo #yandere satoru x reader #yandere suguru x reader #yandere suguru #yandere geto suguru #yandere gojo satoru #yandere #dark content #yandere x reader

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kamiversee · 1 year ago

Text

Sukuna’s Fuck Buddy ꨄ

[ { Synopsis } ] ➤ You agree to be friends with benefits with Sukuna, not exactly expecting to get ruined in different ways every week.

[ { Need to know } ] ➤ This is a What-If scenario that stems from my fic; The F*ck List— A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt.

[ { Content & Warning } ] ➤ f!reader, dirty talk, tw; spitting, degrading, manhandling, pet names, fingering, unprotected sex, language, brief/slight exhibitionism, & Sukuna has a filthy mouth.

[ { Paring } ] ➤ Sukuna x f!reader.

[ { Word Count } ] ➤ 4.2k

"A whore," Sukuna commented, clearly joking but his words had made you uneasy.

It was oddly specific. You hadn't thought much of it when he called you a whore the night prior, since, y'know, you liked being degraded. But, something about that being his assumption for your occupation was a crazy coincidence.

Especially considering how hellbent Gojo always is on telling you not to call yourself that. The more you thought about it...

Gojo got upset at something from Sukuna's party, he didn't want you to call yourself a whore all of a sudden, Sukuna seems to have believed that was your actual job, and you remember how pissed Gojo seemed as he thought about you sleeping with Sukuna-

Holy fuck. Are the two connected somehow? Is something going on? What does Gojo owe Sukuna? Does Sukuna know you only slept with him as payment to clear Gojo's debt? Is-

A finger had poked your forehead and you blinked out of your thoughts.

Sukuna was chuckling, "I was joking, woman. Calm down." He uttered, "I actually thought you worked at one of those beauty stores."

You raised a brow, still feeling uneasy with the man. "Beauty stores?"

"Sephora, Ulta," He shrugged, "Wherever the fuck. I pictured you being one of those cute little cashiers."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment...?" You murmured.

"Or working at McDonald's, I don't know, I didn't think too hard on it-- jus' wanted to fuck you," Sukuna admitted honestly.

Your expression drops, "Oh..."

His hand had gone to your chin and he tipped your face up, "Do you want me to want something more from you?"

His gaze was intense like always, causing chills to slip down your back. You shook your head, "I mean, no... I only wanted you to fuck me."

"We could keep doing this," Sukuna suggested with a shrug, "Make' it a weekly thing."

You batted your eyelashes at him a few times in thought. At the time, things definitely would've gone differently had you not answered his request but... Somewhere deep down inside, you wanted to make it a weekly thing.

"Really?" You had asked the man, taking him by slight surprise.

Sukuna had wholeheartedly expected you to disregard his suggestion to you but, you didn't. "Yes, really," He replied before stepping closer to his bedside where you were seated and leaning toward you, "Let's fuck every week."

You stared at him with wide eyes for a long moment, contemplating numerous things in your head. Technically, you should've said no. You should've moved on from the topic, y'know, brushed his offer off entirely.

Yet there you were, steadily nodding your head in agreement before uttering a simple, "Okay."

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Which takes you to right now, a few weeks after said agreement where you find yourself in the backseat of one of Sukuna's cars, your legs sprawled out over his as you sit prettily in his lap.

Since agreeing to be friends with benefits with Sukuna, you and him have met up once a week, sometimes twice, just to fuck each other.

In Sukuna's right hand was his cell phone, the device up at his ear as he conversed with someone as if his free hand wasn't occupied with toying with your dripping cunt-- thick fingers fucking so deep into you and curling just right against your slick walls.

Your back was against his firm chest, lips parted with heavy pants and soft moans spilling from your throat as the lewd sound of Sukuna finger fucking you filled his vehicle.

Trying so hard not to be loud in courtesy of whoever he was on the phone with, you bit your lower lip, “Mmmh… Sukuna…” You mewl out gently.

He’s been at it for a while and you could even feel how hard his cock was against your ass, his tip leaking and member twitching beneath the fabric of his sweats every time you squirmed.

Sukuna sighs heavily and pulls the phone away from his mouth only to bring his lips to your ear, “Shut the fuck up. If she hears you, I’ll stop…” Pausing mid-sentence as your cunt squeezes tighter around his fingers, he smirks, “Slut.”

“P-Please… hah… don’t stop,” Your voice was filled with pure and utter need, just as he liked.

Sukuna angles his head down a bit, planting a soft and all too teasing kiss below your ear, his breath tickling your neck, “Then shut up.”

You’re nodding, closing your mouth, and swallowing down your own moans as he purposefully shoves his fingers into you at a rougher pace.

In and out and in and out, your pussy was gushing around his fingers— mouth opening and jaw dropping every now and then as he hit all the right spots.

“Fuck,” You curse under your breath as your torso leans forward and you shoot a hand down to grab his wrist.

Sukuna’s speaking to whoever he has on the phone but you only register a few words every now and then. “Mhmmmm,” He hummed and you swore that was directed toward you as your eyes flickered back— he knew you were close.

Sukuna’s fingers slid almost all the way out of your hole just to tease you, his fingertips slipping up to flick over your clit. A breathy moan leaves your lips as he rubs your clit aggressively, drawing circles over the bud and making your legs draw together.

“M’gonna cum,” You whine out quietly, struggling to keep your noises in.

He wanted to make things harder for you so he smirks, “Yeah?” Sukuna taunted, “Gonna’ make a mess? Hm?”

Your head just barely angled back to look at him, seeing that he didn’t bother to move the phone away or mute it so whoever he was talking to heard everything he just said. This overwhelming feeling of embarrassment and arousal shoots throughout your body and your face twists up in pleasure as Sukuna sinks his fingers back into you.

“No, not you,” He spat to whoever he was talking to on call, smirking at you afterward, “I told you I was busy when we first got on the phone…”

Your hips jerked forward a bit as you unintentionally moved to ride his fingers, panting and maintaining eye contact with the man. He nearly felt like he was getting high off of merely watching you grow so stupidly drunk in lust.

“S’kuna…” You mumbled.

His cock ached in his sweats and he nodded, “Mhm, yeah, y’know what, I’ll call you back— I have a needy whore to take care of.”

You turned your head to face forward as he said that, once again feeling embarrassed and even squeezing your legs together a bit. The sound of Sukuna scoffing is heard and then his phone is, quite literally, tossed somewhere else.

He shifts and his now free hand goes to your hip as his other kneads into your pussy, making you dizzy in satisfaction as you continue trying to keep quiet.

“Look at you…” Sukuna taunts, “You’re about to cum, aren’t you?”

You nod stupidly, feeling the knot in your core build as your orgasm approaches, “Y-Yeah… fuck, please.”

“Hm? Please what?” He scoffs, as if he hadn’t had a tendency to strip you of your climax multiple times.

“Hah… Let me cum, p-please Sukuna,” Your voice was a needy but quiet whine and he bit his lower lip once he acknowledged you were still following his orders of being quiet.

Sukuna snickers, “Uhuh, I will,” He hums, “Jus’ keep squeezin’ around my fingers,” He leans forward so he could speak into your ear, low and rasped voice driving you over the edge, “Yeahhhh, like that— Fuckin’ whore.”

Your jaw drops and your mouth forms an immediate O shape as your eyes flicker, back arching, and whimper escaping your throat— you cum hard while still trying to be quiet, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you do so.

There’s a slick sound of Sukuna still toying with your cunt as you come undone and then he sits back, parting his legs a bit as you readjust into his lap and his fingers slip out of you.

Sukuna coos, “See? Was that so hard? Now here,” He moves one hand to your throat, forcing your back to be against his chest as his other hand goes to your lips, “Clean yourself off my fingers, messy girl.”

His digits that’d just been inside you prod at your lips, tapping your lower one before you part them and Sukuna pushes his fingers in. He was such a nasty man, forcing you to taste yourself and clean your slick off his fingers— you couldn’t stand him sometimes.

Not to mention how he teases you as he does so, “Taste good, right?” Sukuna asked.

You whirl your tongue around his fingers and then pull off them with a hard and firm suck, a slight pop emitting from the action, “Mhm…”

“Good,” Both of Sukuna’s hands go to your hips and he lifts you up. You hardly realize what he’s doing until he forces you to turn around and face him. Then, he makes sure you remain hovering over his crotch as he works his cock out of his sweats, his eyes on yours as if he were seconds away from devouring you.

Sukuna looked ravished for you, tired of the past minutes he spent on some tedious phone call when he could’ve been buried inches into your sloppy hole. His eyes were low-lidded, maroon shade dazed with this feral need for you.

Oh, he was about to fuck the shit out of you— as he typically does. You’d picked up on that much, how his eyes would change, his breathing grown heavier, voice low and pitched with this sexy rasp that made your cunt flutter.

“Do me a favor,” Sukuna suddenly voices out, making you blink out of your daze. Your hands were on his broad shoulders, keeping yourself hovered over him. “Sit on this dick ‘nd make another mess f’me,” He instructed, words causing you to look down at his hard, slightly curved cock that’s been freed from his clothes.

It’s so damn intimidating— the way his veins bulge, how his hand jerks at his shaft in quick pulls, tip sticky and leaking precum as you stare with pretty wide eyes.

Your legs were straddling his already so, after a moment of admiring his cock, your eyes flicked back up to his face. Sukuna was glaring at you, impatiently waiting for you to plop down onto his twitching member.

His gaze sent a chill down your spine and your body was finally moving again. You lower yourself steadily as you glance down again but because of how slow you were living and how needy Sukuna was, he goes to grab your hips and pulls your cunt down to his cock, tip pressing up against your hole.

Both of you let out a heavy exhale in sync and you rock your hips forward just a little bit to ride his flushed tip.

“Don’t fuckin’ tease me, woman,” Sukuna breathes out, voice more airy than he would’ve liked.

You smirk, “Sukuna…” Your gaze lifts to his face once more, “You’re drippin’.” You whisper tauntingly.

His brows tense and his cock suddenly pushes up a few inches into you, a shallow thrust made in reaction to your words. Sukuna’s dirty talk was rubbing off on you and it drove him crazy. The hands on your waist grip even tighter, sure to leave marks as his fingernails dig into you and he slams you down on his dick.

Your eyes widen, face twists up, and a sluty moan leaves your throat, “Oh fuck-,”

“Told’ you not to fuckin’ tease me,” Sukuna huffs out in an aggravated tone. His big rough hands slide up to your waist and he holds onto you tightly before forcing you to ride him at the pace he wanted.

You’re moving to keep up with his motions as best you can, using your legs to lift yourself up and then plop your cunt down on his cock over and over— sucking him in deep and tight each time you go down.

Meanwhile, Sukuna’s forcing you through it, making sure you don’t slow down for even a second. “Needy ass couldn’t even let me finish my phone call,” He grunts out, “Pussy just needed my cock, huh? She’s that greedy?”

Your cunt just flutters and gushes around his dick, walls closing around his shaft as a moan slips past your lips, “I… ah, oh-, fuuck… m’sorry.”

“Aw, you’re sorry?” Sukuna mocks, “No you’re nottt, you wanted me off the phone, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, “N-No…”

“No? Hah,” That smirk of his starts to appear and his hands slide down your body, caressing your skin as you ride him in earnest, “You wanted them to hear?”

Your hips stutter in movement and your eyes widen, “I-“

“Wanted them to hear how desperate you are for some cock?” Sukuna huffs out, hips suddenly snapping up into you, “How dumb you get once it’s in you? Hm?”

“F-Fuck, Sukuna-, ah, mghh.” You whine, hips coming to an almost complete stop as Sukuna fucks his cock up into you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as his tip rams up into your cervix.

To make matters worse, he slaps your ass, “Did I say you could stop? Keep fuckin’ ridin’ me.” Sukuna orders meanly, making you whine as you find your movement again, earning a smirk from him in response to how your hips match his thrusts.

There was this slight shake to his car as you bounced up and down on his cock and he kept fucking it up into you, making it hard for you to think or even moan properly.

He smirks and then holds your hips again, slamming you down slowly but roughly along with his words, “Mmmgh, just. like. that.” Sukuna groans, tossing his head back and breathing heavily.

The sight of him with his head back and neck exposed was so damn sexy, causing you to lean forward and move to his neck, pressing sweet but messy kisses all up and down his exposed skin.

Sukuna starts smiling, “Good girl.” He suddenly praises and your hips begin to rock back and forth, making his brows tense, “Aughhh, fuuuck, keep goin’, m’close.”

Because you had slowed again, you’d assume that he enjoyed it so you continued with a steady rock of your hips, keeping his thick length buried inside you as you did so.

He lets you continue like that for a minute or two but after that, he huffs, “I said ride me, whore. Don’t fuckin’ slow down.” Sukuna grunted.

For someone who was taunting you about being needy, he sure as hell had a thousand demands on how you should be riding him— as if he doesn’t know his dick is hard to take at some point.

Your brows furrow and your lower lip sticks out into a slight pout, one he finds so fucking cute. Sukuna moves his hands to your thighs, somewhat under them to aid you, and then he’s forcing your pussy to slick up and down him again.

You let out a little scoff before looking off to the side, “Shit…” Sukuna was thrusting up into you again, bullying his cock into your dripping cunt and forcing you to ride him through it.

“C’mon,” He smirks, “Take it—, fuck me.” He suddenly breathes out.

A shocked moan exits your mouth and your eyes are glossy as they find his, “W-What? Mmh…” You breathe. Did he just say what you thought he did?

“You heard me,” Sukuna’s smirk widens and slowly eases into a sexy almost fucked out smile “I said fuck me. Fuck me like you wanna make me cum,” He huffs, your body responding through upping your pace, “Yeahhhh that’s it.” Sukuna breathes, head flying back again.

The car creaked and bounced with the frantic movements of sex occurring inside, windows fogged, your tits jumping almost in his face, plush walls clamping down on his dick so good that he felt like he was losing his sanity.

Oh Sukuna was addicted. He can’t have any other woman on his cock that’s not you, not when you ride him so well and certainly not when your hand is abruptly felt on his throat.

Sukuna lets out a groan that’s treacherously close to a moan, his head tipping up from the seat as his eyes find yours, “Oh? You kinky fuckin’ woman, chokin’ me like this…” He grunts, smiling again afterward, “Can hardly feel those small fingers of yours…”

Truth is, he could feel your fingers. Blood rushed to Sukuna’s face and his cock, his mind dazed for a second as you choked him whilst riding him. He would never submit to you but goddamn you were making it difficult.

Your hole just sucked him up like a vice and your walls were so snug and warm, wetness coating his dick and even parts of his thighs. He was about to cum but he didn’t want you to think you’d got the best of him.

