#(Possessions of a Tired Man is what its called on ao3) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lilacxquartz · 8 days ago

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your hunger is mine (only mine);

vampire!hunter suguru geto x vampire f!reader

plot: tasked with killing you, vampire hunter suguru is driven mad with infatuation instead — themes: vampire au, slight plot, blood feeding, possessive behaviour, yandere, smut, p i v — w.c: 4k+ • masterlist • on ao3

For Suguru Geto, every day was the same.

He would wake up, hunt, eat, then sleep.

This was simply just the life he knew; from the moment the first light filtered in, he’d rise to sharpen his blades, dip the silver into holy water, and rehearse his prayers to pardon the dead. Suguru was what was expected of him, a man driven by a sense of duty that he felt he owed to the world—operating as though on clockwork—closing his eyes only when the cycle finished.

Only to repeat it all again.

For him, this was normal. Just like every other hunter that walked the world, he too, led a lonely life, married instead to the prospect of chasing whatever it was that lurked in the shadows, all so that those living in the settlements could have a semblance of peace. He’d push on, simply because he had to.

Though, then something changed. He woke up just like usual, he hunted, and that much stayed the same. But he didn’t eat, and he certainly couldn’t sleep—not when he was so captivated by what he had set out to destroy.

(You.)

~~~

The mission in itself was a simple enough affair; it was yet another tired night, guided by the cold glow of the moon. Missions often led him to blighted manors, which were once thriving residences, that now smelled like death itself. After a while of storming in and clearing such places though, they all started to blur and even look the same. This home wasn’t anything special.

Swiftly, methodically, Suguru purged the interior of a once noble family and its workers who scurried away like fleeting rats upon entry. Typically, vampires would rest in groups, huddled in a small room for both security, but also if they were simply dormant. Everything was going as planned, but then, he heard something deep into the heart of the house that made him pause.

A woman crying. Softly. Devastatingly.

As a result, he couldn’t help but investigate further, even while knowing that it could all be a trap. Sometimes, variations, as they were called, could make their way into a regular nest. If this was as he suspected, then he would have to turn in his base mission as it was, but something about those deeply mesmerising wails prevented him from turning around and leaving—despite every fiber of his being telling him otherwise—to investigate instead.

Slowly, carefully, Suguru tentatively extended his hand and pushed a dusty old door inside, his eyes falling over a pile of broken mirrors, one of which was held up by you, crying in the corner. Streaks of claw marks that peeled against the rotten walls marked up the area, leaving an unsavoury taste in his mouth. All of his senses told him that he stumbled upon something outside of his pay grade here, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. This, otherwise, was different, after all. You didn’t run when confronted, and much like every other variation that he had come across in his career, you didn’t lunge for his throat either.

Perhaps it was a bad idea then, but Suguru took upon the decision to approach you. His reflexes were fast, so he didn’t quite concern himself with you potentially catching him off guard, and as you turned, he once again hesitated. Your face just looked so… human? So fevered with peril and genuine anguish, as if ravaged by a sickness rather than a lapse of fading humanity.

For the first time in years, he felt something that he hadn’t felt for a while for these creatures. What was it again? Pity? Empathy? Whatever it was, it had been a feeling lost to him for a while, sending him back to the days of his first hunt, when he was torn between what made someone human and what didn’t.

All of the signs pointed to you being one of those things, so with that struggle in mind, he tried to push past his initial thoughts and try at least to finish the job. Suguru, as if locked in a trance, reached for his blades to strike you down, but then you did something that he hadn’t seen in all of his years on the job that made him freeze—that made his eyes grow wide—that made the blade clang onto the floor.

You… spoke.

Your voice, so human, so soft, whimpered out a stammered line, laced with genuine fear, “H-help me.”

Suguru gulped, allowing his eyes to drift to you.

In all of his years, he had never seen something like this. To him at least, these creatures—these things—these monsters, were anything but human, and yet, here you were; capable of communication. Initially, he tried to justify his reaction as a fear response, his hand desperately searching the floor for his fallen weapon, ready to banish you for good, but then you repeated yourself.

“Help.”

“Help me.”

“Don’t do this.”

For some reason, this was what it took to break him. Being a hunter was a lonely job; he had no idea if this was similar to humans technically, but he had also been isolated since the day of his training. Hunters could not operate in groups, let alone pairings. These abominations, also, would never go as far as to show fear, to beg for their lives, so he had potentially stumbled upon something new here that would be a waste if killed—at least in his mind.

His voice was tight as he tried to navigate this problem, grunting out a curt, “How?” when he finally succumbed to a reply. His eyes were narrowed, portraying an unreadable glare to conceal what he was truly thinking. If you were capable of speech, after all, then who was to say that you wouldn’t be capable of understanding too?

You tried to answer, letting the handheld mirror shatter on the ground like the rest. You turned to him, with your eyes wide and glassy, strained with pain and perhaps, also, a hint of hysteria. “I-I had recently been turned,” you falsely revealed, shooting out a clawed hand to clasp over his clothed arm, “I… I think I have to feed, but I really don’t want to��”

That wasn’t the whole truth for you, and you knew it. You had been here for more time than you knew, it’s just that you were still in touch with your old self. You could, technically, settle just like all of the others similar to you in the settlements, but there was something deeper that you craved. Your hunger was almost parasitic, and if luck would have it, you led your potential host right into your trap.

Suguru—the hunter before you—continued to regard you warily all the same, as though studying you to determine just what sort of personal threat it was that he was dealing with. He took note of how twitchy you were, betraying erratic undertones to your otherwise deceptively calm (for a vampire) demeanour. Something about you wasn’t entirely right and you were hiding something. You could have been someone recently turned, but you also could have been one of those new-age variations, that were even more difficult to detect.

Those types of things were always changing, after all, that’s something you both knew without needing to communicate it. The older, and even middle generations of the variations were capable of at least some kind of intelligence, which was what led to vampires huddling into groups rather than individually roaming. Perhaps the latest strain had adapted to become more human, evolving to potentially lure in hunters like himself into manipulated sympathy to spare him.

If that was it—he understood—every creature that occupied this cursed earth, for better or for worse, was just trying to survive. He couldn’t fault you for that, but also, at the same time, he could. Vampires and humans couldn’t coexist, at least, that’s what had been told for as long as he knew.

Still, despite being a hunter, he was still human; much against his better judgment, curiosity won out.

“How recently ago were you turned?” he asked, chancing a theory.

Predictably, your face went blank. You didn’t know the answer. It couldn’t have been that recent.

Suguru’s chest tightened as a result, a wave of unease spreading through his body. You were a variation that was capable of not only communication and understanding but playing a particular role that didn’t result in immediate violence. As a result, his mind briefly flashed over the possibility of turning you in for enough gold to last a lifetime, but for some reason, the thought didn’t linger. His violet gaze locked onto yours again, attempting to gauge something in particular from you. For a vampire to turn someone, there had to be an incubation period; variations happened from hastily turned occurrences, since for the last century or so, bite attacks happened more out of desperation than to feed.

Humans, as far as he understood, were simply just a delicacy—vampires were indeed still a threat, but, they didn’t exclusively target them. Just like how humans hunted to feast upon wild game or kept livestock, it wasn’t that unheard of for a hunter to report something similar back.

Therefore, you couldn’t have been starved—surely not—especially when the forest was so abundant with animals that passed through the trees.

His mind went back to the potential coin he could cash in, just for a brief moment, though. Suguru in theory, could cash you in and finally live within the settlements in peace. He could finally find someone special and adopt a peaceful life, but something at the same time begged for him to reconsider. Not only were you a pretty thing, but you were capable of holding back. You had an ethereal sort of look that was absent in humans, which would likely catch the eye of a brothel that would try and pedal your worth for as long as they could. Such instances had occurred in the past, too, with enough restraints in place.

Another possibility was that a research institution could try and get their hands on you, belonging to one of those laboratories that loomed in the dead center of the settlements. This too, would be a waste, because they would likely try and dissect you, subjecting your cadaver to autospies that wouldn’t necessarily mean anything until they’ve had at least a dozen few like you.

Suguru sighed.

What a predicament.

It wasn’t something that he could particularly control, but he wanted to be selfish with this. He wanted to study you for himself, as a hunter, his base job be damned. If you were truly self-aware enough, then he could potentially utilise this to favour his benefit. Vampires, after all, could read their own signatures, no matter where they were, whereas hunters had to go off based on intuition.

Calmly, Suguru drew up the sleeve of his shirt, unbuttoning the cuff so that he could offer you better reach, presenting you with a choice.

“How much would you need?” he asked, unable to quite believe that this was something he was truly considering.

“Not too much,” you murmured out, your response immediate, “just… just enough to take the edge off.”

Suguru nodded. “And, will I turn if I let you feed?”

You shook your head. “No, no… if I can avoid the veins, then you should be fine. It’s if the venom enters the bloodstream, that you will turn.”

(Wait. Venom? That was new information.)

Suguru’s eyes drifted down to meet with your lips, observing the pale blue tint to their complexion. You were as starved as you claimed, but you were also holding back. For what? He had given you plenty of opportunities to catch him at a vulnerable position, so you could have indeed lunged and doomed him at any given moment, but you didn’t. You also seemed to be aware of how turning worked, and what was needed to be done. All of this shared hesitation led him to believe that this could potentially result in a mutually beneficial outcome.

Just as you were about to take his offer, too, you held back, suddenly blurting out a panicked spiel of words, your fists tightened and tears streamed down your cheeks, your voice spiked with anguish and terror, “I-I hate what I am, you know,” you breathlessly confessed, “I hate myself—what I am—but I can’t just… let go of my life. I was like you before. Normal. But, you understand, don’t you? I can’t just stop living – not when it’s all I have left.”

Suguru sighed as he listened to your tortured words. Realistically, he knew that he was potentially giving into something that he shouldn’t, especially given his profession. He knew that he should have killed you to be done with it, earning his keep from your dragged-out corpse left to evaporate in the sun, or at best, left you alone to be dealt with at the hands of another hunter.

But he stayed.

So, whatever happened next, was on him.

“I’m going to help you,” he assured, steeling himself knowing that this was going to hurt, “but only because I’m curious, not because I care about you. Now, you can do this in two ways. You can take what I give you and listen to me, or you can flee and pray that the next hunter you come across, is even half as kind as me.”

He waited around for your response, but you didn’t respond with anything immediate. Your eyes were locked onto the contours of his inviting flesh, drawing your lips closer to his offering. Suguru’s breath hitched, expecting you to lunge, but you were excruciatingly slow. In a way, he supposed that the display was sensual, which made sense, knowing that vampires were supposed to be alluring to reel in the trust of their food. For a moment, he considered that he was a victim of such a thing; tricked into being fed upon by a new variation, who played into being more human than they truly were—

—Suguru hissed in pain.

The bite finally connected.

A sharp, pulsating shock traveled through his system, focusing right on his arm. He grunted as he tried to breathe away the pain, seething through his teeth as he tanked the sensation. Suguru’s jaw clenched as you sank your fangs into his aching skin; turning his head away before whipping it back to focus on you. A new feeling radiated just seconds after, letting him fall slack and relax against the wall. Just as quickly as the pain rose—pleasure did too, erasing all of the hurt—replacing it with something warmer.

Without even thinking about it, he allowed his free hand to drift and wrap around your scalp next, aiming to secure you into place while you fed. On occasion, you would blink up and catch his gaze, almost as if to confirm that his focus was planted directly on you. He paused at the sight, feeling something else within him stir, perhaps desire. His blood was being actively stolen, so through the dizzying rush of you feeding upon his very life essence, he couldn’t quite tell where the rest of his blood was rushing.

One thing was abundantly clear though.

He liked this.

Suguru released any tension that he ever had, leaning even further back as he led you to feed. Your soft lips felt like silk against his skin, feeding from him in teasingly slow gulps. For a moment, he lost himself in the blissful allure, understanding that there was no such human within the settlements that he could ever find to replicate the surreal reality of what he was experiencing right now. It was as if you had unlocked an addiction for him, leading him down a darker path when he should have been following the light—awakening something possessive within him—doomed to chase the newfound drug he sampled.

A thought crossed his mind, though.

You needed him to live, didn’t you?

If you were starved before, then he was your lifeline; your source of food—

—It was as swiftly over as it began, though, leading him to choke out a pained grunt as you pulled away.

You kept your promise, not bleeding him dry, not turning him—but in the heat of the moment—he wished for you to not stop. Suguru bit back a scoff, realising that had you potentially not kept true to your word, then he might have let you empty him for all that he was worth.

Sanguine red gloss coated your lips, dripping crimson down your chin. You stared at him with the very same lingering hunger he now desperately craved, but held back on advancing further. You were being just as careful as he was, getting him dependent to being around you, just as you felt around him. You tilted your head as you observed him, taking note of how his once murderous eyes melted into something betraying vulnerability instead, as if a chasm had been opened in his core, forming a void deep within.

You were sated, but he was not.

You studied him, indeed, as he forced himself to relax his hand and let go of your scalp, plucking his arm away. His body tensed as it came down from its painful high, a flush of rouge spreading across his cheeks as he tried to sit upright to conceal his arousal. His legs trembled, and his breath shuddered; the venom didn’t have to be exchanged, for your plan worked despite it, you secured a hunter again to protect your worth.

Suguru’s mind spiraled in the meantime, finding this situation abundantly frustrating. The hunt had changed, but for some reason, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Though he couldn’t help but feel that he was tricked somehow, fearing that now you had fed yourself, you might attempt to flee. He was damned if he was going to let you go, though, feeling the darker feeling return. The thought of you feeding upon someone else was upsetting, and he couldn’t for whatever reason, let you do that.

He drove himself mad for the rest of the night, unable to sleep. Such a longing need to be your only food source persisted to ravage his mind as you both recovered. Suguru pulled you in closer, tightening his arms around you. He looked down at you with half-lidded eyes, overcome with a rising hunger that was uglier than your own; where you lusted for mere sustenance, Suguru craved you on your own.

And as the morning finally arrived, Suguru’s eyes snapped open just as he felt himself doze off, revealing you attempting to sneak away. He whipped out his arms, wrapping his fingers tight around your wrists before you could truly flee. His reflexes were uncannily sharp, honed by years of hunting your very own kind. Suguru held onto you like a man crazed, pulling you flush against his chest, forcing his limbs to entangle with his own.

“No,” he simply stated, his breath running hot against your ear, “you will stay.”

Your lips parted as you thought of what to reply; in all of your years of manipulating hunters, they had never once been so possessive. For once, you felt as though you were as equally in danger as he must have felt when he first laid eyes upon you. You tried to relax regardless, trying to thaw your rigid state into the heat of his warm body, but the lingering unease remained all the same.

“You’re going to need only me from now on,” Suguru emphasised, “only me—just me.”

You tried to speak with him, only to be cut off, “I—”

“—you’ll let me sate your hunger, won’t you?” he asked, tracing his fingertips along your icy skin, “you won’t take your fill from anyone else.”

You fed him a look as a result, attempting to secure a promise within his crazed awakening. You were telling the truth, at least partially from before. No vampire enjoyed their life, so who were you to deny, that you perhaps wanted someone alive to make you feel if not, equally the same? To be treasured as a life, to be wanted, lusted for, just as one would with a living, breathing thing.

“I’ll carry on your burden,” he continued to promise, his voice a tone softer now, “you will not bear it alone.”

Suguru meant every bit of vowed promise that left his tongue and thoughts, too, his mind swirling with infatuation winning over logic, such a decision that would soon cling to his very state of being. As the nights came and went, you would on every other occasion ask to feed and Suguru would let you, the intense desire to let another sort of hunger claim him, claim you growing stronger with each passing hour.

He sat back all the same, yet this time, his mind was in a frenzied, almost feral state. He savoured the sensation of your fangs nestled in his flesh, of your lips brushing against him. He would cradle you, reeling you in tight against the core of his body, holding onto you with such want that it was completely maddening. Suguru quickly became a man, crazed, refusing to hunt for his keep, instead sustaining himself with a hunt for his lifeline, to feed you.

(What was his job again?)

(Who was he again?)

He watched you lap up his blood, just like he was used to by now, but tonight in particular, he let his arousal show and as if spurred on from your lack of complaint, he reluctantly pulled back from you, averting your blood-lusted gaze to meet with his own. He pulled you up, allowing your lips to crash against his—kissing—tasting himself with his tongue, driving him into unhinged heights of realisation alone.

He wanted you more than anything else.

Suguru’s fingernails dug into your hips, leaving behind bloodied half-moon scratches into your skin as he drew you in even closer. A part of him knew that he should be pulling away before this threatened to spiral even further, but you weren’t fighting him back on this either.

You wanted this too.

You were admittedly turned on, you couldn’t even deny it. You lost yourself in the same way that he had been losing himself from the very moment he laid eyes on you. Your fangs sank into his lips, grazing at the tender wet flesh; your fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt too, as if to tether yourself to him in rising need.

A sharp sting pulsed through him as a result, a bead of blood that became mixed in the mutual kiss shared. Suguru shuddered, as a result, his violet eyes dark with something raw, perhaps even consuming.

“You’re…” he trailed off, unable to keep his eyes off of you, staring at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world, “you’re the most dangerous thing I have ever come across.”

Realistically, he knew should have been afraid of what was about to happen—but he wasn’t—neither were you. The two of you might as well have both been too far gone. And so when you leaned in again, feeding him that same sultry look again, Suguru understood one thing in particular; he had to let you take him under because in the heat of the moment, he wanted to drown.

You straddled him in a rising frenzy, making quick work of the fabric that had both concealed your obvious arousal. Suguru, who was maddeningly hard, sought out your slick warmth with pained intensity. And as soon as he was able to do so, he plunged into you with frenzied ease, shuddering at the intoxicating intensity. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his arms pulled you in even closer and when he opened them again, he stared at you with a wild, close to hysterical light, finally understanding the true extent of his obsession with you.

“Fuck, you feel… so… good,” he grunted as he felt your hips roll with the buck of his rhythm, his words rutting out in tune with his thrusted impact.

You parted your lips away from him at the same time, seeking out his neck instead, knowing that you also shouldn’t, but when lost in a haze of lust, who were you too, if not a creature driven by pure instinct? Your teeth sank in, hitting his pulse point, feeding off of him as he impaled your heat, lost in a world of your own.

Suguru threw his head back with a strangled moan, feeling your teeth sink into his flesh, not quite fighting you back either. This sort of new pain was freshly intense with no pleasurable recovery, but he didn’t care, too lost in his possessive stupor to bring himself to stop you. Instead, he pushed you in even closer; entangling himself around your scalp, shuddering out gasps of fevered anguish from every little pull of your lips, from each swallow of his blood.

“Shit,” he gasped out, unable to quite control his reactions anymore. He drove himself into you with manic fervour, slamming himself with a ferocity that bordered on violence as he drowned in rising waves of dark ecstasy pulsing through his veins. His pace was relentless, almost punishing and painful, but he was too lost in the crazed pursuit of passion to even care.

Indeed, Suguru, with you, had managed to surrender himself utterly and completely to you, unable to even fight back against his life force slowly fading away with each passing draw of your lips. He held you tight, encouraging you to feed off of him deeper, encouraging you to take more as he pumped himself into you with heedless abandon; his own hips giving out, leaving you to guide his way to meet with the release he so desperately craved

Suguru held on, lulled into a tranquilised, if even overjoyed (at last) state, muttering out merely whispered instances of pleading mantras, “don’t stop,” was one you heard, “give yourself t’me,” was another; a man completely obsessed with keeping you right were you were.

You finished feeding soon though, needing him to stick around, even if the damage potentially done to his bloodstream was irreversible. Feeling himself come back too, Suguru held on tight against your hips, crashing himself into your cunt with a hurried frenzy, letting slip of a ragged gasp as he finally felt you come undone, with his sought-after release following suit just as quick. He continued to hold on, feeling himself pulse and twitch and empty into your battered sex; draining all of the pent-up tension, all of his anger, of his never-once-appointed passion, deep into your now-tight, spent core.

You fell over him as a result, finally relaxing as you melted atop his body. Suguru couldn’t help but shudder at the intensity of the afterglow, not even feeling angry for the changes he felt. He lost himself, after all, from the very moment he gave you a chance; so this was on him, not you. If not slightly dazed, he managed to lift his head and look at you, his eyes glazed and bloodshot, exhausted with possessive satisfaction.

Suguru kept you plugged up for the time being, unrelenting on his hold over you as if letting go of you would mean the end of the world. His breathing refused to calm and his thoughts raced with obsessive mania. The high lingered too, never once subsiding, not like before. Even as his vision blurred and faded to black, he knew he was going to be fine, because the look you gave him back was just as possessive in return.

You were his as much as he was yours and neither of you would allow another to state one another. You belonged to each other now. You were beyond what could have been codependent, perhaps even working as one.

A parasite you were, indeed, he not only carried your burden, but even in his potentially changed form, he would seek to still sustain you.

You watched on as he sighed, as his eyes finally fluttered shut, as his body sank further into a dreamless sleep, with his hold on you never once relaxing.

You followed suit, just as soon, content that you had found a solution for your hunger.

While Suguru finally had found a solution to his madness.

Perhaps this would be his undoing. Maybe even yours too.

(But maybe that was just meant to be.)

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averycutesalamander · 21 days ago

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When I Feel the Snake Bite Enter My Veins

Chapter 1

Boothill x fem reader || 19k words || also available on ao3

You would love nothing more to rip out your husband's teeth for all he's done to you – but it seems you're sorely lacking the means. How fortunate that Boothill has such a strong grip.

WARNINGS: mentions of noncon, nonconsentual body modification (nothing extreme), threatening and possessive behavior, and domestic abuse, none of which are on Boothill's part. Additional warning for violence and gore, which is not inflicted on the reader.

You hate – no, despise – no, abhor your husband. He is a despicable, disgusting, wicked, greedy, heartless man, and were it not for this wretched fucking collar, you would have killed him years ago, a thousand times over.

You first met him when you were young and stupid and bafflingly naive, caught up in your passion as a singer. You'd been performing for years, bouncing between miserably low-paying gigs at bars and private events and all sorts of sketchy places; you were certain you'd hit the jackpot when you managed to call in a favor from a friend of a friend and secured a single night at a sizable casino – but with pay like that, a single night would be all you'd need to cover your expenses for half a year if you stayed frugal. Not just that, but you could meet people there – people with power, people with an eye for finer things, people that would like your talent enough that they'd pay you something livable.

And indeed, you got just that.

Words couldn't express how shocked you were when you were approached by Silas Morghani – a businessman, by the look of him, with dark hair and darker eyes. You didn't miss the IPC guards that tailed him, either – but the allure of his undeniable status momentarily blinded you.

(You should've known better.)

He bought you some obscenely expensive yet absolutely revolting wine, then bragged that he was near the top of the food chain at the Marketing Development Department, acting lordly and boastful, as if it were something to be proud of – as if the name didn't make your skin crawl with the childhood memories of your mother bluntly discussing the slaughter of billions over dinner. ("Trimming the fat," she always said, chewing on her steak like it wasn't once a living creature. "It's ludicrous to call it anything more.")

(You'll never forget the moment you realized what your mother's job really was. You were doing research for a school paper, sifting through the dusty files in your late father's office in hopes of getting a leg up; you'd just broken open an exceptionally stubborn locked drawer when you stumbled across an obscure newsletter from a long-defunct station that you don't recognize. IPC Condemns Two Dozen Planets to Slavery: Where Will the Cruelty End? Its only labeled author was anonymous.)

(Cluelessly, you'd skimmed the article, practically burning with curiosity; why would your father have this tucked away in a locked drawer? And then you saw it: "One interviewee answered, 'We're only trimming the fat.' She added later that 'the citizens are only being relocated, not enslaved. It's ludicrous to call it anything more.'")

(And for the first time, you wondered if your father really had thrown himself off the rooftop after being fired from his job at the newspaper, like mother said he had.)

But you were desperate. You'd been in the rat race for years at that point, struggling for scraps, being taken advantage of by shrewd business owners that could somehow smell the desperation on you. You were fucking tired of networking, tired of being fleeced, tired of all of it. You grew up in a lion’s den of deceit and half-truths, and you managed to slip away from all of the teeth and claws; this couldn't be any different, surely? You just needed to stay alert.

So when he offered to let you do a show at his lounge, situated at the top of a skyscraper overlooking the city, you snatched up the opportunity like a mangy dog being offered shelter from a storm.

(Little did you know that you would be chained and collared and starved – not merely thrown into the lion's den, but skinned and filleted as well. "For your own good," he'd coo, as if he didn't have the knife sitting bloody in his palm.)

After Silas hired you to perform full-time at his lounge, the jaws of the trap fully closed around you. He rooted himself into your life with frightening ease, no matter how subtly you tried to dodge his invitations to dinner or tried to end conversations so you could go home for the night. You learned very quickly that you couldn't refuse him – that no one could refuse him and get away with it; you've seen the corpses to prove it.

When he asked you to stay a bit longer to chat after business hours, he wasn't asking. When he asked you to do an extra show after-hours for his work friends, he wasn't asking. When he asked you if you wanted to move into the penthouse on the floor above the lounge, he wasn't asking. When he pinned you against your vanity and looked down at you with those horrible, soulless eyes and asked to kiss you, he wasn't asking. When he pressed you up against your door and asked if you wanted him to fuck you, he wasn't asking.

When he gifted you a heavy, diamond-encrusted necklace that sat like a choker and asked if he could put it on you, he wasn't asking. "The color matches perfectly with everything," he said, his smile just a bit too wide. "So you won't have to change it for different outfits. Quite convenient, yes?"

When he climbed up onto your stage after the biggest performance you'd ever held, he didn't kneel for you. He cupped your face under the spotlight, subtly pressing his pinkies into the tender skin beneath your jaw with just a bit too much force to be innocent, and when he asked you to marry him in front of that fully packed audience of IPC coworkers–

He wasn't asking.

—

You first tried to kill him only two months after your wedding.

You'd been essentially forced into taking sleeping pills because, shockingly, you didn’t have the most restful sleep in the same bed as the man who held a half-metaphorical gun to your head. He ran his thumb beneath your tired, exhausted eyes, his brows furrowed like his prized bird had fallen ill.

"We should make sure you get some rest, pet." (He always calls you pet, like it's cute. Never in your life have you been so nauseated by a single word.) "Can't have you getting sloppy during performances, right?"

"Of course, sweetie," you said, giving him the same practiced smile you'd mastered ever since meeting him.

You tested the pills – experimented to see if you could taste the medication in a drink. Too bitter, you decided – so you fought through the drug to stay awake and told him that you'd have to try another. "It made me so nauseous, and it didn't even make me sleep," you said faintly, furrowing your brows as if you were ashamed to admit it.

The next wouldn't quite dissolve in water or alcohol – too gritty.

The next had an off taste as well – too metallic.

The next was perfect. Utterly tasteless – absolutely no change to texture.

So you slipped it into the gin you served him one night and settled into your recliner to wait, your stomach churning with unease as you nonchalantly flipped open your book. You watched in your peripheral as he took a sip, your palms clammy against the paper. No reaction – although there was a faint, nearly indistinguishable pop, like a car engine had sputtered in the streets hundreds of stories below.

Silas hummed in apparent interest, like he'd noticed something peculiar about a painting on the wall.

Then – a blinding flash of searing, white-hot pain, like you were being struck by lightning. The air was punched straight from your lungs, strangled from your throat. When you came to, you were dry heaving over the carpet, your neck tingling with some unnameable, boundless pain between burning and stabbing.

That stupid, ugly, piece-of-shit necklace.

You watched with a detached sense of horror as a pair of dress shoes stepped into your peripheral, a hand coming down beneath your chin to yank your head up. He reached up and pressed his fingers into his mouth, gripping something and pulling.

And there, in his palm: a false, hollow tooth with a tiny hole burst from one side. Through your blurry eyes, you could see the remnants of some kind of powder where his fingers held it.

He smiled in the same way he always has – cold and unfeeling. "It's filled with a reactive agent," he said, so utterly unmoved that it sent a chill up your spine. "It pops when exposed to blacklisted chemicals. Quite convenient, yes?"

When he leaned in, you held your breath instinctively. You could feel your heart racing in your chest, fear running cold in your veins. (Would it be the first time he hit you? Would he finally lose his patience and reveal the undeniable reality that he's a monster?)

Instead, he murmured, "If you try that again, pet, I fear I'll have to have your tongue cut out. And what is a songbird without her tongue?"

You always know when he's expecting an answer. With a dry rasp, you answered, "Worthless."

His smile was like a rabid wolf baring its teeth. "That's right, doll. Now, let's get your medicine, shall we? It's getting terribly late."

He wasn't asking.

—

You learned very quickly after that. If you're going to escape the gilded cage he's locked you in, you'll need to be much, much subtler.

(As a child, you asked your father how he came to know so many secrets. “That's what true journalism is about,” he once told you, and he was skilled in the art of knowing things that people of his ilk never should.)

("It's simple, poppet," he said, grinning down at you with a smile brighter than the sun. "You've gotta be a mouse.")

(You had blinked cluelessly at him. "Mice aren't very strong, papa.")

(He laughed. "Depends on how you look at it. Mice are fast, and quiet, and smart, and resourceful. They know when to freeze when a hawk passes over them." He ruffled your hair, turning back to his work. "That's how you learn the things I do, and how you get as good at poker as me.")

(There was one hawk he clearly couldn't hide from, though. If you want to escape the talons of your hunter, you'll need to be faster, quieter, smarter, and even more resourceful.)

So, you learn to be a mouse – and a stubborn one, at that.

You endure the degradation of every single right and privilege being ripped away from you, then drip-fed back as if it's a kindness and not the bare minimum. You don't get to choose what you wear, what color your hair is, when you sleep, when you wake. You don’t get to choose what or when you eat without begging for it, because the kitchen lies beyond a set of locked doors that only the servants can enter. You don't get to choose what songs you perform, nor when you perform them, and you certainly don't get to choose who your audience is. You don't get to choose what books you have access to, nor what TV channels you watch. The bastard doesn't even grant you access to emails, let alone anything more modern.

Once, you go to sleep and wake up in a hospital room with no memory of how you got there. Two stitched incisions lay below your navel. Neither the nurse nor the doctor nor Silas will tell you what they even did.

It grates on you. No, it does far more than that; it torments you. Every instinct in your body is urging you to bite his fucking throat out while he sleeps, to hurl yourself out one of the windows and pray you grow wings before you hit the ground, to wrench a gun from one of those horrible, soulless guards and paint the bleak white walls with red.

You endure it. You endure it all, because you will not let this monster ruin you.

You spend your abundant, empty time testing his limits – seeing what he'll allow before he yanks at your leash again, seeing how far his possessiveness goes. You prod carefully at his security, trying to pinpoint the locations of all of the cameras you know must be scattered around the penthouse. You take all of the little pieces and tuck them into the depths of your mind for safekeeping, memorizing the schedule of the most lenient and laziest guards, keeping track of which maids are most gullible and agreeable. You're very careful not to tempt Silas's wrath again; you fear it'll get him in the habit of using that fucking shock collar, and you simultaneously worry that it might destroy your voice.

(After all, what use does a despicable, vile man like him have for a songbird that can't sing? He's already cut off your wings; best not to test if he'll do the same to your head.)

You let him think he's broken you. You let him think he's won, though you're careful to make the effect seem gradual, as if the hope is draining out of you like blood from a severed artery. You make a grand show of it all – and one day, nearly a year after you were locked in this gilded cage, you let it all out in the first sobbing meltdown you've had this whole time. He holds you in those horrible arms as if he isn't your tormentor, soothing you through the tears that aren't quite genuine but aren't quite fake.

"You understand, now, don't you?" he murmurs, combing through your hair as you sniffle. "This is where you belong, pet. You don't need to fight."

You let your expression collapse like a house of cards, nodding limply. For what might be the first time, you aren't afraid when he smiles.

Because that's the thing with arrogant men like him–

They never, ever doubt if they’re right.

—

The months drain past you like water through gravel. You watch, you observe, you listen – and good fucking god, do you learn.

After your meltdown, Silas returns some crumbs of autonomy to you. You’re granted the privilege of going outside on occasion – tailed by guards and at his discretion, of course. Every aspect of your life is still chained to his desires, but with every month that passes, you loosen the binds just a millimeter further, oiled by your apparent compliance.

You get in the habit of spending more time with him while he's working in his office; your skin crawls whenever he touches you, but your best vantage point is right on his lap, so you grit your teeth and bear it. You ply him with sex whenever his hands wander, because although you want to break off every one of his fingers, the information you glean in your periphery from his work documents is quite valuable. He's in charge of some very important decisions, you discover – and he's responsible for the displacement and deaths of many, many civilians. The details are foggy, but he seems to handle the paperwork of some incredibly profitable gem mining networks. You can't imagine how many people he's sentenced to death because they were unlucky enough to be living on valuable land.

(You can't stop thinking about your father – about that damn article. Where Will the Cruelty End? Every time he crosses your mind, you recall all of the times that people said you took after him rather than your mother, which she always seemed a bit bitter about.)

(You never intended to follow his legacy – but it seems like it followed you instead.)

Even mere glimpses of those papers make you nauseous, but if there's some sliver of a chance that you'll find something of use, you can't let it slip away. And, as it turns out, you were right to think so. You've been seeing mentions about some kind of criminal that's been a huge pain for his supply chain, and you've caught snippets of some of his other crimes in the documents: arson, theft, destruction of property, and even kidnapping and murder of IPC members, though their ranking is unclear. One day, you even catch a sliver of a photo from some kind of security footage; all you manage to see before the paper is turned are his sharp eyes and even sharper teeth, but it's enough to tell you one important fact–

A man with a gaze like that is not meant to be trifled with.

It's an extremely promising lead, but you'll need more information if you want to actually use it – so you bide your time, waiting for Silas to make that final, fatal slip.

—

People have always thought you were stupid, ever since you became involved with Silas; you're convinced it's the persona he's forced you to adopt ever since he closed his claws around you, or the way he handles you like his ditzy little trophy wife that could never hurt a fly – a pretty, empty-headed doll that's never dealt with anything troublesome in her life. It's something you've always resented, but never corrected. Now, you're thankful you never went through the trouble – because people are very, very loose-lipped when they think you're stupid.

It's from the mouth of the devil himself that you first hear the name Boothill.

Silas has you in his lap in one of the lounge’s private rooms, idly thumbing just a bit too low at your waist like the lecher he is as he contemplates his poker hand; you don't even need to peek at the others to know he's going to win regardless of how good it is. ("Word of advice, sweetie? Never trust a man that's too good at poker," your mother once said, only days after you'd graduated high school. "They're all rotten liars.")

Silas is sipping at his scotch, ranting with his scumbag coworkers about something or other; you're only paying enough attention to keep an ear out for potential escape routes, not to truly absorb any of the endless drivel about money, money, money. You always despise when he has this group over at the lounge, because they all get tipsy, and tipsy means handsy, and Silas is only possessive when it serves to piss you off, so he loves letting these disgusting fucking pigs put their hands on you – like you're a little toy that he wants to show off to his friends.

("It's just a bit of fun, pet," he always sighs, as if you're the one being difficult. "You love wearing those skimpy dresses when you perform. How's this any different?")

(He never acknowledges that he's the one that has complete control of your wardrobe. God, you can't wait to break his fucking fingers. You'll shatter his knees under the highest heels in your closet. You'll make him choke on his teeth after you bash them in with this wretched fucking collar. You'll make him choke on this hideous wedding ring. You'll– well. Best not to get too carried away, lest you break character.)

Now, as he leisurely gestures with his cards, he huffs, "And I've lost damn near five percent of my profit because of this mess."

The pig-nosed man to your right pipes up, simmering with anger. "And of course none of those stupid fucks at the security department can catch the guy. What was his name?"

You can't see it from your position, but you get the feeling that Silas is scowling like he's just stepped in shit. "Boothill. Just some idiot hick, but nobody's managed to kill him yet. I'd say they should just double his bounty and be done with it."

"Did you hear about that shipment of pure Caladorian ore he destroyed last quarter? The astronium?" the blonde across from you spits. "A good portion of that was my stock. Exploded! He didn't even steal it!"

The stoic, long-haired man on your left sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I could live with the losses, truthfully, but the press has gotten so noisy about him that it's starting to piss me off."

The pig-nosed one takes a sip of his own drink, the ice clinking against the glass like the rustle of a rattlesnake. "Didn't he kill that Vidyadhara bitch of yours, Jenn? Heard something about that yesterday."

The lanky man who's been otherwise silent sighs in what can only be irritation. "Yeah – kidnapped her while she was under triple security, no less. Horrible timing. All I needed was her signature to close that deal." He takes a sip of his scotch, a sour look on his face. “Ugh. All of that sex for nothing. The bitch couldn't give good head to save her life.”

(You resent that you've grown so used to their blatant misogyny. They'll say the most disgusting, lecherous things about women – including you, but that's hardly shocking – as if you aren't sitting right there. They treat you like you're little more than decor; the only thing that makes it tolerable is the fact that you can benefit from their stupidity.)

More importantly, though…

Kidnapped under triple security? That certainly piques your interest. If you recall correctly, they're talking about a woman you've only ever known as Weasel. She is– well, was a very powerful information broker tied to the IPC, known best for her paranoia and shrewd practices. Her normal security was apparently already absurd, and if this guy managed to get to her with three times that amount...

Well, perhaps you're more acquainted with his deeds than you would've guessed.

—

You had friends, before Silas locked you away in this ivory tower; perhaps your closest was Iris. You met her in school, so long ago that you can't even remember it. Between the two of you, she was the clever, mischievous one – and perhaps that's where you got your wits from, because she always knew just how to push your buttons in a way that made you want to be better than her. You got up to all sorts of trouble as teens; the most memorable was when you decided to pass poorly coded notes during class, and when you got caught, you refused to tell your teacher what it meant – so the clever old hag decoded it herself and read out whatever embarrassing nonsense you'd written about dating or after-school plans or what-have-you.

Thus began what you both liked to call the Code Wars – you and her versus Miss Kravitz.

It became a contest of how complex you could make your codes, how sneakily you could pass your notes, the difficulty ramping higher and higher when your teacher kept catching you. You came up with secret passphrases to cheat on tests; whenever you needed help, you'd write, verbatim, “We should hang out soon.” After, you'd ask about a specific date – however many days ahead it was from the present indicated which question you needed the answer for. Then, if the receiver didn't know the answer either, they'd indicate how fucked the two of you were by asking the sender if they wanted to play games. Video games were the mildest, followed by checkers, blackjack, poker, or, god fucking forbid, chess – which both of you were absolute shit at, hence its place as the most brutal.

So, when you write a letter to a woman you haven't even been able to text in years, asking if she'd like to play chess sometime – the sooner the better, but you can be patient – you can only pray. You write down your measurements, asking her to make a dress for you to wear during your next big show – an event for some very important figures in the IPC. I'm a bit uncertain on the details, you write, but I have a rough idea of what I'd like done. Perhaps we could schedule a consultation?

You're certain the letter is going to be checked thoroughly before it even leaves the building – most likely by Silas himself. The framing as a surprise will buy you some wiggle room, which you'll need desperately. Keep this on the down-low if you can, you write. It needs to be a surprise for my husband.

(The last time you spoke to Iris, you said something about being terrified that Silas was going to try to marry you. She told you to run, naturally – but she wasn't as familiar with the inner workings of the IPC as you were. She didn't see the mutilated bodies of the people that showed him the slightest disrespect – never by his own hand, but instead callously passed off to his lackeys. She didn't see the guillotine that still hangs over your neck to this very day, ready to plunge downward at any moment. She didn't see the cold look in your mother's eye the first and only time you tried to reach out to her for help. “You got yourself into this mess, sweetie,” she said blandly, looking down at her phone in apparent disinterest. “I can't afford to make an enemy of your paramour. You're on your own.” Maybe you'll kill her one day, too.)

(Now, you pray Iris remembers the fear in your eyes when you last hugged her goodbye for the evening. You can only hope that it wasn't for the final time.)

Last you knew, she was working as a tailor in a very high-end shop, climbing her way up the ladder until she got better and better projects. In the years that have passed, it's perfectly reasonable to assume that she moved on. You have to hope against hope that she hasn't.

When it's time to send the letter out, you think carefully about which maid you'll choose to target. The most skittish of them all is too obvious, so you'll instead go for the sweetest: Willow, the one that seems to grant you the most leeway, and the one that will probably make the best case for you when she inevitably reports you. (You suspect all of the maids and guards are under strict orders to report any suspicious behavior on your part. You're very confident that this will slip past your wretched husband's watch, however – even when it passes right under his nose.)

You approach her one afternoon while Silas is out and she's tidying up. "Willow, dear... Could I ask a favor of you?"

She jumps to attention in an instant. "Oh, of course, Mrs. Morghani!"

(You fight back the urge to gag. Ugh. You've tried telling the maids not to call you that, framing it as if you simply think it's too formal. None of them have ever listened; you have to wonder if Silas ordered them to do that just to piss you off.)

You smile through your disgust, making a show of looking around for any potential eavesdroppers – the perfect picture of a stupid, airheaded trophy wife. "Well... I have a letter I need delivered. Oh, but Silas can't know. It's a surprise."

It's very subtle, and you probably would've missed it if you weren't watching so closely, but you can see a particular look cross her eyes – a look that tells you that she's absolutely going to be handing this directly to Silas, first and foremost.

Willow leans in, dropping her voice. "A surprise? What for, ma'am?"

You give her a secretive little smile. "Well, there's that big event coming up – the one for the IPC? I really would like to look the part, and nothing in my wardrobe feels appropriate." Then, you wink. “So I'm thinking of getting a dress commissioned – one that Silas will love, I'm sure."

Willow makes a noise of understanding, smiling innocently as you pass her the envelope. “Of course, Mrs. Morghani. I'll deliver it to her myself.”

(You find it a bit frightening that, if you weren't already certain she was going to sell you out, you never would've guessed she was deceiving you.)

—

You have to bite back tears when Willow brings you a response letter only two days later. You smile evenly as you thank her, careful not to seem too excited as you open the envelope.

The moment you see that Iris mentions "catching up with Miss Kravitz just the other day," you know your real message was received; your old teacher died in your last year of school. You resist the urge to scan the letter thoroughly right then and there, determined to keep up appearances. She does mention that she'd appreciate some broad details for what you'd like the dress to look like, which gives you the perfect excuse to contemplate with the letter in hand.

You offhandedly mention to Willow that you'll need to write a response, and you'll need some time to pin down what exactly you'd like the seamstress to make. "Check back with me tomorrow, won't you? I should have everything down by then."

Then, you get to work.

Iris mentions that she'd be happy to schedule an appointment, and asks if a date between five to seven days from the mailing date would be acceptable. You scrutinize it for a moment, uncertain what exactly she could be pointing to – if anything at all. You check the capitalized letters – nothing. You check the vertical columns at the start of each line – nothing. You stare at the fifth line and the fifth sentence, then the seventh, certain that there must be something there...

Then, a memory snaps into place.

One of the last tricks you'd come up with back in school involved hiding a message throughout a note by looking at letters a certain interval apart. You'd usually count by fives, since that was often the easiest. And sure enough…

The fifth letter of the fifth sentence is a G. The tenth letter in the same sentence is a U. Five more is an A. Then, counting into the sixth sentence gives an R. Then, a D. Counting into the seventh gives an S – and that sentence ends with a question mark.

GUARDS?

You have to clench your teeth to stop yourself from leaping out of your chair in excitement. That can't be a coincidence.

Every time you leave the penthouse – which isn’t often, because Silas has very little tolerance for even the slightest shows of independence – you’re accompanied by two IPC guards, though you suspect that you’re also followed by at least one plainclothes agent as well. They could be a problem, but you'll get the opportunity to be alone with Iris when you're trying on the dress.

You write back that the seventh day would work perfectly – and it would, because you actually had no shows planned for you then. In the seventh line, using the same method that she did, you hide your response: TWO?

After that, you get to work on the specifications for the dress itself, though that part is mostly an afterthought. You'd like it to be red, you think; the color of blood should be the last thing that Silas sees. You add that you'd like it to be breathable, and not too difficult to move around in; you say that it's because you want to do a bit of dancing for your show, but you're really thinking about how miserable it would be to torture your wretched husband if you were in an obscenely tight corset. You tell her to take as many liberties as she likes, since you trust her judgement wholeheartedly – which is the truth, because she was always more fashionable than you.

With that, you mark the day on the calendar with shaking fingers, then hand off your letter to Willow once more.

You can't remember the last time you were this thrilled about something, nor the last time you really had something to look forward to.

Now, you just have to avoid fucking it all up.

—

The day of your meeting arrives mercifully quickly. You exercise your tiny privilege to ask your guards about going on a little shopping trip, and the fact that they don't ask Silas first is incredibly telling. You direct the driver to the shop that Iris works at, fighting every muscle in your body to stop yourself from shaking.

The door chimes as you step inside, a faint and pleasant floral scent singing in your nose. One of your guards follows inside and stands menacingly by the door, while the other remains just outside. You'd visited Iris at work a few times, a lifetime ago, and it's just as obscenely fancy as you remember it being – though you could swear that the dresses on display are even more intricate. Her handiwork, you'd wager.

You're barely kept waiting for a minute before she strides out from behind the curtain to the fitting room. She's aged quite nicely in your absence, you'd say; her cheeks are still a bit plump with that charming baby fat she never managed to lose, and her eyes are sharper than ever. She's dyed her hair a dark, metallic purple, fading to black toward the roots – a deliberate choice, no doubt, because her natural color is black. She was always pragmatic in her stylistic choices.

You can't help but smile, soft and earnest, as you meet her gaze; the expression feels alien on your face. Her eyes brighten with glee, but you can tell she's restraining herself for the sake of appearances; Silas knows that you were friends, no doubt – you learned very quickly that he had an unbelievable amount of surveillance on you from the day you met – but for all he's concerned, you merely drifted apart. Hysterical, really, because he was the one that facilitated your isolation.

"It's so good to see you again," you say as she walks closer, and you wonder if that might be the first genuine, completely innocuous thing you've said in months – maybe even years. "I'm sorry for being absent for so long, but I've been very busy. You know how it goes.”

“Oh, nonsense,” she huffs, waving you off. “I know you have your reasons, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re here.”

You make small talk for a moment, chattering idly, doing your best not to seem too eager. Before long, though, she says, “Well, enough dilly-dallying! Let's get to work, love.”

She leads you to the dressing room, holding the curtain back for you and ducking in after; she always was obscenely tall. The moment the curtain falls behind you, Iris pins you with a subtle, questioning gaze.

You nod your head briskly, covering your eyes. They can't see us.

She points at her mouth, then her ear. Can anyone hear what we're saying?

You nod again, pinching that horrible collar for emphasis, then motion like you're writing on your palm. Yes. Writing only.

"Alright," she suddenly chirps, innocent as can be. "I'm actually running a bit behind, so I'll need a moment to get everything ready.” As she speaks, she plucks a small notebook from her pocket, clicking the pen in time with a syllable to hide the noise. “I'm very sorry for the delay.”

"Not a problem at all,” you reply, carefully taking the book from her as she guides you to sit on the chaise lounge beside her. Your fingers shake subtly around the pen as you ready it over the paper.

You cut straight to the meat of things. I need someone to kill Silas to ever stand a chance of escaping, you write, and I think I know of someone that could get the job done. Do you know the name Boothill?

Yes, Iris writes quickly. You want me to try contacting him?

If you can. I have an opportunity that could help him take down dozens of IPC higher-ups. If he attacks on the night of my next big show, they'd all be in the same place. I'll need some way to disable this collar or communicate silently if he wants to meet ahead of time.

Iris nods slowly as she reads your message. I'll convince him.

Be careful, you write, almost frantically. Silas might have someone watch you after this. He can pull Synesthesia Beacon records for location pings, and he'll probably watch your calls and texts.

Her brow furrows, but not in a distressed manner. No, this is a look you became quite familiar with in school–

That's the look she makes when she's facing a difficult problem, getting ready to either vault straight over it or dismantle it with her bare hands. And by fucking god, she always does it.

So when she unflinchingly writes, I'll figure it out, you can't help but believe her. I'll burn these notes the moment you leave.

I owe you my life, you reply with a shaking hand, swallowing hard through the tension building in your throat. (The words don't even come close to properly expressing your gratitude.)

She gives you the sweetest, gentlest smile you've ever seen on her face, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to hold back tears – even more so when she places a tender hand atop yours, stroking her thumb over your knuckles. You take a deep, deep breath, turning your hands to link your fingers and squeezing her tightly. Your chest aches with an inescapable yearning, so strong that it nearly strangles you.

Then, you put the pen back onto the paper. Go time.

She nods, standing slowly and walking toward the back. She ducks behind the curtain and returns only a moment later with a dress on a hanger, zipped safely in a garment bag. “So sorry for the wait. Everything is good to go now.”

“You're perfectly fine, dear,” you say, fixing the same plastic smile on your face that you've been wearing for years.

The rest of the visit is like an elaborate game of pretend, and you despise how easily you sink back into your role as a ditzy little trophy wife. Your awe when she reveals the dress is quite genuine, though; it's drop-dead gorgeous. It's the color of a vibrant red wine, fading into black toward the bottom hem. The ruffled fabric sparkles like it's made of glitter, but the texture is sinfully soft against your skin. It's quite tasteful, framing your bust without being lewd, and although there is a deep cut in the back, your skin is still covered by a thin window of sheer fabric; it strikes a perfect balance of feeling provocative, yet actually remaining rather conservative. (Good. The less these pigs pay attention to your body, the better. Their eyes make your skin crawl.) The most eye-catching part of it all is the rubies, set in silver and woven masterfully into an intricate pattern of lace.

Admittedly, your favorite feature of the entire thing is probably the pockets hidden into the folds. If you needed any more proof that Iris still knows you perfectly, you need look no further.

And, sure enough, it fits you like a glove. Briefly, you wonder just how many all-nighters she had to pull to get this done so quickly – especially considering that this was supposed to be the consultation, but you suppose she's always been an overachiever.

For a spell, you can't help but admire yourself in the mirror, tracing the curve of your waist and the way the fabric curls around your thighs.

You… You can't remember the last time you wanted to wear a dress. Even when you bought things yourself, it was always for a purpose – to soften up Silas for one of your investigations, or to distract him with sex instead of interrogating you about your scheming, or any number of things.

But this? This would be something you'd buy for yourself.

“Iris, this is…” you breathe, running your fingers gingerly along the gems. “This is… phenomenal.”

Her smile is sweet and earnest. “It's only because you're wearing it, love. You really make it shine.”

You smile – a soft, tender thing, wavering at the edges. “You're too sweet for your own good.”

She says there are a few places she needs to tighten or loosen, just to make sure it's perfect, although you admittedly wonder if it's just a ploy, because you could swear it already fits you flawlessly. The appointment is unfortunately brief, since you don't want to arouse any suspicion; you're fortunate that Silas has made the mistake of letting you visit an old friend, and you don't want to push your luck. You hug her tightly before you leave, and your body feels strange; you don't think you've felt a pleasant touch in years, and although you thought you'd surpassed the loneliness, it seems like these crumbs are enough to awaken your ravenous appetite.

You'll have to starve for a while longer, unfortunately.

—

Some time later, you receive another letter; your heart pounds in anticipation as you take it from Willow. In the note, Iris asks if you could schedule one more appointment to be absolutely certain that the dress didn't need any more tweaks. I made a few more modifications, she adds, but I'd like to double check that it fits perfectly. I want you looking your best!

The real purpose of the message becomes clear when she mentions meeting ten to twelve days from now. Sure enough, you use the same technique – though you're momentarily confused when it spits out gibberish. You try a few different intervals, finally landing on three; she must've decided to change it just to be safe.

Your confusion only increases when you see her message.

KIDNAP.

Not a question – a statement.

Well, that's... a bit more vague than you'd like.

Is it a distress signal? Is she saying she was kidnapped? Surely she would've added some kind of other signifier… right? A “help,” at the very least?

As it is, you don't think you have any way to help her either way – not yet. You write back, though you can't spend as much time as you'd like working on it, lest you draw suspicion by spending too much time writing what should be a simple letter. In the return note, you add, Please let me know if I can assist you in any way. If nothing else, I would love to spend time with you again.

You hate this feeling – this terror, this dread, this helplessness.

The only thing you can do now is wait.

—

The explanation comes only two days later, to your surprise.

You're out shopping for a gift for Iris in return for all of the hassle you've doubtlessly put her through – though you refuse to consider the increasing possibility that you'll never have the chance to give it to her. You've paused outside of an antique store, peering through the window at the quaint little figurines they have on display. There's an incredibly cute sculpture of a chameleon with a sun hat that reminds you of her. Idly, you wonder if she still likes reptiles, just like she did years ago.

Worth checking out, at least. You hum, grabbing onto the door handle to–

You hear the glass shatter before you hear the gunshot.

Blood splatters on the window next to you; there's a clattering noise, like dead weight and armor hitting concrete.

The streets erupt into chaos and screaming.

You hear one of your guards – perhaps the only remaining one – blurt out a string of curses as she grabs you and pulls you down, covering you with her body as she barks into her communicator.

“This is Agent S-421! Officer down! Suspect is armed–”

Another gunshot, and her weight hits you like a brick wall, crushing you into the sidewalk below. Two more shots – they sound closer than the others – and then a final bang rings through the air; you think you hear another body hit the ground some ways away. You hold your breath, staring wide-eyed at the reflections in the glass door, frantically trying to locate the shooter.

You hear his spurs before you see him. They jingle with every step, cutting right through the cacophony from the crowd around you.

The first thing you see is the red glint of his eyes.

You know that face. You've seen it while subtly peeking at Silas's files, in wanted posters, once or twice on the news–

It's Boothill, and he's walking right toward you.

Your heart stops dead in your chest when he hauls the corpse off of you single handedly, the helmet hitting the concrete with a brutal crack. His lethal eyes meet yours in the reflection of the blood-stained glass. He's smiling, so wide that you swear you can see every single one of his sharp, menacing teeth.

“Sorry ‘bout this, ma’am,” he drawls as he levels the barrel of his gun to the back of your head, “but you'll be comin’ on a lil’ trip with me.”

Well.

This is… unexpected.

Very, very slowly, you get to your feet, swallowing heavily; you turn with all the caution of a rabbit being hunted by a fox, clenching your jaw as your heart pounds faster and faster. His grin widens into something feline and satisfied when you meet his eyes.

“I knew you'd be a good sport,” he purrs, looking far too pleased.

He leads you into an automatic taxi that waits on the street, oh-so-politely slamming the door behind you once you climb inside. Your skin prickles when he gets in on the other side, lounging in the seat like you’re a cute couple off on a date. His revolver remains in his hand, but he isn’t aiming it at you – and he barely looks at you as the cab takes off down the road, winding down the streets.

All the while, your mind is running a mile a minute. Is this what Iris meant when she said kidnap? You’re not exactly sure what you were expecting, but you can’t say this ever occurred to you.

It’s only when you arrive at a nearly empty shipyard that you realize what exactly he’s planning. He gets out first, circling around to open the door for you; he’d be the perfect picture of a gentleman if not for the pistol held loosely in his hand.

“Ladies first,” he drawls, gesturing to a small transport ship sitting nearby, its hatch sliding open.

(How polite.)

You do not appreciate that you have to turn your back to him to climb up the ramp, but you grit your teeth and bear it. His spurs clink as he follows after you, the hatch closing with an ominous hiss. You turn just in time to watch him holster his gun, and although you’re careful to create some distance, that does admittedly soothe your heart a bit.

“Now, why don’t ya sit right there while I get us movin’, yeah?” he says pleasantly. “We’ve got plenty to chat about. I’d hate for somebody to interrupt.”

Without waiting for a reply, he strides off to the cockpit without looking back.

You sigh as he disappears, resting one hand on your chest to settle your racing heart. You’d hoped that all of these years living in the lion’s den would’ve toughened you, but it seems like it’s only made you more skittish – as demonstrated by the way you flinch when the ship whirrs to life under your feet, causing you to sway as it takes off.

…Best to sit down now, in case he jumps into hyperspace.

Sure enough, only a few minutes later, you feel the tell-tale buzz of energy begin to build in the walls, singing a chorus in your bones; you can’t remember the last time you felt the sublime hum of FTL travel against your skin – like the sweet tang of freedom on your tongue, rich and full and tantalizing. The entire ship jolts as it enters supercruise, the aged hull groaning against the pressure of warping space.

The moment the ship settles, you stand again, eager to stay on your feet – and not thirty seconds later, Boothill strolls out of the cockpit, his gaze pinning you down.

“Now, I've heard some real interestin’ things ‘bout that husband a’ yours,” he begins without fanfare, tilting his head as he examines you. “N’ I've heard you're sweeter than honey. Surely you can help a fella out, huh? Just got a few questions for ya.”

For a heartbeat, you actually wonder if this is a genuine kidnapping – if you've just set yourself up as a victim that won't get so much as a morsel in return.

But then, he reaches up, tapping his neck – right where your collar rests on you.

You swallow heavily and nod, right before you stutter, “I– I don't know what you've heard, but I'm– I don't know anything.”

He hums as if in disbelief, and when he takes a step toward you, your heart skips despite yourself. “Oh, I'm not so sure ‘bout that, miss.” Another step; you clench your jaw, fighting the urge to back up. “But first… That's an awfully pretty necklace, huh?”

You add just the right amount of alarm in your voice when you say, “W–Wait, don't– It was a gift.”

The way he laughs sends a shiver up your spine. “It's cute that ya think I give a rat's ash,” he coos, taking another step, bringing him within reach of you. “Now sit still so I can get a better look.”

You remain perfectly motionless, but he snarls like you'd disobeyed. He reaches down toward his revolver, and your heart jumps into your throat, but when he puts his hand on it, he only cocks it with a loud, ominous click, leaving it holstered.

“You deaf, ya stupid lil' fudgehead?” he growls, but his eyes are perfectly calm, if a bit amused. “I told ya to sit still, ya forkin' brat.”

Slowly, almost carefully, he reaches up toward your neck, and you have to fight to keep your pulse in check. He's helping you. He's helping you, god damn it.

(This reaction – this instinctual terror – isn't because of Silas. This is not because of Silas. It can't be. That fucking rat bastard could never damage you like that. This must be from something else – something unrelated. It’s perfectly reasonable to be skittish in a scenario like this. Perfectly understandable.)

His cold, metal fingers brush your throat as they clench around the collar, and bizarrely, something about how they feel nothing like flesh is soothing to you. Then, without so much as an ounce of strain, he breaks the accursed fucking thing in half, pulling it away in two pieces of dense metal and garish diamonds. The moment he does, you reach up to your neck, carefully running your fingers across the skin that was hidden beneath.

(You can't remember the last time you took a breath that wasn't at least slightly strained by the weight of the metal. You can't remember when you became used to it, either.)

He gives the collar an evaluating look, twisting the pieces around in his hands. Then, he barks out a laugh.

“Ha! Shoot, I'm good,” he chuckles, tapping a tiny, almost invisible removable plate on the back. “I knew the energy signature on this fudgin’ thing was weird. Bet ya were hopin’ I wouldn't find the tracker in this bad boy, huh? Too bad.”

Then, he unceremoniously drops it to the ground and slams his foot down into it. You watch with no small amount of satisfaction as the metal bends and crunches beneath his heel, the diamonds sparkling as they come loose. Never in your life have you thought it looked beautiful – not until this very moment, watching as the tool of your imprisonment is shattered beneath the ruthless heel of a stranger.

Once he's done, he crouches down, sifting through the pieces for a moment before he finds some kind of electric component. He holds it up to the light for only a moment before he crushes it to dust in his palm.

Finally, all is silent except for the quiet hum of the ship. He gives you a questioning look as he stands, his brows raised.

You take a deep, cleansing breath; you can't remember the last time your body felt so light.

For the first time in years, you speak without being strangled by that collar – without your every word being recorded for that rotten bastard to sift through.

“Should be all clear, now.”

He gives you a once-over, nonchalantly reaching back toward his revolver to decock it. “Don't see nothin’ on my scanners, so I'll wager you're right.”

A moment passes before you smile, wide and broad and earnest; it feels unfamiliar on your face. Then, you hold out your hand for him to shake, grinning ear-to-ear. “It's wonderful to finally meet you, Boothill.”

He blinks at you for a moment, then laughs, bright and loud. “Oh, you're a funny one, huh?” Without fuss, he clasps your hand in his, giving it a firm shake; the cool metal of his palm is strangely pleasant against your skin. “The pleasure’s all mine, miss. Heard you've got a pest problem?”

“Oh, more than just a problem,” you say, your smile sharpening into something dangerous. “It's a damn infestation.”

A lethal glint shines in his eyes. “Well, consider me your exterminator.”

(Oh, you like him already.)

"I'll cut through the noise, then,” you say, a harder look entering your gaze. “I can deliver Silas to you – and an entire pig sty of IPC executives – on a silver platter.” You pin him with an evaluating look. "But I have a few conditions."

He raises a brow at you, perhaps a bit skeptically. "I don't do bargains, but now you've got me curious. Shoot."

When you smile, you suspect you look like the perfect picture of the devil ready to snatch up the soul of a sinner. "You'll help me pull out his teeth, and then you'll let me pull the trigger. And once you wrap up your business with the lounge, I'd like you to blow the place to hell."

His brows just about shoot into his hairline, and when he looks at you now, it's clearly in a new light. He breathes out a chuckle caught between blatant admiration and disbelief. Slowly, he drawls, "Why the teeth?"

You cock your head innocently. "Well, he always loved threatening to cut out my tongue. 'What's a songbird without its tongue,' he'd say." Then, your smile twists impossibly higher, your canines glinting in the light. "So let me ask you this: what's a snake without its fangs?"

There's a brief pause before he laughs, deranged and delighted. "Oh, I think we're gonna get along just fine, partner."

You hum in agreement, your smile settling into something more pleasant. “Wonderful. Let's get to the meat of things, then.”

Over the next twenty minutes or so, the two of you hash out the details – the most critical information about the operations of the IPC that you've gleaned over the years, as well as potential weak points he could exploit at a later date. Then, you go into detail about the upcoming event – who's going to be there, the layout of the floor, the typical placement of the guards, the start and estimated end time, your overall plan, so on and so forth. Boothill agrees that the upcoming meeting at the lounge would be the perfect time to strike.

“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” he drawls. “Two floors down from the roof, ya said?”

“Yes. You'll have a rather tedious task ahead of you if you choose to go straight up from the ground floor, not to mention all of the rigmarole to get access to the elevators, so I recommend trying to get access from the roof if you can.” You tilt your head, considering the height of the buildings that surround it. “There's a few helipads on the top of the building – heavily guarded, as you can imagine. It's the tallest tower for a good few blocks, but there's one that’s about half the height just beside it. Make of that what you will.”

He hums in thought. “And the whole buildin’ is full to forkin’ burstin’ with those IPC muddle-fudgers?”

You absolutely should not find his odd vocabulary charming, but you frankly can't help yourself. “It's one of their critical headquarters on the planet, yes.” Then, you eye him a bit more carefully, trying to feel out his intentions. “Why? Are you planning on leaving a little gift for them?”

He grins so wide that you can almost see all of his teeth. “I dunno,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “Would ya call bringin’ the whole buildin’ down a gift?”

You laugh openly, delight curling in your heart. “A gift to me, certainly.”

You're interrupted by a series of quick, harsh beeps from the cockpit.

“Son of a bench,” he hisses. “Was wonderin’ when they'd show up. They're ‘bout to interdict us. Get ready.”

A note of dread rings in the back of your mind. Back to your tormentor, you suppose. “Alright,” you reply with no small amount of bitterness, sitting yourself in one of the corners of the room as Boothill turns to walk into the cockpit.

Now, you just need to make yourself cry.

(You have quite a bit in the backlog, so it probably won't be very difficult.)

“Wait. One more thing,” you say quickly, an idea striking you. “You should backhand me.”

He whips around to look at you so quickly that it almost looks like he was slapped. “What the fudge did you just say?”

You sigh, anxiety tickling the back of your throat, winding tighter in your chest. “Slap me. Leave a bruise if you can. It'll make this seem more legitimate.”

He gawks at you like you've just transformed into a five-headed hydra before his very eyes. Finally, after several seconds of silence, he shakes his head. “No way. I– I don't know what kinda man you think I am, miss, but–”

“Forget it, then.” As the knot unwinds from around your heart, you're torn between frustration and gratitude. “Could you at least tie my hands?”

This is the first time you've seen him look even remotely uncomfortable, which is incredible considering all of the terrible things you've heard he's done to IPC employees of all types. This is all it takes to get him squeamish?

“Guess I can do that,” he mumbles, looking distinctly displeased.

You turn and hold your wrists behind your back, simultaneously trying to harness your fear, your anger, your grief. As he winds the rope around your wrists, you clench your eyes shut and imagine instead that it's Silas, that you're back in that prison of a penthouse, that he's about to put his disgusting hands on you again. You think about all the time he's stolen from you – how many years he's wasted keeping you as his caged pet. You think about how little he truly appreciates you – your skill, your personality, your wit, your intelligence.

You can feel the budding tension behind your eyes, but no tears yet.

Deeper, then.

As Boothill ties the final knot in the rope, you dig further into the recesses of your mind, unearthing the fears you've never allowed yourself to fully unpack. You think about how terrified you've always been that Silas was going to pass you around that poker table to let those fucking pigs do more than just touch you. You think about the ever-expanding fear that he'll get bored of you now that you've stopped outwardly struggling, and that he could order one of your supposed guards to shoot you at any time. You think about the paranoia you've held all this time that he was going to find you out – that he'd figure out this plot of yours and use that fucking collar on you until it fried your brain and truly left you mindless and helpless.

Heat prickles in your waterline, but it's not enough.

So you finally think about what might be the most terrifying piece of all of this: Silas finding out about Iris’s involvement.

You think of him having her kidnapped and brought to that wretched fucking penthouse, of heartless lackeys tying her up and holding both of you in the living room. You think of them flaying her alive, of the way she'd scream, of the way her blood would stain that pristine white carpet.

(And, in a way, it would be your fault, too.)

The dam finally bursts, and the tears spill down onto your cheeks. You need to be careful here; you can't let yourself slip too deep, or you'll lose it all, but you need to keep the tears going. You shut your eyes tighter, clenching your fists as you focus on the precarious balance beam you've been forced onto.

“Hey,” Boothill says suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. You open your blurry eyes to find him kneeling in front of you, and–

Is that… Is that genuine concern on his face?

“What's goin’ on?” he asks, so gently that it actually makes your throat clench tighter. “You want me to untie ya?”

Your brain takes several seconds to catch up. “No, no,” you say quickly, sniffling through the tears. “I'm– I just need to make this look real. That rotten fucking bastard thinks I'm so pitiful that he'd get suspicious if I wasn't crying.”

You thought that would immediately dispel the worry in his gaze, but if anything, that seems to make it worse. His brow furrows, and he slowly nods. “...Right. Okay, that– Yeah.”

Then, he clears his throat and stands, and somehow he's more awkward about this than you are. Right when he opens his mouth again, the whole spacecraft jolts with a groan, rocking the ground underneath you. He belts out a colorful series of swears – well, substitute swears – as sirens begin to howl, leaping into the cockpit with a jangle of spurs.

Go time, then.

You clench your eyes shut once more, scooping up even more terror from that seemingly endless well to keep the tears coming. You're almost thrown onto your back from where you sit when the ship leaves hyperspace with a cantankerous wail, the walls rattling dangerously. Only half a minute later, there's the screech of metal on metal toward the hatch – no doubt they've latched on with a breacher bridge to pry it open. Sure enough, you can already hear the door starting to creak from the pressure – until Boothill yanks the ship hard in the other direction, and the connection breaks with a terrible groan.

You don't concern yourself with any of that. The true life or death scenario will come when you're “rescued.”

You keep the tears flowing, hoping that your eyes will be suitably red by the time they break in. You keep yourself hunkered down in the corner, bracing yourself as best you can with your hands tied behind you.

Suddenly, Boothill rushes out of the cockpit, scowling like he's just eaten a particularly sour lemon. You watch with some measure of confusion as he stops right in front of the hatch – and then leaps. He grabs onto the ledge above the door, hauling himself up and precariously perching like a monkey in a tree.

When you give him a bewildered look, he merely grins, pressing a finger over his mouth as if to shush you.

…Well, you suppose you'll just have to wait and see.

Now, without him actively steering the ship away, the next attempt to bridge goes uncontested. The hatch groans, the hydraulics fighting to stay closed – until Boothill hits something on his wrist, and the doors fly open.

You're careful to make yourself look as pitiful as possible when five IPC guards come rushing in, guns at the ready. They sweep the room, confirming that it's clear except for you – to their knowledge, at least. One beelines straight for you, one stays to guard the hatch, two head to the cockpit, and one to what you assume is the cargo bay. All the while, you struggle not to so much as glance at the spot where Boothill is settled.

“Are you injured?” the guard asks you, kneeling down by your side and moving to cut the ropes binding you.

You shake your head with a sniffle, quickly squeezing your eyes shut so fresh tears run down your cheeks.

Then, a gunshot damn near makes you jump out of your skin.

Your eyes fly open just in time to watch as Boothill lands cleanly on his feet, the body of the one that was guarding the door falling limp to the floor. He leaps through the open hatch in a blink, saluting right as the guard next to you whips around, fumbling for his gun.

“Thanks for the new ship, fudgeheads,” Boothill laughs, and the doors promptly snap shut behind him right as the guard fires.

Well, he certainly has a flair for the dramatic.

(You can’t even pretend that you mind. You’re nothing if not a performer, after all.)

—

As you expected, Silas is utterly unconcerned about you; rather, he’s worried about the information you might’ve leaked.

The moment you get back to the penthouse, he practically hustles you into the living room to interrogate you. He doesn’t even bother asking if you’re alright before bombarding you with questions.

You tell him “that scary outlaw” demanded to know everything you knew about him and Jenn. “I– I didn’t know anything, other than that he comes by for poker sometimes,” you sob, hiding your face in your hands. (And to stare at my chest like the fucking lecher he is, you don’t bother adding.)

You can feel his icy, unsympathetic stare slicing into you. “And what did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing! There's– I don't even know what your job is, besides the department you're in,” you babble. “He was so angry, I thought– I thought he was going to–”

You force yourself to break down into hysterics, your whole body shaking. After a long moment, you hear Silas sigh, dramatic and weary. You have to grit your teeth to contain a flinch when he puts his hand on your head, petting you like you’re a fucking dog.

“It’s alright, pet,” he says, and that disgusting sweetness finally sinks into his voice. “You did well.”

You nod and sniffle, rubbing at your eyes to hide the fact that you can’t quite conjure any more tears.

When your lips tremble, you’re sure he thinks it’s because you’re about to cry again, but you’re really biting back a smile.

He doesn’t have a fucking clue just how well you did.

—

As you expected, Silas's security practically quadruples, and your leash becomes shorter than ever. Your appointment with Iris was cancelled, obviously, but it’s of little consequence other than admittedly disappointing you a bit. If all goes well, you'll be able to visit her many, many times after this.

The stage is set. Now, all you need to do is say your lines in rehearsal, and wait for the show to begin.

Silas, the fucking bastard, has your collar replaced before you even get to go to bed the night you were “kidnapped.” This one feels tighter, heavier, even more gaudy – but you're sure you're making it all up, because it looks identical to the last. The days creep by, hour by hour, minute by minute. You're finding it harder to keep up your mask now that you've truly gotten a taste of freedom. You keep having dreams of beating Silas to death, and every time you wake up, you yearn.

Patience, patience, patience. You'll get your dues very shortly.

(You also have a nightmare about the event coming and going without your rescuer coming in to steal the show. You dream of a thousand hands touching you, of a thousand eyes watching you, of a thousand ears tracking you; you're pinned by their horribly warm hands, bruising under their fleshy grip as they drag you down, down, down into the ocean of ink. No one comes to save you. No one answers your muffled, drowning screams. All of your planning, your plotting, your sleuthing, your struggling – it's all been for nothing.)

(You wake up with your face damp with tears, immeasurably grateful that Silas has already left for the morning.)

You refuse to think yourself into a corner when the final day dawns. You hold fast, keeping your mind on a single track; you know that if you let it stray, you'll be risking it all. When the event grows near, you don your new dress and prop yourself up with the most tolerable heels in your wardrobe; you think about piercing his eyes with them as you tighten the straps, and you can't help but smile.

You tolerate the touches of your makeup artist begrudgingly, and you bite your tongue through the tugs and pulls and yanks from your hair stylist, chanting in your mind that you'll never need to deal with this again after today. You'll get a gun, and you'll get training, and you'll shoot anyone that dares to touch you without asking.

By the time you're ready to walk on stage, your skin is prickling with irritation and you're gritting your teeth to stop yourself from biting the next person that touches you. You clench your jaw twice as hard when Silas strolls into the dressing room, his eyes roaming over you lecherously.

“Stunning as always, doll,” he says, and you have to smile as if the weight of his gaze doesn't make you want to rip off your skin. “That dress makes you look marvelous.”

You bat your lashes coyly, fussing with your necklace like the bashful little toy you're supposed to be. “Oh, you really think so? You're too kind.”

His chuckle is so smarmy and overconfident that it makes you want to scratch his eyes out. Patience, patience, patience. He wanders closer to you, running his fingers up your back; you hope your shiver reads as eagerness rather than disgust. “I know you're still a bit out of sorts from that, hm… incident. You'll be able to perform, won't you? I have quite a few important names in the audience, after all.”

(He isn't asking.)

You give him a shaky little smile for effect. “Of course, sweetie. I could never let you down.”