So, Sukuna tips his head to the side and brings a hand to your wrist, “This is cute but,” He pulls your hand off his neck, “Lemme show you how it’s done, pretty girl.”

Your lashes bat in disbelief before Sukuna’s manhandling you again, flipping you both over as his large muscular frame looms over yours. His big hands go to your legs and he spreads them fast and wide enough so that he can slam his cock back inside you.

Your back is arching off the seat of the car as soon as he pushes all the way into you, the sudden change in position making his leaky tip reach deeper than before.

One hand is propped up by your head and the other goes to your throat, Sukuna’s fingers carefully wrapping around you and feeling the way broken moans vibrate against your throat.

“Mmph… ah, ‘kuna,” You slur out as his thrusts pick up all over again. Something is mumbled under your breath and he finds it funny how you could barely get it out.

Tilting his head, “Huh? What was that? Speak up.”

You groan, “Harder,” His eyes widen and his hips just ram down into you at a merciless pace before you get out what you meant, “Choke m-me… mmh, f-fuck… h-harder, oh my… ahh, ngh…”

“Harder? You want me to choke you harder?” Sukuna repeats and you nod, earning a slight laugh from him, “Of course you do, slut.” As the last word leaves his lips, his hand is squeezing around your throat, making it hard for you to breathe while he recklessly pounds into your cunt.

“M-Mmmh,” You hum, eyes rolling back as that damn curve of his knocks into you just right, “F-Fuck. Ohmygod, f-fuuck…” You curse between a whine.

His face is hovering over yours, “Feel me in there?” You nod and he bites his lip for a moment, “Yeah?”

Sukuna just thrusts harsher and harsher, and then faster, pelvis crashing into yours over and over as the lewd sounds of sex escape his car with how sloppy it was getting. His cock was covered in you but only greedy for more, plunging in and out of you as he groans at the way you just suck him back in every time he pulls out.

“Want me to slow down?” Sukuna suddenly suggests. Again, you just nod, almost too fucked out to speak anymore. “Awww, but you’re takin’ me jus’ fine at this pace,” He praises, making your cunt throb about him.

“S’too… y-you’re so… hahh… mgh, f-fucking big-,” You moan out weakly.

Those words make his thrusts stutter and he grunts, “What? I’m what?” Sukuna questions, almost like he needed to hear you say that again. His face leans down to yours and his lips ghost your wet ones, “What am I? Say that again.” He whispers.

Your heavy breaths brush up against his lips as both of you hold such intimate eye contact with one another, “B-Big, S’kuna… S-So fuckin’ big…” You cry out, gentle tears beginning to leave your eyes.

The man unintentionally beats his cock down into your messy cunt, “Big? Ohhhh, don’t fuckin’ tell me that.” Sukuna groans, again sounding all too close to a moan, “Take it.” He huffs.

You nod yet again, “Uhuh… m-mmh, oh…”

“Yeahhh, take it you whore.” Sukuna huffed, “Every fuckin’ inch like a good girl, mhm-, fuck,” He finally moaned, eyes flickering for only a moment.

He was too into it, too into you— literally. Sukuna felt like he was in your stomach, the bulge of his cock so prominent with his every thrust. Never was he really gentle with you, not during the sex at least, there was no need to be. You liked him rough and he knew that.

“M’gonna cum inside you.” Sukuna suddenly warns, hips sloppy against you, “Fuck my cum nice ‘nd deep inside you,” He huffs, feeling how you twitch around him.

Then, Sukuna stares down at your face, his hand still around your neck as he gets a sudden thought, glancing down to your lips.

“Open your mouth,” Sukuna orders, his voice deep. Your lips are parting without a second thought and Sukuna looks you dead in the eyes as he spits onto your tongue. First, it’s one messy drip, then another filthy glob.

Oh that was nasty, he was nasty. And the fact that his action only turned you on even more really said something about you.

“Swallow it,” He demands right after, watching as you shut your mouth and do as told. Then, he feels the movement in your throat against his palm and he chuckles, “Fuck, that’s sexy… You’re such a nasty lil’ slut f’me, I like that.”

Sukuna leans down to you and the grip on your throat grows tighter, his lips moving to swallow yours up. It was a messy and heated kiss, your moans and whimpers being drowned out as his tongue slithered into your mouth.

The wet slick and slide of his mouth over yours filled the air and all you could hear was that and the brutal smack of his hips down into you as his cock unforgivingly kissed your cervix. Over and over and over again until your orgasm crashes over you.

Only then does Sukuna pull away from your lips, a messy wad of saliva hanging between the two of you as he speaks slowly and his voice makes you lose it because of that damn breathy rasp, “Pussy’s creaming ‘round me, shit.” He breathes out, slowing down his thrusts just so you can pay attention to it, “Hear that? Hear how she gushes ‘round my cock?”

It was messy, sloppy, and slick as he dragged his dick in and out of your pulsing walls. This is what it was like to be Sukuna’s fuck buddy. Whenever or wherever he wanted to take you, he would— spewing such filth out to you as he did so, no matter who heard him.

He didn’t care, he just wanted to make sure you heard him, heard his every nasty word because he knew you liked it. Hell, that’s why you’re cumming around his cock now, moaning beneath him, legs shaking, and tears streaming down your face.

Just as you’re coming undone, so is he, pace picking right back up as he fucks his orgasm into you— warm seed coating your walls as he leaned to your ear, groaning out a repeated and breathy ‘take it’ as you whined and suddenly clawed at his back.

“Take every drop,” Sukuna moans into your ear. You think he might have a breeding kink-, “Fuckin’ slut,” He adds on.

He’s going and going until he thrusts in hard one last time and stills himself. His breathing was so heavy in your ear, heavy like pants almost-, almost like you’d drained him of everything he had.

Sukuna remains still for a while before he shifts only a little, lips moving to your cheek as he kisses your wet skin. Then, it’s slow but his tongue slides out and he licks whatever's left of your tears off your face.

Your face twists up in slight discomfort due to his wet tongue and the fact that his heavy cock was still inside you wasn’t making things any better, “…Sukuna,” You sigh, “D-Don’t you have a phone call t-to return…?”

He smiles at how you remind him, despite your fucked out state and how ragged your voice was. Sukuna slowly moves to lean up but, he doesn’t pull out yet, “Mhm, I do. And uh,” He sits back a bit and pulls your body along with his, making sure he never once slips out of you, “You’re gonna keep my cock nice ‘nd warm in the meantime.”

His words catch you off gaurd, “But-“

His hand goes to your lower abdomen and Sukuna traces his fingertip over the slight print his dick makes against your skin, “You don’t want to?” He asks, tipping his head to the side.

Blinking, you just let out a sigh after a long moment of thought, “No, I do…”

“Alright then,” Sukuna smiles, “But if you make any noise, I’ll video call instead and show them the needy woman I gotta deal with,” He comments finally with a cocky little wink.

tags;

@blognicole @suguruologist @luqueam @ivoryviness @sinaxalui @rxnnie18 @carlacujo @gods-landing @bitchysouljellyfish @miles4hour @sinaxalui @annananamin @heart-snow @kiyomizzx @hanuh @acehyacinth @mccookiemonster @tojis-ball-sack @cartwheel6869 @mariluvsusstuff @addie1010 @slammynics @actualz0mbie @hisbitchhh @kay-xle @cunttee3 @voids-universe @raininglovelyfire @itsbokutosjuicyass @peaceoutbritta @barbielani @gennaray @r3inae @kfmcykdy @camiihutt @tokina @curtin81937 @hopefullydecent @nameless-shade @ureuphoriasworld @forgetfulmachine @legbouk @lilliaannn @clementineee0-0 @divinelseraph @didibxx

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joelsrose · 6 months ago

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Guns and Roses: Chapter 7

previous chapters

Chapter Summary: You and Joel settled into an effortless rhythm, a silent understanding weaving through each day, each small gesture a testament to a bond growing deeper. Slowly, Joel began to reveal just how much he cared, his actions softer, his gaze lingering a bit longer, and soon enough, it became clear to everyone that something between you both had changed. As his guard lowered, he began to open up, sharing pieces of himself he’d kept hidden, letting his feelings show in quiet, unguarded moments.

14k words yes im insane - lemme know your thoughts in the comments pleaseeee TW: mentions of blood etc

You woke slowly, a gentle warmth cocooning you as you stirred, your senses gradually sharpening. Your arms were wrapped around something solid and warm, and as awareness crept in, you realized it was Joel—his body nestled against yours, your chest pressed to his broad back. You were the one holding him, your arm draped across his middle and your fingers resting lightly on the rough fabric of his shirt. The steady rise and fall of his breathing was a quiet lullaby, soothing in its rhythm, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself linger in that fragile peace. You didn’t dare shift, afraid to disturb the moment, or worse, wake him and shatter the unexpected intimacy of it all.

You remembered going to bed with a careful distance between you, an unspoken boundary neither of you dared to cross. But sometime in the night, that space had disappeared. Now, you were wrapped around him from behind, your arm draped over his torso, fingers resting lightly on his chest. Your head was tucked close to the curve of his neck, your breath mingling with the warmth of his skin. His slow, steady breathing matched the gentle rise and fall beneath your palm, a quiet rhythm that seemed to draw you closer still.

Your gaze drifted to the back of his head, where his hair fell in disheveled waves. The strands curled slightly at the nape of his neck, revealing the way they grew in unruly patterns. It was a small, intimate detail you’d never noticed before—how a few pieces were shorter, sticking out stubbornly, while the rest fell in gentle, careless layers. The sight stirred something deep within you, an unexpected tenderness at this quiet, unguarded glimpse of him. You traced the outline with your eyes, almost tempted to reach out and brush your fingers along the roughness of his hair and the warm skin beneath.

Carefully, you shifted, mindful not to rouse him, and let your gaze drift to the clock on the wall. The hands hovered over 8:00—later than you usually rose. You must have slept deeply, the kind of rest that felt like a gift, untouched by dreams or darkness. It was as if the steady rhythm of his breathing had wrapped you in a rare tranquility, holding the world’s troubles at a distance and banishing the nightmares that too often haunted your sleep—the visions of blood and shattered bones. A quiet satisfaction unfurled within you, a reluctant recognition that maybe—just maybe—this peace owed itself to the warmth shared in this accidental closeness, the comfort of finding something solid and real, even if only for the night.

His words from the night before echoed softly in your mind, a gentle murmur that lingered, refusing to fade.

"You're someone worth taking care of."

There had been a quiet sincerity in his voice, a truthfulness that slipped past the defenses you’d so carefully constructed—the ones that seemed to crumble effortlessly under his touch, as if he knew exactly where to press to unravel each layer.

You hadn’t known how to respond then, could only look away and swallow the surge of feelings that had risen, unbidden and overwhelming. But now, in the stillness of morning, with the steady warmth of his body grounding you, those words resonated differently. They didn’t feel like a debt repaid or an obligation fulfilled.

You sensed Joel stirring beside you, a faint shift that sparked a sudden awareness in your chest. Without thinking, you slid your arms away and edged toward the far side of the bed. A wave of fear gripped you, sharp and immediate—if he woke to find you this close, he might recoil, retreat behind the walls he always kept up. The thought of him pulling away from the moment you had shared, the fragile comfort found in sleep, stung more than you expected. So you withdrew first, putting space between you before he could, as if distancing yourself might soften the sting of rejection.

He slowly turned to face you, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. His features were softened by sleep, the early light casting a tender glow over the rugged lines of his face. He looked almost ethereal—his hair tousled in careless waves, eyes still half-lidded with the remnants of slumber, and the shadow of stubble tracing the curve of his jaw. There was a timelessness to him, as if the burdens of the world couldn't touch him here, not in the quiet sanctuary of your room. When he spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, a deep rasp that reverberated through the stillness between you, stirring something within.

"Hey," he murmured, rubbing a hand over his eyes as if to clear away the last remnants of sleep. "How'd you sleep?"

There was a tenderness in his gaze that stole the breath from your lungs, and you felt a quiet relief that he didn’t bring up last night’s events.

“Yeah, good,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to sound casual despite the lingering warmth in your chest.

"Coffee?" he offered, his tone light but his gaze steady.

“Yes, please,” you replied, forcing a small smile in return. His response came in the form of a slow, easy grin before he pushed himself up and headed downstairs. You watched him disappear down the hallway, your gaze lingering on the way his back flexed with each step until you finally tore your eyes away.

The moment he was out of sight, you let your head fall back onto the pillow with a soft groan. A deep exhale escaped you as you tried to shake off the lingering sensation of his presence—his warmth still clung to the sheets, and his scent lingered in the air.

No matter how hard you tried, it was impossible to erase the traces of him; the bed still carried the memory of where he had been, refusing to let you forget.

•••

Each day, the sharp edges of your pain dulled a little more, and you and Joel fell into a quiet rhythm that neither of you spoke about but simply accepted. It started with small gestures—a cup of coffee left on the counter, the way he’d linger in the doorway to check on you before heading out.

There was a quiet comfort in the silence, an unspoken understanding as you both moved through the space. It had become his habit to settle beside you each evening, a book or a glass of whiskey in hand. Right before bed, he’d offer the pain medication with a glass of water and a simple, “Here.”

You’d accept it without a word, the ritual itself evolving into a shared form of solace—an unspoken promise that neither of you was alone in this.

When the hour grew late and the house fell silent, he would slip into bed beside you, a quiet understanding that had taken root since that first night when you asked him to stay.

What began as a single gesture—his lingering presence in the darkness, offering comfort when you needed it most—soon became a habit neither of you questioned. Each night after that, he simply stayed, as if it were the most natural thing, a silent agreement that bound you together in the quiet hours. Though you never dared to show it, you were glad to have him there, his presence easing a loneliness you hadn’t realized you were carrying. But it unsettled you too, how safe you felt with him beside you—it stirred something unfamiliar, something that scared you more than you wanted to admit.

The bed that had once been your solitary refuge, where you had cried yourself to sleep or lain awake with thoughts that refused to quiet, felt different with him there. It had transformed into a shared sanctuary, where the weight of your loneliness melted into the warmth of his body nearby, and the stillness of the room was softened by the steady cadence of his breathing.

His presence was a silent promise, a new kind of intimacy that settled in the dark like a fragile truth, too precious to name aloud. Neither of you dared to acknowledge it, as if speaking it would unravel the delicate arrangement that had come to feel like home.

You couldn’t help but wonder if he needed it as much as you did—the quiet company of someone else, the shared solitude that seemed to soften the edges of the night.

There was a rhythm to your nights now. He’d help you settle in, adjusting pillows, making sure you were comfortable, and then climb in beside you with a sigh as if shaking off the weight of the day. Sometimes, his arm would find its way around you in the stillness, his touch tentative but lingering. Other nights, you’d wake to find your own hand resting on his chest or his fingers brushing yours, small touches that spoke of something deeper, something that grew stronger in the quiet moments where words fell away.

Each morning, you awoke tangled together, the warmth of his body a quiet comfort you’d come to depend on, even if you’d never admit it. But inevitably, one of you would stir first, disentangling from the other with gentle, hesitant movements—clumsy in their attempt to preserve the illusion that nothing had happened.

It was a practiced ritual, a silent agreement to undo the intimacy that unfolded in sleep, as if by slipping away before the light touched the room, you could keep the fragile truth of those moments hidden beneath the covers, buried where it felt safe and unspoken.

•••

Joel had noticed something was off—the way you stared out the window, your gaze fixed on the distant figures moving outside, going about their lives while you remained trapped inside. It was a cruel reminder of all you couldn’t do, a world continuing on as if you weren’t missing from it. When you finally turned back to your breakfast, you only picked at it, pushing the food around your plate without taking a bite, your eyes distant, as if you were some place far away.

Despite the slow progress you’d made, frustration had begun to root itself deep in your bones, growing stronger with each day confined indoors. You missed the freedom of patrol, missed tending to your garden with dirt under your nails and the sun on your skin. The restlessness gnawed at you, sharpening the edges of each hour, made worse by the doctor’s warning that it could be months before you were back to your old self.

You were exhausted by the helplessness, by the stifling dependence that came with being cared for. It weighed on you like a dull ache, pressing harder against your chest with every breath, refusing to let you forget how far you still had to go.

"Everything alright?" Joel's voice broke the quiet, his gaze steady as he took a slow sip of his coffee.

You let out a long sigh, setting your fork down with a soft clink. "Not really," you confessed, frustration creeping into your tone. "I’m just… tired of feeling useless. Like I’m stuck in this holding pattern, just waiting for my life to start again."

Joel set his mug down with a quiet thud and leaned forward, his eyes never leaving yours. “I know it feels that way,” he said, his voice calm and steady.

“But you’re not just sittin’ around—you’re healing. That’s not nothin’. It takes a hell of a lot more out of you than you realize.” His gaze softened as he spoke, a quiet conviction settling into his tone. “And you will get there. When you do, you’ll come back stronger than you ever thought possible.”

He hesitated, his hand lingering on the edge of the table, then added, “What do you say we get outta here for a bit?” His voice was lighter now, almost hopeful. “I’ve got the day off, no patrols. Thought maybe you could use a break from all this.” He leaned back in his chair, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got somethin’ in mind.”

Joel reached for his jacket, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as he moved with a calm purpose. "Gonna borrow Tommy's truck," he said, nodding toward the door. "Figured we could use the wheels—make things easier." He swung the door open, letting the crisp morning air spill into the room, its chill brushing against your skin as you stepped outside.

"Where are we going?" you asked, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion as you followed him to the truck. There was a hint of playfulness in his demeanor, a spark that made your pulse quicken with a flicker of anticipation.

He glanced back at you, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You'll find out soon enough," he said, his voice carrying a low, teasing edge. "Just trust me—it’s a surprise."

As he helped you into the passenger seat, his hand lingered briefly, his touch leaving a warmth that spread through you, a quiet shiver following in its wake. It was a fleeting moment, yet it left your pulse quickened and your mind wandering to what exactly he had in store. With a rumble, the engine came to life, and as Joel steered the truck down the road, it stretched out ahead like a quiet invitation, promising a brief escape from everything that had kept you confined.

The drive wasn’t far, but soon the air filled with the sounds of bleating goats and the low hum of other animals, drifting in through the open window. It was a simple, familiar noise—comforting in its way—and as you neared the source, a small farm came into view, nestled in the gentle slope of the land like a secret waiting to be shared.

Before you lay the town’s little sanctuary—a modest refuge where goats and sheep meandered under the late afternoon sun, their coats catching the warm light. A few dogs rested by the fence, tails sweeping the ground in lazy contentment, while cats prowled or perched atop hay bales, their eyes half-closed. The air was rich with the earthy scent of hay and soil, and the soft clucking of chickens formed a gentle rhythm in the background.

You took a tentative step forward, your leg free from crutches now but still stiff with a lingering limp. As you moved closer, a small goat trotted over, its tiny tail wagging in welcome. It nudged your leg with a soft bleat, as if greeting an old friend it hadn’t seen in a while.

Joel crouched beside the goat, scratching behind its ear with the ease of familiarity. “I know it ain’t much,” he said, glancing up at you with a touch of earnestness in his eyes, “but I thought you’d like it here. These guys don’t ask for much—just a little attention and maybe a snack.” His voice softened, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “And they sure don’t care if you’re not quite back to your old self.”

You couldn’t help but smile as the goat nudged you again, its eagerness infectious. "This is perfect, Joel," you said, glancing at him with a warmth you hadn’t felt in a while.

As you scattered the feed, you soon found yourself surrounded by a gathering of eager, curious faces—goats with wide eyes and wobbly legs, sheep nudging closer for a nibble, and a scruffy old dog who padded over, its graying muzzle nudging your hand for a gentle pat. You reached down to pet him, your fingers grazing his coarse fur, and then turned to give some attention to one of the goats pressing insistently against your leg.

The simplicity of it was soothing, a quiet reprieve from the weight you’d been carrying. You reached out to pet a goat, feeling the texture of its rough fur beneath your fingertips, and let out a surprised laugh when it leaned into you, nearly knocking you off balance.

Joel chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Careful there,” he teased, stepping closer as if ready to catch you. “They don’t know their own strength.”

You shot him a playful look. “Maybe they’re just excited to meet someone new,” you said, reaching out to scratch behind the goat’s ear.

Joel grinned, his gaze lingering on you, noting the way the tension had melted from your shoulders, the way a spark had returned to your eyes. “See?” he said quietly, his voice carrying a thread of satisfaction. “Told you it’d be worth it.”

You met his gaze, and for a moment, the noise of the animals seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in that peaceful corner of the world. “You were right,” you admitted softly, almost as if sharing a secret. “I needed this more than I thought.”

The two of you wandered slowly through the sanctuary, pausing now and then to rest on a bench near the fence while the animals drifted around you. The scruffy dog trailed faithfully at your side, and when you sat, he placed his head on your knee, as if sensing you needed the comfort. You absently ran your fingers through his fur, finding a quiet solace in the familiar gesture.

“I used to dream about having a place like this,” you said quietly, your voice drifting over the stillness. There was a touch of wistfulness in your tone as you glanced around, taking in the stretch of countryside beyond. “Thought I’d end up in a spot like this someday, growing old with a few animals running around. It seemed like the kind of life I’d want.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “But, you know, life has a funny way of changing course.”

Joel’s gaze settled on you, a quiet thoughtfulness in his eyes. “My daughter… she loved animals,” he murmured, nodding toward the dog curled up in your lap. “Was always begging me for one just like that.” His voice softened, as though the memory itself required gentler handling.

“I used to take her to the aquarium almost every weekend,” he continued, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. There was a pause, a shift in his expression, as if the past had come into focus, vivid and bittersweet. “She’d get so excited, she could hardly stand still.”

“What was her name?” you asked, the question barely more than a breath.

“Sarah,” he repeated, and there was a warmth in his voice that made the name feel like an offering, a piece of a world he hadn’t shared with many. “She was a good kid, funny and smart as hell,” he added quietly, his eyes far away. “You would’ve liked her.” The words hung in the air, full of a tenderness that cut deeper than you’d expected.

For a moment, the silence returned, but it wasn’t empty. It felt like the start of something fragile and unspoken, a connection stitched together by the sharing of old wounds and small, hopeful dreams.

As the sun dipped lower, stretching shadows across the sanctuary, Joel guided you back to the truck, his hand lingering on your arm longer than necessary, a quiet reassurance in his touch. “We can come back anytime,” he said, his voice warm and sincere.

“Whenever you feel like it.”

There was a softness in his tone, a quiet invitation that hinted at more than just the promise of fresh air and animals. It felt like his way of saying he wanted to share this place with you, to keep finding reasons to bring you here—an excuse to spend time together beyond the walls of routine.

•••

You returned home with a contented tiredness settling over you, the warmth of the afternoon still lingering in your bones. Joel guided you up the stairs, his hand a steady presence on your back, offering silent support as you made your way to your room. “Get some rest,” he murmured, his voice carrying that familiar blend of gentleness and quiet insistence. “I’ll go grab a few things for dinner.”

He mentioned something about picking up fresh produce from one of the local farmers—a bag of potatoes, some greens, maybe a jar of honey if there was any left. You sank into the bed, the mattress cool against your skin, and thought about the quiet sweetness of Joel’s gestures, the way he had gone out of his way to bring a little lightness to your day.

He lingered at the doorway, and though your eyes were shut, you could feel the weight of his gaze, like he was making sure you were alright before he left the room. The silence stretched between you, a moment of quiet that felt almost tender, before you heard the bathroom door creak open.

Then, the steady rush of water filled the air, the sound of the shower humming softly through the walls, and you let yourself sink deeper into the quiet peace of the house, knowing Joel was still nearby.

Your thoughts wandered where you hadn’t intended them to go, lingering on the image of Joel in the shower—the steam curling around him, water tracing the contours of his back, rolling down over the strong lines of his shoulders. The thought took you by surprise, a flush rising to your cheeks as you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the image away.

What were you doing, thinking about him like that?

For so long, you had worked to keep things simple, to focus on the arrangement for what it was—Joel helping you out, taking care of you while you healed. It wasn’t supposed to be more than that, and you’d been careful to ignore the way his presence seemed to fill every space, every quiet moment that passed between you.

But lately, it was becoming impossible to push away the feelings that stirred whenever he did something kind or lingered just a bit too long at your side. The warmth in your chest, the way your skin tingled under his touch, the steady reassurance in his voice—it all left you questioning whether there was something deeper beneath the surface, or if you were only seeing what you wanted to see.

And then there was the conflict simmering beneath it all. Joel had made your life hell for so long, the two of you more often at odds than not. He’d been stubborn, difficult, his gruffness a constant thorn in your side, and you’d spent countless days resenting him. But now, seeing him like this—a different version of him, the one who thought to take you to a sanctuary on a quiet afternoon, who made sure you ate, who lingered in doorways as if he couldn’t quite leave you alone—you weren’t sure what to make of it.

You shook your head slightly, as if the gesture could dispel the confusion swirling inside you. This wasn’t the time to entertain those thoughts. He was just doing his part, wasn’t he? Looking out for you because that’s who he was—a man who took his responsibilities seriously, even when he didn’t particularly like them.

A part of you chastised yourself for even considering it, for letting your guard slip enough to see him as something more than just the man who had caused you so much grief. But the truth was undeniable: right now, he was different. Or maybe, you were finally seeing a side of him that had always been there, just buried beneath the weight of all his rough edges. And that scared you—because the more you saw of that man, the harder it was to pretend you weren’t starting to care.

You rolled onto your side, willing yourself to focus on something else, but the thought of him lingered, like an ember refusing to fade.

•••

Dinner was taking longer than usual, and as you sat in the living room, facing away from the kitchen, you could hear the quiet rhythm of Joel’s movements—the soft clatter of dishes, the scrape of a knife on a cutting board, the low murmur of his voice as he muttered to himself. The scent of food wafted through the air, warm and savory, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

You couldn’t see him, but you could picture him clearly: brow furrowed in concentration, his hands working with a surprising gentleness, a quiet dedication that seemed out of place for a man who often carried himself like the world was always on his shoulders. It was a simple scene, but there was something about the way he moved in the kitchen that made you feel unexpectedly at home, as if the air itself was steeped in the quiet intimacy of sharing a space with someone.

“Dinner’s ready in five,” Joel murmured as he stepped into the living room, his voice low and warm. He moved closer, and when you looked up, it felt like the breath caught in your throat. There was something different about him tonight—a quiet, rugged elegance in the way he’d dressed, as if he’d put just a bit more thought into it.

His shirt was tucked in, the fabric fitting snugly over his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the sinewy muscles of his forearms, a faint hint of stubble shadowing his jaw. The top button was left undone, exposing the hollow of his throat, and the casual disarray of his hair was different, slightly wet and slicked back.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a half-forgotten dream—his presence filling the room with a quiet magnetism that was impossible to ignore. The soft lighting seemed to highlight every rugged detail, the way his eyes caught the light, the subtle lines that etched across his brow, adding a certain depth to the roughness that usually cloaked him. It was like seeing him through a different lens, one that softened the edges and revealed a side of him that felt both familiar and utterly new, and it stirred something deep inside you—a flutter that you weren’t sure was from surprise or something else entirely.

“Hey,” he whispered, your name slipping from his lips like a soft nudge that pulled you from your daydream. You blinked, suddenly aware of the contrast between his appearance and your own—still in a loose, worn-out sweater and a pair of faded sweatpants, your hair haphazardly pulled back. It was a lazy, thrown-together look that spoke more to comfort than anything else, but in that moment, it felt almost out of place.

“Oh, yeah, sounds good,” you mumbled, glancing down. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“You need help?” Joel called as you were already halfway up the stairs, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

You didn’t answer, too focused on making a hasty retreat. Your cheeks warmed with an unexpected flush as you reached your room, your pulse quickening for reasons you didn’t want to analyze.

Why were you rushing to get ready for dinner, as if it were something more than a simple meal?

You opened your closet and rifled through the hangers, searching for something—anything—that might make you look a little more put-together, a little less like you’d just rolled out of bed. But even as you reached for a blouse that had been buried in the back, you couldn’t help but wonder what had you so flustered. It wasn’t like this was a date. It was just Joel. Yet here you were, caught up in the quiet urgency of wanting to look half-presentable, as if his effort deserved to be met halfway.

You kept rummaging through your closet until your hand landed on a dress—a simple, ankle-length piece in a soft beige. The fabric was light and comfortable, falling loosely to your feet with a natural flow. It had just enough shape to flatter, with a cinched waist that hinted at your curves without feeling too formal, and a neckline that was easy and relaxed.

It wasn’t anything fancy—just a dress you’d worn a few times before when you wanted to look a bit nicer without going overboard. You could already picture Joel giving you a curious look, maybe even cracking a small smile at your effort, but it made you feel pretty, and that was enough.