He pats your shoulder in a way that tells you he would've pet your head like a dog if he weren't worried about disturbing the elaborate knot your hair has been bound into. “Very good. We'll talk after, then.”

You manage to contain the full force of your smile until he closes the door behind him.

Oh, no. You'll do more than talk.

—

Despite the many, many eyes of important people on you tonight, the stage doesn't feel as horribly oppressive as it has these last few years.

You genuinely can't remember the last time you had fun performing. You've never enjoyed singing at the lounge, of course – not even on the first night, because you could already taste the danger in the air. The casino was just work; you prefer quieter venues anyway. Most things before that had paid so terribly that it spoiled the entire experience for you.

But now? Oh, you feel alive.

You're certain it shows in your performance, this fresh bout of liveliness and glee. You sing your fucking heart out – not for any of these worthless, disgusting rats, but for yourself. The lounge is rich with the sound of your voice, and the whole audience is spellbound, and you're certain you look positively ethereal in the spotlight – but you don't think about any of that. Instead, you think about how this will be the last show you ever perform at this wretched fucking place, and how you'll wake up tomorrow a free woman. You think about how you'll be able to wear comfortable, casual clothes; about how you'll be able to trim your nails however short you'd like, or bite them down for the hell of it; about how you'll be able to eat whatever junk food you want; about how you'll be able to sleep late whenever you damn well please without someone badgering you; about how you'll never step foot in that prison of a penthouse again; about how every drop of fear and paranoia and stress over this plan will be worth it when you get to plant a bullet in Silas’s skull.

Your entire show goes flawlessly, and you let yourself breathe, playing for an audience of one – perhaps two, if Boothill is listening. You hit the high note in the final song perfectly, feeling your heart swell with joy, your lips curling–

And then that crazy fucking cyborg crashes through the window.

The entire world goes still as he rolls and bounces back onto his feet, a maniacal grin stretching across his face as he spins his revolver in his hand.

You hear his voice, loud and crisp in your ear, as if he was standing right next to you.

“Draw.”

The world erupts.

Screaming and gunfire fill the entire space, and you don't hesitate before spinning around and ducking behind the curtain, rushing straight for the dressing room in the back to escape the crossfire; it would be frankly embarrassing if you went through all of this rigmarole only to die right before the finale. You slam the door behind you and lock it, the sounds muffled through the wall; the loudest noise of all is your heart beating wildly in your chest.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you realize you're grinning just as wide as Boothill was.

Now, you wait – because the real show has yet to begin.

You sit down at your vanity without a care in the world, eager to free yourself from this horrendous updo and remove this wretched fucking makeup that you're forced to wear every goddamn day. You aren't putting on so much as a speck of mascara for a year at an absolute minimum. No necklaces, either.

With that thought in mind, you pause, turning your gaze down to the gaudy wedding ring that's remained like a brand on your finger all this time. You've always found it hideously ugly – and while you'd love to make him choke on it, you are still a pragmatic woman above all.

And there's truly no better fate for a ring like this than to be thoughtlessly sold – for it to be the foundation of your new life of freedom.

With a tiny smile, you wriggle it off of your finger and tuck it into one of the pockets hidden in the folds of your dress.

You continue to wipe every piece of your mask away, pulling out three dozen pins from your hair, letting your shoulders go lax to the tune of the slowly quieting gunfire coming from the rest of the lounge. When you finally toss the final makeup wipe aside, you take a moment to truly, truly look at yourself.

Were it not for this hideous collar, you would look more like yourself than you have in years – but you suppose that won’t be a problem for much longer.

Damn, this dress looks good on you. You’ll have to be careful when you’re breaking Silas down into a pulp; it'd be a shame to stain it with pig’s blood.

On that note…

By the time you come out of your daze, the building is utterly quiet. Perhaps if you weren’t an accomplice, you might call it too quiet.

As it is? The only way it could be better is if you heard–

Then, just outside, you hear the subtle jangling of spurs.

Metal knuckles rap once, twice on the door.

“Knock knock, chickadee,” comes Boothill’s voice, cheerful and bright. “I've got a gift for ya.”

You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from snickering – then you remember that you don't need to anymore, and you burst into laughter. You walk over and undo the lock, smiling madly as you open the door.

And there he is: Boothill in all his glory – the true star of the show for the night, not a hair out of place, looking utterly untouched aside from the smears of red that coat him from head to toe. (You're certain not a drop of it is his own.)

“You look very handsome covered in blood,” you say earnestly, your lips curling higher as his eyes widen slightly, clearly caught off guard by such a direct, strangely-timed compliment. Before he can fire back with anything, your eyes fall to the mess of a man he's got slumped at his side.

Silas has been gagged with his own tie, his arms bound helplessly behind his back. He's got a fair amount of blood on him, smeared on his rumpled dress shirt, though he could certainly do with a bit more; it looks like his nose has been broken as well, because a veritable fountain of blood is gushing down from it. The cowboy’s metal fist is clenched ruthlessly in his hair, holding him up like a child does a broken doll.

You smile, wide and wicked and positively lethal, and sadistic delight curls in your chest at the way his eyes widen, darting between you and the cyborg.

Perhaps his miniscule brain is finally catching up.

“I see you've done marvelous work already,” you say, turning your gaze back to Boothill. Then, you step aside, opening the door wider with a grand gesture. “Won't you join me for a moment, darling?”

He chuckles, tipping his hat, all leisurely and gentlemanly. “Oh, it'd be my pleasure, angel.”

(From any other mouth, such a name would make your skin crawl – but you think it sounds rather sweet on his tongue.)

He steps inside, dragging Silas in by his hair; your lips twitch at the agonized look on his face, his brows wound tight. You close the door behind them, locking it with a click, just for effect. (It's not like anyone's alive to disturb you, after all.)

You turn just in time to watch Boothill drop him unceremoniously to the floor in a lump, wiping off his hands on his pants like he's just touched something absolutely vile – which you suppose he has.

“Sorry ‘bout the nose, by the way,” he drawls – but he's not talking to Silas. “Seems like your package got a lil’, heh, damaged in transit. Wanted him to be in mint condition for ya, but…”

Your lips twitch in open amusement. “Let me guess,” you say slowly. “He said something stupid, didn't he?”

He harrumphs in blatant disapproval. “More like rude.” He gives Silas a sharp glare, and you have to laugh at the way the sniveling little weasel flinches. “You ain't ever meant to talk about a lady like that. Bet you're real sorry now, huh?”

Your heart practically sings at the quiet whimper that escapes him.

“Got anything to drink in here, by the way?” Boothill drawls, completely nonchalant. “Worked up a mighty thirst takin’ out all that trash.”

You hum in thought as you stroll slowly towards Silas, your heels clicking on the tile, your eyes fixed on him like a cat stalking its prey. “There should be a small selection in the mini-fridge. They're all quite bad, to be frank – other than the whiskey, but that's because I picked it.” Then, you narrow your eyes accusingly. “You've always had horrible taste in drinks, Silas. Add that to the list.”

The moment Boothill starts to turn his back, the little rat starts to push himself away, sweating profusely. In a flash, Boothill whips around, aims, and fires – and for a heartbeat, you wonder if he actually shot him–

No. There is a fresh bullet hole right next to his knee, though.

“You'd best stay still, ya worthless shirtbag,” the cyborg growls, “‘less you're eager for me to put a bullet or two in your knees.”

What a fantastic idea.

But first…

“Just a moment,” you say mildly, strolling slowly towards them. You circle around to get a look at Silas's hands where they're tied behind his back, your eyes locking onto his watch. “Oh, wonderful.”

You kneel down, laughing openly at the way he flinches the moment you grab hold of his wrist. You quickly undo the buckle on his watch, sliding it off and pressing his thumb against the screen to unlock it. Then, you stand to examine it more closely. You fiddle with it for a moment, swiping between options and apps and menus in your search.

You're tempted to demand that he tell you the exact location of the collar controls and threaten to skin him alive if he doesn't, but you find the right menu before long. (Interestingly, you note that the default voltage is labeled as dangerous. Much to consider.) You tap the button to disengage the lock, then twice more to confirm.

The latch in the back opens with a click. You smile widely as you pull the wretched fucking thing away for the last time, your chest expanding with fresh air for what feels like the first time in ages.

Then, you turn to look at yourself in the vanity, finding the newly freed stretch of skin, and–

Is that…?

…

There's a scar below where it sat.

It's certainly faint, but it's undeniable. The place where the collar’s bottom edge rested has not only a deep indent where it pressed in, but also a broad surface of scar tissue where your skin was rubbed raw, over and over and over. You stroke your thumb over the mark, feeling the slightly rough texture that you must've missed back in the ship.

(Now, you remember all of the times you've woken up in a cold sweat, your nails aching from scratching at the collar and your skin stinging from all of the movement. You just never realized– You never thought…)

Finally, your eyes drift just a few inches over, and you're a bit startled to find Boothill already looking at you in the mirror, his eyes uncharacteristically soft and somber.

“Should fade eventually, now that ya don't have the pressure on it,” he rasps, “but it never should've been there at all.”

…He's right.

And just like that, the kindling of your fury is lit anew.

With a flinty edge to your eyes, you spin around once more to look down at the subject of your rage; he's still facing opposite to you, held stiff by the threat of Boothill's revolver. Without a moment of hesitation, you bend down and fasten the collar around his throat, yanking it so hard that he chokes as you secure the latch.

Then, you stand, circling around until you can look Silas in the eye, your gaze burning with hatred. Slowly, you smile as you examine him.

“I think that looks much better on you, don't you think?” you say, your lips curling higher as you lift the watch in your hands.

His eyes widen just before you press the button to activate the collar.

He goes rigid as the shock bursts ruthlessly through him, his whole body shaking and spasming as it seizes him. A strangled noise escapes him, caught between a scream and a wail, but the muscles of his throat are so tight under the grip of the electricity that he's nearly strangled into silence. You keep the button held, watching dispassionately as he writhes, and you only let up when the faint scent of burning flesh meets your nose. He falls flat like a puppet with cut strings, twitching and spasming and coughing like a dying animal.

You watch him pant and heave for a long moment before Boothill smoothly flips his revolver in his hand, holding it out to you grip-first.

“Five more shots, partner. Lemme know if ya want more,” he says evenly, utterly unperturbed by the worm writhing by your feet. “Just so ya know, I'm sure some alarm got triggered while I was wreckin’ shop. I'm keepin’ an eye on the scanners, but I'll wager you've got about fifteen minutes before we gotta haul ash.”

The gun feels perfect in your palm – reassuringly heavy, cool and unyielding, sharp and deadly; the grip feels like it was made for your hand.

Oh, yes. This will do nicely.

“Fifteen minutes is all I'll need,” you purr, running your thumb slowly along the barrel. Then, you gesture toward the chair at your vanity. “Take a seat, darling.” You smile, tilting your head. “The real show is about to begin.”

He chuckles, deep and low in a way that makes your spine tingle pleasantly. He turns toward the fridge – to test out that whiskey, you wager.

Now, you finally turn your eyes back to the subject of your hatred.

He's always looked pathetic to you, but this is truly a new low. He's battered and bruised and filthy with his own blood, and he's staring up at you, wide-eyed and trembling like a terrified child. You think this fits him much better; now, he fits the perfect picture of the sniveling little rat that he is.

You lean down, yanking the tie out of his mouth and tossing it aside, grimacing in disgust at the sheer amount of spit that goes with it. Immediately, he sputters and coughs, his throat clenching as if he's struggling to breathe.

Good. You've been struggling to breathe for years.

Finally, when he manages to keep himself together, his eyes tentatively meet yours. For what might be the first time, Silas utters your name, breathless and terrified.

Your eyes narrow in unfettered fury, the anger rising to a boil in an instant. God, you hate his voice. “Keep my name out of your fucking mouth, you sniveling piece of shit.” You raise the gun to aim it straight at his face, pulling back the hammer.

He sputters, paling significantly. “W-Wait, love. This isn't– Surely we can come to an agreement? I can–”

You bare your teeth, the rage in your gut bursting through the seams. You plant your foot on his chest and pin him down, looming over him like a wraith out for blood. “You're not in a position to negotiate,” you snarl, digging the sharp point of your heel into his diaphragm until he's struggling to breathe. “You're in a position to beg.”

Then, you see it. You watch with sick satisfaction as the final dregs of hope drain from his eyes, as the reality sinks in, as the fear begins to swallow him whole.

You watch as he realizes that you were never broken at all.

It tastes like ambrosia, intoxicatingly sweet on your tongue.

“I'm– I'm sorry,” he finally sputters, his lips trembling. “I'm– I only ever wanted to treat you right. I– I thought you were happy, once you–”

You aim the gun at his knee and pull the trigger.

You swear you can hear the crunch of his kneecap as it shatters. You think you should feel horrified by the scream that wrenches out of his throat, by the way his eyes stretch wide in pain, by the way his whole body begins to writhe, but you can't even conjure a scrap of pity. Oh, the euphoria you feel when you spot tears budding in his eyes – it’s unparalleled.

“Try again,” you grit out, once his wailing finally settles into sobbing. He’s practically hyperventilating, but with your heel digging so ruthlessly into his diaphragm, he can't take a full breath; you twist it a little harder just to feel his muscles strain.

He’s terrified of you. Silas is terrified of you. The untouchable, unbeatable Silas Morghani is looking up at his broken wife with the most petrified look you've ever seen on a person. You feel alive, flourishing like a plant under the sun, your roots nourished by the blood of the man who's crushed your flowers into dust time and time again.

“I'm sorry,” he whimpers, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “I'm– I wanted you. I wanted you the moment I saw you. I thought– You never told me– I didn't think–”

You cock the hammer again.

If he wasn't pale already, he certainly is now.

You jump when Boothill suddenly speaks up, having almost forgotten he was there. “Worst spot to get shot is in the gut, for what it's worth.” When you look up at him, he's taking a sip of the whiskey straight from the bottle as he lounges in front of your vanity, his lips curled deviously. “Stomach’s just below the ribs, a bit off to his left. Shoot there, n’ the bile will eat him from the inside out. Burns like hellfire.”

You blink at him for a moment. Then, you grin like a madwoman. “I could kiss you,” you purr, and you're not quite sure if you're joking or not.

Based on the abrupt bashfulness that floods his expression, neither does he.

(Very briefly, you actually think about it. You think about shooting Silas dead without even bothering to look while you kiss another man – one that might actually treat you decently. You wonder if his lips would taste like blood; you wonder how those sharp teeth would feel against your tongue.)

(A moment later, you excise the thought from your brain.)

You return your gaze to Silas, and the terror in his eyes feels like a ray of sunshine on your face. He takes a trembling breath when you finally lift your foot away, taking a step back and aiming at the spot Boothill directed you to.

You really would hate to get blood on this dress.

“W–Wait, love– Wait, you don't need to–”

You pull the trigger.

The scream that tears out of his throat is grating, but the transparent agony on his face is worth it. Blood seeps quickly through the pale fabric of his dress shirt as he writhes, his arms straining against his binds as he shudders.

He looks much better in red.

Yet somehow, you aren't satisfied. So, you pull back the hammer again and fire right at the same spot. He clearly isn't prepared for this one, because he practically howls, ragged and anguished and animalistic; it might've garnered some pity if he hadn't spent the last few years treating you like a doll whose fate was to be used and discarded.

You watch him dispassionately as he settles into sobs and wails, his face wet with tears that are steadily rehydrating the dried blood from his nose. The stain on his shirt steadily grows larger and larger, unimpeded. You've trapped him in a cycle of endless strangulation; he winces when his muscles flex as he breathes, and the flinch only exacerbates the pain. His voice muffled to a whimper, he begs, “Mercy, mercy, mercy–”

You owe him nothing but suffering.

You glance up at Boothill again. “Could I ask a favor of you, darling?”

His smile is simultaneously devious and quite charming. “Anything at all, sugar.”

You tilt your head, your gaze darting back down to the pathetic, shivering form at your feet. “Would you be a dear and pull out his teeth while I hold him down?”

You swear Silas stops breathing.

“Well, who am I to deny such a lovely lady?” Boothill drawls, and the menacing twist to his voice is like music to your ears. He stands with a creak of leather and the subtle noise of whirring machinery, his spurs clinking ominously as he steps toward his prey.

“Wait– Hold on,” Silas chokes, his eyes darting wildly between you and the cyborg as you descend on him like a duo of hungry lions to a wounded gazelle. “Wait, please! You don't–”

Now, you cock the hammer once more, your eyes narrowing on him as you stare him down like the roach he is.

His mouth shuts with a clatter of teeth. A fresh bead of sweat trails down his forehead.

“No, no. Keep talking,” you say lightly, staring at him unblinkingly. “I'd love to see what new low you're digging yourself to.”

“I don't– I…” he sputters, his lips trembling. “What can I say? What– What do you want from me?”

You smile in a way that might've seemed pleasant if you didn't have a gun pointed to his head. “You want the truth, sweetie?” you spit, kneeling down by his head; you don't miss the way he quivers, subtly leaning away from you. “There's nothing you can say. You've already said everything I needed to hear.”

Your smile widens as he gapes at you, the fresh terror lighting up his eyes.

“Now, it's my turn to speak.” Slowly, you decock the gun, mimicking the motion that Boothill made back on the ship. “As for what I want?” You set the revolver down with a heavy thunk, far out of his reach, although his hands are still bound. “I want you to sit still, and to keep your fucking mouth open. You never had trouble doing that before, hmm?”

You lean over him, blocking out the bright lights and casting a menacing shadow. Ruthlessly, you clench your fist in his hair, narrowing your eyes.

“And if you bite me,” you snarl, “I'll pour that shitty vodka on your stomach until you're begging me to kill you.”

Without waiting for a response, you grip his jaw in your free hand, wrenching his mouth open with your nails digging ruthlessly into his skin. Right on cue, Boothill crouches down opposite to you, caging him in, and you pointedly ignore the way he starts to squirm – though you're pleased to note that he isn't fighting your hold just yet.

“Consider me your pliers,” Boothill drawls, openly amused by the pathetic sight at his feet. “You point, n’ I'll pull.”

You smile up at him, truly delighted. It's wonderful to have a partner in crime for an occasion like this. “So kind of you.”

You lean over, looking down into Silas’s mouth like he isn't writhing like the worm he is. You release his hair and point to one of his upper canine teeth, tapping it with your nail just to watch him flinch, just to feel his breath stutter with terror. “That one first.”

Boothill makes an affirmative noise as you clench your fist in Silas's hair again, wrenching his jaw further open. As the cyborg's hand nears his mouth, you can feel him starting to fight your grip, perhaps instinctually, but it only takes a sharp squeeze from your pointed nails to still him. As Boothill's fingers squeeze around his tooth, his tongue starts to squirm restlessly in his mouth.

“Keep your slimy tongue off a’ me, or I'll cut it out,” he snarls, and you swear his eyes flash red.

You don't doubt him for a moment; clearly, neither does Silas, because he goes so still that his breath stalls in his chest, a whimper escaping from his throat.

Without any hesitation, Boothill pinches down on the tooth again, so hard that you can actually hear the bone creak from the stress.

And then he starts to pull.

Silas immediately starts to writhe uncontrollably from the pressure, his jaw starting to close in earnest no matter how hard you fight him. Boothill has accounted for this already, clearly, because he stuffs his free thumb back between Silas's molars, wedging his mouth open with no hope of escape. You put your entire weight into pinning him down by his hair, the skin taut with the strain.

Blood springs up at his gum line, stark against the pale white of his bleached teeth. If you thought he screamed when you shot him, this makes it sound like a whimper. His whole body fights and squirms, his head bucking and shaking, but Boothill's grip is utterly unshakable. You clench your jaw, your spine tingling with an instinctual sympathy that he doesn't deserve; you can't imagine how badly it must hurt.

Good. You hope it stings like nothing else he's ever felt. You hope he tastes every drop of the suffering that he's delivered to you, day after day after day.

Crimson pools rapidly in the back of his throat, the flow only increasing as he chokes on the fluid. He's forced to swallow it, his throat spasming as he gags, tiny droplets of red spattering on his lips, beading against Boothill's metal.

It almost feels like a mercy when the tooth finally comes loose, a nauseating mess of blood pouring out as a thin layer of his gums is torn away. He coughs and sputters, red spilling from the sides of his mouth as he cries, and cries, and cries. Without ceremony, Boothill drops the piece of bone onto the floor.

You're not sure why this part is making your gut churn so horribly. Perhaps it's because of how close you are to the action, unconcealed by blood or cloth; perhaps it's the vague familiarity with pain like this; perhaps it's an instinctual kind of empathy.

You ball up the feeling and stuff it back down your throat, swallowing it like a bitter pill.

He would've done the same to you. He would've done worse. The only reason he didn't is because you never gave him the excuse of discipline.

This is what he's earned.

“The other one, too,” you say flatly, your gaze cold, but not distant.

If you look away now, you'll never be able to look back.

Boothill obeys without a word, his fingers reaching for the tooth’s twin. Immediately, Silas starts to thrash in earnest, fighting your hold with all of his might, but the cyborg pins him effortlessly without even batting an eye. A thin fracture runs up his tooth from the force he's using, but it bleeds just the same.

The second goes mercifully quickly – or perhaps you don't quite process the length of time correctly. You've grown numb to the wailing of the man who ruined your life.

“I suppose that's enough,” you rasp, your grip loosening against his scalp. You never want to touch him again. “I'm sick of his whining.”

The sobbing is so loud that you fear Boothill doesn't hear you, but he nods without fuss, dropping his hold and standing without fanfare – though he does wipe off the blood on his hands onto Silas's clean pant leg before he does. The moment he's free, Silas turns over and coughs a veritable fountain of blood onto the tile, his whole body shaking.

He's disgusting. He's pathetic.

Your cold fingers seek out Boothill's gun before you rise to your feet, your jaw tight as you stare down at the quivering form beneath you. Vaguely, you register that Boothill has stepped away again, but it's like your vision has tunneled, your focus narrowing to a pinpoint.

For a long moment, you merely watch Silas as he pieces himself back together, feeling slightly lightheaded.

In the back of your mind, you hear the toll of a bell, distant and ominous.

Daybreak is on the horizon. The night has been long and bloody, and plenty of justice has been dealt…

But there's one more monster due to be put down.

When Silas looks up at you, he barely registers as human in your mind. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair disheveled, his chin red with blood.

You're not sure what he sees in your eyes, but he looks up at you like you're the incarnation of death itself, here to collect its dues.

“Let… Please let me go,” he whispers, trembling and childish. “Please. I'll… You'll never see me again. Just let me go, and I'll–”

In a flash, you cock the hammer and fire, inches away from his head. He flinches so hard that his whole body jolts, a gasp of pain wrenching from his mouth from the movement.

He's done plenty of talking, and you're sick of hearing his obnoxious fucking voice.

“And what? Make someone else your little pet? Keep their leash even tighter, so they'll never have the chance to get away?” you snarl, rage bubbling in your gut. “I know you. I know how you think. I know what you want, you disgusting little pig.”

Your eyes glint in the light as you level the barrel straight at his head.

“And I know you'll never hurt anyone again.”

You cock the hammer, and the final bullet sits ready in the chamber.

You watch the air stall in his lungs.

You smile.

“Consider this a divorce.”

It's over in a blink. His horrified eyes light up in the flash from the muzzle, and his head jerks back from the force of the final bullet. He falls back against the ground like an abused ragdoll, the life ripped unceremoniously from his body.

The room is utterly silent except for the ringing in your ears.

He's…

He's actually dead.

He'll never hurt you again.

He'll never lay hands on you again.

He'll never call you pet or doll again.

You're free.

For a long, long moment, you stare down at his corpse, watching the blood seep slowly out of his still body.

It barely feels real.

Even though you can see the wound you've left in his head, part of you is almost expecting him to sit back up.

Another part of you is expecting all of this to be an elaborate ruse, and at any moment, you'll be snapped back into that collar and beaten within an inch of your life for your insolence.

Another part of you is convinced this is a dream.

But there's no question about the weight of the gun in your hand, about the soreness of your feet from your heels, about the unimpeded air hitting your neck.

It's…

It's actually over.

There's truly no words to express how completely and utterly relieved you feel.

And yet…

“Was this too cruel of me?” you suddenly murmur, mostly to yourself.

You're not sure what you're expecting, but it's not for Boothill to bark out a laugh. “You serious?” he chuckles, raising his brows as you finally rip your eyes away from the corpse to meet his gaze. “If anything, I'd say ya went too easy on him. I didn't even have to slap him conscious again.”

You're quiet for a spell, caught up in the riptide of your spiraling thoughts.

It's not that you regret killing him, and you don't particularly regret the torture, either. But…

Something about it just makes you feel… dirty, in a way – like you've stooped to his level. It almost feels like the weight of his sins stained your hands when you killed him – like a bloodborne curse spread into your veins from the moment you signed his death warrant. The sound of his screaming is still ringing in your ears, and you're nauseated by the dichotomy of disgust and pleasure churning in your gut.

After a long moment of silence, Boothill adds, “If ya ask me? There ain't no point measurin’ morals with a man like him.”

You blink, your gaze focusing back onto him. (His eyes are very pretty.) “What do you mean?”

“I'll wager that he was never concerned with righteousness.” He gestures loosely with one hand. “Same with all the rest a’ these IPC shirtbags. They all think they're above justice – above fairness, above honor, above morals.”

There's a particular sort of rage in his expression – an anger that's fused into the core of his soul, irreversibly intertwined. You can't bring yourself to look away.

“And I'll bet that he never thought a’ you like anythin' more than a toy,” he continues, clenching his fists. “That's how all these guys think. To them, everyone's an object – an asset,” he spits, and the venom in his voice is contagious. “They look at you, n’ they see a price tag.”

There's an odd distance in his gaze, like he's lost in the fire burning within him. Then, he seems to come back to you, and his eyes soften slightly, his fists relaxing.

“So ask yourself this: why should you treat a man with honor if he never did anything honorable in his life?”

And in an instant, the vague sense of guilt evaporates like smoke.

He's right.

Silas has never had morals – never had a code that considered anything beyond his own desires. Every single day, he signed documents condemning millions to death or slavery or poverty, sealing their fates with little more than the flick of a pen. He ripped off your wings and stuffed you in a cage, always with one finger on the trigger, waiting for you to slip up.

He would've killed you without batting an eye – like he was throwing away a broken doll that had long fulfilled its purpose. And when he killed countless people from his desk, he never thought of them as people.

They were only assets.

(Just trimming the fat.)

Now, as your eyes drift over to the corpse, you understand one thing more intimately than ever before–

Beasts have no capacity for morality. Naturally, those without morals should be treated like beasts.

You were doing the galaxy a favor, really, ridding it of such a blight.

Suddenly, Boothill grimaces, turning his eyes toward the door of the dressing room. “Hate to say it, but we're outta time.”

You nod slowly, and you turn away from the corpse of your jailer for the last time.

This chapter of your life is over – and with it, you will wash your hands clean.

“I'm ready.”

He makes an affirmative noise and stands, throwing down the half-empty bottle of whiskey without a care in the world. As he grows nearer to you, you turn his revolver in your hand, offering it back to him just as he did to you. He gives you a charming little grin as he holsters it with a flourish.

“Now, let's make tracks, yeah?” he says lightly, and a beat later, he rips the door open, completely shattering the lock in the process.

You smile, your heart swelling with some emotion that you've forgotten the name of.

(Oh, well. You have plenty of time to relearn them all.)

He leads you out into the main area of the lounge, and it truly looks like a horror movie was filmed here. Corpses litter the floor indiscriminately, and the air reeks of blood; never before have you thought of such a smell as pleasant – until now, that is. Through the shattered window, you can hear the howl of wind and the noise of what must be at least a few helicopters circling the building. The space is lit ominously by the wandering search lights, sparkling against the blood and shattered glass on the carpet.

Briefly, you wonder how exactly Boothill is planning on escaping; you have no doubt that the IPC is swarming the building like ants to sugar, so the ground certainly isn't an option. The roof, maybe? Although, that would still be quite risky; there's almost certainly going to be snipers on the lookout for him.

When you grow near the edge of the stage, Boothill speaks up. “Ah, ya might wanna take a step back,” he warns nonchalantly.

You throw him a curious look, and you damn near jump out of your skin when a cacophonous crash shakes the building, glass shattering loudly in your ears. You whip around, only to find that part of a ship has smashed in through the already broken window, using the breacher bridge as both a battering ram and a boarding ramp.

What a fucking lunatic. You can't get enough of it.

“That's one way to make an entrance, I guess,” you laugh.

He shrugs, grinning widely. “What can I say? I like puttin’ on a show. N’ what's the point of havin’ autopilot on a ship if ya don't use it?” Shielded from the helicopters lurking outside, he strolls onto the ramp, turning back to you and making a grand, sweeping gesture toward the inside. “Climb aboard, chickadee,” he chimes, light and charming. “We've got one more chore for the night.”

For a moment, you look into his eyes, examining the red pinpricks of his pupils.

This is a night of celebration – and it's time to bid your dire mood goodbye.

You make a grand show of curtsying before moving inside, snickering quietly as the two of you board. Once you're on, the bridge slowly retracts, although the hatch doesn't close. You stand at the edge with Boothill at your side, and although you waver slightly when the ship begins to move away from the building, he holds one arm in front of you to prevent you from falling. (He's rather sweet, isn't he?)

As the ship pulls away with the clatter of shifting glass, the wind begins to bite into your skin, but you can't even say you mind.

It feels like home. It feels like freedom.

The ship halts some distance away, and the way you're positioned adjacent to the building means you're still shielded from the roaming helicopters; going by the reflections in the glass, your ship is the focus of all of their spotlights. You watch as Boothill pulls a dark red bullet from his mouth (since when can he do that?) and flick it into the air. With a flourish, he swings his gun and snaps it cleanly into the cylinder, perfectly accounting for the billowing wind – all of this without even batting an eye.

You're still staring at him with open awe when he turns to you, holding out his revolver grip-first, a wild, wicked grin stretching across his face.

“Would ya like to do the honors?” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the howl of the wind.

Your smile is a slow, creeping thing. What a gentleman. “It'd be my pleasure.”

The grip feels oddly familiar in your hand, like an old companion you haven't seen in years, even though you'd never even held a gun before today. You admire it again for only a moment, tracing the details with your eyes, following the way it shines. It's truly beautiful for a tool of death and destruction.

Then, you cock the hammer and aim at the hole in the window leading to the lounge–

And you fire.

The bright flash of the explosion stings your eyes, but you don't even blink, not even as the deafening boom rocks the ship in the air, the heat warming your skin like a blazing fire.

And then the building really starts to blow.

Floor by floor, explosives go off in a chain reaction of brilliant light and fire and debris, the sound so loud that it makes your ears ring. It's a truly spectacular sight, and you can finally identify that mysterious, lingering emotion.

Pure, unfiltered elation.

You lean carefully toward the edge to watch the explosions go further down, level by level, slightly disturbed by how much you're trusting him not to let you fall. The crash of the building crumbling is truly deafening, and the heat is nearly blistering, but it's all worth it to watch the beams fold under their own weight. In barely any time at all, the IPC headquarters is little more than a mountain of burning rubble spilling into the streets – and with it, all remnants of your prison.

Tragically, you are allowed only a moment to marvel before the hatch slides closed, instantly silencing the howl of the wind.

“Best get a move-on, before they get any bright ideas involvin’ missiles,” Boothill says lightly.

You blink up at him in open alarm, caught in the middle of offering his gun back to him. “What?”

He laughs without a care in the world as he plucks the weapon from your hands, holstering it with a flourish. “Just pullin’ your leg. The shirtbags want me alive, anyway, so it's not like–”

With flawless timing, the ship rocks hard in the air, the unmistakable patter of bullets hitting the metal hull.

“Son of a forkin’ bench!” he spits, whipping around and bolting for the cockpit.

Despite the very real threat to your life, you can't help but burst into laughter as you scramble after him, stumbling against the wall as the thrusters activate, your heels buckling beneath you. You manage to collapse into the copilot's chair a moment before he activates the boosters, the force leaving you clutching onto the arm rests for dear life.

While Boothill is doubtlessly a reckless flier, he's undeniably efficient; the chase barely lasts for a minute before he manages to escape orbit, the hull rumbling with the buildup to FTL travel. Your stomach lurches into your throat when the ship bursts into hyperdrive, and by the time the ride evens out, you're completely breathless with laughter.

You wipe tears from your eyes as you look over, only to find that he's already staring at you with an emotion you can't quite name.

“You went n’ lost your mind?” he chuckles, even though he's grinning just as widely as you.

You take your first full breath in some time, slumping down in your seat. “Only because you lost yours. Who the fuck gave you your license?”

The two of you burst into laughter all at once, and for a moment, you're utterly captivated by the absurdity of it all – laughing yourself to tears with the man that helped you kill your…

Well, he was hardly ever your husband, was he?

“How did you even get up to the roof, by the way?” you ask, once you've caught your breath again. “I noticed that you swung down into the lounge.”

He grins at you, wild and manic. “I climbed.”

You quite frankly cannot stop your jaw from dropping. “Climbed? From the ground floor?”

“Nah. Too much work,” he says, somehow smiling even wider. “I jumped from the next buildin’ over. Then I climbed.”

Holy shit. He’s crazy crazy.

“You can't be serious. There are – or, well.” You blink for a moment, then rephrase, “There were over a hundred stories.”

When he shrugs carelessly, all you can do is laugh, shaking your head in fond exasperation.

Then, you turn your gaze to the world outside of the windshield, to the stars streaking by in bright lines of light. You've always found hyperspace to be unbelievably gorgeous – a kaleidoscope of blurring colors, too fast for your eyes to follow. It's been so long since you were able to leave the planet that you'd nearly forgotten the scope of its beauty.

(You'll have plenty of time to look at it now, won't you?)

“Where are you headed next?” you ask, a bit quiet, a bit thoughtful.

“Was just about to ask you the same thing.” His chair creaks as he turns to face you, but you can't bring yourself to look away from the world outside of the ship just yet. “I'm happy to drop ya off wherever you'd like, y'know. No skin off my nose.”

(Momentarily, you're startled by his generosity – both by how earnestly he spoke and how easily he offered. Then again, you suppose he's been quite generous all this time.)

Truthfully, though, you haven't even thought about your destination.

This moment – standing on the precipice of a new chapter of your life, with a near-infinite number of paths before you… It almost felt dangerous to think about this in advance. But now you're here, and all of the universe is laid out in front of you.

Now, you have as many options as your mind can ponder.

After a long moment, you reply, “I think I'll see where the wind takes me.” Then, you tear your eyes away from the stars, meeting his gaze with a tiny smile. “But I'm open to travel recommendations, if you have any.”

He raises a brow, grinning playfully. “You sure that I'm the kinda man you wanna ask for travel advice, chickadee?”

“I can't think of anyone I'd rather ask.” Your smile widens into something eager, something thrilled. “I'll be getting a gun, if that helps increase your options.”

He laughs, bright and warm, and a hot spark of delight flares up in your chest. (He's very pretty when he laughs.)

“Well, I'm sure I can think of somethin’,” he drawls, leaning back in his seat. Then, a look of excitement crosses his face – the contagious sort, so infectious that you can't help but lean closer. “You ever been to the Frigherix system?”

You tilt your head. “Can't say I have.”

The grin on his face damn near quadruples. “Oh, if I'm goin' off that whiskey you had back there, you'll love the stuff they've got. Finest fudgin' malt juice this side of the cosmos, if ya ask me – like molten gold n’ honey lit on fire.” He chuckles, readjusting his hat. “Kicks like a forkin’ mule, that stuff.”

(He's…. quite charming like this, isn't he?)

Before you can say a word, he perks up again. “Oh! N’ after that, you've gotta get a taste of the stuff in Aloniir! Got a buddy from out there, n’ nobody does it like them. Craziest muddle-fudgers I ever done met. I told ‘em I couldn't get drunk anymore, n’ they acted like I dared ‘em!” He speaks faster and faster as he gets more invested, gesturing emphatically with so much passion that it lights up his whole face. “They've got this drink – uh… Vantoor’s Kiss, I think. It's a two-parter, y’see, ‘cause they put poison and venom in the first glass, n’ the antidote in the second! Burns like nothin’ else, but the taste is–”

You settle into your seat as you listen – well, more like half-listen, at this point.

It's hardly your fault that he's so handsome. Really, you'd be crazy to be able to pay attention to anything else.

As for your destination, well… You'll figure that out sooner or later.

You have plenty of time to choose, after all.

To be continued...