You slipped it on and wandered over to the mirror, reaching for a brush. You ran it through your hair, working out the tangles until it fell in loose waves over your shoulders, smoothing out the frayed ends from the day. You tucked a few stray strands behind your ear, keeping it casual but a little more put together. It wasn’t anything dramatic, just enough to make you feel like you’d stepped up for the evening without making a big deal of it.

You limped downstairs, your heart racing for reasons you couldn’t quite pin down. You and Joel had shared dinner so many times since he’d started taking care of you, but tonight felt different—there was a kind of anticipation in the air that you couldn’t ignore. As you reached the bottom of the stairs, you caught sight of Joel pacing in the kitchen, his movements restless and uncharacteristic.

He was nervous, too; you could tell by the way he kept rubbing the back of his neck, glancing toward the doorway as if waiting for you to appear.

When you finally stepped into the kitchen, your eyes were drawn to the dining table. It was set more thoughtfully than usual—candles flickered gently at the center, casting a warm glow over the plates, and a cloth napkin was folded beside each one. There were even a couple of wildflowers in a small glass jar, adding a touch of color. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it had a softness to it, a quiet intimacy that gave the room a hint of date-like charm. You felt your cheeks warm as you took it all in.

“What’s the special occasion?” you asked, glancing up at him with a playful arch of your brow, though there was a hint of genuine curiosity in your voice.

Joel froze for a moment, his gaze drifting to you with an intensity that took you by surprise. His eyes roamed over your figure, lingering a little too long on the way the dress flowed around you, before finally meeting your gaze. There was a flicker of something in his expression—relief, maybe, or admiration—before he masked it with his usual gruffness.

“Nothing,” he said, feigning nonchalance as he stepped forward to pull out your chair. “Just figured we could use a decent meal, is all.”

But the subtle hesitation in his voice gave him away, a softness there that suggested tonight wasn’t quite as casual as he was trying to make it seem. There was something about the way he kept his eyes on you, like he was searching for a sign that you’d noticed the effort he’d put in. And maybe, just maybe, he was hoping it meant something to you, too.

Warmth crept up your cheeks, and you glanced away, your pulse quickening as Joel's presence loomed close behind you. He gently pushed your chair in, and you could feel the quiet care in his touch, as if he was afraid of disturbing the moment. The faint scent of soap and aftershave clung to the air around him, mingling with the rich aroma of the food he’d prepared, making the small space between you feel charged with a quiet intimacy.

Joel reached for the bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid glinting in the soft candlelight as he poured your glass first, the way he always did—without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He handed it to you with a steady hand, his fingers brushing yours briefly, then moved to fill his own. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, a calmness to them that belied the faint tension in the air, as if he was carefully navigating something unspoken between you.

You took the glass from him with a quiet “thanks,” your voice barely above a murmur. As you brought it to your lips, you couldn’t help but notice how he always did these small things for you first—pouring your drink, pulling out your chair, making sure you were settled before ever thinking of himself. It wasn’t just habit; there was a care in the way he did it, an attention to detail that spoke of something more than just politeness.

It made you wonder if these gestures held any deeper meaning—if they hinted at something he couldn’t or wouldn’t say aloud. Perhaps it was just Joel's way, a quiet sense of duty or a Southern gentleman’s instinct that came as naturally to him as the gruffness in his voice.

Or maybe, there was a part of him that was drawn to taking care of you, that found a quiet satisfaction in these everyday rituals. Whatever it was, it stirred something deep within you, a warmth that settled in your chest and mingled with the slow burn of the whiskey as it slid down your throat.

You took a sip, feeling the heat spread, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine that these small acts weren’t just habit or instinct, but intention. A part of you wondered if Joel even realized the effect they had on you, the way each quiet gesture seemed to weave its way around your heart, making it harder to pretend you weren’t starting to hope for more.

There was a quiet care in the way he’d set the table, the way he lingered near you as if wanting to be close. But before you could let yourself get too wrapped up in those thoughts, you pulled back, unwilling to read too much into it or risk exposing the vulnerability stirring inside you.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a casual tone, pushing the thought aside. “What did you do before all this?” You gestured loosely, the motion sweeping over the candlelit table, the room, and the world beyond the walls—everything that had changed since life turned upside down.

“You wanna guess?” he asked, one eyebrow quirking up, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

This, you realized, was new—this playful side of Joel that had only recently started to emerge. There was a time when his words had always carried an edge, the gruffness of a man who’d built walls too high to let in anything lighthearted.

But lately, there’d been a shift: the way he’d catch your eye and hold your gaze a moment longer, or the rare, dry humor that slipped into his voice when he’d say something like, “Careful now, don’t get too attached,” when an animal at the sanctuary came up to you, or the times he’d grumble, “Don’t think you’re gonna get me to eat that,” whenever you’d suggest adding something new to dinner.

Now, there was a teasing challenge in his tone, the kind that made your pulse quicken just a little. The glint in his eyes told you he was enjoying this—seeing you caught off guard, watching you try to read between the lines of his sudden shift in mood. It was a side of him you were still getting used to, and yet, you found yourself wanting to see more of it, to discover what else was hidden beneath that familiar gruff exterior.

Now, sitting in front of you, Joel had you momentarily forgetting what you were even talking about. He looked so damn handsome like this—leaning back in his chair with a relaxed, easy confidence, the dim light tracing the strong angles of his face. The damp strands of hair that fell just right, still tousled from the shower. His shirt fit snugly across his broad shoulders, and there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that made it hard to look away. For a moment, you just stared, your thoughts scattering as you struggled to remember how to find your voice.

You tilted your head, pretending to study him with a thoughtful expression as your gaze traced the strong line of his shoulders and the way his hands rested casually on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. “Let me guess… a mechanic? Or maybe a ranch hand?” you ventured, your tone playful, though there was a genuine curiosity behind it.

Joel chuckled, the sound a low rumble that resonated in his chest. “Close, but not quite,” he replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, as if he was enjoying making you work for the answer.

You tapped your chin, narrowing your eyes in mock contemplation. “Alright, how about a carpenter? You seem like the kind of guy who’s good with his hands.”

The instant the words left your mouth, you saw Joel’s expression shift—a flicker of surprise in his eyes, his gaze widening just enough to notice. A hint of color crept into his cheeks, softening the rugged lines of his face, and your own cheeks flushed as you registered the unintended double meaning behind what you’d said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—” you stammered, the words stumbling out as a wave of embarrassment washed over you. But before you could fully sink into the awkwardness, Joel rescued you with a quick, smooth response, clearing his throat.

“I was in construction,” he said, his voice calm and steady, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Built houses, fixed up what needed fixin’… pretty much anything folks needed done.” His tone was casual, as if effortlessly redirecting the moment, but there was an amused glint in his eye that told you he hadn’t missed the implication.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze still on you, and you could sense a quiet satisfaction in the way he’d defused the situation. “Guess you weren’t too far off,” he added, a touch of playfulness in his voice. “Though I don’t know if I’d make much of a carpenter.”

You let out a quiet sigh of relief, grateful that Joel had saved you from your own slip-up. But there was no mistaking the teasing warmth in his gaze, a glint that lingered a little too long, as if savoring the moment. It made your pulse quicken, and for an instant, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you—like a thread had been pulled, tightening the space that had always existed, unspoken, between you both.

His voice softened, dropping just enough to carry a hint of something deeper, and there was a new intensity in the way he looked at you. “How about you?” he asked, the question slipping out gently, as though it had been waiting on his tongue for a while. “What did you used to do?”

It wasn’t the first time Joel had wondered about your life before all this, but his own battles—his tendency to keep people at arm’s length—had always gotten in the way. Now, though, he seemed different, like he was reaching across a distance he’d kept for too long, wanting to know more about you than the small glimpses he’d picked up over time. There was a quiet longing in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the moments he’d missed, and the way he asked seemed like more than casual curiosity; it was as though he was finally giving himself permission to see beyond what was right in front of him.

You glanced down at your glass, swirling the amber liquid as if it might offer some kind of answer. The motion was a distraction, an attempt to gather your thoughts as your heart continued to beat a little faster. When you looked back up, the warmth of his gaze hadn’t faded, and you could still feel the subtle change in the air, as though a boundary had been quietly crossed, leaving you standing on unfamiliar ground.

“I was in college,” you said, a note of wistfulness creeping into your voice. “Studying to be a teacher, actually. I always liked the idea of helping people learn—seeing that spark in their eyes when something finally clicked. It felt like you were making a real difference.”

Joel tilted his head, his gaze softening as he listened, a kind of quiet admiration in his eyes. “You’d have made a good teacher,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “Still could, you know. Just 'cause the world went to hell doesn’t mean people stopped needin’ to learn things.”

There was a sincerity in the way he said it, a weight to his words that made you feel like he truly believed it, like he could still see that part of you that had once existed before everything changed. The thought stirred something deep inside you—hope, maybe, or just the quiet comfort of being seen for who you used to be, and who you still could be.

You smiled, though a touch of sadness lingered. “Yeah, maybe,” you murmured, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “I was always drawn to science—especially astronomy. I loved the stars, used to spend hours studying them… even had a little telescope back home.”

At the mention of astronomy, Joel’s gaze softened, and he found himself picturing you as that college student, eyes turned toward the sky, your face lit up by the glow of distant stars. He could almost see you standing on a hill, telescope in hand, mapping constellations with a quiet passion that spoke of longing and wonder. It wasn’t just the subject—it was the way you spoke of it, as though the stars were old friends you hadn’t visited in a long time.

The thought stirred something in him. He felt an unexpected tenderness then, a quiet urge to protect that part of you, the part that hadn’t been hardened by everything you’d been through. The stars were still there, after all, steady and unchanging, even if the world had fallen apart. And in that moment, Joel made a mental note, a silent promise to himself to find a way to bring that light back into your life.

You stifled a yawn, the whiskey and warm meal settling over you like a heavy blanket, tugging you closer to sleep with each passing moment. Joel noticed, his gaze lingering on the way your eyelids drooped, how you blinked slowly, as if fighting a losing battle to stay awake.

“Wanna head to bed?” he asked softly, his voice laced with a gentleness that seemed to wrap around you, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he spoke.

Our bed, you thought, the words slipping into your mind so effortlessly it took your breath away. The thought carried a quiet yearning, an ache you hadn’t been prepared to feel. It startled you how natural, how familiar it seemed—like you’d already crossed that line in your heart without even realizing it, as though you’d begun to think of him as more than just the man who shared your space, but the one who shared your nights.

“No, no,” you replied quickly, shaking your head. “This is nice. I’m fine.” But even as you said it, your eyes betrayed you, heavy with sleep and growing harder to keep open. The comfort of the evening wrapped around you like a lullaby, the warmth and quiet pulling you closer to rest with each passing second.

Joel’s expression softened, his gaze tracing your features with quiet understanding. “Come on,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Ain’t no harm in givin’ in when you’re tired. I’ll be here when you wake up.” There was a reassurance in his tone, a promise that seemed to settle in the air, unspoken yet certain.

Then he did something different—he offered you his hand, extending it toward you with a gentleness that caught you off guard. It wasn’t like the usual subtle press of his hand against your back or the steady grip on your shoulder to keep you balanced. This was more deliberate, a choice to bridge the distance between you, his palm open and waiting.

You hesitated for only a moment before slipping your hand into his, the warmth of his touch spreading through you like a quiet spark. His hand flexed gently against yours, as if testing the feel of your palm in his, but he didn’t release—his grip only tightened slightly, a steady reassurance that he wasn’t letting go. As you rose from the chair, the room swayed ever so slightly, but Joel’s hold remained firm, grounding you as he guided you toward the stairs.

He stayed close beside you, his hand still wrapped around yours as you climbed, the slow press of his fingers flexing again, as though he could anchor you to him through that simple contact. Each step felt easier with him there, his presence a solid comfort at your side, matching your pace and silently offering his strength. The quiet rhythm of your footsteps seemed to draw you closer, a shared beat that made the space between you feel almost nonexistent.

Even when you reached the top, he didn’t let go. His hand remained entwined with yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he led you to the bed. It wasn’t until you sank down onto the mattress that his grip finally loosened, releasing you with a gentle reluctance that lingered in the air.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “I’ll be right here.”

•••

The next morning, after helping you down the stairs, Joel took you over to Maria and Tommy’s. “It’s just for a few hours,” he insisted, “while I’m out on patrol.” His tone was casual, but the way he lingered at the door, his hand resting on the small of your back, betrayed a quiet reluctance.

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?” he said, his voice steady but gentler than usual, as if he was reassuring himself as much as you. His gaze lingered, the words hanging between you like a promise he was determined to keep. “Maybe I’ll bring somethin' good for dinner.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the flicker of unease that stirred in your chest. It was irrational, you told yourself—you’d both been on countless patrols before; the risks were familiar, accepted long ago. But as you watched him turn to leave, his silhouette framed in the soft morning light, a sudden wave of vulnerability washed over you. There was something different about today, an unspoken weight in the air that made the world feel a little less certain, a little more fragile.

“Hey, Joel,” you called out, your voice catching slightly as he was about to leave. He stopped and turned back, the morning light catching in his eyes, casting a warm glow over his features. You swallowed, the tightness in your throat making it hard to get the words out. “Stay safe,” you said, the phrase simple and familiar, yet heavy with all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

Something flickered in his expression—a brief, unguarded vulnerability that softened the edges of his usual stoicism. For a heartbeat, his gaze seemed to hold a quiet wonder, like your words had reached deeper than they should have. It wasn’t just the sentiment; it was the way you said it—stay safe—like it carried a weight, a longing that ran deeper than either of you had ever dared to acknowledge.

“I will,” he replied, his voice roughened to a low murmur, as if the promise took effort to speak aloud. His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer than they needed to, like he was trying to memorize every detail—the concern in your voice, the way you looked at him right then, as if you were reaching out without quite knowing how.

Then, with a small nod, he turned and walked away.

•••

You sat on Tommy and Maria’s couch, gripping the warm cup of tea in your hands as though it could anchor you amidst the expectant silence. Their gazes rested on you—gentle, but far too curious to ignore.

They were waiting for you to share something about Joel, to explain how things had really been while you were recovering. When you stayed quiet, keeping your eyes fixed on the steam rising from the tea, they exchanged a knowing look.

“So,” Maria finally said, her voice light but laced with curiosity. “How are things going with Joel?”

You blinked, your fingers tightening around the cup as you fumbled for an answer. “Uh, yeah… he’s been… helpful,” you replied, the words stumbling out slowly. “You know, just helping me with stuff. Up and down the stairs.”

“Mhm,” Maria murmured, the sound heavy with interest. She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms like she was settling in for a story you weren’t prepared to share.

“And he’s not a bad cook, either,” you added, the words slipping out before you could think better of it. It had become such a routine that you hadn’t even considered how it might sound to someone else.

“Cook?” Tommy repeated, his eyebrows lifting with curiosity. “He’s been cooking for you?”

You hesitated, the weight of their attention suddenly pressing down on you. “Yeah, like… breakfast and dinner,” you said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Breakfast and dinner?” Tommy echoed, a note of incredulity creeping into his tone. “Jesus, what time does he come over to be doin’ all that?”

You bit your lip, a nervous flutter building in your chest. You hadn’t thought twice about Joel being there at all hours; the days and nights had blurred together as he took care of you. But now, under their curious stares, it seemed like a bigger deal than you’d realized. “Well… he… stays,” you admitted, the words escaping before you could stop them.

A beat of silence followed before both Tommy and Maria spoke at once, their voices overlapping in surprise. “What? He stays?”

Your cheeks warmed, and you felt your pulse quicken. “I thought he would’ve mentioned it,” you said quickly, trying to sound casual. “It’s just easier this way, you know, with my leg and all.”

Tommy’s gaze narrowed, his curiosity turning more pointed. “Where does he sleep?” he asked, his tone casual but carrying a note of suspicion.

“On the couch,” you blurted out a little too quickly. The lie tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, and the memory of Joel’s warmth beside you—the way you’d wake up tangled in each other’s arms before pulling apart—flashed vividly in your mind. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you struggled to keep your expression composed.

Maria’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “The couch, huh?” she repeated, her tone dripping with playful doubt.

“Yes,” you stammered, trying to sound convincing. “It’s… practical,” you added, though the word sounded hollow even to you. “For… you know, if I need anything during the night.”

Maria’s smile deepened, as if she could see right through your flimsy excuse. “Right. Practical,” she said, drawing out the word with a teasing lilt.

Tommy’s gaze flicked from you to Maria, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “So, Joel's stayin’ over, cookin’ you breakfast and dinner, and it’s just… practical?” he asked, his tone tinged with disbelief.

Before you could stumble over an answer, Maria stepped in, though her amusement was unmistakable. “Alright, let’s give her a break,” she said, raising a hand to halt the questioning. “Let the poor girl relax. You can grill Joel about it later.”

You exhaled a silent breath of relief, but you could still feel their eyes on you, a knowing curiosity that didn’t seem entirely convinced by your explanation.

The conversation drifted to safer topics, but you couldn’t ignore the way Maria’s gaze lingered on you, a knowing gleam in her eyes. It was as if she had already drawn her own conclusions, and there was a hint of satisfaction in her expression, like she was far too pleased by whatever she’d pieced together. When Tommy stepped out to run some errands, leaving the house quiet and still, Maria moved to sit beside you, her tone turning softer, more personal.

“Listen,” she began, her voice low and careful, “there’s something I think you should know… about Joel.”

You blinked, taken aback by the seriousness in her eyes. “What is it?” you asked, your pulse quickening, an uneasy feeling settling in your chest.

Maria hesitated, as if considering her words. “Tommy told me about what happened,” she said. “The night you got hurt… those raiders. Joel almost didn’t make it.” She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. “He went after you—took on those men without a second thought. He saved you, even though it nearly cost him his life.”

You stared at her, the world seeming to shift beneath you. “He… saved me?” you echoed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Joel…?” The name felt unfamiliar in your mouth, like you were speaking about someone else entirely.

Your thoughts spun as you remembered the blood soaking through his pant leg, the stiff way he moved afterward, insisting it was just a graze. You hadn’t questioned it then, had let yourself believe his lie because you’d wanted to. But now, the image of him fighting his way through those raiders, injured and relentless, lodged itself in your mind, and you struggled to reconcile the Joel you knew with the man who would do something so reckless just to get to you.

Maria nodded, her gaze steady. “Tommy said he’s never seen Joel like that before. Said it was like he’d lost all sense of himself, like nothing else mattered except getting to you.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I think he cares about you more than you realize. More than he probably wants to admit.”

You felt the breath catch in your throat, your thoughts a chaotic swirl of disbelief and something you couldn’t quite name. The idea of Joel risking everything for you, of him fighting with such desperation, was so at odds with the man who kept his distance, who grumbled and kept his emotions guarded. It felt like someone had pulled the ground out from under you, leaving you unsteady.

“But… he never said anything,” you murmured, shaking your head as if you could make sense of it. “Why wouldn’t he—”

“Because it’s Joel,” Maria interrupted gently, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “He’s stubborn and closed off, and you know as well as I do he doesn’t let people in easily. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things… deeply.” She sighed, her gaze softening. “You didn’t see the way he looked when he brought you back. He was… terrified. I told you how he stayed by you. It was like losing you was something he couldn’t even begin to bear.”

You swallowed hard, a mix of emotions washing over you. The thought of Joel being that afraid for you, of him caring that much, was almost too much to process. The man who had taken care of you, who quietly lingered in your space and made sure you were never alone, wasn’t just doing it out of duty or habit—there was something deeper there, something you only dared to consider in the quiet moments of the night.

Maria reached over and squeezed your hand. “I’m not trying to make you feel a certain way,” she said softly, “but I thought you should know. Joel’s not perfect, and God knows he’s got his walls up, but… the way he fought for you, it wasn’t just because you needed help. It was because it was you.”

The words settled heavily in your chest, stirring something deep and unfamiliar. You hadn’t known Joel had been the one to save you, or that he might feel something for you beyond the unspoken bond you’d shared. The realization felt like a door opening, revealing a side of him you had only recently seen, a side that made your heart race with the possibilities you hadn’t let yourself imagine.

You took a shaky breath, Maria’s words tumbling around in your mind, stirring up emotions you weren’t prepared to face. “He’s been so sweet, Maria,” you said quietly, your voice trembling just enough to betray the uncertainty that lingered beneath the surface. “But… all those things he’s said to me before, the way he used to be—how am I supposed to get past that? It’s like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to say something… to remind me why I kept my guard up in the first place.”

You looked down at your hands, the weight of your own doubt pressing heavily on your chest. “There’s this part of me that keeps expecting him to push me away again, or to say something that’ll make me feel like I was wrong to think there could be more between us. Like all of this… the way he’s been lately… it’s just temporary, just because he feels responsible.”

The words left a bitter taste in your mouth as they hung in the air, and you felt the familiar ache of doubt clawing at you. “I don’t know how to trust that this is real,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “Not when I’m always bracing myself for him to remind me why I was afraid to let him in.”

Maria’s expression softened, and she gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “I understand,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “But maybe, just maybe, he’s changed more than you think. People can surprise you, and sometimes the hardest thing is letting yourself believe that someone can be different… especially when it comes to someone like Joel.”

Maria leaned closer, her eyes meeting yours with quiet resolve. “But I’ll tell you this,” she continued, “the way he looks at you now… it’s not just out of obligation. You’ve got him caring about you in a way that scares him. That’s why he’s trying so hard, even if he’s still got a funny way of showing it sometimes. Hell, you saw how surprised Tommy was—Joel cooks for you, he stays over. If he didn’t care, do you really think he’d be doing any of that?”

Her words hit you like a jolt, forcing you to confront the significance of all those quiet gestures, the way Joel had woven himself into your routine. It wasn’t just about helping you recover; it was about being there for you, in a way that went beyond what anyone could expect.

The realization settled over you, mingling with the uncertainty and the hope, leaving you grappling with the possibility that Joel might care for you more deeply than you’d dared to believe.

•••

That night, you waited for Joel, your heart beating in time with the clock’s relentless ticking. He was later than usual, and with each passing moment, the knot of anxiety in your stomach tightened. The minutes stretched on, and your thoughts grew darker, conjuring images of him caught in a deadly struggle, his breath ragged and desperate.

You imagined him ambushed by raiders, shadows closing in as he fought for his life, or the guttural snarl of an infected lunging at him, teeth bared. Worst of all was the thought of him lying somewhere in the dark, hurt and alone, out of reach. The fears clawed at your mind, relentless and unyielding, refusing to be dismissed no matter how you tried to distract yourself.

You had nearly made up your mind to limp your way over to Tommy’s when you heard the familiar sound of the front door creaking open. Relief washed over you so intensely that you couldn’t stop the breathless word from escaping your lips.

“Joel?” you said, almost too quickly.

He stepped inside, a tired but genuine smile tugging at his mouth, unaware of the quiet agony his delay had caused. “Hey,” he said, his voice warm and familiar.

“You’re late,” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended, betraying the worry that had pooled in your chest.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, and there was a softness in his gaze as he looked at you, as though he could sense the tension still winding through you. “I was lookin’ for something… got a surprise for you.”

You blinked, your anxiety giving way to curiosity. “A surprise?”

His smile widened, a spark of mischief glinting in his eyes as he stepped closer. “Come on,” he said, extending his hand toward you. “But you gotta wear this.”

He held up a strip of cloth—a makeshift blindfold that looked suspiciously like a piece of an old bandana.

You shot him a wary glance, the corner of your mouth twitching upward despite yourself. “Joel…” you warned, the hint of a laugh in your voice.

“Trust me,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur that softened the edges of your doubts, unraveling the last threads of your resistance.

And you did—you trusted him almost more than anyone else in this broken world. How could you not, after all the times he’d pulled you back from the edge, his steady hand reaching for you when everything else seemed to be falling apart? He had saved your life more than once, his presence a lifeline in those moments when the darkness threatened to swallow you whole.

You trusted him with every part of yourself, even the pieces that still trembled with uncertainty, the parts you hadn’t dared share with anyone else. It scared the hell out of you, how deeply that trust had taken root, how much comfort you found in the quiet moments when his presence filled the room.

You weren’t sure when it had happened, when the shift from guarded caution to unwavering trust had taken place, but it was there now, woven into every glance, every touch, every word that passed between you.

And it was terrifying—how much you needed him, how much his very existence seemed to anchor yours. Yet, in that terror, there was also a kind of peace, a quiet certainty that in a world as uncertain as this one, trusting him was the only thing that felt undeniably right.

“Okay,” you whispered, your breath catching as he slipped the cloth over your eyes. His fingers moved with careful precision, securing the blindfold without catching a single strand of your hair, his touch impossibly gentle for hands that carried the roughness of a lifetime’s worth of hard work. The calluses brushed lightly against your skin, yet his warmth seeped into you, surrounding you like a quiet embrace. You could feel his breath, soft and steady, stirring the air near your cheek as he leaned in to tie the knot.

There was a quiet intimacy in the moment, a tender pulse that seemed to fill the space between you. Your senses sharpened in the darkness, every sound, every scent drawing you deeper into the unspoken tension. It wasn’t fear that quickened your pulse—it was the awareness of him: the nearness of his hands, the heat radiating from his skin, the quiet promise held in the firmness of his touch.

With your sight taken, the darkness came alive with vivid detail. You felt the warmth of his breath, steady and close, and the roughness of his palm resting gently on the small of your back, guiding you with a touch that was both grounding and electric. His scent enveloped you—a mix of pine, leather, and sweat, earthy and unmistakably him.

The world beyond seemed to fade, leaving only the rhythm of his breath, the subtle rustle of his movements, and the lingering warmth that bridged the space between you.

“You know,” you said, your voice light but trembling ever so slightly, “it’s probably not the best idea to put a blindfold on someone who can barely walk.”

His laughter broke the quiet, rich and deep, the kind of sound that seemed to echo through the night and settle somewhere in your chest. It wasn’t a laugh you heard often—only when he was with Tommy, or when the whiskey had worn down his edges, letting the softness slip through.

“Lucky thing you got me then, isn’t it?” he replied, his tone playful and warm, threaded with a quiet sincerity that made something inside you tighten.

You swallowed, trying to brush off the weight of his words, to ignore the way you got me seemed to echo in your mind, stirring up feelings you weren’t sure you were ready to name. But there was a kind of surety in his voice, an unspoken promise beneath the teasing, as though he meant it more than he was letting on. It was enough to kindle something fragile and hopeful within you, something you hadn’t dared let yourself feel in far too long.

“Where are you taking me?” you whispered, letting him guide you forward, each step steady under the reassuring pressure of his hand.

“Patience,” he murmured, his voice close to your ear. His hand remained on your back, a steady anchor as the cool night air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of earth and damp leaves. You could hear the rustle of trees, the faint whistle of wind through the branches, and somewhere in the distance, the soft babble of a creek.

After what felt like an eternity, he stopped. “Okay,” he said, his voice low and rough as though he were on the verge of something he didn’t quite know how to give. “You can take it off now.”

Your hands fumbled with the knot, the fabric slipping free as your eyes adjusted to the soft glow that filled the clearing.

A single lantern hung from a nearby tree, casting pools of warm, golden light across the grass. The glow illuminated a blanket laid out with care, a simple picnic set up atop it—some modest dishes, a loaf of bread, and a jar of honey he had mentioned picking up on his way home. Beyond the small scene, the sky unfurled like a dark, endless canvas, each star a pinprick of light, shimmering against the velvet blackness above. The lantern's glow danced on the edges of the night, merging with the starlight to create an atmosphere that felt both intimate and infinite.

“I figured…” he began, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was nervous. You couldn’t help the flutter in your chest, cursing yourself for finding it so endearing. It was one of his tells, a small habit you’d come to recognize over the last few weeks spent in each other’s company. You’d picked up on other things, too—the way his gaze would flicker away whenever he was hiding a smile, the slight shift in his voice when he was trying to mask concern, or the way he would reach for the back of a chair, his fingers curling around the wood, when he wanted to touch you but held himself back.

“I remember you said you liked learnin about astronomy,” he said, his voice roughened by a tenderness he couldn’t quite disguise.

Your chest tightened as you glanced up at him—he remembered.

The lantern’s glow cast a soft light across his features, illuminating the fine lines etched at the corners of his eyes, the deep shadows beneath his cheekbones. It felt unreal, almost dreamlike.

Could this be the same Joel who had once left you crying, who had shut you out with a coldness that still lingered in the back of your mind? Yet here he was, the same man, but now so different—showing you a quiet tenderness that reached places inside you you’d long since closed off.

When you didn’t speak right away, Joel felt a flicker of doubt creep in. His chest tightened as the silence stretched on, and he began to wonder if he’d overstepped, if he’d done too much. Had he read this wrong? The thought gnawed at him, a sudden worry that maybe the gesture wasn’t what you wanted, that perhaps he’d laid his heart bare in a way you weren’t ready to accept.

Before his doubts could take hold, you breathed out, “This is beautiful, Joel.” The words were quiet but laden with meaning, carrying more gratitude than you could fully express. “Thank you,” you added, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.