#sal.txt #sorry for the repost #i was SO sure that this would be too long for a tumblr post #but as it turns out it was not! so im uploading now #might also do this for darling daisies at some point but im prettyyyyy sure that's gonna be too long #boothill x reader #fem reader #reader insert #x reader #honkai star rail #boothill #hsr x reader #anyway thank you all for the support on this one 💘 i really like the way chapter 2 is turning out so far

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widowsofchaos · 7 months ago

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𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬

synopsis: your menstrual cycle always pushes you to pure hysterics, thankfully your entrusted doctor is always there for you.

pairing: dark!loki laufeyson x brown!reader

ao3 // victorian au

warnings: dubious consent (slight sexual grooming), vaginal fingering, oral, nefarious medical practice, motional grooming.

a/n: for @cake-writes . I love you so much. :) did you know that in the Victorian period, physicians would perform pelvic massages that involved clitoral stimulation with early electrical vibrators to cure hysteria? traditional pelvic massages had been conducted for thousand of years, until western technology caught up. Dr. Silver Tongue prefers the old fashioned methods, hehe. hope ya’ll enjoy, this has been a draft for over 2+ years!

Spilling ichor is a woman’s curse.

Even worse, the womb begins its horrors at the precipice of girlhood. The excruciating pain that follows in its wake, so intense it feels as if fingernails are clawing at uterine walls.

Screams and wails for God’s sweet mercy, for the pain to cease. Bodies shivering in sweats, left so fatigued that one will rot away in bed. Praying under your breath, begging to just die.

Fits of rage and delusions—- once, at the high of your agony, you thought demons were crawling through your pink wallpaper, ready to devour you. Riddled with anxiety—- paranoid of everything.

Girls call it hell. Doctors coined it hysteria.

It’s nearing noon. He’s late.

Rattles of wheezes knock against your cavity, eyes sheening wet, as your bodice sinks and molds against the mattress. Lazily picking at your reddish cuticles, and the scent of copper lingering in the air.

The compulsive urge to throttle your bodice up and down in possessed fashion against the bedding, to gnash at the air with your canines, and howl —- perhaps, your calls would beckon him.

Groans slip from your mouth, as your abdomen is throbbing and swollen. Counting sheep mindlessly, trying to inhale deeply the packaged herbs that were prescribed to you —- but nothing is working.

The moans become more undignified. Your face is scrunching up, with tears kissing your lashes.

Faint footsteps creaking against the wood flooring, and voice muffled—- a tired gasp of relief and want escapes you. Strained whines stretch and bubble at the pit of your throat, eyes hawking your door.

The knob turns and creaks open—- what a glorious sight, to be greeted by emerald hues, and that pretty smirk. Those lovely cheekbones, and smooth ivory skin.

The dull glow of the sun illuminates through the heavy stitched curtain, and through the bedroom, with pretty pink wallpaper—- but the light shines his eyes ever so gracefully. Angelic.

A courteous bow of his head, that black hat over-casting his brow; lean and stands tall in such poise. Followed by your father, imposing and watchful.

Both can see you are too weakened to speak pleasantries, but can only greet them with a small smile and lazy eyes. Your father nods and leaves you both alone, but you could have sworn for just a glance, your father’s eyes are sharp from the sliver of the door.

A click of the door, and the air shifts.

He’s smiling with a hum. Ever so the gentleman, he lifts his hat off. He puts his leather gladstone bag gently by the edge of the bed, sits his hat on the nightstand, and begins to unbutton his long coat.

Loki holds his coat by the collar, neatly folding and placing it over your velvet chair.

It’s a quiet routine.

To be honest, this is the highlight of your day. Life of a curious socialite, stuck in your overbearing parents’ manor, primed to be a proper young lady, and young eyes to see only through a theological veil.

Dr. Laufeyson is a kind, and gracious man.

He came into your life last year. The menstrual cycles have gotten worse, and it has begun to worry your parents. He was recommended by your neighbors, the Maximoffs.

He is quite different from any man you have met.

“Hello, my dearest.” His voice is liquid smooth. His hand captures yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. Mustering all the strength to speak, “Hello, doctor.” A bashful smile soon drops to a quivering frown.

A sharp pain that slices at your gut prevails.

Loki tauts sympathetically.

His slender fingers graze gently against your thighs, feathery touch. By the glide of his palms, he lifts your sheath. Cupping the meat of your thighs, the pads of his thumbs denting, already memorizing the sore points.

It’s an unspoken ritual.

How salacious to undress an untouched lady of society —- he barely takes his eyes off of yours. Heat radiates off of you in waves.

Shivers of shyness and an foreign need for want sweeps over the hills of your legs. It is wrong for a man to touch an unwed girl.

But he is a doctor, your doctor. He has to inspect your body. He has always assured you that his touch has always been for the good of your health.

Unusual methods Loki practices. Not like any doctor you had as a growing girl. Over the time, you have known Loki, he has bathed you, fed you, and massaged you all through the cycles. So intimate, yet not befitting of your unmarried status.

Any remnants of shame melts away as his bare palms begin to massage your thighs, maneuvering your legs to part. With an expert flick of the hem of your undergarments, dragging the now stained white fabric down, and off from your body.

A strong scent of blood fans the air, making you wince at the smell—- but Loki doesn’t deter. No sign of revulsion, you watch through your lashes—- he moves with a calm focus.

Loki’s presence has been comforting.

The way he speaks with such eloquence. Speaking to you as he would to an equal, rather at you. It’s natural to him to see you as you are, instead of a porcelain doll to be seen, not heard.

Conversations of shared love of literature, and the arts. His charming words bloom warmth inside you. He has a taste for histories, and has taught you the lessons he has learned back as a young man in university.

It is not for a girl to learn academic skills, for it is more important for boys to gain knowledge. But Loki told you many things—- and in return, you confined to him.

There were many occasions where Loki has found you forlorn. The root of your problem is your father, being overbearing, and callous. Either you weren’t being dutiful enough in your responsibilities, and pressuring the idea of marriage.

Loki would comfort you, tell you that a man should not speak so cruelly to his daughter. Private conversations that bordered on flirtatious tones—- how pretty you are, and that such a cherub face shouldn’t be dew with tears.

He is your only companion. You don’t encourage yourself to socialize in the circles your family frequent in, often seeking your solitude—- many high societal folks are too boring, and vain.

But Loki is colorful and adventurous. He speaks of wonder. He is not like any other man you had the displeasure of meeting —- boring sons of the men who work with your father. Stuffy and shallow men who only want a brood mare and a slave for a wife.

Loki excuses himself, as he walks to the wash stand perched near your vanity. Putting the stained underwear in the nearby basket. Rolling up his white sleeves up to his elbow joints, readying to fetch the wash basin and pitcher.

Loki’s fingers pat the smooth glide of the pitcher, humming contently—- the water is still warm. Quickly, and securely, he grabs the handle, begins to pour the lukewarm water into the basin.

The anticipation is intense. Breathing heavily now, a filthy part of you yearn for this touch. To feel his bare smooth fingers fondle with your mound, the sensation of his hands bathing your wet pubic hair, and his fingers slipping between your folds—-

The haze is ripped from you as he feels his knuckles caress your cheek. Shyly, you sink more into your chest, your lips purse into a coy smile. Loki towers over you as a gentle giant, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

In one hand, he puts the basin down on the nightstand, and on the other hand with a towel. Loki leans down, unraveling the towel, and maneuvering it underneath your bum.

The dull ache of him lifting you makes you whine. Loki shushes you, his thumbs stroking the path between your inner thighs and lower belly.

He turns to retrieve a clean rag and the soap.

Loki seats, dipping his palm in the water, twirling the red soap. Soap suds form and the scent of the carbolic solvent is heavenly.

His hand nears and the droplets rain on your abdomen, earning a sigh of relief from you. Rubbing the bar of soap in circular motions on your pubic bone, diving between your vaginal lips, soaping up your bush—- it was simply amazing.

Your head leans back into your pillow, practically moaning at the feeling—- at the feeling of his hand, and the sensation of being cleaned.

The dried crust of blood now being scrubbed away by the accompanying wet rag—- you didn’t even realize Loki moved to soak it, too immersed in the cleansing.

Completely lathery now, the towel underneath you sodden, and the water in the basin crimson. Loki puts the soap in the basin, it sinks.

The rag feels nice, soaked in warm water, washing away the excess of soap. Loki wrings the wet rag, the water dripping into the basin.

Washing away the soap from your mound, Loki’s thumb simultaneously stroking between your folds, ensuring there are no remnants of soap.

Cheekily, his fingertips slither more into your sopping hole. Tender and swollen, Loki’s two fingers flex slowly into your quim. Halting at the sound of a whine, but resumes when you mewl under your breath.

Loki muses to himself, delights that your whimpers are akin to a kitten. His fingers curl and bend as he sinks deeper inside you. Leisurely, his fingers twist— staining his fingers red.

“I do believe you are due for your massage.” Loki spoke with a silky husk. He spread his fingers, roving over your thighs, heavily petting you. A gasp leaves your mouth, as Loki’s fingers fuck you a little faster.

“Such tension.” Loki says with an empathetic smirk. You huff of breath, a strained moan. Smug satisfaction floods Loki, his smirk morphs to a pearly grin.

He playfully clicks his tongue, “She weeps on my fingers.” Loki can feel your essence dripping, coating his knuckles now. You’re panting into your pillow, as a thirsty stray, eyes pinched shut.

Your muscles are tightening around his fingers, sucking him inside, needing more. Curling at the soft spongy spot that sparks fluttery delight, jolting your head up, eyes moon-wide.

Chin to chest now, mouth gaped in a lazy O, unabashed wanton moans. Toes curling against the bed sheet, as fresh blood coats your thighs, and Loki’s thrusting hand.

Your hair clings to the beading sweat of your forehead, gripping the wrinkled sheets. Unabashedly, your hips thrust and follow Loki’s electric thrusting.

His fingers flee from your thigh to your bush, playfully his thumb and index split it open, as he slows down his fingers. His eyes never leave yours, as the pad of his thumb begins to play with your clit.

You nearly choke on your breath, you inhale so deeply, it feels like your belly caves against your ribs. Leisurely and purposefully, Loki does it slow, leaving you in desperation.

Whimpering for him to move in haste. Edging you just near the cliff, but not yet there. The sharp strain of your menstrual blurs with pleasure— so unladylike of you, to be as a starving animal, but it relieves you greatly.

You crave it, his touch, his scent—- you adore him. How lovingly his eyes bore into yours, as you lose yourself. The flesh of your thighs shiver, the knot in your belly tightening, making you whine.

“Yes, my sweetling.” Loki whispers, as your body twists, and your toes curl, “Release your pain.”

A flood of pleasure washes over your body. Your head tilts back as your mouth hangs open. Throat clenching but no sounds, just an airy gasp. Eyes pinching shut, and nose scrunching.

The euphoria of your orgasm is sensational—- you’re delirious with it. Chest heaving and hands clasping at the air, giggling with relief. Loki softly seethes his fingers from your moist cavern.

Wiping his finger clean with a towel, as your erratic breathing simmers down. He finds it amusing to see you flustered, he can see your bashfulness seep through—- down-casting your gaze, staring at your legs.

In a second, your eyes flutter upwards, to catch his penetrative stare. Loki’s hand dents into the bedding, right next to your forearm, more so trapping you.

His nose just hairs away from yours, his warm breath fanning your face. It only fuels you more.

“Faring well, darling?”

All you can do is nod, with a titter.

Placid ease settles over you. Comfortable and clean. Not yet in your undergarments, Loki says that it’s best to air you out, with your nightgown wrinkled at your midriff.

Loki rummages through his bag, searching through his medical equipment, to grasp the dark green bottle.

Loki grabs the bottle by its neck from his bag. Revealing brown printed lettering on crismon wrapping, Loki unplugs the cork. It catches your eye, it makes your nose scrunch.

Laudanum.

A very strong poison that your palate has not yet been fully accustomed to. Over the months, Loki has insisted that you drink this in small doses.

Very small doses.

Loki spills just a little more than a drop into the spoon. The reddish-brown liquid wafting by your nose, you groan childishly, but you make no fuss. Sweetly, he puts the spoon into the cave of your mouth, your lips wrinkling into a pout.

It’s so grotesquely bitter.

“I know,” he chuckles, “but now you can rest.” His words make the drink’s icky taste more appealing, for he does it to ensure you are content, and comfortable.

The laudanum has settled in your belly, and lulled you to a slumber. A cocktail of poppy, morphine and codeine. Administered for the most severe of pains.

Loki seats in silence, watching your chest fall to a steady rhythm of breath. He smiles. Loki muses to himself, you look like a sleeping beauty.

A smile forms at his mouth, relishing in the granted opportunity. His slender hands flex expertly, hovering over your belly, to your cotton-clad chest.

Loki twirls and unties the strings of your nightgown between his fingers. Revealing your bare chest, plump brown breasts display. He whispers marvelous under his breath. Tilting his head downwards, his teeth scrape your skin.

Every chance there is of you falling to a pacified sleep to the poison, Loki snatches the chance to taste you. His lips leave open-mouthed kisses, littering your breasts. Inhaling your essence as he ravages you. His warm wet tongue licks and twirls against your pebbling nipple.

His nose traces your skin down to your navel, to your abdomen, and finally to your lower pelvis. The scent of faint copper hits his nose, accompanied by the fresh scene of carbolic.

He doesn’t mind. Rather, Loki enjoys your blood connecting with his palate. Leaning more to your core, Loki’s pink tongue slithers out between his lips, and flicks at your clit.

His sculpted nose connects with your mound, his lips now suckle on the hood of your clit. Grazing his teeth ever so cheekily, earning a small wheezing pants.

You stir in your sleep, your body reacting to the pleasure he’s pulling from you —- as if he tugs on the silk rope, snagging the knot in your belly.

A savage urge overtakes him. Loki bites the supple brown flesh of your thigh—- nibbles melt to a few pecks, then back to devouring you.

Loki has plans. Too sweet and pure to let go of—- oh no, he yearns for you. The chase for you has heightened. Monthly visits can no longer sustain him.

Loki intends to ask your father for your hand in marriage. His income is more than satisfactory, able to provide you a life of comfortability, and passion. As a wolf who must tear apart his prey from the inside out, to ruin you— possessive over his prey.

None of his female patients have bewitched him. All were so eager for him to defile them, so haughty and pompous. Neither of them saw beyond his beauty.

But you, ever so sweet, only sought out a friend, and how easily you entrusted him. And Loki must enact his plan now. Last month, as he walked up the stairs to your room, he overheard your father discussing with your mother, over the prospect of marriage for you.

Loki has already purchased a ring, waiting in a velvet box.

He has already begun stripping the petals of your modesty. Small stepping stones to soon deflowering you completely. His cock swells at the mere thought.

Your velvety lips tug by the scrape of his canines. He moans a gust of hot breath, this sinful act causing your body to quiver unconsciously.

Loki’s pink tongue slurps your folds into his mouth, back to sucking on your clit. His lips are wet with your slick, and, menstrual, the corners of his mouth with splotches of red.

An impulsive urge vibrates from his knuckles to his fingertips.

Loki’s fingers itch with compulsion. Instead of sweetly plunging inside you—- oh, he thinks, an act done with gentility. But, I cannot awaken her from slumber. We have not yet reached this stage of our courting.

Traditionally, a doctor must massage his patient’s genitalia, not have his fingers explored, as he has done so freely. But, ever so naive and sweet, you do not know any better—- to you, Loki is simply doing his job.

A chaste darling, to approach you with the advance of tasting you, would have had you flying to your father. No—- he must break you down, piece by piece.

He stifles the thought, keeps his fingers at bay. Loki’s mouth keeps eating at your weeping welt, his warm tongue flickering against your sensitive clit. Unconsciously, your hips shutter gently against his mouth, spasming in your slumber.

Loki can taste your essence, moaning at your taste hitting his tongue. His eyes rolling in the back of his eyelids.

He turns his face a bit, still attached to your core, pecking small kisses on your inner thigh.

Loki dips his palm in the now chill bowl of water, snagging the sodden rag. Squeezing in his tight grip, water dripping, and splashing, a bit of soap is left.

Wiping away your essence, and ichor. Soothingly caressing your inner thighs with the rag, until all is gone. Loki puts the rag back, standing to his feet, as he goes to wash his mouth.

A simple routine where he finds peace. It’s a quiet shared between you two.

Patting dry his hands with a cotton white towel he found from one of the vanity’s drawers. Quietly and leisurely, Loki walks with a stride towards your bed. Standing over you, admiring his work.

A familiar routine: placing a rag inside your underwear, snuggling and cladding your mound, tying the strings to your nightgown, and pulling the rest of the fabric down your body.

Loki’s checks your pulse—- a perfect rhythm. Redressing himself, a swell of pride casts him. The sensation of your velvety core still dancing on his tongue. With a click of his bag, and flick of his coat buttons—- Loki begins his departure.

Softly closing your bedroom door, Loki walks down the stairs. His ears catch a few hushed words, one of them is marriage. No doubt, they were conversing about you.

As Loki reaches the bottom of the stairs, from his side-eye, he can see your father and mother waiting in the family’s living space.

“Ah, Dr. Laufeyson.” Your father stands from his chair with a weak grunt. A peculiar strain upon his face, he can’t meet Loki’s eyes.

“My apologies, but we cannot afford your services,” your father stammers at the sight of Loki’s pinched brow. “We had no other choice, as you know our daughter can be ill—” his panicked tone is interrupted.

Loki tilts his head, those green eyes ever so observant, a slick smirk curls. Savoring the sight of this man squirming.

“And how would you propose we solve this dilemma?”

“We can pay you in food, I can provide from my garden.” Your mother’s fragile voice pleads, standing to cling to her husband’s arm. Her fingers wrinkled his sleeve. Her eyes were blood-shot red. “You are a kind man, please understand.”

A memory of your bliss-stricken face flashes before his mind, and it provokes a breathy hum. An opportunity delivered to his feet by fate itself.

“Perhaps, I have a solution to satisfy both our needs.”

#widowsofchaos wrote this #dark loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki x female reader #dark loki #mcu fanfic #loki fanfiction #dark smut #poc reader

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soysaucevictim · 1 year ago

Text

"live by the sword and you die by the sword"

(There's a lot of violence and death in this fic, additional warnings on Ao3. Seriously, this chapter is pretty intense.)

[Start] | [Prev]

Chapter 3: “show me the blood, show me you tried”

The biker punk was Roman’s primary target, but he still endeavored to sweep up where he could, as he searched through his leads. The job was getting easier, Roman noticed.

In his heart of hearts, he knew he should investigate the Scratching Post, eventually. It was no secret that a lot of zombies made the place their Den. If Roman really wanted to make an impact, he’d have to strike there.

His hesitation came from at least one straggler that begged Roman for mercy, through slurred speech. This creature only gave Roman a look of fearful recognition and desperation. More zombies seemed to recognize Roman as he gathered the notches to his belt. Some gave a fight, some Roman took by surprise, yet more completely gone.

Roman knew enough that barging into the Den would be suicide. So, he contented himself with kiting the neighboring area – hoping to encounter that biker on its patrols.

Roman had steadily been moving up the ranks, with more and more kills under his belt.

Steve joined him for a few of them, no longer just as a mentor and more like a partner. On duty, they had become a well-oiled machine. Roman found himself getting more photos than Steve. Out there and in front of the other Dead Enders – Steve was so effusive and proud. Often asking Roman out for drinks and making Roman feel a swell of pride.

It was almost enough of a distraction from the purple hoodie, most of the time. Roman was grateful of that much.

They took turns sleeping together in each other’s apartments. Under either roof, things weren’t going nearly as smoothly. Some days Steve would prod Roman, “I’m getting real tired of you stealing all my thunder, boy.”

“I’ve said it before! Don’t call me boy! And you TOLD me I could land that shot and claim that couple yesterday!”

“When did I say that? You should know better than to ask me to do that while plastered, by now.”

Roman grew less sure of what Steve had meant all those times. But things would escalate to a brawl a handful of times. Roman wasn’t sure who landed the first punch in a few of those cases.

When they showed up at HQ scuffed up, Steve would be all smiles, calling those fights training sessions. Roman did learn a few things from Steve during them, so it wasn’t a total lie.

It got the blood pumping, among other things. That was until near the end of October’s first week, after a mission that got particularly hairy. Roman checked himself so often that Steve teased him about it, “I’m pretty sure you’re good, man.”

The next few days, Steve started withdrawing and acting strange.

Eventually, during one of his solo missions, Steve did not come back to HQ, nor into any of their apartments. Steve had gone missing, and was presumed dead, given the circumstances.

Roman fought the impulse to worry by doubling his focus on the work. As it was, Steve wouldn’t want Roman to be held back by anyone. Roman wasn’t weak like that.

Not like how he used to be.

---

There were multiple times where Roman came close to giving up what he really wanted to do with his life, his passions. There were frequent cycles of passing out. Followed by cramming for tests, for rehearsals, for football training. Followed by games, shows, and assignments. Repeat.

Roman wanted to think that if he could prove he could do both what his parents wanted and what he wanted well enough – he would still be allowed to pursue the latter. He brushed off any concerns the theater group had for him, as this went on. Roman never knew when his father was going to pull him into the study for progress reports. Soon, he was getting close to earning his BA, his tutors were real lifesavers.

Remus almost had a stint in juvenile detention, when they were still in high school. Vandalism and drug possession. Their father was generous enough to pull all the strings necessary to make sure he would never see a second inside the detention center. Their dad was even warm to the lawyers and others involved in the sentencing to a fine. Pocket change, really.

At home, when their dad was actually present, which wasn’t often, Rómulo would hunt down Remus to discipline him. Roman was baffled as to why his brother would keep behaving that way after all the shouting and loud noises he heard in his father’s study. Roman saw some bruises on his brother after the first altercation, Remus said nothing about it, but his scowl told him enough.

Remus dropped out of high school, he just seemed to stop caring. Another fight. Remus eventually got his GED, almost getting the whole family’s hopes up. Roman made the mistake of using that to try to get their father to ease up on his brother. He didn’t remember how that went. He didn’t want to remember.

After that motorcycle accident happened, Remus just got worse. He wound up in jail, his first time, his second, third, fourth time. More fights with their dad. Rómulo grew colder and colder with Remus, it eventually drove Roman to confront his brother. Roman knew Remus was on thin ice, and Roman had enough stress on his plate.

“Remus, we need to talk.”

Remus sounded unimpressed and then feigned gagging, “Wow, Robro. You’re already sounding like Daddy Dearest! And I’ve barely digested dinner!”

“Look. I doubt he’ll keep bailing you out, if you keep this up.”

“So?”

Roman was too tired to keep his voice level, “Do you WANT to go to prison!?”

“Since when did any of you care? Since when did YOU care? You’re so busy being Little Miss Perfect- when was the last time we really had an ACTUAL conversation?”

Roman was caught off guard, “Can you at least tell me why?”

“I’ve BEEN trying to tell you all. But nobody fucking listened after- after. No. I’m not doing this right now. I, at least, still KNOW how to have fun.”

“I’m having plenty of fun on the stage! Something safe and LEGAL.”

Remus sighed, “BULLSHIT, you do! I’ve SEEN you pile on that concealer and the way you just drag yourself out of bed some days. What the fuck happened to you!?”

“I could ask the same of you. I can do this, why can’t YOU-!?”

“You know what? I need a change a scenery before I fucking hit something.. or SOMEONE.”

“W-wait!”

“Nope, you lost your chance to get anywhere tonight. I’m gone.”

With that, Remus stormed off into the night, not without flipping him off while turned away.

Roman did notice Remus pausing to rub one of his legs just before he was out of sight, though.

Roman only found out what Remus had been doing out there, a couple days later. Their mom took a call from the local sheriff about him being in jail, requesting bail. The officer explained to Mara what he was in for. When Roman asked about it, she was exasperated, “Apparently your brother went on a drunken bender. Something about pissing on a trash fire. He handed the police some random guy’s wallet. Che fottuto idiota...”

Roman squirmed about her contempt, before she took a breath and smiled at him, “Unlike you, I should continue to hope?”

“O-Of course!”

Roman would be silent when their Dad had told Remus he wasn’t going to get bailed out. Roman expected it, even if he did feel a twinge of something of it. The court proceedings were a haze to Roman. Before he knew it, his brother was in prison.

Roman didn’t get a chance to talk to Remus, too focused on his BA.

When Remus served his sentence and left prison? Roman was still too busy to catch his release. More than that, Roman couldn’t forget their last words together. Roman didn’t want to reopen that wound, perhaps selfishly.

It wasn’t long before his family assumed the worst.

---

By a little over a week after Steve went missing, Roman had nearly thirty on the board. That was when he finally met this highly valued target.

Roman tailed the monster’s motorbike on his own, once he recognized it from the briefing. Roman wondered why the target meandered the ways it did. Before he knew it, they were at an abandoned construction site.

The rider parked its bike and killed the gas in a haphazard way. It then hopped off the thing with such dramatic aplomb that it unnerved Roman. There were things about all of this that felt familiar, despite the other’s face still being obscured by a helmet, something decorated by glimmering green tentacles on black. It stood there, waiting on Roman’s next move, looking almost bored.

The neighboring street lights and all the light pollution of Seattle made it manageable to pick out other details. It wore black vinyl jacket embedded with green glitter, reflective green cording around the hems, an excessive amount of silver spikes on the shoulders, and other adornments. That nail bat of theirs leisurely over the shoulder glistening from fresh, gory stains.

Roman stopped letting his bike idle, staring at the target warily. Soon enough, Roman had taken his gun carrier and stood his ground. There was an intense silence that seemed to drag on forever.

Eventually the monster threw its head back and started to laugh, “Oh, who might you be? Care to show me your face, tool?”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, its posturing got impatient. “Well?”

Roman was told time and time again, No Names. Yet, “Who are you?”

Their tone went from blithe to serious, “I asked first, my dutiful little fucking stalker. No worries! I actually already have the displeasure of knowing who you are.”

Roman slowly readied his weapon, “You-you do?”

The biker flipped open the visor of their helmet, “Why, Roman! I thought you would’ve recognized my voice by now.”

Roman felt like the air was sucked out of him, “R-remus?”

There was venom dripping in the joviality, “In the flesh! Thought I was dead, huh? Well. You WOULD be kinda right there. ANYWAYS! You’re that Big Bad Zombie Killer I’ve been hearing about? I’m almost impressed, really!”

“And how many people have YOU killed?”

“As much as I’d LOVE having a good old fashioned moralizing dick measuring contest with you, this is boring me out of my skull. Heh, you WOULD like that, wouldn’t you? Just imagine-”

Roman huffed and shook his head, “SHUT UP!”

Remus stiffened his posture a moment, prodding Roman further, “You think yourself some kind of hero? Hmm? How many of your victims fought back, Roman? Did you even know their names? Like that one emo in the hoodie, yeah, the one that worked over at Shady Plots? His name was-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“Here’s the deal, Miss Pissy. If you were ANYONE else, I would’ve rendered you into paste, by now. Slurping your whole being up from your shattered skull. If you’d shimmied your ass off Dead Ender dick for good, right here, right now? I’ll give you a head start to get out of town. Tick. Tock.”

Roman wanted this thing that looked and sounded way too much like his brother to stop talking. Shaking, he drew his weapon and pointed at “Remus”. Equal parts seething and rattled, “B-be quiet.”

Remus took a step forward, helmet still on, tone ambiguous, “Robro, I thought you knew me better than that?”

Roman was fighting back tears and it was getting difficult to steady his aim. He wasn’t sure how true the shot was until he fired and readjusted his eyes.

Center mass, not head. Roman wasn’t sure how effective he could be when the imposter in front of him still wore that blasted helmet.

Remus erupted into a shrill cackle, unfazed, “Isn’t this just poetic, dear brother?”

Seeing a little too much inside the monster’s torso, as it continued its approach threw Roman right back to his first. He started to hyperventilate, re-engaging the gun, “You’re not my- s-STOP talking!”

“I didn’t ask to be the unloved brother from the Genesis. But I fear I’m a TINY bit confused about the roles here? Care to cue me? Or is that going to be MY job?”

Remus charged at Roman at a fully inhuman speed. Roman narrowly avoided a vicious strike from the bat, but wasted a shot into the nearby building in the dodge. Remus’s momentum had the bat crashing down on Roman’s bike, clawing into the seat leather and carving into the pristine paint job.

The screeching scratching noise had Roman’s teeth itching as he stumbled away for some breathing room.

Roman’s brief thoughts about his own bike were interrupted by the sound of Remus growling . When they locked eyes, Remus’s eyes flared red and it was snarling. It gave Roman a sick determination, his mind a mantra of, “My brother’s dead. That’s not my brother. My brother’s dead. That’s not my brother. I can’t let ALL those lives go to waste. That THING’S not my brother.”

Roman was too focused on Remus and not as much on his surroundings. When he tried to fire back one more time, the spread clipped the zombie’s arm. Remus continued its approach toward Roman, dangerously quickly, “What? The Knight in Putrid Armor having cold feet? I saw some of your work, Roman. You’re a better SHOT than this!”

Roman re-engaged the shotgun and attempted to get some distance or cover. Too many things on his mind, he fell over a busted up, stray bin on site. He quickly flipped onto his back to see Remus was already standing over him. His heart was pounding in between the panic and exertion, making his aim shakier in its rise.

Remus’s smile was way too visible behind the lifted visor, tone equal parts sing-song and menacing,“Gee. I don’t remember you being so quiet . So. BORING. WORK with me, here!”

Roman noticed the arm was more than a little bit grazed and Remus was holding the bat in his-its offhand. Roman fought away memories of watching his late brother playing in Little League, stilling his hands more toward this monster’s head. As Roman did so, Remus had also started to wind up for another swing, eyes holding that monstrous red color.

Roman screamed back, “STOP TALKING!”

Remus’s bat started to barrel down at perilous speed.

Roman didn’t think he could shimmy out of the way in time. He had no choice but to fire back and try anyway. It felt like things had started to slow from all the adrenaline, his arms and hands feeling like they were weighed down with tarry hesitation. He could almost feel the monster’s breath, as he barely confirmed his shot and squeezed the trigger. Just as the muzzle flashed, he squeezed his eyes shut, so tightly they watered.

He kept them closed and waited.

He heard the sound of wood and metal clattering on the concrete slab underneath them.

Followed shortly after by, the sounds of – the sounds of a body felled.

Silence. Agonizing silence in darkness that Roman wished to remain blissfully inside. He dreaded what he would see, what he would have to preserve as a trophy on the board, what-

He opened his eyes. He really, desperately wanted to look away. But he saw the ragged mess where the monster’s neck used to be, blood bubbling and pooling around a practically headless, crumpled body. A stretched flap of skin and sinew kept the head barely attached. The bottom edge of the helmet and visor was chewed up by some of shot and splattered with blood.

The worst part of it was seeing the vacant and lifeless face of his brother, lying on the ground at his foot. It was facing his direction, leaving nothing to imagination.

Roman felt a deep and cold drop in his stomach. More profound than any other mission he had taken, until that point. Fear and dread lighting up all the wrong nerves in his body. Disbelief. Thrill. Nausea. Nothing. Repeat.

It felt like time had frozen, staring at the scene in front of him. His mind was lethargically grasping toward a realization, several, that he dared not articulate. He couldn’t.

He was only shaken out of this limbo state of mind when his phone buzzed. A text from the Captain, “You haven’t checked in at the usual time. Status?”

It was a struggle to tap out his response, “Yeah. Here. Did the job. Just need to get the trophy and I’ll debrief later.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Thanks.”

Roman took a deep breath as he finally got to the motorbike to get that camera again. He almost forgot the damage done to the thing, but he just focused on fishing the thing out of one of the saddlebags. Turning back towards the body felt like he was trudging through tar.

He shut out as much as he could, as he took a few pictures of his brother’s corpse.

Numbness was all Roman could feel in the immediate days after.

For nearly another week, he was out of it the entire time his compatriots praised his accomplishment. They talked about this sort of thing a lot, ever since he signed up. If you were able to eliminate the monsters wearing the face of your closest? No one could possibly challenge your loyalty.

He had found out only after the kill that the Captain had known the zombie used to be Roman’s brother. Though he was reassured that that information had come in within a handful of days of that grim patrol. She told him that she was intending to tell him that before that point – she just needed to confirm some things.

Rendered moot, clearly. There was no doubt. The Captain showed him a tenderness he’d never seen before, behind closed doors. A privilege he’d just earned.

“Oh hon’. We should give you a proper hero’s celebration. Your birthday’s coming up, right?”

Something icy and nauseating shot through the emotional haze, “I-I suppose so but- may I be excused, ma’am?”

She had a cheeriness that exaggerated the feeling for Roman, “Of course, dismissed.”

Roman ran into the nearest bathroom in the HQ. He wound up heaving into the toilet. Heaving until only bile pooled in the bowl and exhaustion blanketing him. One of those realizations hovering in his mind, “I-I can’t believe I forgot…”

Roman eventually gathered himself to wash up at the sink. He spent more time staring at his hands in the sink than he was scrubbing them. Lost in the sound of the water running.

He eventually grabbed some paper towels to dry his hands and wipe down his face.

In between some blinks, was when he saw it in the mirror.

A familiar body.

One that wore some torn up black jeans, a green and black vinyl jacket, a blood soaked shirt. It held what he hoped was only a helmet in one arm, the tinted visor was down. The fact there was more blood dribbling from the bottom, along that garish, glittery sleeve, didn’t help. Standing there beside him.

Roman froze, not wanting to inspect further but his eyes betrayed him, scanning up the torso – there was no head where one should be. Just a ragged and gory stump. He dared not to look into the helmet, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

He heard something, it sounded vaguely like Remus. It was buried under a rattling wheeze, “Tick. Tock. Robro. Tick. Tock…”

Roman couldn’t take it anymore, screaming to drown out how overwhelming everything had suddenly become. He was tearing up his voice and he couldn’t bear to see that again.

Someone else entered the bathroom, Roman thought it was probably Tim, “Roman? You okay!?”

Roman violently shook his head, keeping his eyes shut, “H-he’s right there!”

“Who?”

More rational thoughts crept to the fore, when Roman opened his eyes again.

The only other person in the room was Tim, looking at Roman, baffled.

“I-I’m just gonna go tell the Captain you need some time off.”

Tim left and Roman’s legs felt weak.

Roman curled in on himself. He gave a weak laugh at just how pathetic and lost he felt.

On the 19th, Roman was thirty one years old. Remus would always be thirty, no. Roman wanted to think he was still twenty-five, when he left prison. That that thing was not Remus.

He pretended to celebrate with the Dead Enders, summoning up his old skills from the stage. He told the others he was going to be okay. He simply wanted to get blackout drunk, just so he wouldn’t see the monster wearing his brother’s body again.

Halloween used to be their favorite holiday.

Roman simply continued the facade, bringing along something slapped together at the last minute.

He needed a distraction. He missed Steve.

[Next]

#sanders sides #roman sanders #remus sanders #iz!au #spilled musing #halloweenhorrorfest

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redahlia-writes · 3 years ago

Text

cupid and psyche. | manda’lor!din djarin au (part one)

series masterlist

Abstract: Love took his hand, and even through the leather Din could picture the softness of her palms, the warmth of her skin. He helped her up, his other hand finding her waist to steady her as she rocked slightly side by side, gaze cast downwards to check the state of her dress.

Up close, Din truly saw how breathtakingly beautiful she was - looking at her, he had no trouble believing some higher power had wrapped its essence around her. He also saw a film of melancholy over her eyes, in her smile that barely reached her lips. Beautiful and sad - the perfect formula for divinity.

Words: 7.4K

Content: (go to the series masterlist for the full list of cw); she/her pronouns and gendered terms used, she’s refered to as “cyar” (love in mando’a) but there are no physical descriptions nor is her real name ever used, arranged marriage (technically), cursing, religious topics, symbolism, heavy descriptions

also on AO3 - masterlist

feedback is always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

They called her Cyar, because it was like glancing upon the face of Love itself.

Her name had been written in multiple comms, messages and letters addressed to the Manda’lor: a bride was coming for him, a woman whose beauty was discussed from planet to planet - a woman people all through the Galaxy did anything to meet, for they believed her able to grant them good fortune, beauty, love.

Din Djarin did not want a wife. As he’d mentioned multiple times to his council, he did not need one. He had people helping him rebuild Mandalore, his reign - his friends, those he’d grown to consider his family.

He didn’t need good fortune. He didn’t need princesses or princes or companions of any kind - he already had all that he required to rule, and to rule properly.

Mandalore had grown, cities had been rebuilt, people were returning to live under him, alongside him; the gardens were sprouting and creatures were growing. The planet might not ever return to his old splendor, but they were taking a step in the right direction.

Yet the princess had arrived nevertheless under Fett’s instruction - one day, Din was going to argue about how much power his advisers were allotted, when he was done commenting on the fact that he had no reason to seek a wife.

But what about companionship?