You weren’t sure what else to say, how to give voice to the tangle of emotions pressing against your chest—the ache of something hopeful trying to take root, of a longing that had crept up on you so slowly you hadn’t noticed it until now. It wasn’t just the effort he’d made; it was the vulnerability behind it, the quiet way he was reaching out to you without saying a word.

You sank onto the blanket beside him, the coolness of the grass pressing through the fabric and grounding you in the present. Above you, the sky stretched endlessly, a dark canvas dusted with countless stars, shimmering like scattered diamonds. The constellations sparkled with a quiet brilliance, some clustered together, others spread apart, each one a silent witness to the world below.

It was breathtaking, a kind of beauty that made you forget, if only for a moment, the harshness of the life you’d grown accustomed to—the weight of all you’d lost and the scars left behind. For just that instant, the world seemed softer, the edges blurred, as though this little slice of peace could shield you from the darkness that had become all too familiar.

There was a hush between you, a kind of sacred silence that didn’t need to be filled. It wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, allowing you to breathe deeper, to sink into the stillness. It was enough just to be here, to feel the steady warmth of him beside you, to listen to the soft rustle of the night.

He leaned in closer, and you hadn’t even realized how near he was until your shoulders touched, his warmth brushing against you. Your pulse quickened at the proximity, a nervous flutter stirring in your chest. “Hey, do you see that star?” he asked, his voice low, a hint of wonder threading through the words.

“Which one?” you murmured, your eyes sweeping over the endless sprawl of night sky, shimmering like a sea of diamonds.

Joel’s hand came up to gently guide your gaze, his fingers grazing your chin as he directed your attention to a bright, solitary point above. You followed his gesture, your breath catching at the sight. The star shone brilliantly, outshining the others with a silvery light that seemed almost alive, as if it held a radiance all its own—a beacon glowing against the dark canvas of the sky.

For a moment, you were so captivated by its beauty that you didn’t notice Joel reaching behind his back. It wasn’t until he produced a small piece of paper and handed it to you that you glanced down, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “What’s this?” you asked, unfolding the note.

Your breath hitched as you read the handwritten words—your name, etched in careful letters, alongside a simple inscription: As of this date, this star has officially been named after you. The declaration was informal, the kind of makeshift elegance that only Jackson’s post-apocalyptic world could provide, yet it carried a gravity that made your heart skip a beat.

“You… named a star after me?” you breathed, the disbelief and awe intertwining in your voice. You looked up at him, a mix of astonishment and something deeper flooding through you, making your chest tighten.

He shrugged, trying for an easy nonchalance that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You said you liked stars,” he replied, his tone light, as if naming a star after you was no grand gesture. But the sincerity in his voice, the way his gaze lingered on yours just a beat too long, hinted at something deeper.

Joel watched you as you gazed up at the sky, a faint smile tugging at his lips while the starlight shimmered in your eyes. A deep ache filled his chest, a yearning so strong it nearly took his breath away. All he wanted was to lean in and close the distance between you, to press his lips to yours. But he couldn’t—not without addressing the things that had gone unsaid for far too long. Not without apologizing for the times he’d pushed you away, for the harsh words and the coldness that lingered like a shadow between you.

His nerves betrayed him; you could see it in the restless fidgeting of his fingers, twisting together and then releasing, as if a silent struggle was unfolding in his hands. He kept glancing at you, as if searching for the courage to finally speak the truth and let the walls he had built crumble.

He had rehearsed this moment countless times—in the quiet of the shower, as the steam rose around him; in the early mornings when he made you breakfast, his hands steady but his mind racing; and in the stillness of the night, when you lay asleep beside him, and he’d listen to the gentle rhythm of your breath, wondering if you could ever forgive him.

Now that the moment had arrived, the words tangled in his throat, bound up with everything he had kept locked away. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, knowing he couldn’t keep holding back forever.

“Joel,” you whispered, breaking the silence, your voice gentle, “are you okay?”

Joel’s expression shifted, a brief flash of vulnerability crossing his face before he masked it with a small, weary smile. For a moment, you thought he might brush the question off, deflect like he always did, but tonight felt different—fragile, almost sacred, as if the starlit sky had stripped away the barriers you both had kept so carefully guarded.

He sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. His gaze fell to his hands, fingers fidgeting as though searching for the right words hidden in the calloused lines of his palms. The silence stretched between you, taut and trembling, as if the next words might snap the tension or bind you closer together.

“I never meant to be an asshole to you,” he murmured, his voice rough with remorse. “I just… I didn’t know how to handle it.”

Your heart stopped. Was this it? The explanation you’d been waiting for, the truth behind the way he’d treated you? “Handle what, Joel?” you asked gently, your pulse quickening as you sensed the gravity of what he was about to reveal.

He hesitated, the shadows shifting across his face in the dim light. “I’ve said things I didn’t mean,” he began, his voice barely audible, thick with regret. “Awful things… cruel things. Things I wish I could take back.” His expression tightened, the pain etched deep in his features. “Things that cut deeper than I realized.”

“Then why say them if you didn’t mean them?” you asked, your voice steady though your mind was reeling. You needed to understand what lay beneath his harshness, the turmoil behind those walls.

He drew a sharp breath, struggling to force the words out. “I… I’ve lost people,” he said, the raw vulnerability in his voice tugging at something deep within you. “Too many people. And it’s a shitty excuse, but I thought…” He sighed, a deep, ragged exhale that seemed to pull the confession from his chest. “I thought if I kept my distance, if I pushed you away… I could spare us both the pain of losing someone again.” His eyes met yours, filled with a grief that spanned years, a haunting reflection of the past. “I thought it would hurt less.”

“Joel,” you whispered, his admission hitting you like a cold rush of air, the weight of his heart laid bare before you.

“It’s stupid,” he continued, his voice rough with self-reproach, “immature, and I know it. That night at the dining hall—"

I could never be with someone like that

His voice cracked, a tremor of anguish crossing his face. “It haunts me. I didn’t mean a word of it.” He looked away, his jaw tightening as he fought against the emotion rising in his throat. “I was scared. Scared of the way you make me feel… scared to lose someone else I—”

He faltered, the unspoken word lingering in the air between you, as if it would cost him too much to say aloud. But you didn’t push him; you didn’t need him to finish the thought. It was already written in every action, in every quiet moment, in the way he had been there for you—unwavering and steady, even when his words had hurt.

He took a shuddering breath, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he said, the pain in his eyes undeniable. “And I’d understand if you never did. I just… I needed you to know the truth.”

Without thinking, you reached out, your hand slipping into his. The touch seemed to steady him, as if grounding both of you in this fragile moment. “

You’re not going to lose me Joel,” you said softly, your gaze holding his with quiet resolve.

“I promise.”

His eyes widened, your words settling over him like a balm, softening the raw vulnerability etched into his expression. He held your hand a little tighter, as though afraid to let go, his fingers trembling just slightly against yours. In that moment, neither of you spoke, but a quiet understanding passed between you. Whatever this was—whatever fragile thing had taken root between you—it wouldn’t be easy. There were walls to dismantle, wounds that still ached, and a long, uncertain path ahead. Yet, beneath it all, there was something unbreakable, a shared promise that neither of you would face it alone.

You met his gaze, and in the silence, it was as if you’d made a vow without words—a vow that no matter what lay ahead, you were in it together. It wasn’t the end of the struggles or the undoing of years of hurt, but it was a beginning, a single thread of hope that you both clung to, knowing that some things were worth fighting for, no matter how many scars they left behind.

•••

The next morning, you awoke with a smile soft on your lips, your heart warmed by a quiet joy you hadn’t felt in years. Memories of last night flickered through your mind—laughter, whispered secrets, and the gentle way Joel had looked at you beneath the stars. It felt like a new beginning, a fragile hope blossoming amidst the remnants of a world that had taken so much from you.

You turned, half-expecting to find Joel beside you, but the bed was empty, the sheets cool beneath your hand. A slight frown tugged at your brows, a sense of loss stirring at the edges of your thoughts. Maybe he was downstairs, busying himself with breakfast, filling the house with the warm scent of coffee and something simple but comforting.

As you sat up, feeling a newfound strength in your limbs, the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the stairs caught your attention. A flicker of excitement rose in your chest, imagining Joel coming back to share another quiet morning with you.

“Joel?” you called out, your voice bright with anticipation. But the moment the figure stepped into the doorway, your heart stilled.

It wasn’t Joel. It was Tommy, his face flushed and lined with something far darker than fatigue. The sight of him twisted your stomach, a chill settling over you as the unspoken loomed between you.

“Tommy?” you managed, voice tight with unease. “What… what happened?”

He took a breath, and his eyes, shadowed with worry, met yours. “It’s Joel,” he said, his voice taut and strained, each word laced with urgency. The blood drained from your face, and the room seemed to tilt.

“He’s gone.”

•••

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ohburgee · 2 months ago

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𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

Soft!Mafioso x Gn!Reader

tw: blood, violence, murder an: Another Mafioso fanfic, now I'm going to make him softy Mafioso, the reader doesn't care about anything about Mafioso's work or killing just, all matter is wanting him. summary: you are Mafioso's comfort, his smooth plushie to hug when he is stressed about the people who have debts from him, for not paying as he played a little round of his hunting game when he needs something to help him out of his stress and he got you to do that and you are there available to help him.

Mafioso was known to be ruthless, cruel, and brutal when it came to killing. He was feared by most especially those who owed him debts, and the players in his game. His name alone was enough to send shivers down spines, and his presence in the shadows felt like an inevitable death sentence.

But there was a side of him no one else saw. A side he carefully guarded, only ever showing it to the one person he cherished most. You.

Tonight had been particularly exhausting. He had been on a relentless hunt, chasing down a debtor who made the mistake of running. The chase dragged on for hours, the person weaving through alleys and walls, taunting him with their refusal to be caught. It tested his patience something he had little of until he finally cornered them.

He ripped the person's legs and made them unable to walk, and Mafioso made sure they would never run again. The sound of his sword cutting through flesh echoed in the empty lot. Blood splattered across his face, staining his black suit, but he barely flinched. The brief satisfaction of victory quickly faded, replaced by an irritable exhaustion that lingered in his chest.

After instructing his collectors to clean the scene, he checked the CCTV feed linked to his phone. His cold, sharp gaze softened the moment he saw you on the screen curled up in bed, hugging a bunny plushie close to your chest, your chest rising and falling with gentle, steady breaths.

Relief washed over him.

He needed you.

Without hesitation, he drove home, each passing second intensifying his longing. When he finally arrived, he wasted no time, heading straight to your room. The sight of you sleeping so peacefully made his heart soothe, a stark contrast to the carnage he left behind.

Carefully, he slipped into bed beside you, snaking his arm around your waist and pulling you close. His eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his face into the warmth of your body, inhaling your scent like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, peace.

The subtle shift of movement stirred you awake, you turned your head a bit and saw him, Mafioso. You blinked, your tired eyes meeting his.

"Hey... you're home," you sfotly whispered, voice laced with sleep.

He opened his eyes, the harshness that usually lived within them nowhere to be found. "Yes, I'm home," he breathed, his voice low and rough.

You instinctively turned to face him, cupping his face in your hands. That’s when you noticed the faint streak of blood on his cheek. Without a word, you gently wiped it away, your thumb gliding over his skin like he was something fragile.

"Want me to do something? To help you relax?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

To your surprise, he nodded.

You sat up, guiding him to lay his head on your lap. He melted into the touch as you ran your fingers through his jet-black hair, brushing it back in soft, languid strokes. The tension in his body slowly unraveled, and he clung to you like a lifeline, arms wrapping around your waist.

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the way he sighed into your embrace.

"My little plushie to hug," he mumbled, voice muffled against you. "So soft... so tender. I wish I could stay like this forever."

Your heart swelled. "You always have me," you reassured him. "I'm not going anywhere."

He lifted his head, his face now inches from yours. The vulnerability in his eyes made your chest tighten. Without thinking, you leaned in, and he met you halfway, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. He kissed you like you were something sacred as if you were the only pure thing left in his world.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his fingers gently tracing your jawline.

"I'm only like this with you," he whispered, voice barely audible. "Only you."

And with that, he laid back down, holding onto you as if you might disappear, finally allowing himself to drift into sleep safe, comforted, and at peace in your arms.

While you there caressing, brushing your fingers to his hair you can't believe you had this ruthless, cruel killer leader in your arms you can't believe how you had this man in your hands.

I guess having a dangerous man in my hand made me feel safe and terrified at the same, your mind spoke and you chuckled and kissed his head once again.

n: just woke and decide to post this early in the morning with my 'primarch husband's' I just posted yesterday :'] Credits to fanart.

#mafioso x reader #mafioso #forsaken mafioso #mafioso forsaken #soft mafioso #forsaken x reader #forsaken #forsaken roblox

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0bticeo · 8 months ago

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aemond targaryen | you owe a debt

summary:

you grit your teeth.

you’re a long way from dragonstone. with you plummeting towards the ground, leaving aemond above, you’ve bought yourself a few precious seconds ー not enough. far from enough. your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you, a storm is raging and aemond is catching up.

you still.

he’s there.

wc. 1.6k

tw. unreseolved sexual tension, niece!reader (targcest), mild description of blood and gore, hubris, fix-it fic set in season one epsiode ten.

the rain is cold on your face, like tiny pinpricks of ice piercing your skin. raging wind blowing through your ears, you hear your dragon roar above the thunder. the force of it spreads through your bones. eyes half closed against the storm, fists clenched on the handles of your saddle, you curse.

sending your younger brother alone, what was your mother thinking?

he wants revenge. an eye for an eyeーa fair price. he could’ve asked for lucerys’ life. ( he must’ve been itching to do it, to draw his sword, sharp blade slicing your brother’s throat. to watch the blood pour out, spilling on the round hall’s floors.)

you see it, then. the dark mass before you, coming in closer and closer with each beat of your dragon’s wings. vaghar, largest, oldest dragon in the world. a massive, battle-hardened beast, with wrath etched in every inch of her being, begging to be unleashed, held tight behind her master’s iron will. (you think you hear him begging her to stop. )

high valyrian rolls off your tongue, scraping against your throat in a bark.

faster.

visegar obliges, wings spread out against the storm. your breath hitches with how fast you’re going, strands of hair clinging to your face like you do to your reigns.

you’re close enough to see arrax now, as small and young and terrified as his rider.

close enough to hear aemond’s laughter. close enough to hear his tauntsー you owe a debt, boy . vaghar opens her gaping mouth, fangs gleaming under the pouring rainー

this will start a war. this will have your brother dying, torn up to pieces.

you will not let him die.

when you strike, it’s from below. lightning-fast, a blur of black scales, snatching your brother inches away from vaghar’s gaping maw. you feel her heated breath on your skin, the putrid scent of it – how many were left to rot there?

you meet your uncle’s eye and he recognises you.

you see it in how that mouth of his twists in a grin, tongue licking his lips in a slow drag. in how his eye traces your frame, sharpening upon noticing your stance.

“and what do you hope to do with that blade of yours?” there’s a flash of amusement in that coy grin of his. “surely, you can do better, niece .”

and he knows you can. he’s seen you in the training yard, wielding your mighty bow. he’s seen you grasping arrow after arrow, pulling them out of your quiver in an inhumanely fast gesture. he’s seen you hit target after target. he’s seen you run out of arrows and switch to the sword at your side, calling out for a sparring partner.

(he’d been the one stepping forward, lip curling in that coy grin of his.)

now, your mouth is drying.

you’ve left your bow and arrows behind in your haste to get there. at this range, the sword is useless.

you snarl, poison-laced words ready to strike because you yourself can’tー

your brother is screaming.

you look down and see arrax falling. with him, your brother. both of them, tumbling to the ground, spiralling down. arrax, almost torn in half, holding it together in a gory mess of viscera and torn up bones, wings beating erratically in a desperate attempt at stopping his fall. there’s so much red.

plunge.

plunge towards the ground at break-neck speed, visegar’s wings folding by his sides, almost brushing your arms. your shoulders are set ablaze. from the sheer strength it takes you to remain on your dragon’s back, or from your uncle’s heated gaze, you do not know.

soon you’re within arm’s reach. one look at arrax tells you trying to save them both is hopeless.

“lucerys!”

he doesn’t look at you. he can’t, not with the wind roaring at his ears, not with arrax’s pain merging with his pure terror, not with the sea and its devouring waves below, they’re pulling him in, he’s going to dieー

you grab your brother’s arm and pull , high valyrian leaving your tongue in a bark.

“visegar, up! ”

and so he obliges, your faithful dragon, leaving his brethren to crash in the hungry waves beneath. for a split second, you remain like that. floating in a never-ending storm, with your brother clinging to you, legs hanging in the void, hands in a vice grip around his flesh because you must not let him fall .

so you pull and pull , muscles begging for you to stop, praying to gods old and new that your strength doesn’t fail you, that your uncle doesn’t catch up, not now .

then he’s on your saddle, and you press him against you, arms surrounding him, firmly pressing his hands on the saddle’s pommel for purchase. you do not let him see arrax’s fall. he’s safe. for now.

you grit your teeth.

you still.

he’s there.

right behind you, hot on your tail. you do not need to turn to see the wide grin etched on his pale features. you hear it in the low baritone of his voice, in the venom of his words.

give up, niece.

and you can only weigh the odds. you cannot fight him. not with your brother there, clinging to your forearm tighter than one would to a lifeline. not with this storm. not without your prized weapons. you’re bound to lose, and he knows it.

you feel lucerys shift, looking up at you. oh, brave, brave boy with terror in his eyes.

“it’s me he wants.” he gulps. “if you hand me over to him, you might get awayー”

you bite your lip.

each beat of dragon wing drives you closer to dragonstone. you can get there. you have to. it’s not just a matter of ensuring your brother’s safety ー or yours for that matters. it’s that should the both of you die here by aemond’s hand, war would break out.

greens and blacks have daggers held at each other’s throats. the slightest mishap will draw blood. you will not let your death be the reason a fragile, relative peace is broken.

but you can’t kill aemond either, can you?

“niece.”

your attention snaps back to him. you find him already watching, hungry gaze never leaving you. he’s waiting, this wretched, cunning beast of a man. waiting for your move.

your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you on his back and a raging storm against his wings.

but if there was only one rider…

you don’t have a choice.

beneath you, visegar rises to attention. does he feel it, your fear? does he feel it, your unyielding resolve?

your hand closes around your brother’s shoulder, gently squeezing it.

“whatever happens, fly home and do not stop .”

visegar moves. faster than all-mighty vaghar can see, faster than aemond can see, spiking above them both.

your brother is screaming.

you’re falling.

you’re falling, and there’s nothing to stop you. the gaping mouth of the sea will swallow you and leave nothing behind. you wonder if you’ll die upon hitting the water, bones shattering with the impact. you wonder if you’ll drown, if the fall doesn’t kill you. you wonder if you’ll taste arrax’s blood.

you’re falling, and everything blurs before your eyes, storm grey and rain and a blue so dark it’s almost black. there’s lightning streaking the sky above, waves crashing down below ー and you do not know what’s up and what’s down anymore. the wind is merciless, splitting your ears with its force.

you’re falling, limbs spread out, gasping for air, and it feels like thousands and thousands of hands are pressing down on your heart and you can’t breathe ー

you think the wind roars your name. you think you see a great, black void coming from above, like the meteors the maesters weaved tales about for your entertainment.

you feel as though you’re floating. you’re flying without a dragon. does that make you a god? you think you’re laughing.

you’re falling and it’s a gamble .

you’ve seen aemond’s stare. felt it burn like dragon fire on your skin, felt its pull down to your core as you fired arrow after arrow in the training yard. you’ve seen his signature half-smile widen just a tad bit as your swords clashed, felt the heat radiating off him as you pulled him closer, close enough for your dagger to brush against his jaw.

(close enough to see his eye dart to your lips, pupil dilating for a brief second. close enough to feel his warm breath on your cheek. close enough to feel the lean muscles of his chest beneath the black leather of his clothes. close enough for him to bend down, lips brushing your ear in a low voice that left you with a hollow ache and clenching thighs.

“surely, you can do better, niece.”)

you intrigue him, at the very least.

so when he comes, when he catches you mid-fall and cradles you against the warmth of him, with your name on his lips and what surely cannot be fear but is, you cannot help but smile.

your grin flashes, as sharp as your blade.

“is that better, uncle?”

#obticeo writes #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon x y/n #house of the dragon x you #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond oneshot #(no this isn't the smutshot the poll is about)

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: another deal. another oath

tw: grief

Marco got you sick.

Building pressure throbs between your eyes, ravaging your sinuses with tightly packed snot. It moves to your throat until you’re constantly hacking up phlegm and the pressure in your ears swells so viciously that you can hardly hear anyone over the idle chatter in the restaurant. Of course, there is no evidence to prove that it was Marco himself who got you sick. There are countless people who flood through the doors of Sapori with empty stomachs and noses running from the bitter, humid cold of London. Anyone could have gotten you sick.

Yet, over the last week, no one has gotten as close to you as he did. Fingers digging into your arm. Legs pinning yours to the bench. Gentle hand—the hand of a killer, his hand, that brutal fucking hand—caressing the side of your face, holding you hostage. Taking, and taking, and taking—tongue shoving past your teeth—

Blurry eyes glance away from the assaulting brightness of your phone screen. Sapori is quiet; it always is this early. Early for late night dining, anyway. Half past ten, you’ve spent most of the morning cleaning every single corner of that building. It’s how you rationalize spending more hours at work even without customers—you have to keep your hands busy and cash flowing. Except, after a while, you got too dizzy to continue, so you’ve taken refuge at a lonely table. The dust and carcinogens you’ve inhaled haven’t done anything to ease your symptoms, but you can’t afford to stay idle. There are numbers to be crunched, cash to be earned, and debts to be paid.

Which brings you back to your phone.

Having only graduated school without any sort of higher education, your options for jobs are limited, but working one job isn’t cutting it anymore. You can either pick up more hours like you have been doing this past work, or attempt to find a job that will pay slightly more to help cover the difference in what you now owe Marco every month. You’ve been staring at hourly wages for so long you feel your eyes begin to cross, and you don’t exactly like what you’re seeing. An early morning librarian job for £10.44, coffee shop barista for £9… nothing salary. Nothing that will save you.

“Job hunting?”

The ache and throbbing in your ears suffocates your senses so viciously that you didn’t hear Bruce’s footsteps approach. Jumping, you stare up at him like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Nothing like looking at other job postings with your boss staring over your shoulder. The embarrassment is enough to open up a black hole in your stomach where it consumes your organs bit by bit until you’re liquified. Your phone screen goes black, and you choke out a sheepish smile through the snot leaking into the back of your throat.

“Just for a second job. Part-time,” you explain. Your voice sounds louder than his—ears too clogged to properly receive soundwaves. “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving any time soon.”

Bruce’s mellifluous laugh is the first thing that’s warmed your soul all week. It’s contagious. He’s always been a jovial man—you’ve heard a few of the cooks call him The Italian Santa Claus because of his rosy cheeks and round stomach. The smallest of smiles flitters across your lips as he carefully takes the seat across from you with a large bowl in his hands.

“Ah, I wouldn’t be upset if you left. Sad, yes, but everyone finds their way out of here eventually,” Bruce assures. His accent is odd. Immigrating from Italy at a young age, his vernacular is a mash of proper English, Italian, and what you’re guessing is Italian-American slang. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve been able to gather from the movies, anyway. “You’re a hard worker. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

A wave of tears build up behind your eyes at his words, and they’re held back by a flimsy, half formed dam. Your emotions have been strewn about in your brain all week—cluttered, sticking halfway out of folders and filing cabinets. It’s hard to shove them back when you can hardly shut the drawers.

“Here,” he continues as he pushes the bowl toward you. The hard lines of his face soften as he watches you curiously peer at the contents. Tiny bits of pasta shaped like stars swirl around in some sort of thickened broth. “Pastina. Good for your health. You sound sick. Eat up and go home.”

Your hand is hardly gripping the spoon when he says that, and it nearly slips out of your grasp to clatter back into the bowl. Mouth half open, you stare at Bruce with wide eyes. There’s not a single hint of maliciousness on his face—his eyes twinkle bright as he runs a hand over his balding head. Though he appears happy—proud of himself, even—you feel nothing of the sort.

“I can’t go home,” you try to argue, but he quickly cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“You’re sick, and you’ve been working too much. You’ve worked more hours than I can legally give you this week, and though I don’t mind paying you under the table, it’s not exactly good for either of us. Rest, before you really make yourself sick,” he dismisses.

Swallowing thickly, you attempt to fruitlessly hide the tremor in your voice. “But I… I really need the money.”

It’s all you can think about. Money. Numbers This vicious counting game. How you’re going to cough up the extra cash for Marco and still have enough to feed yourself. To do anything. To live. Or worse—what happens to you if you can’t make enough? How many more times is he going to change your payments based on stupid mistakes that aren’t your fault?

Waving your words off again, Bruce stands to his feet, hands pressing flat against the swell of his stomach as he does so. “I’ll give you a raise, then.”

Jarred, the side of your spoon taps against the edge of the bowl as you follow him with your eyes. “A raise?”

“Sixteen,” he replies. “Should be enough. I’m tired of you working so many hours. You need to go out and be a kid before you get old and useless like me, yeah? Pick up a hobby. Hang out with that guy Bianca won’t stop talking about. He seems nice, hm? I just want you to be happy, kid. Now, eat up. You’ll feel better.”

Bruce vanishes just as quickly as he appeared, leaving you alone with a bowl of pastina and your thoughts. It’s good that he did, because if you tried to thank him for such a gracious gesture, you’d certainly crumble. Perhaps he knew that, too.

In a poor attempt to save yourself from crying in public, you quickly turn your attention to the food Bruce lovingly whipped up for you. Steam wafts and twirls upwards, hitting your face in a fine mist. Its flavor is difficult to discern with how congested you are, but the rich texture is enough to satiate the hole in your stomach. It always seems ever growing these days. A barren cavern; a void that wants to swallow you from the inside out. Not ravenous, just gutting.

Maybe one day it will fill itself up again.

For now, it grows. Slowly. Insidiously. Taking bits of you and shredding them into ribbons. They trail behind you, fluttering in the wind as you walk up the steps to your flat where they then roll down the stairs. It would look beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that it was you. You, with quiescent feet trudging through the door. You, with the fatigued body that can hardly dress herself into pajamas. You, who curls into bed, a motherless child—a creature waiting to vanish.

Too broke to afford cold medicine to aid you with your congestion, it takes time before you can finally fall asleep. When you do, it grips you like a vice, pinning you down, spoon feeding you dreams you haven’t been able to see with the hours you’ve been pulling at work. They’re heavy, holding your head under water, threatening to suffocate you; you can do nothing but watch.

You dream of your mother.

She’s folding your school uniform in the laundromat—the very same one you use as common ground to meet up with Marco. Washers swish water in their drums as dryer alarms chime the end of their cycle in terrible cacophony. Pristine white blouses become ruined with burgundy—her hands are soiled. Covered with blood. She folds, and you sit and watch her, hands tangled in string, fingers unable to move. Each fold is done with purpose. Crisp. Effortless. Blouses, skirts, and ties stack up taller than her on the table, threatening to scrape the ceiling above.

“Throw them away,” you say, voice weak.

She does not look at you.

“They’re ruined. Throw them away,” you say.

She does not look at you.

“Did I ruin them?” she asks.

You blink. The string around your fingers tightens. You feel them turn cold as ice. Lack of blood. Festering wounds. Irritated nail beds. An extension of the sins trapped inside of you.

“It wasn’t you,” you murmur.

Finally, she looks at you and you flinch.

“Who was it?”

Fibers snap, and the string falls free from your hands. Fluttering and dainty; it lays on the floor in generous spirals. There’s so much blood on her shirt. An artistic splatter of violence. You can’t look away.

“You already know,” you choke out.

She smiles. A toothy grin. Teeth perfect and whole, lips curling, but it’s not real. Her eyes are cloudy—her eyes are dead. Her smile is dead. Your mother is dead. Cold skin, colder gaze, coagulated blood on linoleum. Rotting. You still smell it: stale blood, cologne, and mint. It follows you everywhere.

He follows you everywhere.

Your phone is under your pillow, and someone is calling you. Vibrations rattle through the cotton filling, yanking you out of your dream like you’re being pulled out from under water. For a moment, you think you’re home. Really home. Yet, the room is too cold, and you are too alone. Blinking the sand from your eyes, you shove your hand between the comforter and mattress to yank your phone from underneath your head. The screen flashes.

Incoming Call from Captain Jack Sparrow

You hit accept and bring the speaker up to your right ear. “Hello?”

“Chip!” Aelin’s voice purrs on the other end. “What are you up to?”

“Uh…” You pause as you turn to lay on your back, eyes blankly glued to the ceiling. You forgot to turn the heat back on when you got home, and you swear you can almost see your breath. “...relaxing.”