She arrived on her own, a ship that carried her and a single bag with her few possessions, clad in a green veil that kept her hidden from those who had greeted her up until the last moment - a graceful bow as she uncovered herself, leaving the Manda’lor’s council at a loss of words.

Cyar, they called her. A name that stuck within the first few hours of her arrival - everyone whispered about Love walking the grounds of the palace. A name whispered reverentially when they recounted the day to Din.

He’d done everything in his power to not be present. While he did not wish to be rude and unwelcoming, a part of him told him that it was going to be the only way to avoid this wedding. Perhaps she would grow tired, bored, irritated. Perhaps she’d demand to go back home. Perhaps her father would, seeing the Manda’lor not fulfilling his part of the pact.

“You should’ve been there,” Greef Karga’s voice held a wistful note ever since he’d gone back to Din’s meetings room, Bo-Katan and Cara with him. “I’m not going to indulge this,” Din argued, watching the man crane his neck to look outside the window. Curiosity gnawed at him. “Is she as beautiful as they say?”

“Yes,” came as a chorus, taking him aback. It wasn’t that often his circle agreed on something - and that quickly, too.

“Well, then, if that’s the case, she ought to be with someone who will appreciate that,” he declared, and Karga turned to look at him, clear bafflement on his face. “I’m busy.”

“So that’s your plan, then?” Cara asked, arms crossed. “Not even trying to meet her? Have a conversation with her? Just - straight up no?”

“Precisely. If she’s so beautiful, she’ll have no problems finding a replacement,” he shrugged, the door opening and closing as Grogu toddled inside, sleep still in his eyes.

“What about you?” Greef argued, waving at the little kid. “We’re not going to stay here forever, Din - Cara and I, Fett and Fennec Shand, we have to go back home. You need someone.” “I’m not on my own, I’ve got him,” Grogu hopped on Din’s desk, cooing in response - jury was still out whether or not he fully understood what was being said.

“Someone you can have conversations with,” Cara pointed out, her eyes falling to the child grabbing Mando’s gloved hand, tugging to gain his father’s full attention. “There’s Bo-Katan.”

“Don’t look at me,” the other Mandalorian said immediately, lifting her hands up in defense. “I’m going off-planet to find the others - this,” she gestured vaguely to the room, the palace, ruling, “is not for me anymore.”

“Remember when you desperately wanted the Darksaber?” Din half-muttered, half-groaned, getting up and scooping the child in his arms, a content coo coming from him. “Thank you for welcoming her in my stead.”

He was half-way to the door when Karga called him. Din didn’t turn, knowing the look he’d see on the man’s face.

“Give it some thought, at the very least,” he told him, an almost fatherly voice. “And don’t leave the poor woman feeling unwelcomed - she’s had a long journey. The last thing she needs is to think she’s an intruder.”

A day had gone by since her arrival - dinner spent in solitude and a restless night had brought her out of her room when the sun was still rising. She thought that if she was bound to be alone, then at the very least she could be surrounded by green.

The Manda’lor liked to wake up early, take some time for himself to walk and clear his head - he did not expect to be met by a vision in blush pink. Her long dress pooled around her as she crouched next to a bush of small blue-ish flowers, her face uncovered and kissed by the golden morning light.

He understood then why people thought there was something divine in her. Why everyone marveled at her beauty, as if she were a statue masterfully chiseled.

“Should you be out here alone?” startled, the woman fell back, chiffon puffing around her legs with the motion in a pinkish cloud as a hmph noise left her parted lips. She looked up, wide-eyed, and Din felt himself taking roots onto the spot right under her gaze - frozen.

“It’s marvelous how your people manages to be stealthy even when covered in beskar,” even her voice held an ethereal note, gentle and sweet as honey. Regaining some composure - albeit with a certain difficulty - Din stepped towards her, offering her her hand. “I did not mean to scare you, my apologies.”

Love took his hand, and even through the leather Din could picture the softness of her palms, the warmth of her skin. He helped her up, his other hand finding her waist to steady her as she rocked slightly side by side, gaze cast downwards to check the state of her dress.

“That’s alright,” she escaped his hold too soon, a ruffle of fabrics as she stepped back towards the bush and grazed the tip of her fingers over the flowers. “I couldn’t help myself coming out here - I was led to believe I would not be seeing a flower again once here on Mandalore.”

“It used to be a beautiful planet,” the man in the armor nodded, folding his hands in front of him so they did not feel her absence too much. “With forests, jungles, seas, lakes the color of jewels - the people miss it.” “So he built gardens instead?”

He. Din had the sudden realization that the woman did not know who he was. Protected by his armor, he was anonymous - just another Mandalorian on his home planet, casually taking a stroll in the gardens. To an outsider, he was no different than the others.

It had been a while since he’d been just someone else.

“Gardens seem to be good for morals,” he shrugged lightly, and a quick, brighter smile made its way across her rosy mouth. He thought about what Karga had said then, about Fett and his remark on companionship and slowly, tentatively, offered her his hand once more. “If it’s not too forward of me to ask, would you like me to show you around, Princess?”

She did not seem surprised he knew who she was. He figured it was something she was used to - something she’d had to grow familiar with. To accept. But she smiled again and Din felt his chest warming up underneath the armor, her hand in his scalding while gentle.

“I’d like that.”

Their arms interlocked, they walked the gardens side by side, the sun reflecting on Din’s armor as it appeared above the horizon. He spoke quietly, as if afraid the rest of the palace would hear them, and she leaned into him to listen with attention, stopping just every now and then to get closer to this or that plant from that or this planet.

Whenever she escaped his hold, Din found himself clenching and unclenching his fist, leather creaking softly as she neared a flower, a smile lingering on her lips as she took in the scent of it, shoulders relaxing each time.

He wondered what her home was like, whether there were flowers and she sought a taste of familiarity in those, or if she was unfamiliar with their essence, their colors; or whether people brought them as gifts to her from far away, and she’d grown fond of compositions.

He knew nothing about her but what the voices said, yet he had the distinct impression that her beauty was just the first layer of her being: she was attentive and curious, her eyes shimmered when she looked at a particularly pretty plant and she smiled when a small creature crossed their paths. None of the letters said that.

And, maybe because she simply didn’t know who he was, she did not shy away from Din. He’d grown so used to people looking at him with a hint of fear in their eyes from his hunting days, and to the reverence they showed him once he’d become Manda’lor - gaze cast downwards, voices low with a slight tremble, heads bowed.

Instead she wandered off, spoke from above her shoulder, and returned to interlock her arm with his, unafraid to touch him, unbothered by his closeness.

What about companionship?

Would a wife break that sense of loneliness that he was able to escape only with Grogu? Would she understand it wasn’t respect he wanted, it was just someone to talk with when the night didn’t pass soon enough and the mornings were too slow?

His council - his friends - were right. He needed someone.

“Each dome has a garden of its own, though this is the richest,” they’d reached a fountain and, holding her hand, he helped her sit down on the edge of it, crystalline water rushing behind her shoulders. “When more people will return, surely the other places will flourish, too - that’s the hope, at least.”

“You were right, a garden is good for morale,” she looked up at him still standing, then turned as the tip of her fingers grazed the rippling surface of cold water. Din saw goosebumps running up her uncovered arms. “It’s been a long night, and this has helped,” her voice lowered, perhaps timorous of her confession. “Thank you, for showing me around -” she paused then, a light frown knitting her brow as she brought her gaze back up to him, perplexed. “I don’t even know your name.”

There it was, Din thought, the point of reckoning. He knew things would change - it had been nice to live in an illusion for a bit, where he could just be someone else, and she could just exist at his side.

“That’s alright, I didn’t say,” he sighed, taking a small step back from her. “Actually, I think it was better that way.” “What do you mean?” she kept her frown, tilting her head just a little. Din hesitated - could he say nothing? Could he move on, write a letter that would send her back home? Forget the whole thing?

“I’m Din Djarin.”

Cyar, they called her - Love itself. What you called someone or something had a power: Grogu would listen if his name was used, people would claim objects and places and rights in their names, he could go anywhere and be recognised by name alone.

Din Djarin, the sole ruler of Mandalore, master of the Darksaber.

Her eyes widened, hands stilling at her sides as a kriff fell from her lips before she looked down, chin tucked against her chest half hiding herself, half bowing.

“I am so sorry, Lord Mandalore, I did not -” breathy and trembling voice, she gripped the edge of the fountain, torn between getting up and folding down. “That’s alright,” he shook his head, and sat at her side instead - enough space between them that he could not touch her. “I assure you - and Din is fine.”

“What?” she hazarded a glance in his direction - with the sun behind him, the armor was not blinding to look at. Still, it looked warm, painted in gold and orange. “You don’t have to call me Lord Mandalore, or anything of the sorts,” his hand inched towards her, still too far, but reaching through the gap. “Din will be just fine.”

“But I -” she looked at him, then at his hand and back at him - for a moment it felt like she could see right through his visor, her gentle, worried eyes meeting his. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he reassured then, voice lower, and after a moment longer her shoulders relaxed with a quiet exhale. “It was nice - conversing as we did, without feeling the weight of the crown,” a surprised chuckle escaped her, her hand quickly coming up to cover her mouth, eyes widening again.

“Yet you knew who I was,” she spoke slowly after clearing her throat, with her hands in her lap as she turned to face him, a fold of her dress falling into the water. “And still, you -”

He saw the hesitation in her eyes, lips parted as the sentence died on the tip of her tongue. She let her gaze fall to the water, carefully picking up the pink fabric that had darkened and was weighed down, wringing it before shaking her head.

“I - what?” he encouraged, a newfound curiosity in him. “It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter,” there was the polite smile again - the not-exactly-sad, but neither happy one he’d noticed as soon as he’d seen her. A circumstantial smile. “Thank you, Din. The gardens really are lovely.”

“I’m glad,” he blurted out - half a mutter, really, looking up as she stood, letting the now wrinkled fold of the dress fall at her side. “Is there anything you need?” “No, just some rest,” she reassured, inclining her head. “I’m afraid it’ll take a while for me to get used to sleep here, that’s all.”

“Are you -” he stopped himself. A part of him wanted nothing more than to grant her every wish, listen to all she desired and give it to her, no matter the cost. But then he thought about the melancholy vanishing the deeper they ventured through nature, and the following flicker of panic when she realized who he was, who she was to him. He straightened a little. “I’ll make sure there’ll be plenty of food for when you wake up. You’ve had a long journey.”

She seemed taken aback, physically taking a step back from him and the fountain.

“Thank you,” she repeated, softer, fidgeting hands smoothing her skirt down. “I don’t suppose I will see you at any meal, is that right?” Din grazed the tip of his fingers to the edge of the helmet absent-mindedly, then shook his head. “Alright then - I’ll see you around, Din.”

The second time they met it was by accident, too.

It was morning as well, a couple of days later, and the sun was creeping shyly above the horizon when Din made his way to the gardens. Cyar was already there, a pine velvety green dress wrapped around her as she lay down on the grass, the tip of her shoes poking out from underneath the long skirt.

Her eyes were close, eyelids dancing as if following a dream, yet the moment he took half a step back - not wishing to bother her, no matter the odd urge to clear his throat and see whether or not she was actually asleep - she turned her head, eyes fluttering open.

Her gaze remained unfocused for a moment, then she took him in and sat up - quick enough he saw her inhale and press her lips together when her head spun - hands pressing at her sides onto the ground for support as she straightened her back. If he focused hard enough, he could hear her vertebrae falling back into place.

“Lord Mandalore,” she cleared her throat, bringing her legs up to her chest in an odd half-seated half-curled up stance, tipping her chin up to look at him as a delicate smile blossomed on her lips. “Sorry - I clearly did not expect anyone to come by,” she hummed sheepishly, looking down at herself - on her elbows, back and hem, the morning dew had stained the velvet of her dress a darker hue of green.

“Nothing to worry about,” he shook his head lightly and stepped in her direction. “And as I said, you may call me Din.” “Of course - apologies,” she stated, moving to rest one hand on her bent leg, glancing away for just a moment, her eyebrows knitted as she weighed her options. He closed the gap between the two of them, offering her his hand much like the first time.

With a grateful nod, she did not hesitate to wrap her fingers around his and, with the aid of a slight push of her other arm, he hoisted her up easily. His free hand found her side, again, keeping her balanced as she staggered forward and stopped herself by placing her hand on top of the chest plate of his armor. She curled her fingers, gaze moving from where the cold beskar met her skin towards his visor, and gave a tentative smile.

However unwillingly, Din let go of her - the hand on her side falling, the one holding hers giving a light, reassuring squeeze to her fingers before dropping at his own side. Still, he let his gaze linger on the golden-yellow finish of her dress up close - around her wrists and throat, a thin band about her waist, the hem of the dress.

“No apologies needed,” he said after clearing his throat, shuffling back a step. “Actually, I should be the one apologizing - I did not mean to intrude.” “You can’t intrude in your own home,” she offered with a tilt of her head, a shy smile creeping up her lips. “Plus, I imagine there are better places for me to lie down than here.”

“No one comes here besides me and Grogu, at times,” she knitted her brows again, perplexed. “He’s - it’s a long story.” “I’ve got time if you do,” she said with a light shrug, bringing her hands behind her back and locking them there. It seemed to be such a casual gesture, but her posture turned more rigid, composed, regal even. It was a learned motion, a show.

“Would you like to take a walk?” he offered then, and surprise registered on her face when he offered her his arm once more.

Din figured he did not strike others as a physical person - not by reputation, at least. But he craved it - her nearness. The feeling of her arm in his had lingered like a ghost in the (short) time he’d kept his distance, and he’d replayed the image of her hand brushing his wrist from above his clothes over and over again, like a lovestruck fool. He could get used to the warmth of her body at his side, he thought. It would be innocent enough.

She threaded her arm with his, her chin lifted to keep looking at him with a smile as she brought her other hand on him, too. With an exhale, he started walking, and with a rustle of her dress she followed in silence. Waiting.

“Grogu is the reason I’m here, in a sense,” he began slowly, unsure just yet what he was going to say and what not. How he was going to say it. Had he ever told that story out loud in its fullness? Why was he doing it now?

“On Mandalore?” she wondered, turning her head to look at him. Din hadn’t realized he was already looking at her, following the planes of her face, the arch of her nose - he met her gaze when she turned and thought: that’s why.

“Yes,” he confirmed, and forced himself to look away, feeling the weight of her arm as she leaned in a little. “He was supposed to be a bounty - he’s a special kid. The client wanted him for Maker knows what,” he scoffed, thinking back on the labs and scientists and Moff Gideon. “I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why he trusted me, but he did, and after that I couldn’t do it.”

She nodded, perhaps understanding, perhaps encouraging. Din felt himself relax under her gaze - perhaps there was indeed something eerie about her. Whatever it was that brought people to confide in her as if she were a living deity, it made him feel at ease. He didn’t feel like he was in the presence of an inhuman creature - he felt, somewhat, safe.

“He became a foundling,” he continued, “as I had been. My task was to bring him to his kind, and I did that - tried to, at least,” he could feel her gaze on the side of his helmet, scalding, awaiting. “He came back to me, stubborn as he is. Has been with me ever since.”

“Foundling?” she asked tentatively - she sounded somewhat unsure. As if she was not used to asking the questions. He wondered what else she could’ve asked of him. “By Creed, we cannot leave abandoned children to their fate - be it on a battlefield, as it was for me, or during another mission, as it was for him. For lack of better words, he’s like a son to me,” he explained, though he wasn’t particularly fond of the expression like a son anymore. Grogu was not like anything - he was.

He turned and saw the wheels turning in the princess’ head, putting together the pieces of information he’d just given her. There was an insatiable curiosity in her eyes, something he’d noticed during their first walk but that seemed more obvious now that he was giving away pieces of him. Somehow, he didn’t mind it.

“On a battlefield?” “I was born on Aq Ventina - when the CIS attacked, my parents hid me. Later on, a Mandalorian found me,” he saw her nod, chewing absent-mindedly on her bottom lip. “You can ask away - I don’t mind.”

And he meant it - perhaps the story had gone unheard for so many years, he felt no point in keeping it for himself anymore. Perhaps it was just her. Still, she hesitated, big eyes turning to look at him for reassurance. All he could offer was to relax his shoulders, tilt his head a little. He went as far as to rest his free hand on hers draped on his forearm, giving it a light squeeze.

“What about them? The Mandalorian who found you?” she wondered, and of all the things Din expected her to ask, that still caught him by surprise. “They’re like a parent to you, aren’t they?”

“I suppose so,” he mused, taken aback. “Yes - he kept me as his own. Raised me. When I came of age, I had the choice, and I chose to be a Mandalorian but -” he slowed his steps, and she stalled at his side, her head tilted to look at him. So attentive, he thought, and wondered whether she could see the frown crossing his brow, the pout on his lips. “He’s been gone for a while - and anyways, my upbringing is not that an interesting thing to discuss.”

Just as he brushed it off, he watched her lips part to argue, then close again, thinking on it. She cast her gaze downwards, to the tip of her shoes poking from under the hem of her dress at each of her steps, the wet patches dried off already.

“Is that why you don’t like Lord Mandalore?” her voice had lowered, and a flush spread across her cheeks, worried and bright. Still, she went on. “Because of you being a foundling?”

Yes, he thought right away. There was some lingering feeling of the way foundlings like him had been treated in his early days with the Mandalorians. The feeling of non-belonging, of never being Mandalorian enough, always trying, trying, trying, but also -

“The Darksaber gave me this title,” he said, slowly. “I didn’t look for it, like Bo-Katan was. All I wanted was to get the kid back, and I somehow found Mandalore in my hands.” “Yet reluctant rulers always end up being the great ones,” she hummed, and Din turned to look at her right away. She must’ve felt the weight of his gaze on her, because she tipped her chin up, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re less likely to abuse the power you’re given - I’ve met kings and senators and politicians, all of them greedy, all of them wanting more than what they had already in their hands.”

“I’m not a great ruler,” Din argued, shaking his head. “From what I’ve heard, Mandalore hasn’t thrived as it is doing under you in a long time - long before the Night of a Thousand Tears,” she gave him a pointed look, one so intense he had to inhale long and deep in an attempt to regain some semblance of control over himself. There was a whole other Galaxy in her eyes. “Plus, you gave them gardens,” she added, bumping her hip with his.

Such a casual gesture - it made him relax again right away. As if she knew exactly what he’d needed to not spiral, to not get himself wrapped up in his own thoughts of power and ruling. He’d fallen into the role of Manda’lor because he hadn’t had a way out.

“That I did,” he huffed, and her smile brightened. “Are you still having troubles sleeping?” “What?” her expression shifted, a light frown.

“You were just lying there, I thought -” a quiet, slightly surprised oh escaped her, then she cleared her throat. “Is there anything that might help? Perhaps another room?” “The room is fine, it’s -” she shook her head, looking away from him. “Everything’s so new - even the sky is different, especially at night. I only ever saw one moon when the sun went down. And I think -” she trailed off, her fingers curling over his forearm before she shook her head again, scoffing lightly to herself.

“Yes?” he encouraged.

“I don’t miss the pilgrims,” her voice was low and slow, pausing to chew on the flesh of her cheek. “The requests, the begging, I don’t - I don’t miss it, and thank you for the peace this place has allowed me,” she bowed her head with her gratitude, though her eyes rose to meet his visor for a split second. “But I think I was so used to always have people around, always listening to them, talking to them, I never realized how it exhausted me. Without that, the days are slow and the nights are restless.”

“I could send Grogu your way,” there was a teasing smile in his words, and by the change in her expression - eyes brightening, eyebrows arching - she must’ve heard it. “You would surely feel exhausted after spending a few hours with him.” “He sounds very charming,” she laughed, such a sweet sound it made Din’s steps falter, the fountain they’d stopped at the previous time right in front of them. She noticed, too.

There it was, their temporary goodbye - her arm left his, and he felt the absence like a cold gust of wind. Then, and only then, did Din realize how much of himself he’d uncovered for her - for this stranger. And how much a recondite part of him was still willing to offer.

“Din?” she called his name tenderly, turning by the edge of the fountain - her mouth moved and formed the shape of his name, so sweet and delicate. The smile lingered on her lips. “You’re an easy person to trust - your people know that.”

He found her at the fountain each day, each morning. It became a habit, one that Din dreaded.

The more time he spent with her, the harder he found it to think about breaking off the deal - engagement. They hadn’t discussed it, not even once, though it burned in the Manda’lor’s throat. Was he just waiting for her to bring it up? What would happen, then?

Two weeks went by as this, with mornings in the gardens and days spent avoiding the subject with whoever questioned him about it. He was not ready to give up that piece of tranquility she was offering - her arm interlocked with his, her head grazing his shoulder every now and then as he spoke, the smiles that felt truthful.

She was the only thing that felt normal in his life.

“May I ask you something?” he felt her tense at his side, the sleeves of her blue dress rustling as she brought both hands to her chest and turned her head to look at him. “Of course,” he’d paid so much attention to her voice during the past days he heard the shift towards cold politeness in it right away. It made him want to backtrack, ignore his own curiosity. But her gaze was on him, and he could feel it even through the armor, scalding his skin.

“Why did your father pick me?” whatever she expected him to ask, was not that, surprise making the corners of her mouth quiver as she stopped walking. He followed shortly, turning to remain facing her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I did not even know about you until the first letter came - I find it hard to believe he chose me over someone who might have proposed.”

“You assume someone has proposed,” with a tilt of her head, her gaze softened.

“How could they not?” the question hung there for a moment, Din’s realization of what he’d said weighing him down. He held his breath a moment longer as her gaze lingered on him, and when she looked away and took a step back towards the path they’d created those past days, he exhaled and followed her.

“No one’s asked me to marry them,” through Din’s surprise she was twisting her hands, the long sleeves of her gown falling over to cover them. “People meet me and they see a deity, a saint, a holy vessel - they don’t see someone to spend their life with, but a miracle,” she frowned at her own words, then scoffed lightly. “It sounds so absurd, so petulant to say - I shouldn’t be complaining. But it is dreadfully lonely,” she lowered her voice at the last sentence, letting her hands drop at her sides. “My older sisters have been married for years, so he put all his efforts on me.”

“That still does not explain why me,” Din reached her side, the two steps that divided them feeling too many - he’d grown used to the weight of her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Her lips parted, eyes darting towards him as she inhaled and then back forward.

“I’m afraid your reputation precedes you, and my father is a very superstitious man,” she began with a heavy exhale. “He visited an oracle - who told him that my faith lies in the bloodied hands of a man with no face,” at that she looked up fully, her neck craned, her eyes following the shape of his helmet before moving towards the visor, leaning in conspiratorially. “I prefer to think it’s because he noticed the improvements on Mandalore and amongst your people since you became ruler. It’s better than all that fate babble.”

“You don’t believe in fate?” he wondered as her hand found the bend of his arm again, taking a step sideways towards him.

“I don’t know what I believe in,” she admitted, the tip of her fingers tracing the edge of the armor piece around his forearm. “Perhaps it’s reassuring to think that your life is already written - that no matter what you do, you will end up where you’re meant to,” they’d reached the fountain, where they would usually part ways. Instead, she kept walking on, a turn around the water with their arms interlocked. “But I don’t like the idea of being victims of it - just waiting for life to happen.”

“Yet you came here,” he pointed out, and a humorless chuckle left her lips.

“I had no choice in the matter,” she pushed the tip of her fingers against the edge of his armor, the cold beskar biting her skin. “I may be considered a living saint, but I’m still my father’s daughter.”

“Would you rather be home?” he asked quietly, his gaze cast down to her hand. “No,” she shook her head, Din’s head turning to look at her as a guilty blush spread across her cheeks, eyelashes brushing her cheekbones as she lowered her eyes. “I don’t know - back there I’m just a step in someone’s pilgrimage. Here,” she hesitated, cheeks hollowing for a moment, “I think it’s the first time I’m being something else. Someone else.”

“Cyar,” Din stopped them both, tugging gently on her arm to make her turn and face him. She’d gotten used to her new name - it had gone from being whispered across corridors to the greeting they all reserved to her, her own title. The Manda’lor found it easier, too. Truer. “You can decide what it is you want to do next - and should you want to stay, you could do so under no obligation.”

In the days spent together, Din had gotten the feeling that she was able to see right through him, the armor meaningless under her attentive, peering gaze. Even at that moment, he almost reached for his helmet, just to make sure it was still there, that he hadn’t bared himself to her.

“It’s true then - you don’t want to marry,” she spoke quietly, a little smile blossoming over her lips. Din frowned and tilted his head, his hold on her arm loosening. “What?”

“Something Lord Fett said when I arrived,” her reassuring expression was of no comfort to Din - not if Boba Fett was involved. “How he hoped I hadn’t traveled all the way for nothing, given your reluctance to consider the arrangement.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Din blurted out, her eyebrows arching in surprise. “I mean - it’s not because of you.” “I know.”

“I never thought about marriage,” he kept going, words flowing out of his mouth like from a ruptured dam. “Well, I did, but between bounty hunting, being constantly on the move, and then finding myself here, as Manda’lor, I never thought I could - that I would find someone.”

“Din,” her hand wrapped around his wrist, a grounding gesture that made him snap back to reality, his eyes finding hers on the other side of the visor - gentle and reassuring, she was smiling at him, head bobbing in a barely-there nod. “I know that. It’s alright.”

“I do enjoy spending time with you,” he murmured, tentatively, and a flash of something crossed her eyes. Din liked to pretend he was growing to know all the nuances of her expression, in her voice, in her gestures - it was not the case. A part of her always remained a mystery, her own secret. “I just don’t know if it’s something I’m made for - not in the way you’d deserve, anyway.”

As he spoke, he turned his hand until her palm rested in his, gently wrapping his fingers around hers, thumb pressed in the middle of her palm - he took a step closer, unconsciously, standing toe-to-toe as she lowered her gaze. Din missed the flicker of surprise in her eyes at his words, but not the shudder of her shoulders as she inhaled.

“I mean it,” he persisted, his thumb pushing a little harder into her hand.

“I know,” she repeated, reassuring, resting her free hand underneath his. “It’s not that, it’s -” her shoulders fell with her shaky exhale, eyes lifting to look at him through the veil of melancholy that seemed to leave her only for a few moments a day. “You’re the only person who’s ever treated me like a human - like I’m real.”

Din hesitated, bowing his head slowly - like a magnet, he felt himself pulled closer by the vulnerability in her voice, in her shimmering eyes not leaving him, the sorrowful honesty of her admission.

The beskar was cold against the skin of her forehead, making her take a sharp breath in, eyes fluttering shut. Her whole life had been spent through mysticism and cries of magic, yet the closest to divine peace she’d felt was in that moment, with a man who was meant to be her future but had revealed himself to be an extraordinary present.

“I enjoy your company, too, Din,” she added then, a mere whisper that fogged up the beskar for a moment. “Thank you.”

Some days, Grogu would vanish and no one would be able to find him. The palace was too big for a creature that small, and it always sent Din spiraling towards panic despite knowing he was safe.

“So you’re the little prince I keep hearing about,” her voice was brighter, gentle, and Din stopped mid-step through the gardens, his eyes trained on the baby blue fabric of Cyar’s dress pooling around her crouched frame, the same position he’d seen her for the first time.

Except this once she wasn’t looking at flowers, but at Grogu, his big, curious eyes on her, lips parted showing his front teeth as he cooed, grasping the air - asking to be picked up. With a benign smile, she wrapped her hands around him and brought him up to her hip, rising back up to her feet.

“Your father must be worried,” she kept her voice soft, holding him carefully against her with one arm as she brought one finger to his face, gently booping his nose - it made the kid giggle, eyes closing. “Should we go find him? Reassure him you’re all right?”

“Bu-ir,” Grogu babbled, the only full word he seemed to be able to say just yet, though with its difficulties. “Yes, your buir - we’ll find your dad,” she reassured, squinting as her smile grew a little. She took one step forward, the child secured at her side, before looking up and noticing Din already standing there - her face softened furthermore, if possible. “Hi.”

“Bui-r!” Grogu waved his arms, trying to reach for Din as soon as he saw him, his excitement turning her smile into a barely-controlled laughter as she stepped closer.

The vicinity was familiar - almost a month had gone by, and she’d grown accustomed to the feeling of the leather of his gloves on her arm, to the coldness of the beskar biting her skin. She could hear Din coming, recognize his steps across the corridors or grass. If she was exploring the castle and heard his voice in a certain room, she’d make sure to pass in front of the door, linger a moment if it was open, smile.

“Yes, kid, hi,” Grogu hopped towards him, and Din quickly reached over to steady her, his free hand wrapping around her shoulder, her sleeve crumpling underneath his touch. “I didn’t know you spoke Mando’a,” he said as a greeting.

“Just a few words I picked up here and there in the corridors, or in the few texts in the library,” she shrugged, moving her gaze from him to Grogu nestling against his shoulder, eyes moving from his father to her. He babbled something, tugging the sleeve of Din’s undershirt until he dropped his hand from Cyar’s shoulder.

“I can help, if you want,” he offered, looking down when the kid kept on pulling at him - he was pouting slightly, gesturing towards the ground before batting Din’s hand on his back. “Okay, alright - don’t wander too far,” he warned, putting him down.

“I like having something that keeps me occupied,” she was saying, watching the child toddle away with his arms open, a light spring in his step as if getting ready to hop. “Plus, you’re busy enough as it is, you don’t need me pestering you about it or bothering you.”

“You wouldn’t - it’s never a bother, being with you,” he found honesty came easier to him when she was around - in her he’d found a safe place where he could just be. Not Din Djarin, the Manda’lor, former ruthless bounty hunter - just Din.

It was in the shape his name took on her lips when she smiled while calling him; in her eyes brightening up when she saw him before the sun fully came up; in her touch lingering longer on his arm, on his hand, thighs pressed together when they sat side by side, knees bumping.

It was in her tales from home, chipping away at the layers of the days when people would seek miracles from her - no one had found her on Mandalore, no one had demanded anything of her during her time there; and it was in his recounting of before. Before the Darksaber, before Grogu, before being a foundling himself.

The intimacy terrified him, yet he couldn’t help himself. He’d started to need her.

“Magnificent,” it was a breathless whisper, her eyes widening. Her voice alone brought him back to reality, following her gaze down towards Grogu, walking back to them with a flower floating above his head.

Din couldn’t find it in himself to reprimand the child for the flaunting of his powers.

“C -” Grogu’s mouth twisted in a grimace, word falling flat as he frowned. “Cyr-a,” he tried again, and his father had to mask his chuckle with a cough, turning his head to the side. He bumped his shoulder with hers, gently, and she tilted her head without moving her eyes from the child.

“I think that’s for you,” Din offered quietly - something tightened in his chest when her expression softened, eyes shimmering as her smile widened. “Kid, try again - it’s cyar,” he repeated the word in Mando’a slowly, the now-familiar language rolling off his tongue under the perplexed gaze of his child.

“Cyr-a,” he repeated, stubbornly, flower swinging from side to side over his head with the movement of his hands. Din scoffed, shaking his head lightly just as the princess lowered herself in front of Grogu, enough to be at his level.

“For me?” there was a new tenderness in her voice, something Din had never heard, not even when she spoke of her family, of her sisters. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she murmured, sweet-voiced, and lifted her hand to reach for it.

Grogu made a sound of protest that stopped her, fingers outstretched as the kid took a step forward, pushing the flower towards her, past her hand, up to her face. When the petals brushed her cheek, she let her eyes flutter shut and rested both hands on her lap, slouching slightly forward with a content smile.

The flower tucked itself over her ear, pushing some locks of her hair back in the process - satisfied, Grogu chittered happily and scurried away, between his father’s legs and back inside the palace.

The sound of her laughter was as sweet as honey, rippling up Din’s spine as she sat on her heels and looked up at him, white petals kissing her flushed skin, such a bright smile it made him ache.

“So, how do I look?” she beamed, tipping her chin up in a show-off motion.

The curve of her neck, her dress pooled around her kneeling frame, hands resting in her lap - but also the dirt on the hem of her dress, her hair ruffled, her posture relaxed enough her shoulders slouched forward. With the sun shining on her from above, Din thought she’d never looked more -

“Magnificent,” he breathed out, an echo of her word that caught her by surprise, eyes widening somewhere between amused and flattered - for the first time, such a statement didn’t feel like a burden. It just felt true.

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khonshus-stardust · 2 years ago

Text

I'm Not Jealous

Pairings: Khonshu x Reader, (Slight) Marc Spector x Reader

Warnings: SMUT, nipple play, size kink, possessiveness (it’s Khonshu), use of toys, cum play, blow job, oral (male receiving)

Word Count: 3974

Summary: You're his. He's made this clear the last time you've interacted and ended up in your bed. It was your mistake though, thinking if you fuck him that'll ease him off. Nope, his possessive self is raging full two thousand percent. He makes himself clear once more this night. You'll be calling out for work for the next… week. There's no chance of you walking even to kitchen, let alone your car.

Author Note: Hey guys, sorry about the delay on writing stuff. I caught a mild case of Covid but it still made me super sleepy and tried. Plus, my chest was hurting. Anyhow, this is kind of an add-on to 'Jealousy? What Jealousy?' It can be read without reading that but it would always be nice to check out more Khonshu smut. There's not enough of that anywhere. That's why I'm fixing that problem.

Masterlist

Ao3

Part 2

Younglings, take your asses out of here. Go play with your dolls. This isn't the story you were looking for.

Smut below the cut

Slender arms wrapped around your waist, rousing you from your slumber. A groan rumbled in the back of your throat. One of your hands slithered up to feel rough clothe attached to the limbs encasing you. You lightly shifted your body, turning the other direction, and buried your face into familiar feeling cloth.

The chest you were snuggled up against vibrated. A deep voice washing over you, nearly lolling you back to sleep. That when you heard another voice. It felt like cotton was in your ears. Man, how tired were you? You muttered the noises to be quiet and curled more into a ball. They needed to leave you alone so you could fall back asleep for a good day or so.

Yet, your mumbled words seemed to make to situation worse. Both eyes groggily blinked up to see a dirty gold crescent moon staring at you. Huh? Khonshu? Wha…? You pulled your head further back to find the god in front of you, on his side, arms wrapped securely around you. His skull resting carefully on top of yours.

Well, this was new. “Khon? Why are you in my bed? While I’m sleeping?” you questioned and went to sit up when the moon god wouldn’t allow for that. His arms tightened and kept you snug to his chest.

“I sensed a disturbance and found Marc sneaking into your apartment. He tried to get in your room while you were sleeping. I was merely protecting you, Stardust,” Khonshu defended, voice vibrating his chest. It’s not that you would complain about cuddles, especially with him but you still had some nerves.

Mention man scoffed and raised a brow at Khonshu’s words. “I’ve been told its okay to crash here whenever. I was just trying to see if they were awake. You should know Khonshu how much of a night owl they are,” Marc argued and gestured with his arms to make his point. You were able to fight against Khonshu’s hold to sit up.

Said god moved with you. You were promptly pulled into his lap, long arms wrapped around your waist to keep you close to him. What were you going to do with him? You tiredly rubbed at your eyes and stared over at Marc. “Khon, he’s fine. He literally has a key to my place for that reason,” you sided with Marc.

Khonshu made a noise of disagreement, head turned to the side. Then he moved so his beak was right next to his ear. “You shouldn’t have given him a key.” This time, you rolled your eyes and fought him to get up.

“We’re good friends, Khonshu. Of course I gave him a key.” It was far too early to be arguing like this. First, you needed some sort of energy substance to keep your eyes at least open before entraining this whole situation. You yawned and walked past Marc. He turned with you and followed you out.

The next moment, wind whooshed around the room. Khonshu stood in the kitchen, staff in hand. “I thought we got over the whole jealousy thing, love? I thought you took that out on me two nights ago?” you questioned. That night was wonderful but you thought it would help the problem not make it worse by the way it seems.

Out of the corner of your eye, Marc tensed up, eyes wide. “I thought that was a nightmare,” he shuttered. You raised a brow at him then chuckled.

“It wasn’t that bad. You’ve probably seen worse,” you countered and poured yourself a cup of water. Your words may say you’re nonchalant about what happened but… the heat rising to your cheeks said otherwise. That night… you wouldn’t believe it happened if it wasn’t bruises on your hips and thighs.

A glare was set on you from the man. “Still a nightmare.” You took a large gulp of water and looked at Khonshu not too far away. He stood tall, a tight grasp on his staff and beak facing you. His gaze was set heavily on you, you felt it. “I don’t know how you could even do that with him.”

“It’s simple. You humans do it all the time to procreate,” Khonshu stated and walked behind you.

“That’s not what I meant! Wait, were you trying to… knock them up?” Marc whispered that last part, eyes wide as he stared at the two of you. “Can you even do that?” Both of your faces are blushing heavily at his words. He did not just ask that. But that last question now makes you concerned. You weren’t on any birth control, not needing it for anything. Yet, if he could, a new whole problem would be created.

The god places a gentle hand on your shoulder, fingers on the cusp of pressing into your skin. “No, I wasn’t. And I can’t, to my knowledge,” he answered and pulled you close to him. His body now pressed against yours. “That shouldn’t be any of your concern anyhow, Marc.”