“That’s a first. Hey, I’m stuck at Terminus, and I’m bored. John wanted to have a quiet evening together but got caught up with some work stuff. Wanna get dinner or something?” she asks.

You sniff, and the pressure behind your eyes and ears nearly doubles. “I… don’t think I’m feeling up to that tonight. Sorry.”

“Oh wow,” Aelin gawks. Her voice drips with concern, and you hear shuffling on her end. “Are you sick? You sound very… congested.”

“Yeah, I got sent home from work. Must’ve caught a bug from… somewhere.”

Aelin says something in response, but you can’t hear it. There’s nothing but ringing as you force yourself to sit up and hack up snotty phlegm, trying not to choke on it as it comes up. Acidulous liquid coats your tongue, and you wince. Vile. Why can’t you ever have anything that tastes sweet? Something easier to stomach than an unwanted tongue or blood?

“Chip?”

Her voice brings you back to the present—back to your cold apartment with frigid sheets and your pounding headache. There’s no reason for your tears, yet they plague you anyway. Maybe it’s from your cold. Maybe it’s because you dreamed of your mom. Or maybe it’s just because you’re sad, and you have been for a while. You’re just not able to hold it back anymore.

“Do you wanna spend the night with John and I?’ Aelin finishes.

Lips curling inward, you try your best to hold back a sob. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Lovely. Riley’s driving. We’ll be there soon, okay?”

An attempt is made at making yourself look somewhat presentable, but it’s hard to make art when the canvas is crumbling. Nothing can cure you of the red irritation plaguing your scleras, nor the constant sniffing from congestion. You make do with fresh clothes and a washed face before shoving a few necessities in an overnight bag. Simple. Small. Something that won’t take up much space.

When Aelin arrives, it’s a very unceremonious occasion. There’s gentle greetings. A pitiful look. There is no mention of how cold it is, or how the place looks sparsely lived in. She’s beautiful in her peacoat with pristine curled hair and flawless makeup. Perfect for a quaint dinner with a friend. Her viridian eyes look at you with a pity that’s nearly palpable. You feel bad for being sick—she seemed so thrilled to eat with you.

Simon waits for both of you in front of the building in a sleek, black car that you’re surprised he can fit into. It’s terribly appropriate for him; something that would look perfect hidden in Terminus’s car park. Yet now it’s being used to transport you—a pathetic, ill woman—to her friend’s house as if you’re nothing more than a child.

It isn’t until you find your seat in the back that you realize just how long you slept for. Dusk pulls its cimmerian shadow over the sky, obscuring the streets in the pale yellow glow of streetlights as Simon pulls into traffic. You got home around noon. Nearly a whole day wasted with sleep.

Little is said between the three of you as you struggle to stay conscious. The consistent gentle hum of the car’s engine is better than any lullaby that you can recall. A siren’s song. A loving hand on your back. Head bobbing and swaying with the turns of the road, you listen to whatever Simon has droning on the radio; some sort of rock station that plays so quietly you almost can’t hear it at all. Every now and then, you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, glancing at you like you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep watch over you.

It seems he’s still taking Aelin’s request to heart.

As the car approaches the house, Aelin digs into her purse where she quickly shuffles through a small, periwinkle wallet. She fishes out some cash before handing it to Simon as he parks.

“Here,” she whispers, quiet enough that your poor hearing can’t catch. “Get her some medicine, please.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters in reply.

Before you know it, you’re tucked into a quiet guest room on the second floor of the house. Heat radiates from the baseboards, yet your muscles tense and ache in a shiver. To combat this, Aelin has found every spare blanket and duvet she can find and has tossed them on top of you until you are nothing more than a heaping pile of laundry. At first, she had recommended throwing them in the dryer to help warm them up further, but you rejected it.

You hate making her go through so much unnecessary effort on your behalf.

Still, she refuses to leave you as you curl into a ball, face pressed against her side as she sits on top of the covers next to you. Aelin always smells lovely. Fresh rosewater and lavender. You’re enveloped by her scent like it’s a warm hug as she rubs a hand along your back, but it’s muted. The considerable amount of blankets only allows you to feel the ghost of her touch.

“How long has this been going on?” she asks tenderly.

You shrug. “Day before yesterday, I think.”

She pouts with a huff, hand ceasing its movement as she silently chastises you. “And you were still trying to work?”

“I have to,” you mumble against her.

A terrible quiescence soaks the room. Everything hurts, and you want to rest, but you know that won’t come soon. Not when Aelin’s concern is eating her alive—a vicious plague ripping through her heart. You can hear the beasts feasting on her marrow even now.

“Well, I brought an old friend to come visit,” Aelin grins. Before you can gather the strength to ask her what she’s talking about, she pulls something out from underneath the covers to set it in front of you. “Tada!”

An old, well loved stuffed animal sits before you with lopsided eyes and a faded smile. Once vibrant, crimson fur has now faded into an off-tone auburn, but the resemblance of a fox is still unmistakable.

“I thought I told you to get rid of that,” you mutter.

“I can’t get rid of her! You used to love Pumpkin,” Aelin says as if offended.

For a long moment, you stare at your old stuffed animal and relive the memories that soak it. It was a gift from your father when you were a child—something you used to hold close with you every night, even after his death. Even after you went to live with John and Aelin after graduation. You don’t know why, but one day you decided that you couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. You’re not sure if it’s because it was gifted to you by your father—the man you’ve tried so hard to continue loving despite his flaws—or because sweet Pumpkin had become so tainted with you that you figured you should take pity on the poor thing.

When you don’t respond, Aelin sighs and sets the stuffed fox on the nightstand. “Alright, fine. She’ll sit right here for when you’re ready.” There’s a short pause that stretches between the two of you, but it doesn’t last long before Aelin decides that the silence is driving her mad. “I’ve heard you and Riley have been getting close,” she prompts like she’s about to spill the daily gossip. A change in subject. A way to ease you into what she really wants to talk about. “Visiting him at the club, then?”

The club. Andrei. Spilled pasta in an alleyway. Your unfortunate run in with Marco made you forget all about how you ended up in this mess in the first place. The blade of Andrei’s knife glints just as brightly in your mind now as it did that night, and you cover your urge to puke with a well timed cough. You wish she wouldn’t bring it up, but it’s a good sign.

It means Simon was true to his word.

“Just to deliver food. He kept fixing stuff at my apartment. Had to pay him back,” you explain like a broken record.

Lips stretch over ivory teeth as Aelin shifts next to you. “Is that so? Sounds like he fancies you.”

“Or maybe he’s just doing the job that you assigned him to do,” you reply bluntly.

Aelin doesn’t tense at your insinuation, but she does sigh as she settles back against the headboard. “Thought he was better at keeping secrets than that.”

“He didn’t tell me, I figured it out on my own,” you claim, stuffy voice unable to land the plosives of your consonants.

She chuckles amicably as she looks down at you. Eyes closed, you’re nearly asleep, and you would have been if it weren’t for her conversation.

“Well, you were always the smart one. Still, I won’t retract my statement. Riley’s had a lot of… partners, but he never lingers around anyone like he does with you,” she insists. “He’s a good man, really. I’m sure you’ve seen that for yourself.”

“Can’t entertain that,” you say. There’s a sour stoicness to your tone; too tired to be annoyed yet yearning for silence. “I’ve got work.”

Another stillness—a suffocating one. Aelin’s smile has long since vanished as her lips press together tartly. There you go, talking about work again. Like you can’t stand to do anything else. Like you’ll die without the money.

“Chip… you know that if you need help, you can always ask, right?” she prods carefully. “Anything. I mean it. John and I… we’re here for you.”

Help. you think of that word, and a sour cordolium rips through your chest. Asking for such a thing from someone is out of the question. You made that deal with yourself ages ago.

“I don’t… I don’t need help. I just… miss my mum.”

You feel the moment when the room freezes. It’s when Aelin looks down at you, doleness unleashed in her gaze. Bringing up your late mother was a mistake, but she’s all you can think about after that dream. You wonder if you’ll ever have a normal dream of her again—fresh, normal, and void of all blood. A dream where she smiles and it’s not dead.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can say.

“Me too.”

When Simon returns, you’re fast asleep. Aelin can hear the sound of his boots on the floor from a mile away; purposefully making his existence known as he opens the door to the only room with the light on. His eyes are drawn to you, body curling into Aelin like you’ll fall through the bed without her. He approaches the bed and holds out the bag for her to take, and the very first thing she finds is every bit of cash she had given him to buy the items in the first place.

Instead of chastising him, she rummages through the rest of the items. NyQuil, Sudafed, Vicks, various soups and electrolyte drinks. It’s a variable feast to fight off your cold. Aelin looks up to poke fun at the man—at this raging chink in his armor—but she loses all words when she sees the way his hand presses against your forehead. Careful fingers gently brush against a faint scar by your temple as he feels the heat radiating from your body. He watches you with gentle devotion as your shoulders rise and fall with your breaths, congestion causing you to quietly snore. You do not stir awake, but she witnesses the way your brows furrow when he pulls away.

“She’s got a bad fever,” he concludes quietly. “She looks exhausted. Dehydrated.”

“Yeah. She’s been overworking herself too much. Hasn’t been resting or healing like she should,” Aelin concurs.

Fragile silence breaks as you breathe, airways too clogged for you to sleep peacefully. Simon and Aelin stare down at you for a moment, each of them considering the circumstance. Her lips press tightly together in thought before she carefully slides away from you, leaving your coiled form. She sets the bag of medicine and supplies on the foot of the bed before facing Simon with crossed arms.

“Can I talk to you before you leave?” she requests.

Simon answers her with a curt nod before they exit the room with the lights off and the door shutting tight behind them. Aelin’s heart pounds away in her chest as it fights against the tightness of her ribs. It’s an ever constricting cage. Relentless. Vile. She ensures that she’s not facing Simon as they traverse down the stairs.

“Chip is… really scaring me,” Aelin breathes, and she feels her voice crack nearly as bad as her heart as her feet hit the landing. “I’m more than a little concerned or worried now she… she’s always been something of a workaholic, but this is different. It feels like she’s trying to run away from something and she’s just—I don’t know—keeping something buried inside of her. Pushing away any help anyone tries to offer her. I’m… scared she might hurt herself.”

“Hurt herself?” Simon repeats in disbelief. “Has she done anythin’ like that before?”

“No. Not that I know of. It’s just…”

The words die as Aelin’s lips press tightly together once again, and she finally forces herself to look at Simon. He’s nothing but a stone—this immoveable being who won’t be swayed by anything physically or emotionally. She steadies her breath as she wills away the tears welling in her eyes.

“I’m going to tell you this because I trust you,” she says, gaze attempting to harden. It’s a silent vow. A demand that he not repeat any of the words she’s about to speak.

“Of course,” Simon nods.

Aelin swallows the guilt in the back of her throat.

“Chip’s parents are dead. They have been for a while. First it was her dad, and then her mum. My dad was the Chief Inspector working the cases of their deaths. It wasn’t… from natural causes. She holds a lot of guilt and she gets in a bad headspace over it, and I think that’s a bit of what’s happening and… it’s worse than I’ve ever seen it before. This time of year is always hard for her considering the anniversaries of their deaths, and I don’t know if it just seems worse because she’s sick right now but… fuck, Simon. The way she talked about her mum just earlier, I swear I nearly broke.”

Crisp eyeliner marks the edges of her eyes, yet it smudges as Aelin banishes the tears from her vision with the tips of her fingers. Still as ever, Simon watches carefully and without judgement as she gathers herself in order to finish.

“She needs to talk to someone about it, but I don’t think she wants it to be me. There are many things I think she would share, but there’s no way she’d give me the whole story,” she concludes.

Confusion clouds Simon’s stern gaze, and he shifts on his feet. “What, you’re thinkin’ she’ll tell me and not you?”

“Yes.” Her reply is speedy and sharp; a warning. No one knows you better than her. “She carries guilt for a lot of stuff. For… There’s just some things I know she won’t want to tell me. Things she can’t tell me because it’s… well, me.”

Something is off—Simon can smell the stench of it from a mile away. He knows better than to question Aelin, and she seems very convinced that this is the true issue at hand, but there’s an uncomfortable trepidation that hangs somewhere in the balance of it all. A picture half developed. The brittle edge of a cliff. It’s the same feeling that afflicted him the night he fought Andrei in the alleyway—a deja vu that screams trouble if he even attempts to entertain it.

“Please,” Aelin begs. “You don’t have to do anything crazy, I just don’t want her to be alone. Swear to me you won’t let her be alone through this. Simon, I’m not strong enough to cut through her walls but the thought of… the thought of her like this kills me.”

Another deal. Another oath. Simon has always been a protector, in some way. A tool which one uses to bludgeon. He doesn’t know if he can be gentle. He knows he’s certainly not palatable. But he thinks of your sleeping form in the VIP room after the tussle with Andrei, and the heat of your fever against his hand, and he thinks he’d at least like to try.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he assures her.

Nodding, Aelin attempts to strengthen her resolve with a deep breath. Frayed nerves still poke out of her skin, completely wired with worry. It sparks and fizzles, yet she still glances back up the stairs, as if she can feel the aura of exhaustion seeping out of the bedroom.

“Thank you,” she says, voice hardly above a whisper as she looks back at him. “Truly, I appreciate it.”

“Can’t do everythin’ on your own,” he says.

She scoffs playfully. “Tell that to Chip.”

Once the front door locks shut behind Simon and the house is still and quiet, Aelin sneaks back upstairs. You’re hardly conscious when she gently urges you awake to press cough syrup to your lips, but you don’t complain. You never complain—not when there’s bitter liquid on your tongue; never when you should. Silent. Pliable. Once you’ve swallowed every last drop, you collapse back into bed, body weak and overheated; slick with sweat.

She knows she should leave once your snoring starts back up again, but she can’t. There’s something to relish in how peaceful you are in this moment. Not working yourself to death. Not running from the grief that’s been strangling you since you were a child. For a moment, as you lay there in bed, Aelin gets to see you as you were when you were a kid.

As she stands at the foot of the bed, she recalls the first time she ever met you—both clad in black and unable to look at one another without timid smiles and tear filled eyes. Aelin was the one who had to break the silence. To introduce herself as the daughter of Sean Gilroy; the man who sat in that coffin so adorned with flowers and love. You’ve grown so much since then. A fine woman who should be proud of herself. She wants to shake you awake. Yank you out of your sleep and scream at you that there’s nothing to be forgiven—nothing to punish yourself over.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she turns around and leaves, ensuring that the electrolyte drink Simon bought is on the pillow next to your for when you wake up in the morning.

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