Whisps of anger slowly appeared on said human’s face. “It is my concern, Khonshu. They’re my friend. And you’re just an old, dead, bird god that’s an ass to me more times that I can count,” he growled and took a couple of threatening steps up to the two of you. Your brows furrowed at the action yet surprise sparkled in your eyes.

“A friend you say, but your actions say otherwise.” Khonshu leaned over you and put his beak right in front of Marc’s face. “Why are you so angry? They can choose who they want to have intercourse with.” He had a point that neither of you could counter.

Marc angrily stared up at the tall god, silently. The two kept the quiet as you slowly sipped at your water. You felt yourself beginning to wake the longer you watched these two.

To be honest, it was hilarious to see these two argue from time to time. It was always one thing after another with them. But they always got the job done in the end it seems. “Are you two done bickering? I want to get some drawings in before I have to go work,” you butted in and stepped away from them. Both turned their heads towards you as you moved.

“We’re not bickering,” they stated sternly at the same time. You could only giggle at their antics and start a path back to your room, hips swaying noticeably.

“That says otherwise,” you said over your shoulder and was about to enter your room. When you suddenly ran into a cool body. Confused, your followed up from the stomach to find Khonshu before. You hated when he did that out of the blue. You gazed at him, a brow raised. “You’re not helping your situation, babes.”

You took a step to the side to get around him but he mimicked your movements. “Marc?” Khonshu questioned, voice rumbling in his chest. “What do you say?”

It was only silence behind you. What does that mean? You were about to turn your head when he finally spoke up. “If you’re willing to share,” he growled out and marched over to you, only a couple of steps behind you. “And if they’re okay with it.” They were acting like you weren’t right between them.

“I’m sorry but what are you two inferring while I’m right here? Because I’m fucking clueless,” you said with a hip jutted out and a hand resting on it. Someone’s own was placed on top of yours. You were pulled back to a warm chest. An arm slithered around your waist, a warm breath tickling the back of your neck. But you did not question or fear who it was. “Marc.”

“You’ve fucked the mummy bird. Would you like to have a turn with me? I promise you’ll be taken care of,” Marc whisper lowly into your ear. This couldn’t be happening. He was asking that of you. You laughed internally at the way of how described Khonshu.

One of you hands came up and rested over top of the arm around your waist. His warmth slowly seeping into your bones. “That’s not the deal, Marc,” Khonshu growled in front of you. Nimble fingers grasped your bicep and tried to pull you from the man’s hold. It didn’t work. Two begin to tug at you. “They’re mine.”

Your brows fell as annoyance filled your veins. With a groan, you pushed at the two, effectively moving them away from you. They gazed at you in shock. Khonshu returning to his full stance. You turned to fully face Marc, a soft smile on your lips. “Could we talk about this later? But I wouldn’t mind having a turn with you.”

Marc’s hard façade cracked into a minute smile. You stepped close and kissed him on the cheek. That completely broke him. “Alright fine. I’ll leave… let you two talk this out,” Marc stated and stared at you for a few extra seconds. Then, he took his leave.

The moment the door closed with a soft click, arms wrapped around you. A yelp accidently escaped you as you were promptly lifted off of your feet. “Khon! Why do you have to be so possessive sometimes? Or should I say jealous?” you teased and felt yourself land on the bed on your back.

Mention god crawled on top of your form. “I’m not jealous, little one. It’s just, you’re mine,” he growled and spread your legs, moving to be between them. One of your brows raised at his antics. You laughed at his words though and shook your head. “It’s the truth, Stardust.”

“So what was that deal I heard mentioned? Have the two of you talked about having a threesome?” you decided to get it out of the way. It’s all you could think of when you heard that.

To be honest, if they have been discussing those types of things, you couldn’t feel opposed. It felt like it would truly satisfy you in a strange way. You gazed up at lean god above you and waited for his response. But Khonshu stopped what he was doing and just stared down at you. One of his hands resting gentle on your sternum. “I won’t be mad if you had been.”

His stiff body deflated as if he releasing a breath, he sighed. “I see the way you look at him. I don’t want to let you go. I want you as mine…. But yes, we’ve made conversation about it a couple of times.” He paused his words to let that hand on you move up to gentle grasp your chin. “Would you like that? With him?”

Shock surged through your veins yet you refused to let it appear on your face. The times you’ve been around his stagnant personality, you’ve never seen him this soft before. You smiled at this. “I’ll have to talk with him then the three of us but I wouldn’t mind. I kinda like that stuff, mentally at least,” you stated in return and began to feel a little self-conscience about what you had said. Your shoulders bunched up, head slightly lowered.

Khonshu seemed to make a strange purr/growl noise at this. “You would love to be used by us. Wouldn’t you, Stardust?” The sound and his words made you squeak yet you felt yourself getting wetter. He chuckled at your reaction and moved that hand from your chin to where your shirt ended. You barely nodded your head, letting him remove your shirt and bra from you.

His thumb soft rubbed over your nipple. You shivered at the feeling and let a hand touch his chest. “I know a few things he could do for that I cannot do in this form. What do you say? Let him suck on your breasts? Or maybe eat you out? Let him eat you like a thirsty man far from the Nile? Would you let him do that to you?” His free hand started at your knee and began to slowly roam up.

Another shiver raked your form. Your nails tug into the rough cloth that covered his chest, eyes softly closing on their own. The god chuckled, beak close to your ear. “I asked you question, Stardust.” The gentle ministrations turned a little harsh. He pinched the nipple he was playing with. You gasped, eyes flying open to peer up at him.

“Yes, Khonshu, yes! I would,” you confessed, hands gripping at what was in reach. His moving hand stopped at your hip, fingers pressing into the flesh there.

Gods, you wanted him to fuck you like how he did last time. Inside his own thoughts, he was thinking the same damn thing. Seeing you blissed out, sweat covering your skin. Maybe he’ll cover you with cum. That would mark you as his.

Only his.

He wished he had a tongue just to taste you but he can use Marc. That’s what he’s for. A hum sounded from him. “Good, Little Bug, good. We’ll set something up. But for right now-“ both hands now gripped at your waist band and pulled- “you’re mine. I’ll show you.”

Your pants were promptly removed from you. Same as your underwear. Everything seemingly thrown hazardously into the darkening room. The sun soon to set.

Each leg was spread wide to accommodate the large being before you. Even as lean as he is, he still was bigger than a human. That thought made you silently keen. His hand rested on your mound, thumb drawing light circles around your clit. Not this again! You just wanted him to fuck you. “Khon, just fuck me. Please. No more teasing,” you begged and played the puppy dog eyes on him. It usual worked on him.

This time was completely different than that.

A chuckle sounded from the moon god and he shook his head. “I was able to get you to come once before I even fucked you. How about two times?” his words rolled over you like melting butter. Your eyes widened at that, brows furrowing.

“But, Khon… I-I, it’s hard for me to come more than once. That was luck last time. I don’t think I’ll be able to this time,” you confessed and pulled your arms to your chest, heart thumping against its boney cage.

If the god could, he would’ve raised a nonchalant brow at this. Hm. If that’s the case, he might need more than just his fingers and cock. He wanted to ensure you were comfortable and confident. That’s biggest part on making you come, let alone the three times he wants at least.

He sat up, hands resting on your thighs. “You already sent Marc away so I’ll have to be creative.” Even with a face that cannot move, you could hear the smirk in his voice. That made you worried on what he had up his sleeve and tilted your head. He didn’t say anything else.

The bed creaked under his weight. Khonshu stretched a long arm and pulled open your second nightstand drawer. Fear and embarrassment filled your veins. “Wait!” you called. He placed a hand on sternum and forced you still. How does he know? Yeah check the first one but he completely bypassed that and went for…

Metal squeaked quietly. The hand on your chest let his thumb softly run over one of you nipples, slightly distracting me. You tried to wiggle to stop him. “There’s nothing in there! No reason to op-“ Khonshu pulled out a pink vibrator.

Blood flushed to your instantly, hands grasping at the sheets below. All you could do was pathetically stare at the object he held in front of you. “I’ll have this to help me.” He set it off to the side and plucked something else from the drawer. Nipple clamps. Gods, you hoped the ground opened up and swallowed you whole.

You used your hands to cover your blushing face. A groan sounded from the back of your throat. But a sudden thought hit you. “How did you even know those were there?” You refused to uncover, surviving in the darkness.

The god chuckled. “I have my secrets,” is all he gave to you before setting both objects to the side. Khonshu returned to his former position. One thumb teasing your nipple, the other circling around your clit. A soft gasp coming from you.

Before you could let yourself fully embrace the feeling he was pushing you towards, you were able to place a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, wait. Khon, can you…” you trailed off, unable to fully say what you want.

“Can I what? Come, Little Bug. Tell your god what you want.” Both of his hands didn’t slow, still keeping a constant, even pressure.

Words failed you. How could you ask such a thing from anyone? Let alone him! You bit your lip, hand fiddling with rough texture of his clothing. His own on your chest moved back up to your chin and grasped it. “You can tell me, Stardust.”

With a deep breath and a moment of hesitance, you spoke your mind, voice quiet. “Ca-can you let me see…” Come on, you can do this! It’s just Khonshu. “Your dick, please.” You were finally able to get off of your chest. His head quirked to the side.

“Is that what got you all nervous? You wanting to see your gods cock? You don’t need to be so embarrassed about it, Stardust. I’ll happily show you.” The hand on your chin was removed and headed towards what could be considered his belt. With nimble fingers, the strange looking belt was removed from his waist.

Once that was dropped, he messed with the wrappings that covered that area. Yet, when he pulled his flaccid, cream-colored cock out, your lips pressed together.

Since he was kneeling between your open legs, the god was within reach. Without another word, your hand easily grasped the only part of him that looked like flesh. A purr/growl noise rumbled in his chest, movements stuttering. You smirked at this and gave him a decent squeeze. He bowed his skull, beak brushing against the skin on your stomach.

As you went to start a slow pace, a nimble hand wrapped around yours and hesitate to pull you off. “This is about you. Not me. I’m going to take care of you.” His words made you melt but still.

You pulled out your famous puppy dog eyes. “Please, Khonshu. I wanna, you know,” you pleased, hand trying to grasp his cock again. His size easily fit his stature. Not the thickest, though it didn’t feel that way when he was inside of you, but his length was impressive.

Khonshu didn’t say anything, only letting his thumb finally rest on top of your clit. Your eyes widened at the feeling, hips on the verge of humping. “Only if you tell me what you want. That’s the deal,” he countered and held a tight grip around your wrist.

“But-but you know what I want!” He shook his large head and let his thumb press harder. You couldn’t help but to thrust your hips up, gaining friction. A moan spilled from your lips at this. Yet, a thought came to your head. This might be plan to distract you.

No. You shook your head and attempted to reach forward but he wouldn’t allow that. With a growl and through gritted teeth, you gave in. “I want to suck you off, okay?” The god before you snickered, shoulders shaking with the movement. You rolled your eyes with a slight pout.

He released your hand, snapping you out of your pout. Before he had the chance to change his mind, you were quick to grasp his dick again and squeezed again. Khonshu rested that hand on your chest, head slightly bowed again. “You’re going to be the death of me, Stardust. You know that?” Laughter bubbled softly in the back of your throat.

As his thumb played with your clit, you leaned forward onto your elbow and stroked him. When you got to his base, you applied pressure. At his tip, you ran your thumb over the end.

Tiny spurts of pre-cum smeared across that same finger. You brought it up to your tongue and gentle licked it okay. For one, you weren’t expecting that. For two, you truly don’t mind the taste. You hummed at the taste before returning to your previous movements.

But greed over came you. You are human after all.

You disregarded the hand between your legs and moved to be on your stomach, face in front of his hardening cock. As you did this, the wetness growing couldn’t be ignore. The god was effective, something you couldn’t just ignore. “Little Bug, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

“I told you what I wanted to do,” you sassed at him then take a long lick from the base to tip. Khonshu choked on his next words. A hand resting on top of your hair. When you got to the top, you wrapped your lips around just the tip and suckled.

The hand on your head grasp what strands of hair he could. Pain flared to life at the grip strength but you ignored it and just sucked. Your name was stuttered from the god. He was having an internal battle on letting you suck him off or just say fuck it and pound into you. Ever since last time, he couldn’t get over the fact you’re so small compared to him. That made you so tight around him.

To make the whole situation though, he reached forward with his other hand and slight a finger into your cunt. The slick that had been growing since the two of you started easily helped guide him in.

A moan was vibrating in the back of your throat. That sent waves of pleasure of his spine. Khonshu pulled on your hair towards him. You did your absolute best to accommodate his length. “Good,” he purred, fucking purred. He sounded like sin.

All he could wish for in this moment was a mouth and tongue, just so you could feel the same way he is. He gently thrusted as he moved your head in a gentle rhythm. Still having half the mind of your comfort and safety. “Stardust!” his voice went up an octave. It was all you doing this to him.

Suddenly, your head was pulled back, body pushed onto your back. The moon god crawled to be between your legs, a hand quickly stroking his cock. Quiet whispers of your name were rumbling in his chest.

Finally, his skull was thrown back. White ropes of cum spurted from his cock all over your chest and stomach. A lot more than what the average person could produce covered what he could reach. You simply reached down and took a scoop. It had the same consistency as humans. Then, you decided to take a full taste. Not half bad for a god that like looked a mummy.

When he was done, a low hum growled from deep in his chest. Even without eyes, you could feel a dangerous gaze set ablaze on your already fiery skin. “Khon?” you whimpered in the quiet.

A deep chuckle sounded from him, shoulders shaking with the noise. “Your turn, Stardust.” You were promptly pounced on by the moon god.

#khonshu #khonshu x reader #moon knight #fluff #khonshu smut #marc spector #smut #soft khonshu #marc spector x reader #sort of #have fun with this monstrosity #there will be a part 2 #it'll be posted soon #I'm so glad i don't have to work about my stuff being taken down as much #thank you tumblr for letting smut be safe again #i never thought that would be something I would have to say

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dadbodosamu · 4 years ago

Text

only you || part i

Stepdad Osamu x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: pseudocest, stepcest, cheating, wombfucking, semi-public sex (in an alley), extremely light dumbification, breeding kink, spit kink, Osamu has a dick piercing

4.5k words. thanks to @waka-chan-out and @vanilleswtmacaron for beta reading this and reassuring me that it doesn’t suck lol

ao3 link here (aha its not too long mobile just sucks!!) part i || part ii || part iii || part iv || part v || part vi || extras || only you, too

You sighed as you tapped your fingers on the table. Your mom had decided it was high time for you to meet your new stepdad, who you had put off meeting for the past three years. You smiled as you remembered the perfectly timed appendicitis that had you missing the wedding. You couldn’t have planned it better if you tried.

Your dad had only passed away a little under four years ago, leaving your mom to remarry only six months later. You’d opted to live with your grandmother, citing her health as a reason to live with her on her farm. Your plan had worked perfectly, and you hadn’t had to meet Osamu for three years.

Now though, with your grandmother in the hospital, your mom thought it was a great time for you to come and visit and finally meet the great Osamu.

“Osamu should be home any minute,” your mom said, smiling happily over the takoyaki she was making. “He’s bringing your favourite!”

“Yay,” you said, unenthusiastically. You glanced at the time on your phone. You were almost wishing Osamu to be here so you wouldn’t have to spend another awkward second with your mom.

You and your mom hadn’t been close to begin with, you always being a daddy’s girl from the day you were born. And after remarrying so quickly, you’d drifted even further apart. At this point, you had nothing to speak to her about.

“I’m home!” Someone called. The door slid shut behind them and you glanced around, waiting for them to appear in the kitchen. “And I brought umeboshi onigiri!”

The man who stepped into the kitchen nearly knocked you out of your seat.

He was handsome. Devastatingly, heartachingly, handsome. He was tall, with brown hair and deep grey eyes, and thick. His t-shirt was pulled taut over his broad shoulders and his thighs in his shorts were almost indecent.

The next thing you noticed was that he was young. Probably only a handful of years older than your twenty-one, definitely closer to your age than your mom’s.

God, why had you put this meeting off? Had you known your mom was married to an actual god, you would’ve actually visited.

“Hey, honey,” your mom greeted, smiling at him. Your stomach twisted as she leaned over, puckering her lips for a kiss. Osamu pecked her lips quickly and turned towards you.

“Hey, I’m Osamu,” he greeted, smiling widely at you. Your heart skipped. “I heard ya like umeboshi onigiri so I made you some.”

“Th-thank you,” you stuttered. “I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to finally meet ya,” Osamu said. “Was starting to think ya were avoiding me!”

“More like she was avoiding me,” your mom said. “She was always a daddy’s girl.”

“Oh?” Osamu asked, looking at you. Your cheeks burned. “Well, I’d never try to replace yer dad, but if ya ever need some daddy/daughter time, I’m here for ya.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something stupid.

“I really appreciate that,” you said.

“Oh, I’m so glad you two are getting along already!” Your mom squealed. She carried the takoyaki to the table and smiled as she sat down. “Dinner is finally ready.”

“Itadakimasu,” you mumbled, already loading your plate up with onigiri and the other food on the table.

“So, how is university going?” Your mom asked.

You shrugged as you slurped up some noodles. “It’s going. Made nationals.”

“Oh? What sport do ya play? I don’t think yer mom ever mentioned,” Osamu said. You rolled your eyes. Of course she hadn’t mentioned volleyball, it wasn’t like you’d been playing since elementary school or anything.

“Volleyball,” you said. “I was on the Niiyama girls team in high school. Hoping to go pro after uni.”

“Volleyball? I played in high school! My brother, Atsumu, and I were on the Inarizaki team,” Osamu exclaimed.

“Not Miya Atsumu, right?” You asked, excitedly. “MSBY Black Jackals Miya Atsumu?”

“The very one!” Osamu said.

“No way! They’re my favourite team! I have a signed poster in my room, it’s my prized possession!” I exclaimed. “I heard a few members are going to the Olympics this year.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me she plays volleyball,” Osamu said, glancing at your mom.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” your mom said.

“We should go to a game sometimes,” Osamu said. “I can get an extra ticket to the MSBY, Adlers game later this week.”

“That sounds great!” You said, smiling widely.

Your mom ate in relative silence as you and Osamu traded stories about your volleyball times, only ever inputting something every once in a while. After dinner, Osamu found a Sendai Frogs match.

“I’m currently in the nation’s top 3 setters,” you said, proudly. “I’m number two behind Takao Michi.”

“I’ll have to start coming to yer games,” Osamu said. “See ya in action.”

“I’d like that,” you said, honestly.

“Why don’t ya come to work with me tomorrow? I can introduce ya to a few of my friends that are in town,” Osamu said.

“Absolutely,” you said.

“Don’t get me wrong though, I’m putting ya to work while yer there,” Osamu said. Your mom yawned.

“You all have me worn out from all this volleyball talk,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

“Night, mom,” you said as she stood up.

“Osamu?” She questioned, turning back to glance at him.

“Oh, we’re going to stay up a bit longer,” he said. “The Schweinden Adlers have a match after the Frogs.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. You could hear the disappointment in her voice.

Osamu waited until you heard the bedroom door click shut before speaking.

“I know this is probably too much information about yer mom but she must think I’m some sex robot,” Osamu said, huffing. “A guy can only do so much.”

You crinkled your nose. “Gross, I did not need to know that.” You tried to hold steady but laughter bubbled up through your lips. Osamu laughed loudly and you joined him, holding your gut with how hard you were laughing.

“We need- we need to be- to be quiet!” Osamu laughed. “She’s trying to- tryin’ to sleep.”

You giggled a few more times before quieting down.

“So, how old are ya?” Osamu asked, standing up. “Old enough for a beer?”

“I’m twenty-one,” you said. “Old enough for a beer.”

“We got wine coolers if ya would rather have that,” Osamu said, stepping into the kitchen.

“Please,” you said. “So, how old are you? Can’t help but notice you’re quite a bit younger than my mom.”

“Twenty-five, twenty-six in October,” he said, grabbing a beer and a wine cooler out of the fridge.

“Follow up question,” you said, “and I don’t mean any offence, I’m sure she’s great in some ways, but why my mom? I mean, surely there’s no shortage of people your age that are wanting you.”

Osamu took a long drink from his beer before answering. “Ask me after I’ve drunk a few of these.”

You pursed your lips and took a sip of your fruity drink. “Fine,” you said. “Then let’s play a game. Every time the Adlers score, I’ll ask you a question and every time the Tachibana Red Falcons score, you get to ask me a question.”

“Deal,” Osamu said.

“Oh! Score!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands up. “Another untouchable spike by Ushiwaka!”

“Shush, yer mom,” Osamu giggled. You rolled your eyes and chugged the rest of your fifth drink.

“You shush, it’s my turn,” you said, plopping down on the couch next to Osamu. “So, now tell me,” You hiccupped. “My bad. Now tell me, why my mom? Why not someone your age? Because I’m gonna- I’m gonna be honest, you’re hot and my mom is, like, she’s not, like, ugly, but, like, she’s, like, fifty.”

“I could just like cougars,” Osamu teased. You rolled your eyes and popped the top on your next drink.

“Tell the, the truth, ‘Samu,” you slurred.

“Fine, but this stays between us, as best friends,” he said.

“Bee ef efs,” you slurred.

“Yer mom helped fund my restaurant,” he said. “So, I felt bad. She’s so nice and sweet. So, I married her.”

“Now you have a step kid that’s only four years younger than you,” you said.

“Yeah, she didn’t really mention ya before we got married,” he said. Osamu leaned in close to you. “She didn’t mention how attractive ya were either.”

Your cheeks flushed. You turned your head away from him, looking back to the television.

“Oh, Falcons scored,” you said. “It’s your turn to ask a question.”

Osamu took a sip of his beer before speaking. “Why have ya been avoidin’ yer mom?”

You took a large gulp from your drink. “I haven’t been avoiding her,” you lied. Osamu blinked at you slowly.

“Fine, fine!” You exclaimed. You sipped from your drink, then responded, “Mainly because she remarried so quickly after Dad died. And to someone only four years older than me. But we’ve never been close. She and I never really saw eye-to-eye. She was the love of my dad’s life and he was just another guy to her. Not to mention, she’s never been remotely interested in anything in my life, she’s always been so self-absorbed. I doubt she even knew I still played volleyball, that’s probably why she didn’t mention it to you.”

Osamu stayed silent as you chugged the remainder of your drink.

“I know it’s probably not comforting, but I’ll be there for ya if ya need me,” Osamu said. “Even if yer mom and I separate, I consider ya a friend now.”

Osamu’s words were oddly comforting. You nodded as you reached for yet another wine cooler.

“I’m oddly comforted,” you said, popping the top easily. You fiddled with the top, thinking of what to say next.

“Another Falcons score,” Osamu said. “My turn again.”

“Question away,” you said.

“Can’t think of any,” Osamu said. He yawned.

“Tired already?” You teased, elbowing him in the side. “Old man.”

“I’m twenty-five,” he argued, yawning again. “But I am going to bed. Let’s call a rain check on our game.”

“Deal,” you said, raising your bottle to him. “Might as well go to bed, too. Night, Samu.”

“Night, Y/n,” Osamu said, standing up. He stretched out before padding down the hallway to your mom’s room.

You sighed loudly once you heard the door click shut. You gulped down your drink. “Good going, Y/n. You finally found a guy you like and he’s your stepdad.”

You finished your drink before gathering all the empty bottles and cans, throwing them in the recycling before walking towards your room. You collapsed onto your unmade bed and passed out before your head hit the pillow.

“Two salted salmon onigiri,” you said, placing the plate in front of the professional volleyball player. “And onion soup.”

“Go ahead and join them,” Osamu said, placing a few plates on the same table. “I’ll bring you out some umeboshi onigiri.”

“Thanks,” you said. You could barely contain your excitement as you took a seat between Miya Atsumu and Bokuto Koutarou.

“So, yer a setter?” Atsumu asked, taking a bite of his onigiri. You nodded.

“Number two in the nation,” you said.

“She’s better than you were, Tsumu!” Hinata Shoyo exclaimed. You smiled widely.

“In high school, I was ranked number one under nineteen in my second and third years,” you said. “I even got to play in the junior Olympics in high school. We only won silver, though.”

“We’re playing the Olympics this year,” Bokuto said. “And a few of our friends from the Adlers.”

“Kageyama Tobio, Ushijima Wakatoshi, and Hoshimiumi Kourai?” You asked. “I’ve been keeping up with everyone considered for the Olympics.”

“Maybe you’ll be playing in the next Olympics,” Sakusa said.

“That’s the goal,” you said, smiling. Osamu set a plate in front of you. “Thank you.”

“So our little star setter is here for the next week,” Osamu said, placing a strong hand on your shoulder. “We should play a game while she’s down, see how good she really is.”

“I’m game!” Bokuto exclaimed. “I wanna see those number two in the nation skills!”

“Probably nowhere near the level of you guys,” you said.

“We do have a few years on ya,” Atsumu said, ruffling your hair.

“Literally only four,” you said, fixing your hair.

“Leave the kid alone, Tsumu,” Osamu said.

“Hey, she’s my niece now, I reserve the right to tease her,” Atsumu said.

“Uncle Tsumu,” you teased.

“That’s right, Uncle Tsumu and Daddy Samu,” Atsumu said.

Your stomach flipped as the MSBY boys laughed. Osamu looked down at you and winked. You clenched your thighs together.

“All right, quiet down before ya disturb my payin’ guests,” Osamu said.

“Lunch on Samu-kun!” Hinata exclaimed. Osamu rolled his eyes.

“Once yer finished, I want ya back in the kitchen,” Osamu said. He rubbed your back before walking into the kitchen.

“So, you plan on going professional after university?” Bokuto asked.

You nodded as the table fell into casual conversation.

“I already have offers to go play in France and Brazil,” you said, taking a bite of your onigiri.

“Brazil is fantastic,” Hinata said. “I played there for a while.”

“You liked it? I’ve been debating back and forth between the two. Can’t decide which one I would enjoy more,” you said. “Does Brazil have good food?”

“The best! Unless you’re looking for Japanese food,” Hinata said. “There’s no good Japanese food.”

“Noted,” you said, smiling.

“What are you studying in school?” Sakusa asked.

“Education,” you said. “If volleyball doesn’t work out I want to teach Japanese in another country.”

“Smart,” Sakusa said.

“So, any boyfriends? Girlfriends? Significant others?” Atsumu asked.

You laughed. “With what time?”

“Oh, come on, there has to be someone!” Atsumu exclaimed. “We all find time for a lil’ somethin’.”

“There was a girl,” you admitted. “On my volleyball team, but we both cared more about volleyball than each other.”

“Any crushes?” Bokuto asked. He winked at you and flexed his arms playfully.

You pursed your lips. “And why should I tell you if I do?”

“Because we’re all best friends now!” Hinata shouted, slamming his hand on the table. He ignored the looks from the other customers.

“There is this guy I have my eye on,” you said. “He’s tall, nice, and beefy as hell.”

“Ooo, tell us more,” Bokuto said.

You shook your head. “No use talking about him. He’s strictly off limits.”

“He’s gay,” Atsumu said, nodding his head.

“What?! No!” You laughed. “He’s taken.”

“Ah, university relationships aren’t always serious, you can probably still get him,” Hinata said, waving away your worries.

“He’s married,” you said. The boys all hissed in sympathy.

“Ask for a threesome,” Atsumu said. Your face must’ve shown your disgust because the boys all laughed at you.

“She must be ugly,” Bokuto said.

“We don’t get along the best,” you said. You sighed as you looked down at your empty plate.

“Better get to work before Daddy Samu grounds you,” Atsumu teased.

You rolled your eyes, but stood up.

“It was nice meeting you guys,” you said. “I hope we can get a game together before I leave.”

“Oh, we definitely will,” Bokuto said.

“I’ll hold you to it,” you said, smiling. You waved bye to them as you entered the kitchen.

Osamu was leaned over the stove top, stirring a large pot of soup.

“Have fun?” He asked, wiping sweat off his brow with the towel thrown over his shoulder. You nodded.

“They were all super nice,” you said. “I feel like we’re actually friends now.”

“That’s good,” Osamu said, smiling at you. “Ya wanna start putting together a couple of onigiri?”

“No problem,” you said, washing your hands quickly.

“We need five salted salmon and three umeboshi,” Osamu said. “And then out to table three.”

“Got it,” you said.

The rest of the day went by relatively quickly and smoothly. It was finally around midnight when the last customers finally left and you and Osamu could close down shop.

“Come into my office and I’ll show you how to count all the money,” Osamu said, locking the main doors.

You followed him into his small office.

“Okay, whenever you count the money, make sure the door is closed and locked behind you,” Osamu said, closing the door behind him.

You held your breath as he slowly slid past you, your chest brushing against his.

“A lil’ cramped in here, sorry,” Osamu said, sitting at his desk.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, sitting in the folding chair next to him.

“So, d’ya have a good day?” Osamu asked, casually thumbing through bills.

You nodded. “It was good! It was nice meeting your friends. I really liked them.”

“Ooo, any of ‘em catch yer eye?” Osamu teased. You rolled your eyes.

“I already have my eye on someone,” you said.

“Oh?” Osamu questioned.

“He’s taken though,” you said. “Strictly off limits.”

“Ask for a threesome,” he said.

You laughed loudly. “Funny, Atsumu said the same thing. But no, I don’t get along with his wife.”

“Wife? That sucks,” he said, placing a wad of cash in an envelope.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“Well, I, for one, think yer a catch,” Osamu said, sealing the envelope. “Anyone would be lucky to have ya.”

“Thanks, Samu,” you said, face burning. He patted your thigh.

“Anytime, princess,” Osamu said. You clenched your thighs together at the new nickname. “Well, we’re all done here, let’s get home.”

You trailed after him like a lost puppy as he double checked all the appliances were off and flipping the lights off.

You shivered as you stepped into the cool, night air.

“Cold?” Osamu asked, already peeling off his Onigiri Miya hoodie.

“Yeah, a little,” you said, gladly taking the hoodie from him. You tugged it over your head and breathed deeply. “Smells good. Half expected it to smell like onigiri.”

“It will soon,” Osamu said, smiling. “It’s new. Just got the shipment in last week.”

“I’ll have to get one,” you said.

“Keep it,” Osamu said. “Ya look cute in it.”

You blushed deeply. You bumped his shoulder with yours gently.

“It’s like, way too big,” you said.

Osamu shrugged. “Oversized is in. Besides, I thought girls loved to steal guys’ hoodies.”

“Yeah, guys they like,” you said.

“Well, ya took it from me,” Osamu said, bumping your shoulder. “Ya must like me a little.”

“Whatever,” you said, cheeks burning. Osamu laughed.

“Someone has a crush!” He sang.

“Shut up! I don’t have a crush on you,” you said.

“Ya did call me hot last night,” he said.

“I was drunk, so it doesn’t count,” you said. He rolled his eyes obnoxiously.

“Ya have a crush on me, just admit it,” Osamu said. “I won’t tell anyone, pinky promise.”

“You’re my stepdad, in case you forgot,” you replied. “That’s basically incest, isn’t it?”

“So ya admit it?” Osamu asked. You shoved him playfully.

“I actually have a crush on Atsumu,” you said. “He’s the hotter twin.”

Osamu pushed you into an alley and caged you against the cool bricks of a building.

“Oh?” Osamu said. “Ya think Atsumu is the hotter twin?”

You nodded slowly as Osamu looked down at you.

“It’s the hair,” you squeaked.

“Oh, yeah, forgot that girls love a guy who doesn’t know what toner is,” Osamu said, leaning down. “I think yer lying.” His nose was nearly touching yours.

“I’m not,” you mumbled. Osamu’s hands moved from either side of your head to your hips.

“You are,” Osamu whispered, lips brushing against your ear. You shivered.

“And if I am?” You asked.

“I don’t like bad girls,” Osamu said. “Lying is grounds for punishment.”

“Punishment?” You asked.

“I’d bend ya over my knee and spank ya until ya begged for mercy,” he said. You sucked in a sharp breath.

“It’s a good thing I’m not lying, then,” you said. By now, Osamu’s lips were nearly against yours, so close you could feel the heat from his breath on your lips.

Osamu ground his hips against yours, firmly pressing his hard on against you.

You bit your lip and glanced down. His cock was straining against his jeans, eager to be released.

“Tell the truth and I’ll think about not putting ya over my knee,” Osamu said, lips softly brushing against yours.

“You’re the hotter twin,” you said, putting your arms around his neck. “And I have a crush on you. And I want you to fuck me in this alley.”

“There we go,” Osamu said. He finally kissed you roughly, like he wanted to devour you. You moaned as he ground against you.

“Samu,” you moaned, pulling back. He wasted no time, kissing down your neck, sucking and biting at your sensitive skin.

“Been thinkin’ about pushin’ this lil’ skirt up all day,” he growled, pushing your skirt up around your waist, revealing the pretty pink lace of your underwear.

“Please,” you gasped as he shoved his jeans and underwear down, releasing his cock. You nearly moaned at the sight of it, long and thick and leaking precum from the swollen tip.

“Gonna wreck this cute little cunt,” Osamu said, tugging your underwear down and letting them fall to the ground. He dragged the tip of his cock through your wet folds, teasing your clit and hole.

“Is- Is that a piercing I feel?” You asked, feeling cool metal against your warm folds.

“I’ll give ya a closer look later,” he said, teasingly pushing the tip in and out of your hole. “Wanna be in ya now.”

“Fill me up, please, Samu,” you begged, digging your fingernails into his skin. Your walls fluttered around nothing as he lifted you up. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Good girl,” he muttered, lining his cock up with your hole. “Beg for my cock, princess.”

“Please, please, please!” You cried. “Want your cock in me, need it! Please, Samu, want you to fill me up.”

“Of course, baby girl, anything for my princess,” Osamu said, kissing you softly. He rutted his hips up into you, stretching you out suddenly.

You moaned loudly and let your head fall on Osamu's broad shoulder.

“So big,” you moaned. “Hurts.”

“Shh, shh, yer takin’ me so well, baby,” Osamu said. “Squeezin’ me so tight, wanna bust just bein’ in ya.”

You whimpered as Osamu slowly pulled out. He pushed back in slowly, giving you time to adjust to each inch. Your walls clenched around him, sucking him in deeper and deeper until the swollen tip was kissing your cervix.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Gonna ruin ya.” Osamu pulled out until just the tip was in and slammed back into you.

You gasped loudly as his cock breached your cervix, going deeper than anything had ever been in you and stretching you more than anything ever had.

“Samu!” You cried, throwing your head back and digging your nails into the nape of his neck. “Fuck, harder, please!”

“Feel that, baby? I’m so deep in ya,” Osamu said. “Fuckin’ past your cervix, yeah?”

You nodded as you bit back your moans as Osamu pounded into you. You buried your head into his shoulder and bit down, quieting your too loud moans.

“Next time, ‘m gonna have ya somewhere ya can be loud as ya want,” Osamu grunted. “Wanna hear yer pretty, little moans.”

You let out a soft moan in his ear and he snapped his hips up harder into you.

“Ah, Samu,” you moaned, struggling to keep your volume down. “Gonna cum.”

He pinched your clit as you gushed around his cock. You looked down to where your bodies met and watched as your juices leaked down his cock, dripping on his heavy balls. You moaned.

“Gonna fill ya up, baby,” he growled lowly. “Come ‘ere.”

He pulled your head up by your hair and squeezed your cheeks until your mouth fell open, tongue lolling out. He gathered spit in his mouth and spat it on your waiting tongue.

“Don’t swallow,” he said. He kissed you deeply, licking into your mouth and sucking your tongue. He kissed you messily, spit running down your chin and a thin strand of it connecting you two when he finally pulled back.

“Such a messy, little slut,” he said, slamming his hips against yours. “Taking my spit so well. Gonna take my cum like that?”

You nodded, unable to speak beyond gasps and moans as his cock abused your cunt.

“Can’t speak? Fucked ya dumb, huh?” Osamu asked. He chuckled. “My cock makin’ ya dumb, little baby?”

You whined. God, you wanted him to fill you up so bad.

“Cum. Inside.” You gasped out.

“Oh? Want me t’ breed ya? Make ya big and swollen with my baby?” Osamu asked, hips moving faster.

You nodded furiously. He rubbed your clit in tight, fast circles.

“Cream ‘round my cock one more time, baby,” he grunted.

“Samu!” You exclaimed. Your stomach tightened as your walls fluttered like crazy.

“Yeah? Gonna cum again for me?” Osamu asked. You let out a high pitched moan as the coil in your stomach snapped.

“Fill me up, please!” You moaned as you came. Osamu’s hips stuttered as he pushed into you deeply before painting your womb white. You cried out, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he moaned.

“Fuck, yer still so tight around my cock,” he hissed. Your walls fluttered. “Perfect little cunt, princess. Milkin’ me dry like a good girl.”

You whimpered as he slowly pulled out. Your legs went limp, falling from his waist.

“Can’t stand,” you mumbled, legs shaking with the weak attempt you made. Osamu held you up as he pulled his pants back up and pulled your panties back on.

“Come here, baby,” he said, swooping you up bridal style. “Let’s go home, princess.”

You nodded lamely as he carried you. You must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing you heard was Osamu talking to your mother.

“She was practically dead on her feet,” Osamu said. “Fell asleep while I was counting the money.”

“You could’ve called, I would’ve brought the car,” your mom said. You felt Osamu shrug.

“It was no problem,” Osamu said.

“Well, go lay her down in her bed,” your mom said. “Then maybe she’ll be out for the rest of the night.” You frowned at her suggestive tone and cuddled deeper into Osamu’s chest.

“I’ll go lay her down,” Osamu said. He carried you down the hall and entered your bedroom carefully.

As he laid you down, you grabbed his arm and whined, “Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “I gotta go to my own bed.”

“Don’t- Don’t fuck her,” you mumbled. “Please.”

“Don’t worry, princess,” he said, softly brushing your hair out of your face. “It’s only you from now on.” You nodded. Osamu kissed your forehead before leaving you alone.

You blinked once, twice, before you were asleep.

#cai writes #samu thoughts #tw cheating #miya osamu smut #osamu miya smut #haikyuu smut #timeskip miya osamu #miya osamu #osamu miya #tw:incest

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the-ragingenby · 2 years ago

Note

I saw your post about requests - could you write something Reid x Morgan where Reid trusts Morgan enough to be vulnerable around him? Maybe involving anxiety or autism?

I’m not quite certain what possessed me to write this in a few hours, but tada. Also, this isn’t beta read, so I apologize for any mistakes (I really need to find a beta reader :’))

Edit: Cross posted to my AO3, if you prefer to read it there.

Spoilers for: Season 6 and 7 of Criminal Minds.

Triggers: Mentions of schizophrenia, brief mention of prior substance abuse.

Infinitesimal

“Reid? Are you…okay?” Reid jerked himself out of his thoughts at Morgan’s soft voice. He couldn’t find the energy to reply, so he just nodded. “Reid, I know losing JJ to the Pentagon was tough, but the team needs your brilliant mind to be at its best. If you want to take a few days off or…”

“I don’t need any time off.” Reid felt himself growing irritated, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was because Morgan couldn’t understand how he truly felt, nor could he bring himself to explain. My feelings are not his problem. “I’m fine. Yeah. I’m good,” Reid drew in a shaky breath, willing himself to relax. “Just tired.”

Morgan frowned, but Reid had no will to bother continuing this particular charade. “Conference room in five.” Hotchner called, shuffling through files in his hands. Reid took the opportunity to duck away from Morgan’s attention and slide into the conference room, readying himself to listen to the case, with or without JJ.

Though he sat in silence, the room couldn’t have felt more loud. Now, Reid wasn’t one for taking metaphors literally, but he truly felt trapped in his own head. JJ was willing to listen to Reid, even when he was complaining about Morgan and his constant shenanigans, which came up more often than he’d liked.

But she was willing to listen. And that’s what mattered to him.

“Reid.” Reid was dragged out of his thoughts once more, this time by Hotchner.

“R-right, um, arsonists are typically white males between 17 and 25 who can't stay away from fire. And they target dwellings, not people.” Reid explained. He was acutely aware of the concerned glance from Morgan, but willed himself to ignore it in favor of continuing to build the profile.

His feelings could wait to be dealt with another day. But for now, he needed to help his team track down this unsub.

The case ended up being simpler than expected, and with no undue bloodshed. Meaning that he and his team were able to bring the unsub into custody alive. Which was a nice change of pace, even for this job. But barely being able to stop the unsub from setting an entire house ablaze, all from jealousy and desperation did nothing to calm Reid’s nerves.

Now, anxiety is nothing to sniff at, Reid knew that better than anyone. But he also knew he couldn’t trust anyone else. After JJ left, he couldn’t bring himself to confide in anyone. Not even Morgan. In fact, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Reid felt something for Morgan. Maybe he’d admit he even felt a sliver of affection for the man, if his thoughts caught him off guard. And that was exactly why he couldn’t talk to Morgan about his problems. Anyone he cared for ended up leaving, or getting hurt or worse. He didn’t want that for Morgan. I’m protecting him. I’m doing him a favor. It’s better off this way, really.

Though he thought these things, in his heart, he couldn’t really believe them to be true.

Reid felt worked to the bone, and when he arrived at his apartment, it was just past three in the morning. He didn’t quite feel like taking the subway, instead opting the walk all the way home. Maybe it was impractical, but he needed the fresh air. One way or another, he needed to clear his head before it started affecting his work life.

He froze when he walked up the flight of stairs to his apartment. Morgan, Derek Morgan, sat hunched over beside the door, idly scrolling through his phone. At Reid’s approach, Morgan looked up. “Pretty boy.” He murmured. “You look like a wreck.” Reid’s mouth twitched with what he felt was a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“What are you doing here, Morgan?” Reid asked with a sigh, stepping past the agent to unlock the door. As much as he usually enjoyed Morgan’s teasing, he was really not in the mood.

“Answering with a question, huh? I’ll have to make a note of that.” Morgan chuckled to himself, inviting himself inside and locking the door behind Reid. His expression lost its seriousness, instead showing soft concern.

“Did Hotch put you up to this or something? Because I’m fine. Really. Losing JJ isn’t something that’s going to send me spiraling into using dilaudid again. I learned my lesson and am fighting that battle every day. But its gotten easier with time, so you can go and tell Hotch that, word for word.” Reid noted that he probably could have been more tactful with his words, but he’d already said them, so what could he do?

Morgan frowned again, then awkwardly cleared his throat. “I actually came here of my own volition, Reid.” He moved to sit on the couch, patting the space beside him. Reid stifled a sigh and sat next to Morgan, keeping a reasonable distance between them. “We’re worried about you, Spence. I’m worried. I know how close you and JJ were. I know that I’m not her, but if you need someone to talk to that isn’t, y’know, our boss, I’m here.”

And for a moment, just one fleeting moment, Reid wanted to believe him. But his thoughts caught up with him. What if he’s just saying that, so he can leave you too? Once you confide in him, the rest of the team will be sure to know within days. Can he really keep a secret? Reid shook his head at Morgan’s sentiments. “I’m alright, Morgan. I’ll be much better tomorrow. Promise.” Reid winced as he heard the rasp in his voice, and swallowed hard.

“Reid.” Just from Morgan’s tone, Reid could tell that he didn’t believe his half-hearted reply. But really, what was he expecting? “I’m a profiler, same as you. If you want to lie, you’re going to have to do a better job than that.” Reid almost managed a laugh, but instead it came out as a dry huff.

“Morgan, I’m really sorry, but I’m exhausted and I just need to rest. I’ll be fine in the morning.” Morgan raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the clock on the wall before letting out a defeated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Sorry for keeping you up, pretty boy. Sleep well, okay?” Morgan pushed himself off the couch and headed for the door. Reid, now feeling guilty, stopped him.

“Listen, it’s late and I’m assuming you drove here. If you want, and you totally don’t have to, you can spend the night here. Actually, I’d prefer it. Driving at these early hours without much sleep and driving a dark-colored vehicle is just a disaster waiting to happen-”

“Reid,” Morgan cut him off before he could continue. “I know you’re right. So long as you don’t mind, and if it’ll make you feel a little better, then I know I’m doing my job right.” Morgan lifts his go-bag, which Reid didn’t even register when Morgan had walked into the apartment. “I’ll change in the morning. Now, really, get some rest, Spence.”

Reid had to will himself from pestering Morgan any further and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Morgan to fend for himself on the couch. He probably should’ve offered a blanket or pillow or something, but Morgan’s been here before, so he could find anything he really needed. A wave of exhaustion rolled over Reid, lulling him to sleep before he could even think to take off his shoes.

The next morning, Morgan gives Reid a ride to work and their uneventful night together was not brought up again.

“We believe our unsub is a white male paranoid schizophrenic who suffers from hallucinations.” Hotcher said, briefing the Portland Police Department on their newest unsub. “Since schizophrenic breaks usually occur in your early 20s, we believe he's around this age and that he lives nearby.We think this unsub is hypervigilant, and in this condition, he's unable to travel very far from his home.”

Reid sat on an unused desk as he listened, trying very hard to avoid Morgan’s almost insistent attempts at eye contact. Everyone on the team knows how he feels about schizophrenia, considering he is genetically inclined to have it, and especially because his mother has it. It makes him nervous, even just thinking about it. And yet, he’s sitting here and listening as a serial killer is a possible schizophrenic. Could that happen to me? Am I just a few years away from experiencing what this man is going through? I…I don’t want that.

No matter what kind of logical spin Reid tried to put on things, his mind just wouldn’t accept it. He was so lost in his own head, and avoiding Morgan’s gaze, that he almost missed his queue to speak. But instead, it was Morgan, covering for him. He, of all people, knows how he feels about the subject, and Reid couldn’t help but feel a little relieved, though he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he was letting the team down with these stupid feelings.

The second they were finished, Reid stood and disappeared to the bathroom. He didn’t need to use it, per say, but maybe if he washed his face and just took a few moments to himself, he could get his head back in the game.

As he dried his face, he noticed Morgan walking in behind him, his expression a mixture of worry and something else that Reid couldn’t quite make out. Affection, maybe? Or was it pity. Surely, it was the latter. It was the only thing that made any sense. “You know, that profile kind of makes it sound like schizophrenia leads to serial killing.” Reid said flatly, eyeing Morgan.

“That’s not what we said at all, Reid.” Morgan murmured. Though it was defensive, he wasn’t angry or annoyed, he was just trying to understand. At least, that's how he sounded. How could Reid be sure if he really meant it at all, or if he was just playing him for a fool.

“You know, my mom has schizophrenia. There are many different types.” Reid continued, not quite sure where he was going with this.

“I know.” Morgan replied, as patient as ever. Which was something else that Reid found odd. Even when he was going on and on about something that no one else would have interest in, Morgan found it in himself to listen and put up with it all.

“Catatonic, disorganized…” Reid paused for a moment to draw in a shaky breath. “Just because someone suffers from inability to organize their thoughts or they can't bathe or dress themselves, it doesn't mean they'd stab someone in the chest 30 times postmortem.

“Alright, Reid. What’s really going on?” Morgan asked softly, carefully. As though just one wrong word would send Reid crashing down into the bottomless pit of his thoughts.

“Our unsub's hallucinations aren't fractured like a typical schizophrenic. They're vivid and clear, leading me to believe that we're missing an important variable. Rather than making crazy conjectures, I think we should be trying to figure out what it is.” Reid felt himself speaking faster. If they were making a mistake, then maybe they could change the profile and save their unsub before anything else happened. Hell, it’d make Reid feel better. At least, he hoped so.

“Ok, listen to me.” Morgan raised his hand to Reid’s face, forcing the profiler to look up at him from where he leaned against the bathroom sink. “I know this is a scary age for you. It's when schizophrenic breaks happen. Have you talked to anybody about this?”

Reid froze, unsure of whether to lean into Morgan’s touch or duck away. In his indecision, Morgan pulled his hand away, perhaps suddenly aware of what he’d done, and simply waited on Reid’s reply. “Uh, Emily.” That much was true. He was speaking to Prentiss about his issues on occasion. She was the last agent Reid would expect to suddenly drop out of nowhere. Even so, he’s kept most of his concerns to himself. It really wasn’t right to dump all his problems onto her.

But then, she was gone. JJ had come back for a bit, sure, but now both she and Prentiss were gone, with the latter gone forever. The funeral was rough, and Reid felt like he’ll never truly recover from losing two teammates in such a short time. “Have you seen a doctor?” Morgan asked, pulling Reid from his thoughts once again.

“They all say I’m fine.” Reid replied, softly. Morgan hesitantly raises his hand again, this time letting his fingers card through Reid’s now short hair.

“Then why don’t you believe them?” Morgan murmured, pulling the profiler ever so slightly closer.

“Because predicting one's chances of developing a genetic condition are like finding a penny in an ocean. I have terrible headaches. I can't sleep at night. I can't focus on our cases. I only read 5 books last week.” Reid finally gave in, gently leaning into Morgan’s soothing touch, allowing himself to relax for the first time in weeks.

“Come on, Spence, you gotta cut yourself some slack. You're also depressed about Prentiss, and I get it…we all are. Reid, I miss her every day. But if your mind was splitting, do you really think you'd be able to figure out that this team is missing a variable?” Morgan sounded impressed. Even through his heartache, maybe Reid was useful after all. But he couldn’t let himself get too carried away.

“I’m just speculating that we are. I need to prove it.” Reid resolved, pulling away from Morgan and leaning up from the bathroom sink.

“Ok, then you do that.” Morgan’s serious let’s-get-down-to-business expression dissipated once more, the softness that Reid had grown so fond of returning with full force. “The moment you are wandering around the streets aimlessly, that's when I'll be concerned about you. Come on, pretty boy. Let's get to work.”

Even at times like these, Morgan still found it in him to tease Reid. And right now, there’s nothing he appreciates more.

As it turns out, Reid was right. When they caught up with the unsub, despite his apprehension, Reid went into the building to speak with him, while ensuring he had backup. He needed to save those kids, no matter what. They were innocent.

Reid’s attempt to talk the unsub down seemed to be effective at first, but then he charged at Reid with a knife clutched in his hand. At that moment, Reid froze, unsure of whether to dive off to the side or try to wrestle with the unsub or-

His thoughts were disrupted by a gunshot and the unsub fell to the floor. With wide eyes, Reid met Morgan’s steady gaze. Morgan yelled for a medic into his mic and rushed over to the unsub, whilst holstering his gun.

Morgan saved Reid once again. Reid felt overwhelming gratitude, but the feeling of uselessness only deepened. Sure, he was right about the missing variable, but he couldn’t even talk down the unsub to avoid getting him hurt.

On the plane, Reid’s mind still drifted back to the unsub. With all his heart, he hoped he would make it through the night. He wanted this unsub, Ben, to make a full recovery. Even after everything he did, Reid still felt that Ben deserved another shot at life. “You were amazing in there, Reid.” Morgan whispered, leaning into Reid’s space and resting his head on Reid’s shoulder.

“I could’ve died, if it wasn’t for you, Morgan.” Reid sighed, not at all opposed to the touch. Maybe it should have made him a little nervous, but he felt at ease. Just the feeling of Morgan’s presence was enough to quiet down his thoughts enough to be able to listen to that logical side of himself, which was often silenced in exchange for overthinking every single little thing.

“But you didn’t, sweetheart. You did so good. And I’m proud of you.” Morgan insisted. Reid wanted to argue, but maybe, just maybe, Morgan was right. And maybe Reid could be proud of himself too.

Prentiss was in fact not dead. And JJ decided to return to the team. Reid’s mind could not keep up with these revelations, so much so that he decided to take a few days off of work. If he couldn’t keep himself from bursting into tears (of either frustration or sadness, depending on his mood) every time he saw either of them, how was he supposed to be of any help on cases?

To his relief, Hotchner did not question him about his request for time off, insisting that, “You are more than entitled to a few days off, Reid. If there’s anything at all I can do for you, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

And that was it. Reid was now lounging at home, his thoughts threatening to overwhelm him with what-if scenarios and the anger he felt that neither Prentiss nor JJ felt that they could let him in on what was going on behind the scenes. After everything he trusted the both of them with, it felt like an ultimate betrayal.

Later that evening, he receives texts from every member of the team, except Morgan. Which in and of itself was worrying. After everything Morgan’s said and done over the last few weeks, it had seemed to Reid that maybe there was the slimmest of slim chances that Morgan wanted more to do with Reid than he let on.

But then again, maybe Reid was just reading too far into things, as per usual. Instead of focusing on that, he decided to read over the texts, just to be certain they weren’t important.

JJ: Reid, I’m really sorry about everything that happened, but I had to do it to protect Prentiss. I know it hurt you, and I’m sorry. Please, write back when you can.

Prentiss: Look, Spencer, I’m really sorry about all of this and I’ll try my best to make it up to you, I promise.

Hotch: If there’s anyone you should be upset with, it’s me. Please try not to be too upset with Emily or JJ. They were just doing what they had to.

Rossi: I heard you took some time off. Take care of yourself, kid, and let us know if you need anything.

Garcia: heya boy wonder. hopefully youre okay and all that. if you ever wanna talk youre best friend and pal garcia is always here for you. and i also totally didnt send morgan over to check on you haha.

Now that last one was jarring. Morgan at his apartment? Again? Reid wasn’t sure his heart could take it, especially after all these signals that Morgan might be sending and Reid just couldn’t read them right. Just as he was contemplating escaping to the bookstore, there was a knock at his door. “Reid, Spence, open up. Please.”

Reid thought about ignoring the door and leaving Morgan out there. But he knew that Morgan would just break down the door, especially if he knew Reid was home. Sometimes, there was really no escaping the man. Begrudgingly, Reid trudged to the door and unlocked, letting Morgan in without a greeting and flopping back onto the couch where he had laid, sulking.

“Is this what you’ve been doing all day, pretty boy?” Morgan chuckled, closing the door behind himself and settling onto the couch as though he lived there. Reid grunted and rolled over, not wanting to look Morgan in the eyes. If he were to do that, he wasn’t sure he could keep himself from crying. Morgan leaned over and gently maneuvered Reid’s head into his lap, petting soothingly at his hair. “I know that…you don’t want to confide in me too much because you’re afraid I’ll just disappear too. Isn’t that right?”

Reid swallowed hard. He supposed he wasn’t doing a great job of hiding it, but it was easier this way, wasn’t it? “I-” Reid began, but he choked on a sob before he could continue. “I was just so afraid of losing all of you, and then it actually happened and I didn’t know what to do and I just felt like everyone I turned to was ripped away from me in the worst way possible and I cared about you the most and if you were to leave I don’t know what I would’ve done. Because…I think I love you and if I had to let that go too, I don’t think it would be easy for me to love again…or trust anyone again…if I ever bothered to even do those things.” Reid trailed off, leaning up to wipe his tears.

“Oh, pretty boy. Sweetheart.” Morgan pulled Reid into a tight hug, rubbing his back slowly, drawing meaningless patterns against his skin. “God, shit, can I be honest with you? I think it's something you need to hear.” Reid felt his heart clench with fear, but nodded anyway. “I’ve loved you since I met you, pretty boy. You and your brilliant mind. I love how you always have an answer, even when it's a snippy retort. I like those best, actually. I could listen to you talk for hours on end. Your voice is just so…so nice.”

“You…don’t actually mean all that, right?” Reid finally laughed, pulling away and drying his tears with his sleeve. “I mean, you’re you. And I’m just…me.” As much as Reid wanted Morgan’s words to be true, he couldn’t just accept it like that. After all, maybe he was just saying those things to make him feel better.

At that, Morgan took Reid’s face in his hands and gently squeezed his cheeks. “You are so stubborn, baby.” But Morgan’s voice was full of affection and adoration, none of the annoyance that Reid had thought he’d heard all those months ago. Morgan wanted Reid for himself, and that was that. He was special to Morgan. He was important. And he mattered. That was much more than Reid could have ever asked, or even hoped for.

They sat like that for a while, Reid squishing himself into Morgan’s space, cuddling him tightly as though he were going to disintegrate were he to let go. “Are you ready to talk to me now?” Morgan asked softly, not at all pushy. But Reid was ready now. All this time, Morgan had wanted Reid to confide in him, but he kept pushing Morgan away. Not anymore. Morgan wanted to hear how Reid felt, and really cared about it. So Reid explained.

He told Morgan everything, from the first time he realized his feelings all those years ago and had pushed them down, not knowing what to do with them. How Reid felt when he confided in JJ and Prentiss, and they both left then returned as though nothing had happened. And how he was scared for his future, afraid of whether he may end up like his mother or Ben, but Morgan gave him the confidence he needed to overcome these fears and face situations as they come.

Later that evening, the team gets a group text from Rossi inviting them over for an impromptu cooking lesson. Reid glances at Morgan, who was dozing lightly on the couch. “Did, uh, Garcia send you here? And Rossi is inviting us all over for a cooking lesson. So I assume that’s got something to do with me too.” Morgan smiled gently and planted a soft kiss on Reid’s head, running his fingers through Reid’s hair once more.

“I chose to come here. Garcia, she helped me figure some things out about myself, which only added to my haste to get here. I didn’t want to keep these feelings to myself any longer, and I figured you needed to know. And maybe I’d get you to let me understand what goes on in that brain of yours.” Morgan teasingly poked at Reid’s forehead, earning himself a playful glare from Reid. “As for Rossi, we were all worried about you, especially JJ and Prentiss. We just want you to know that you are not alone. Especially me. Because I love you, Dr. Spencer Reid, just as you are. The team wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Reid couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. It was a foreign feeling, he felt like he hadn’t smiled, like really truly smiled, for ages. And of course it was Morgan that coaxed this feeling out of him. The peaceful, blissful, content, happiness. He always knew it had to be Morgan, but his thoughts just wouldn’t let him admit it. “Then, do you want to go together? Assuming you drove here again.” Reid asked, though he felt that he already knew the answer.

Morgan smiled sweetly, burying his face into Reid’s soft hair for a moment before pulling away. “Of course, pretty boy.”

As they headed to Rossi’s place, Reid finally came to this realization: fighting these battles alone would never result in satisfactory victories, but knowing for certain that he had at least one person in his corner, Morgan, gave him the strength and courage to keep fighting, no matter what.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer x derek #derek morgan #fanfic #fanfiction #request #prompt fill #ao3 author #moreid

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keilemlucent · 5 years ago

Text

long days for bad people

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~6k

Being a prized, adored possession was far better than you thought it would be.

warnings: light daddy kink (no age play, just the name in mostly jest), spit kink, crying kink, degradation, brief descriptions of blood + violence, kidnapping (consensual?? read a/n), brat taming, light sadomasochism, mind break, praise kink

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here it is, mafia au, villain hawks, dom, brat tamer, soft(?!) hawks. what more could you want?

there’s briefly described kidnapping at the beginning of the fic but it is reiterated throughout that this is consensual! no yandere/stockholm stuff in this fic.

i’ve been working on this one for a while and i’m happy to finally share it. hope y’all enjoy!!

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You shouldn’t have fucked around with the League.

God, it was common knowledge in the parts of town and circles you inhabited. Of all criminal syndicates, mobs, to fuck with, the League wasn’t one of them. They were known for their complete cruelty and violent delights. The League had such a reputation due to the fact that they openly left bodies carved up and burnt as they pleased.

But, you were a fucking idiot and got involved anyways.

It was a small loan, Giran almost seemed to scoff when he gave you the cash. You and your almost-stranger of a roommate were just very late on some bills and were going to lose a lot of material items if you didn’t scrounge up at least two paychecks in about three days.

You swallowed your pride and took the first and easiest loan you could get. That just happened to be with gap-toothed, wide-grinning Giran of the League. He, you knew from what you’d heard, was somewhat fair in matters like yours.

You had two weeks to pay him back.

...

You didn’t make it in time.

You were close to the amount, notably. You scrounged and clawed your way into getting the cash back. You weren’t much of a pickpocket, but you snagged some odd jobs around the apartment building that you and your roommate were still fortunate enough to keep a room in.

After one particular job, a nasty carpentry gig that you weren’t qualified for, you returned home tired and worn.

Sure, you were a day late on payment. But with this last gig, you were so close. The League would have to pity two, stupid, stupid young girls?

They didn’t, you realized, as you stepped into your apartment.

Your roommate's slain corpse was laying over the arm of your cheap couch, eyes vacant and mouth dripping blood onto the old beige carpet.

You dropped to your knees, horrified and completely stunned.

“You should’ve known better,” it was a hum from across the room, from a figure you didn’t even know was in the room until then. “Really, you’d expect folks to be smarter.”

Your mouth dried as the figure moved from the nighttime shadows, flashing a dazzling smile and ruffling crimson wings.

Hawks.

You’d heard of him, everyone had. Terrifying, fast, precise, and cutthroat. He took orders and didn’t ask questions other than snark. He talked too much, fucked too much.

“W-wait,” You didn't know why you were pleading, but you had to try, right? “I’m so close, wait—”

Hawks sauntered up to you wielding one of his feather blades, the red of blood mixing with the filaments of his feathers.

He crouched down in front of you, tsking, “I don’t like begging, angel. I’ll make this quick for you. Your friend there?”

Hawks jerked his finger behind to your dead roommate.

“She fought, pleaded, begged, all that normal shit I don’t like hearing when shitheads like you two don’t make payday,” his voice was slow, talking about death like some casual thing. “I’ll make this nice and fast if you don’t run your mouth anymore, how about that?”

You swallowed, nodding.

The small percentage of your brain that was fully functioning figured dying quickly was a much better way to go than whatever the hell had happened to your roommate. There was far too much blood for that to be quick.

Hawks hummed, the tip of his feather blade tipping up your chin so you were forced to meet his gaze. You vaguely heard the pitter-patter of your tears hitting the carpet below. Blood rushed in your ears as you stared death in the face.

Hawks appraised you.

You watched the metaphorical cogs and wheels turning in Hawks’ skull as he looked you up and down before flashing forward, gathering you in his arms and flying from the apartment.

Your first thought was obvious as you clung to him in the open air:

He’s going to drop you and kill you.

When you screamed, tears growing thicker, he slapped a gloved hand over your mouth, “I’m giving you an out, kid. Trust me. You’ll prefer this over death.”

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Your new existence was certainly better than death.

If you were ever caught and convicted of any of the illegal things you participated in, you’d be fucked, thrown into prison until you rotted, until you were just dust and bone.

But, until then, you worked for the League.

You had groveled at the feet of their leader, Shigaraki, hands clasped on your lap, claiming your worth, or maybe lack thereof. Not many attachments, not many people who’d miss you, a semi-useful quirk.

With a boot shoved into your skull, he sneered that you’d be the League’s new errand dog.

The real reason they accepted you was due to the threatening air Hawks was exuding and the fact that their old ‘errand bitch’ had died the week prior. They needed a new body to act as a civilian and do things that only an unsuspecting-looking ‘civilian’ could. You fit the bill, and Hawks had taken a liking to you.

Oddly, working for the League was actually pretty okay.

You got your own room. It was small, but you only had to share a bathroom with the somewhat unhinged Himiko, but she was fairly nice once she warmed up to you. Everyone lived in the League’s HQ and went about their business, getting drunk at their bar front each night.

Most of the mess happened at night, but it was important to put on a nice veneer and keep spirits high. Not to mention that no one would dared to fuck with the League, anyways. The cops and federal government had long been paid off due to the resources that the League had acquired for them.

You felt somewhat untouchable.

A lot of this confidence was due to the fact that you had become Hawks’s... Keigo’s...

‘Songbird’

As he liked to call you, anyway.

Keigo was the general, loveable annoyance of the League, but his connections were invaluable and his skills were unmatched. Despite how he could grate on people (read: Dabi and Shigaraki), he was respected and feared just as much as everyone else was, if not more so. And being his metaphorical and literal pet had its perks.

Sure, the first time he had you come to his ‘office’ and he fucked you against the window until it was smeared with cum and blood was a bit surprising, but god, if you didn’t fucking love it. Being Keigo’s personal fucktoy came with protection, pleasure, and a surprising amount of genuine attention. The dude was lonely, and so were you. The two of you made a good ‘couple’, if you could even call yourselves that. The sadism he doled out was always counterpointed by affections that did seem genuine.

Keigo was fond of you, and you of him. Maybe your brush with death had twisted something in your head, to even allow yourself to get close to a man like Keigo, but you couldn’t make yourself care.

You were comfortable and content.

...

[bird boss]: hey babe ;^) get to my office in the next thirty minutes

[you]: what if i don’t

[bird boss]: do u really want to find out

[you]: ...

[you]: im just curious

[bird boss]: don’t get cheeky songbird

[you]: u make me wanna u know

[you]: i know it gets you riled up

[bird boss]: tread lightly kid

[you]: oooo i gave you some guff over text

[you]: what’re you gonna do about it?

[bird boss]: use your imagination

[bird boss]: 25 minutes now, songbird

[bird boss]: don’t make this worse for yourself <3

You set your phone on your cheap duvet, quickly primped yourself to see Keigo. He wasn’t too strict about your appearance but wearing dark clothes and some of the more expensive gifts he’d gotten you over the months he’d been screwing you never hurt. Something about ownership with him always got him hot and bothered.

You tried to remind yourself frequently that Keigo saw you as some sort of possession, but a possession with feelings.

Meandering through HQ was always a bit daunting, despite your protections. Your skimpy outfit choice and hardly-hidden lingerie made you feel a bit more like an object than you liked too.

There were hardly hungry mouths around the League, they kept you all fed, but god, were there starving eyes.

Dabi wolf-whistled as you walked past him through a common room, shouting something about how Keigo was collecting his pound of flesh for the day. Maybe a line or two about being a whore, but that was all flavor at that point. Keigo called you far meaner, more sinful things. And hell, it wasn’t like Keigo hadn’t... shared you on more than one occasion.

Maybe you were a little fucked up for enjoying your lifestyle to the degree you did, but why not indulge where you could? Life was far shittier scraping paint off old fences and picking up cans to just scrape by.

Opulence was a breath of fresh air. And if you were Keigo’s fuck toy? Then, god, you were Keigo’s fuck toy.

When you arrived at Keigo’s office, you knocked gently on the door, quickly adjusting your skirt and blouse.

The door opened, though no one was behind it. Only a single one of Keigo’s feathers allowed you entrance.

His office seemed daunting and extravagant for a man who did most of his ‘work’ in far-shadier, far-bloodier places. The walls were covered in mirrors and old paintings, something out of vanity and pride, knowing how Keigo saw himself. There were several black leather couches scattered around against walls, some stained by your various... activities. There was a broad desk parallel to a back wall made entirely of windows.

Night had fallen, leaving the room lit by a few lamps and warm fixtures.

“Hey, boss,” You hummed as you stepped in, shutting the door behind you just before the lingering scarlet feather flicked the lock on the door.

And the other one.

And the deadbolt.

You swallowed thickly.

As much as you enjoyed a lot of the perks of your... position, it was also daunting.

Keigo was daunting, all bloody colors, vanity, and hunger.

He sat behind his desk, wings puffed up, and partially extended over the back of his chair. The desk chair was massive, specifically acquired so that you would have enough room to properly straddle his lap for hours on end if he so wished.

Keigo idly clicked around on his desktop computer. He leaned slack and back into the chair, legs spread wide and exuding casual confidence that reeked of his own ego.

Keigo normally wore a mix of black and red, as edgy as it was. He liked to seem clean, hide the stains of sanguine that undoubtedly lingered on him no matter how he tried to cleanse himself. His black slacks were pressed, the seams pristine. The black shirt he wore was rolled up to his elbows, the buttons of his red vest undone as well. His black tie hung half-undone and limp around his neck. His tousled gold hair was mussed as normal, ruffled by his flights. His feathers might’ve needed preening, but you doubted that that was the reason he called you to his office.

And based on the deep set of his brow and the sickly smile on his lips, he was already on edge and in a mood.

“Songbird, come over here, will you?” Keigo sat back from his typing, watching you from across the room. He took you in the same way a parched man sucks down red wine, greedily and soon to be fucked. “On my lap.”

You complied, despite your earlier attitude. You padded across the room, going around his desk.

As you moved to straddle his lap, worn hands gripped your waist. His amber eyes gave you a warning, crinkling at the edges, “Not like that, sweetheart. Do daddy right.”

Oh, so it was one of those moods.

Maybe you were Keigo’s sexual punching bag so he could exert control on something he could later kiss better and patch up.

Sure, he was going to fucking ruin you, but part of the fun with him was that the more it hurt, the nicer he was after. And, all things considered, with some of the... other folks the League brought in to satiate its member’s desires, you fared far better. Keigo cared about you, in his own particular way.

You tried to lean over his lap yourself, but his hands and feathers positioned you perfectly as he wanted. With the tight grip he had on your waist and shoulders, dragging you just as he liked, it was easy to see his need for control.

Your head hung off of one of his thighs as you squirmed in his lap. His bulge already pressed into your ribs, a wonderful reminder of the reward you’d reap later on. Keigo’s hands gathered your hand to the small of your back, a feather replacing their grip a moment later.

“Sit with me while I finish this shit,” Keigo grumbled, going back to clicking the desktop. His leg bobbed absentmindedly, his free hand rubbing over the curve of your barely-covered ass. “Be a good girl, (Y/N). If you can stand that.”

He laughed under his breath.

You let your head dangle limply downwards, blood rushing to your cheeks.

You’d thought you’d be in for more of an ass-kicking, but it appeared Keigo was taking things unusually slow. You knew better than to complain, but kicking up a bit of metaphorical sand couldn’t be that bad, right?

“I dunno,” You hummed, kicking your legs lightly. “I don’t think you like it when I’m a ‘good girl’, daddy.”

“Watch it.” A single, sharp smack to your butt was hardly enough to shut you up, but Keigo did so all the same, rubbing over the covered flesh a moment later, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Are you sure about that?” You wriggled, intentionally pushing up against his growing erection.

His breath stuttered, a smirk pulling at the corners of your lips. The hand on your ass didn’t rear again, rather Keigo kept thumbing smooth circles as he continued to click around on the computer. He might have been actually doing work. Or, he was ignoring you, egging your sass on.

“If you didn’t want anything, why’d you call me in here?” You asked, way too cheeky for the way Keigo’s body was practically vibrating underneath you. Pissing him off had consequences, of course, but you weren’t in the mood to play ‘good girl’ that day.

“I told you, I want you to sit with me,” Keigo pinched your ass. “But, you’re too mouthy to do just that one thing. You’re usually better than this.”

“Am I?” You played innocent, craning to give him a wide smile. “Hadn’t noticed. What I am noticing, is your already-hard cock, dear.”

“Oh, ‘dear’?!” Keigo paused on the computer. “Cheeky. Cute.”

Keigo would just dig in more, lean in, before ‘snapping’, if you could call it that.

You gulped as his hand swatted at upper thighs, his nails almost knicking your skin.

“Up and don’t get smart about it.”

Oh, you were going to be remarkably smart about it.

You rose but hardly stayed upright for long. Sliding down to your knees, you pushed at Keigo’s legs, “Wouldn’t you prefer me down here? Just for a treat while you finish your work?”

Keigo clicked his tongue, gaze flickering down to you, “Fine. Behave yourself.”

Yeah, right. You both knew that that wasn’t going to happen.

You were already tucked underneath his desk, undoing the fly of his pants.

You pulled his cock from his trousers, pumping his cock to full hardness. Smearing around preek for a bit of extra flare before inching forward.

Wrapping your mouth around Keigo’s dick was somewhat of a feat— he had a decent girth to him, so you usually took the opportunity to warm him (and yourself) up with a bit of tip-kissing and kitten licks.

But, you were feeling bold.

You spit on his dick, a move that normally would have earned you plenty of verbal snark, but anything Keigo could’ve said to you was swallowed as you took his cock down to the back of your throat.

You sucked around it, massaging the vein on the bottom with the flat of your tongue. Drool began to pool at the side of your lips as you let the head bump your throat, gag reflex be damned.

All the while, Keigo had stopped moving above you. The fabric of his trouser balled up in his ringed-fingers as he gazed half-lidded down at you.

You smiled around his dick, looking up at him innocently as you began to slowly bob your head. His wings fluttered, twitches and air stirring around you.

Keigo stifled a laugh, a hand tangling in your hair, “All that talk earlier and now you’re treating me to a blowjob without even me having to tell you to? Dove, you’re too much.”

You pulled off of him to reply, “I can only try.”

Before he could reply, you spit on his dick again, and went back to slurping around him.

You held the base of his cock in your hands, twisting and spreading spittle. It almost felt like your actions were for show, but Keigo’s eyes were rolling back in his head all the same.

You smirked.

A drool pool from your mouth, puddling in your lap and soaking your skirt. Not like you weren’t already dripping from the sinful sounds Keigo stopped trying to hold.

“A-ah, that’s it, angel,” Keigo fucked into your mouth with his hold on your hair. “Just like that.”

Your hand rose to play with Keigo’s balls, teasing at the sack as he cried out a high moan above you.

Considering the performance you were giving, it was unsurprising to feel him tensing above you. You’d been on your knees for him hundreds of times; you’d learned to see the little twitches and puffs of breath he’d give when he’d get close to coming.

You pulled off his cock with a pop, detangling the hand from your hair in the motion. It was all fast enough that Keigo couldn’t have stopped you in his hazy, pleasure-filled state.

Based on the look of rapid disbelief he was giving you, your trick had worked well. Knowing Keigo’s... tendencies made you hesitant to push him too much in the past, but for whatever reason, you were feeling stupidly bold.

Consequences.

“Sorry, daddy,” You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Didn’t feel like swallowing today.”

Keigo’s disheveled appearance was more than gratifying. Knowing how easily you made him come undone by that point was one of the perks of your position.

His hair was more than ruffled, strands and tufts chaotically curled around his cheeks and ears. There was a bright blush on his face, spreading from his nose to the apples of his cheeks, down his deck. At some point, he’d popped the buttons at the top of his shirt. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, half-panting and based on the darkness in his brow and the far-too peachy smile on his face, Keigo was fucking pissed.

His wings stood on end.

You gulped from below him.

Maybe you pushed your luck too far.

Maybe.

“You’re playing real cute today, aren’t you songbird?” Keigo didn’t move, but his feathers twitched above him, wings flaring out even farther. “Real fucking cute.”

You were fucked.

Good.

A few feathers flew from Keigo, one snagging at your wrist, wrapping around it, and pulling you up from the desk.

You wobbled as you stood, dragged across the room as Keigo leisurely followed behind you. When you tried to set your own pace, Keigo swatted your ass with a huff, “You never learn, huh? I thought I’d trained you better than this.”

You opened your mouth to spit some dickish retort, but you were cut off as Keigo’s shoved you onto one of the leather couches.

“Don’t.” Keigo’s tone was acidic as he stood over your, wings still flared out. “I told you I wasn’t in the mood for your cute bullshit, dove, and you still decided to test your luck, huh?”

You kneeled on the cushions, sucking down air, shaking with anticipation.

“You don’t feel like swallowing today? That’s fine, I can work with that,” Keigo shrugged easily from above you.

Keigo had an... active sexual imagination, and you could tell by the crook in his lips that he had something devilish planned as retribution.

A sharp slap came down on your cheek, Keigo catching the opposite jaw and keeping you from recoiling too far. You blinked as the pain spread around your skull like licking flames against a frostbitten body.

You wanted more.

A little grin stretched against your mouth as Keigo rubbed at your cheeks with his thumbs, “Aw, you always get so sweet like this, dove. You can be a good girl if you try, can’t you?”

His actions carried candor and his words absolute torment.

Despite how Keigo was trying to goad you into submission, you had a bit of spark left in you.

Plainly, you spit on him.

The glob of saliva landed on Keigo’s cheek, under his eye.

He blinked at you.

You continued to smile.

His own expression grew strained.

“Oh, songbird,” Keigo damn near lamented, wiping away the kind gift you’d given him. His voice was smooth without any bit of waver, all of the sexually-charged anger rolling just beneath the veneer. “You’re just being pain slut today, aren’t you?”

You were, absolutely. You could feel your arousal wetting your panties, the heat of the strike from your cheek beginning to boil something in your gut.

“You just need a bit of special attention today, right? That’s all.” Keigo tsked, fully removing the tie from around his neck. “You just need a little reminder.”

“Reminder of what?” You asked, tilting your head quizzically.

Keigo flipped you, feathers pushing and bracing you as needed while nimble hands tore off your clothes without reverie.

“Plenty of things, especially with this attitude you’ve got today,” Keigo’s tie looped around your wrists, binding them together at the center of your back.

“You definitely need a reminder of who’s the boss around here,” Keigo shoved you forward, stomach flush with the back of the couch.

You reeled from the pace of it all, shifting your knees for any bit of stimulation you could get. Keigo’s feathers were slicing and pulling your clothes from your body faster than you could keep track of. It was overwhelming, making your mind swim in the best possible way. You throbbed.

“Maybe a reminder about who fucking provides for you,” Keigo’s own clothes were shaken off, dropped to the floor and forgotten.

It was true. Keigo always made sure than you were taken care of, in more ways than one. Despite how fast-paced and laid back he could seem, he was always on top of making sure you had more than enough material and immaterial pleasure whether than be in the form of food, fucking, or otherwise.

You yelped as a smack fell across your ass. A feather caught the elastic of your panties, snapping a moment later, leaving you fully bare before him.

Keigo’s worn hand came to press at your throat and jaw, tilting your head back as he climbed behind you, “Maybe, you need a reminder about who keeps you safe.”

This phrase was softer than the others, a sweet kiss pressing to your cheek and his voice a bit more gentle. It was jarring at the skin still stung from his earlier strike, but you cherished the heat besides.

Once again, true. The folks in and outside of the League were greedy. There were plenty of unwanted souls that stole glances at Hawks’s prized songbird. There were starved eyes that tore into you whether you were dolled up for Keigo or not. There had been some... close calls, one could say, but Keigo always was there, in the end, unafraid to get his hands dirty.

“You know what the most important reminder is, dove?” Keigo rolled his hips against you, cock wedging between your thighs.

“N-no,” You stuttered, brain turning gooey as Keigo’s arms snaked around your waist, sharpened nails leaving indents in your hips.

He nosed at your neck, leaving a few love bites in his wake.“‘N-no’, what?”

“I don’t know,” You leaned back into Keigo’s chest, rubbing your thighs around his cock.

“Oh, songbird, you sweet thing,” He chuckled, all teasing and self-indulgent. “I’m the one who makes you feel good.”

He was so right, wasn’t he?

With the way he’d learned your body over the last few months, he’d had some undeniable pursuit to make you feel the best.

Keigo was inquisitive by nature. He had kept you on your back for hours while he finger-fucked you, watching every twitch and roll of your hips to figure out just the right ways to break you. He’d kissed and sucked and slapped every inch of you, sussing out the perfect ways to make you writhe and cry for him.

Sure, you were an absolute terror to him sometimes. Not to mention that Keigo jumping you covered in the blood of that day's targets was as macabre and horrifying as it sounded.

But, fuck, if he didn’t know how to bring you to ecstasy that fucking ruined you in the best way.

Keigo got off on watching you shatter for him. It was the reason he’d torn you from that cheap, bloodied apartment in the first place. A kind, naive little morsel that he could play with as he wanted. You didn’t complain. Fuck, you reveled in his attention. You gave it back to him, like the fucked up, semi-divine being could be any more debauched than he already was.

Corruption spreads, but you’d never complain. If being plucked from struggling for pennies to being fucked stupid by a man who could kill you at a moments notice, a man who would kill for you, somehow poisoned you?

You’d die with a bitter taste on your tongue and a smile on your face.

Keigo rubbed at your clit, nipping at your neck, and rolled his hips greedily. His cock was covered in a mix of your slick and his own preek, easily sliding between plushness of your thighs.

“You love pushing me, acting all tough,” Keigo chastised, clicking his tongue. “I mean it when I say it's cute.”

You don’t have any more quick retorts in you, not when his fingers are down your throat, gagging you as spittle dribbles down your chin onto the leather below. It was sure to leave a mark.

“Behind all that bark and snark, you’re just a good girl, aren’t you?” Keigo punctuated his words with a bite and nip to your neck. “Just needed a reminder, right, dove?”

You whimpered against his fingers at the praise, grinding against Keigo’s touch needily.

His fingers pushed pinched your tongue, breath curling over the shell of your ear, “What are you?”

You mumbled against his fingers, “A g-good g-girl.”

It was humiliating in the best way. Keigo’s light laugh at your attempt. The way he nuzzled his nose into the sweat at the crook of your shoulder was just aloe on the burn.

“I misspoke, if you can believe that,” Keigo’s cock pulled out from your thighs. “Songbird, you know what I meant to call you?”

You squirmed at the loss, but he was quick to hush you. His fingers left your mouth with a thick trail of spit.

“You’re my good girl.”

You melted in his arms.

Falling back against Keigo’s chest, you craned your neck to lock your lips to his.

Maybe that was it, why all the filth didn’t bother you. Because you had worth. Maybe it was insecurity, or maybe it was self-aware in the face of your lived experience. Before being taken, the life you’d lived made you just a rusty cog in a dying machine. You wouldn’t have amounted to anything, probably.

But with the League?

You were the prized, beloved consort of an angry god.

Keigo owned you, body, mind and soul, and you let him. That’s not even to mention how you had him wrapped around your finger. He adored you, under all of it.

Fighting with him was for sport, not blood.

Keigo licked past your lips, pressing his cock to your cunt teasingly. You whined against him, wriggling in his arms.

“What does my good girl want?” Keigo loved making you beg for him, claw for any bit of stimulation. He liked it even better when you were already soft for him.

Stray tears pricked at your eyes, “Y-your cock.”

He pinched the meat of your thigh, shaking his head, “Not good enough. Speak properly, dove. Clear and correctly.”

You swallowed, searching for the words in your own haze.

Your words were willed to be solid.

“I want your cock, daddy.”

It was just enough.

Keigo pushed forward, the head of his cock already stretching your cunt. Consider the girth of it, the lack of preparation stung and burned more than you would’ve liked, as good as it felt to finally be filled.

Keigo cooed at your soft tears, keeping your face to his with a firm hand on your jaw. He shushed you, far too sweetly while licking the salt from your cheeks, “Relax, angel. Big breaths.”

You nodded, sputtering as he speared into you. Keigo’s free hand went back to toying with your clit, encouraging the tension to drain from your body.

As he bottomed out, you shuddered, falling back into his chest. Keigo’s wings fluttered, twitching in wait. Hot breath fanned over your face, Keigo groaning and locking his jaw.

The stimulation was overwhelming. You had expected Keigo to be meaner, considering how mouthy you’d been.

Yet, it made sense. Keigo had figured out one of the better ways to make you break was softness.

(Truthfully, it made him crack in the same way, but he’d never tell.)

“Feel that?” He asked, just barely rolling his hips.

Keigo released your jaw in favor of wrapping a hand around the front of your throat, tugging you as close he could manage.

“Uh-huh,” You panted.

You could, the kiss of his cock head against your cervix was almost uncomfortable. The delicious pressure and sensitivity already had you reeling in his arms, unsteady and wanting.

“I fill you up so good, don’t I?” Keigo praised his own ego, his cock, but he wasn’t wrong. The curve of his cock rubbed against all the right spots. He stretched you just right, the burn ebbing away into a need for more, more—

“Please, Keigo—” You gasped. Your legs shook as Keigo slammed into you, shoving you forward and into the wall.

His pace was brutal. Hands and feathers kept your back in a harsh arch as he rearranged your insides to his liking. He was kind enough to keep stroking at your clit, bruising your hips and babbling filthy nothings.

“I’m the one who makes you feel this good, only me, right, dove?” Keigo growled into your ear with a particularly hard thrust.

You nodded against the wall, aware of the drool slipping down your chin as your mouth lolled open. Your insides were hot like white flames, searing any ability to use coherent speech.

Keigo snickered at your state. Slowing, he gripped your ass cheeks. You yelped, inside jumping as he pried them apart. You flinched, hole twitching as he spat down, the liquid cool against the flushed skin.

It was little moves like that, Keigo just subtly making your shudder and feel dirty that got you the most fucked up and fucked out.

You pressed back on his cock, panting against the wall and keening. You would’ve spoke, if you could, but anything that you had the ability to say would’ve been torn apart by Keigo’s sharpened, silver tongue.

“My filthy little dove, huh?” Keigo sneered, watching you try to bounce on his cock the best you could. “Such a glutton when you get broken down like this, needy whore.”

The pleasure of Keigo’s cock tearing up your insides was all you could focus on through the fog of your mind, desperate and wanting and greedy.

“Y-your,” You corrected, the words bubbling from your lips, disjointed and messy. “Yours.”

Keigo may have been avian, but he purred like a damn cat at your admission. He held you like a possession, cock throbbing as he fucked you just right.

“God, you’re sweet, angel,” He nipped at your jaw before wrapping his hand around your throat. “Even all fucked up, you know who you belong to so well, don’t you?”

You nodded, rolling your hips back.

Keigo must’ve taken pity on you, squeezing at the sides of your neck. Cruel as he could be, he must’ve noticed the way your thighs and knees trembled against the leather. Keigo knew the cloud in your eyes well— how to get you hazy and how to fuck you perfectly through the fog.

He fucked back into your dripping cunt, pace harder and faster than before. You were helpless to do anything other than fall forward into the wall, cheek squished against the scarlet.

“Who’s brat are you?” Keigo squeezed a bit harder at your neck as you swallowed against his palm.

“Y-yours—!” You squeaked out, mind going numb from the stimulation and pressure.

A wicked sneer curled against your ear as Keigo’s movements grew sloppier. His tongue lolled over your shoulder, messy kisses and slobbery bites and marks left in his wake. He was close, but you weren’t far off easier.

“Little bird,” It was sweeter, closer and hotter. “Can you come for me? Come all over my cock?”

You nodded.

“Not good enough.” Keigo bit down, nearly breaking the fragile skin of your neck. “You know I like words, angel.”

You gave him words, plenty of them.

Nearly incoherent pleads and cries poured from your bruised lips as Keigo pounded into you. Each blabbering wail was met with Keigo groans and grunts, condescending little phrases spitting over you without release.

Your lack of leverage and use of your arms made you thumping against the couch and wall, vision darkening on the edges as the pressure in your gut and the hold on your throat remained.

You were breaking in his arms, tears rolling down your cheeks as you held yourself from cresting. The exertion of it all was taking its toll, legs jellied and chest beading with sweat.

Keigo sensed it, shifting his hips to hit the spongy spot in your cunt, “Come, dove.”

You let go.

A sob shattered in your throat as your climax crashed through you. Keigo released your throat, holding you by your bound arms as he bottomed out. His own harsh cry panged against yours as he stuffed you full.

Surprisingly gently, he rocked his hips against your own, letting the ambient throb of your cunt milk him dry.

You came down, rolling and spinning as you sucked down air a bit too fast. Keigo panted behind you, though the sound seemed dull.

The pressure from your wrists released, soft thumbs rubbing at where the fabric had bitten into your forearms, “Hey, angel, you with me?”

You could only nod weakly, exhaustion and aches creeping in.

Keigo repositioned the two of you, setting himself against the arm of the couch, wings up free to drape and splay over the floor. He dragged you with him, pulling you to lay on his chest. The stickiness of his spunk, your slick, and general sweatiness might’ve been uncomfortable, but you weren’t quite lucid enough to care.

“How are you feeling? Still feeling a little mouthy?” Keigo teased, already knowing your answer.

You muffled a groan against his chest, shaking your head against the sweat of his chest.

“Awww,” Keigo chuckled, fingers brushing over your cheeks, “Is my dove a little fucked out?”

“Keeeigo, b-be nice.”

Your voice broke, parched.

Keigo snorted, pressing a kiss to the side of your forehead, “I guess I can manage that. Just for you, though. Can’t let the others see me get all soft.”

You wouldn’t; seeing Keigo warm and gooey, both of you mutually fucked-out, was a pleasure only you got to indulge in. And you loved every moment of it.

++++++++++++

taglist: @sinclairsamess (msg me if you’d like to be on it!)

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo #hawks x y/n #hawks x you #takami keigo x y/n #takami keigo x you #mha smut #mha x reader #bnha x reader #hawks #hawks smut #hawks fanfiction #takami keigo smut

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gothhisoka · 4 years ago

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𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 (𝕮𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔 𝖝 𝕱𝖊𝖒𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗)

Title: Worship

Pairing: Chrollo x Femreader

Warnings: Smut, minors DNI, 18+, explicit content

Word Count: 3116 (I promise it is worth it. Oh god is it worth it)

Note: This is from my cross-published fanfic called Hunter University! It is available if you click here on Wattpad and AO3. My fanfic is x OC, but I upload x Reader versions of some chapters here on Tumblr. In short, it is a dark academia college AU with Chrollo as the main love interest.

Background: You are an artist in college and Chrollo is your fellow classmate. You just returned from a night out at a ball, drunk. Chrollo appeared at the door to your dorm room as he promised he would after you danced with one another at the ball.

Chrollo was surprised you looked so intact. He was sure you would come waddling to the door in pajamas as you did the last time he visited your room. Although it had been an hour since the ball ended, your makeup hadn't smudged a bit. Sure, it was faded, and your hair was significantly messier, but overall you looked as remarkable as you did at the start of the ball.

Your tired eyes widened with surprise at the sight of him. He was just as unimpaired as you were. Though now he was missing his suit jacket. His hair had become slightly disheveled, losing its styled waves. He still had on those signature silver rings and little cross earrings.

You attempt to soak in his sight with your intoxicated brain. He looked even more captivating in this particular state.

“Hi…” was all you could utter.

“Can I come in?”

You realized he was waiting for your permission. He didn’t need it.

You stepped aside to let him in and shut the door. Your room was the same as the last time he saw it, with your drawings hung on the walls and lights strung above the desk. Their small bulbs reflected against the night-stained window.

Upon shutting the door, the tension noticeably rose. It was dark in the small space and you were alone. Chrollo took his black dress shoes off near the door, placing them neatly side by side.

So he plans on staying. You tried to hide a smile. The hour of his visit was surely suspicious. There could be only one thing on his mind.

"So what're you doing here?" you spoke nonchalantly, acting like you didn't just fantasize about what could happen in the next few minutes.

Chrollo opened and shut his mouth, his response escaping him. He turned back to you and used his eyes to convey a craving far deeper than any words could admit.

"I said I would come to find you, didn't I?" He said lowly.

He had begun to walk around the room, absentmindedly stopping at a piece of art from time to time. You were too tired to care. The collection included nature scenes, portraits of people he didn't recognize, anatomy studies, and...

He paused, noticing a drawing on the wall behind the place where the door would otherwise be covering.

It was a full-body anatomy study of yourself. To be specific, it would fit further in the category of a glorified nude. It was on a miniature piece of parchment sketched in charcoal. It was obviously you: the woman had your (hair color) hair and distinct mouth and nose. The paper was hardly noticeable amongst the scatter of papers. You wouldn't see it unless you had a careful eye such as that of Chrollo.

You hardly noticed when he reached the particular spot on your wall. Your tiredness had waned significantly with Chrollo's entrance, but it still fogged your mind.

Additionally, you had long forgotten about your secret behind-the-door location for your drawings that were not meant to be seen by a single soul.

Chrollo attempted to hide a mysterious smile. He turned to you, “You draw wonderfully.”

“Thanks?” you reply, with more question in your tone than you hoped to show.

The heat in the room shot through the roof. You were sure if you checked the temperature it would be well above its normal chilly state. Perhaps it was the heat in your cheeks that was causing such a change.

“So…” he began.

“So,” you replied, trying to avoid eye contact. Please, just let it happen already.

You thought you had a good idea of why he had come to your room at one o'clock in the morning after a night of drinking and questionably close dancing. You couldn't be certain, though, because that was just how he was: unpredictable and exceedingly complicated.

You didn’t think him so complicated as to not be able to admit why he was at your room, though.

You waited as he thought about what to say next. This is taking too damn long.

Luckily, you prepared an excuse. You never failed to come ready for something you could expect. And this, the direction in which your encounter is headed, is inevitable. You had been rehearsing the line in your head for the duration of their conversation like reviewing terms for a test.

This was the only way to test if your assumptions are correct.

Blame it on the champagne if I am wrong. But I really hope I'm right.

You look directly at him. Time to be daring.

You took a breath and did your best to look directly at him, "Well, I actually do need some help. You see, this dress is quite difficult to take off by myself..."

Walking towards him, you place a hand at the hem of your dress. Your delicate fingers wrap around its lacy fabric.

Chrollo looked amused. He sizes you up, looking from your hand holding the hem of your dress to your unfazed expression. Unfazed, yet your cheeks were slowly turning a shade of scarlet. Nice try, Chrollo thought.

He gestured, "Turn around."

You obeyed. You desired something far more than the unzipping of your dress, but you were not presumptuous enough to say it. The expression on Chrollo's face told you that he was hoping for the same thing. He hid many emotions well, but being turned on wasn't one of them.

Chrollo brushed your hair away from the zipper, delicately placing it over your shoulder. His fingers purposefully grazed your back as he did this, causing your breath to hitch slightly.

His hands moved to the zipper, carefully pulling it down. It went past the clasp of your bra to your lower back. There was complete silence. Both of you were still. Are we still hesitating?

Chrollo was the first to move. He pulled you close to him so that your back was touching him. His left arm wrapped across your chest possessively, holding you in a tight embrace. With his other hand, he brushed your hair back from your ear. He smelt of sweet alcohol. Clearly, he was slightly drunk as well, for the next words he said couldn't be uttered by a sober man.

His whispered breath tickled your neck, husky with the threat of sleep, "I want you so bad right now."

You tensed with a sudden surge of desire. Your impression had been right. He let his strong arm remain around you, patiently waiting for a response.

You choked out your reply, "The feelings' mutual."

Under his touch, your streak of audacity from earlier dissolved into compliance. You suddenly wanted nothing more than to submit to his words.

With complete control, Chrollo took your shoulder and turned you around. Your dress was now loose on your shoulders. He placed his hands around your hips firmly. He looked at you under his thick eyelashes and slowly leaned in. The pressure was growing to an unbearable level, but he still wouldn't go all the way.

Then his lips crashed against yours with the force of weeks of pent-up desire. This kiss didn't speak of courtesy, of patience. This was raw passion. It was furious and messy. you preferred this to sensitive steps around the intensity they both craved.

"You must still be drunk," you said playfully as you both pulled away to catch your breath. You held your hand to Chrollo's chest. His heart was beating surprisingly fast.

"If I'm drunk, then what are you?" Chrollo said with a lazy smirk.

"I'm drunk as well."

Chrollo threaded his hands through your hair, pulling the long strands through his fingers. He pulled you in close again with his hand at the back of your head.

You opened your mouth to allow for Chrollo's tongue to slip in. He lessened the intensity and slowly moved his tongue against your own tongue and lips. You couldn't help but let out soft moans that made Chrollo weak at the knees.

He pushed you against the wall to deepen your kiss. Drawings fluttered down, becoming detached with the sudden movement. Including that drawing.

Chrollo pulled away, much to your shock. You were left panting with reddened cheeks. Please don't let this end now.

He displayed a shit-eating grin. Even with his ego, in the current moment, his expression made you melt. His face was inches from yours, looking down into your (eye color) eyes.

He shifted his gaze down to the floor and said, "Nice drawing you have there."

You finally noticed what he had been so smug about. Shit. Your face flushed ten different shades of scarlet.

Chrollo leaned in as he did before and murmured in your ear, "I wish I could see the real thing."

You failed to not show your excitement. The way your eyes lit up exposed you. "I can arrange that."

At that, Chrollo leaned in again, this time moving to your neck. His lips fluttered down your throat to your collarbone. You leaned your head back and tried to control your uneven breath.

His lips reached the edge of the neckline on your dress. He raised his eyes to meet yours, asking for permission to go further.

You let out a breathy, "Yes. Please."

What you wanted to say was, Please, take me now.

It could be too soon for him. But based on how this was going, you expected it was leading to something more. Whatever that was, you wished you could know right now. The growing tension between your thighs began to ache.

Chrollo slipped his hand across your skin to the hemline of your dress, moving it completely off of your shoulder and down your arms. Your black see-through bra was now in full view. Your nipples grew hard at the sudden exposure.

At least I went with my fancy bra. You suddenly grew very shy. The last time you went even this far was years ago.

He evidently liked the lingerie for his hands immediately traveled to your breast to caress it as he continued to kiss you.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered against your neck. Your heart fluttered at his words.

Chrollo then moved his lips progressively further down as he slipped your dress off of your body. Soon your underwear came into view, then your feet. He helped your step out of the dress.

"Your turn," you said, unbuttoning his shirt. All the while he continued to distractingly leave lazy kisses upon your face, one on your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

After an agonizingly long time, you pulled off his shirt. Fuck.

You knew he would be defined. But him, this boy standing in front of you, resembled more of a greek statue than an actual human. It looked like his body had been sculpted by the finest stone on earth. He had a six-pack, defined pectoral muscles, and prominent collarbones. His biceps flexed as he leaned his hand against the wall, bracing himself. It was you who needed to brace yourself. Your breath hitched again at the sight of him.

You ran a hand up his firm body as you planted your lips upon his once again. This time Chrollo put his hands beneath your thighs, his fingers pressing into your soft skin. He picked you up easily.

You wrapped your legs around him as he brought you to the bed, kissing him all the while.

He dropped you down gently, releasing his grip off of your thighs. You took this time to look up at him and admire the beauty of his aroused state. He had a dangerous and wild look, with tousled hair and a constant smile playing at his lips. His heavy-lidded eyes were lazily focused upon you.

You continued to make out on the bed, its white silk sheets creating an angelic halo around you. Chrollo couldn't stand looking at you like this, underneath him. It was far too much power for one man to hold.

You reached to your back to undo the clasp of your bra. You threw it to the ground. Chrollo immediately began to touch your naked tits in a way that made you want to dissolve. He moved in circles around your nipples first, watching as they grew harder under his expert touch. Then he moved his mouth to the sensitive area, playing with you and biting slightly. You audibly moaned at the gesture. Damn the neighbors.

Chrollo sensed your desire to take it further. He looked up, grey eyes filled with lust, "Y/n...let me pleasure you."

It wasn't the suggestion you were expecting, but you were satisfied nonetheless. You didn't care about anything in the world besides what he could do to you at this moment, whatever it may be.

"If you say my name like that you can do anything you want to me," you said breathily. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Chrollo smirked and moved to take off your soaking underwear. Under his pants, his dick grew visibly harder. He threw the underwear onto the floor.

Gently placing his finger at your throbbing core, he began to stroke. Upon receiving his touch your back arched involuntarily. You were beyond eager.

"Fuck... Chrollo..."

This served as encouragement for him to insert his finger deeper into you, curling it slightly. It hit your g-spot repeatedly, eliciting ungodly sounds from you.

As he was doing this, he slowly positioned himself on top of you, grabbing onto the bed frame with his spare hand. He just wanted to look at your face as you opened your mouth in delight.

He inserted one more finger which caused your arousal to heighten. God, he really knows how to do this.

Just as you felt the heat in your core escalating, he slid his finger out. You whimpered in protest.

Chrollo looked down at you with a wicked smile. "Beg for it."

Oh fuck.

You gladly would. It was more your instincts speaking than any coherent thought.

"Please... Chrollo..." you said between breaths.

You wanted to not only plead for him, you wanted to worship him.

"More."

This is what you had been missing out on all those weeks. And oh god, did you eat it up.

"FUCK please do that again," you exclaimed.

It was enough to convince him. Chrollo moved his face towards your slickened pussy.

Is he about to...

He pushed his hair back out of his face with his clean hand, his forehead tattoo revealed. For only a second, he raised his eyes to gaze into yours. You fell for him all over again at that simple glance.

Then he entered you. His tongue made you want to weep. He devoured your insides, soaking up the salty juices. You couldn't help but hold his head, pulling it closer to your body. You ran your hand through his soft black hair. There was so much heat between them that you were both perspiring.

You began to shudder." I'm going to... oh... fuck," you gasped.

You felt the sweet release of cum spread below you onto the sheets and Chrollo himself. You felt self-conscious for a moment. That is until Chrollo began to lick up your juices. He ran his tongue up your soft thighs.

"You taste so fucking good, darling."

Chrollo looked at you like he had fallen all over again as well. You grinned back at him. Your cheeks grew even redder, if possible. Your heart screamed to continue but you were too physically exhausted to move. Still, wouldn't Chrollo want his turn?

You laid there, naked and panting on the silk sheets. Chrollo flopped next to you, unaffected beside his flushed cheeks and a wide grin.

The lights were still low in the little room. Looking out the window, you saw that the sun had yet to rise. This was a positive fact because the only thing you needed to do now was to sleep. And preferably, cuddling with the boy next to you. You hoped he would stay. It was more than hope, really. Your body couldn't spend any more time away from him after that.

Damn. He was good. He was really, really fucking good.

He knew his way with words, to begin with. He said exactly what needed to be said to escalate your arousal. You wanted to worship those fingers, the way he so expertly felt around you like he had memorized a map. And his tongue was even more worthy of revere.

You flipped over to your elbows. Your breasts brushed against the bedding, noticeably making Chrollo gulp. You boldly reached to touch the front of his pants.

"You don't want a turn?" you smirked.

"This was more than enough for me."

He stared into your eyes as if he was calculating a complex math problem rather than looking at the person who just received the best head of their life.

You yawned, despite yourself. Your body ached with all the action of the night.

"Go to bed, sweetheart. I'll be here."

Those were the last words you heard before your eyes drifted shut. Exhaustion stilled your naked body. Chrollo reached over you to turn off the bedside lamp.

He wasn't nearly as tired. He could've gone for a couple more rounds, perhaps take it a step further if you so desired. But he knew you needed the sleep. Most of your makeup had rubbed off, displaying the dark circles under your eyes.

He slipped off his pants and threw them onto the floor with the rest of the clothes. He found the soft sheets and pulled them across you and himself. The bed was small but cozy. His strong chest was flush against your back.

Your (hair color) hair smelt of a summer day, like sunlight and wildflowers. He took this opportunity to feel up the rest of your glorious body. He ran his hand lightly from your shoulder to your hips, to your thighs. All of it was angelic to him.

He moved you closer with his arm, protectively wrapping it across your front. Somehow holding you like this felt far more intimate than any sexual activity. The way the moonlight graced your skin was majestic.

How had he fallen so hard, so fast? It was unlike him to act with such recklessness.

Through it all, he still had his mind. you had no way to tell the extent of his feelings. He made sure of this. His libido could act one way, that was clear from tonight. But he was an expert at controlling his outward emotions. You would never know. If you did, it would be over for him. All the planning will be for naught.

He closed his eyes before he could fall upon any more worries. He had already pondered the issue for many sleepless nights.

He fell into a dreamless slumber with you safe in his arms. You both slept soundly until the sun peeked through the window.

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eluvisen · 2 years ago

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Heartfire - Chapter 14

Fandom: Star Wars KOTOR

Characters: Juhani & Female Revan

Rating: M

—

Canderous did not look at all out of place in the mercenary enclave as he moved between the tables towards an empty booth. Juhani trailed in his wake, feeling entirely too conspicuous. Mission had once again loaned her Velire’s old clothes to avoid attracting attention, and she could only hope that Velire would not mind. She pulled the jacket tighter around herself, feeling her hidden lightsaber press against her ribs; the crystal set inside pulsed in a cool rhythm beside her heart. Right now, she had little else.

Several recruiters noticed them pass, and Juhani suspected they would not be alone at their table for long. Not that she wished to be alone with Canderous for one second longer than necessary. Even now, he lounged with an infuriating ease, as if they had not lost one of their number, as if they were not on the brink of losing two more. He flagged a waiter droid for a drink, a hand sliding into his vest pocket to withdraw a cigarra, that hated tattoo on full display for the enclave to see. Already it had drawn attention from other mercenaries, as well as a speculative look from a Sith recruiter.

But as much as it burned, this task was necessary. The Republic’s aid had a price, and they needed to find a way into the Sith Embassy. If she had been present during Velire’s negotiations with the ambassador, she might have been tempted to dig her claws in and shake him until he came to his senses. Do you not realise what is at stake, you fool?

Irked, Juhani sank into her seat with a crinkle of synthleather. All this political intrigue made her teeth clench.

The mercenary enclave was little more than a glorified cantina. While it still possessed the sleek silver glamour of Manaan, it was unequivocally a place for the rougher edges of society to congregate. A tired-looking Mirialan bartender scanned the room with tight eyes, panic button conspicuously within reach, while a security drone hovered in a corner, watching with its unblinking lens. Republic and Sith recruiters dotted the room, in deep discussion with potential contractors. The sight made her fur stand on end, and it took a few minutes for her to realise why: it called to mind the way Taris’s gangs and even the Civil Authority recruited expendables before an oncoming storm. She could not help but wonder what was simmering beneath Manaan’s pristine surface.

She scanned the room again, and noticed a human man watching them from across the bar.

[Read on AO3]

#writing #fanfic #star wars #kotor #juhani #velire orinn #anyway guess who completely forgot to crosspost to tumblr for the last... however long

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frostironfudge · 3 years ago

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Tenebrous - Loki (AU) - Chapter Fourteen

Pairings: Vampire! Professor Loki x Fem!Reader

Characters: Loki, Thor, Fem OC, Reader, Bucky Barnes, Stephen Strange

Warnings: dark, angst, coven dynamics, blood, witch coven dynamics, vampire coven dynamics, soul bonds, hurt/comfort, canon level violence, blood drinking, mind manipulations, torture, non consensual blood drinking, MINORS DNI

Word Count: 11.5 k

Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Chapter Thirteen || Chapter Fifteen

Main Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || My AO3

Chapter Fourteen - Aren't All Tales As Old As Time?

Two Days till Alexander Arrives.

Emery blinked several times, not really being able to process what they were seeing. They tilt their head to the side, not making a sound.

Doctor Strange fills up the thermos with a blood bag, his skin seems paler and he looks tired. As he tries to twist the bottle cap it falls and Strange groans, following as the cap rolls its way and stops next to Emery.

He gulps and they just want an explanation.

“It isn’t what it looks like….” He winces at his own words because it sounds clearly as though a lie.

“It looks like something out of a teenage show.” They comment, squatting to retrieve the stray cap.

Strange narrows his eyes, waiting for the butterfly that fluttered between them to present itself but nothing occurred.

They walk closer and Strange takes a step back, their usual scent of black currant with a hint or orange is replaced by jasmine.

Emery smirks, “You always were an observant one.”

“Where are they?” Strange’s eyes begin to turn black with red rims, “What have you done?”

“Careful Doc. You do anything to me, it replicates on your little student with a crush on you.” Maya smiles as they return to their own body.

“Consider them as a two fold, he knows about your weakness to them and he knows that they are important to Y/N. He watches closely, even when you think not. Glory be to father.” They complete, hoping Strange picks up on the meaning behind their words.

“Are they safe?” Is all he wants to know.

“Yes. Provided you know which side to be on.” Their jaw set as Strange nods.

“I will have my decision the day of, please inform your Father.” Strange notifies and Maya blurs away from view.

Three Days Before Alexander Arrives.

Bucky remains a spectator as the coven practices, Clark paired off with Y/N and relentlessly having her conjure spells. She falls to her side, a frustrated groan leaving her as she rises again. Raising her hand she brings forth her crescent.

Her frustration with Clark is apparent, he hasn��t taunted her yet but Bucky knows the words are coming.

He looks at Miles, who gazes back at him urging to intervene.

It had been days since he directly spoke to her. Y/N herself had resorted to keeping to herself. To not cause Bucky any distress. It did hurt, seeing him joke around with the others and having him crack inside jokes with Sierra. Which seemed to always occur when she was in the room.

It felt as though months ago again, when he would call Maria but not her.

“You should talk to her.” Sierra urges from beside him.

“I think she has it covered.” Bucky shrugs just as Clark causes a root to wrap around her ankle pulling her down.

“You’re not focusing.” Clark calls out, almost bored.

Y/N lays on the ground for a second, trying to know what the fuck was going wrong. As she stands, her gaze goes towards Sierra and Bucky. Watching as they converse easily. It’s stupid to feel jealous, they had hardly been friends since he returned. Their platonic relationship had suffered at the hand of non communication and the distance Bucky shoved in the middle.

“Yeah she has,” Sierra rolls her eyes at the sheer ignorance the man next to has in his possession.

“We don’t have all day.” Clark calls out and Y/N glares at him.

She conjures a carpet beneath him, and retracts her hand as the floor beneath him is shifted Clark falls to the floor.

“Okay, good, just know vampires aren’t going to slip on carpet.” The high priest dusts himself off and two crescents move towards him and he ducks in time.

“Y/N.” Clark says in warning.

“You wanted better.” She shrugs, the crescents returning and her eyes flicker between the white glow and remaining the same.

“Focus.” Clark conjures up an image of one of the vampires from the night of the forest.

“What is he doing?” Bucky moves a step away from the wall.

Y/N wants to tell him off, but it would be possible that those fuckers would be in the entourage.

Her eyes glow, the returning crescents cut through the illusion.

“Good.” Is all the praise she gets, as another vampire is conjured behind her, who puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Not again–,” She grabs her hand, pushing the crescent through her chest.

“Clark,” Bucky calls out, as the glow in her eyes grows.

The High Priest ignores him.

The illusion comes up of John, Y/N grits her teeth. His laugh makes her blood boil.

Bucky watches her concentration begin to break.

“Don’t react with anger.” He directly addresses her and Y/N looks at Bucky with a glare.

“Why don’t you keep your other conversations going, after days you–,” The illusion of John grabs her, cutting her off, throwing her down. Her chest heaves, her palms conjure fire in one hand and current in the other.

Bucky raises his left hand, the vines discarded by Clark wrap around illusion John growing till he is sealed inside them.

Clark removes the illusion, all of them look at Y/N, she blinks a few times but the glow doesn’t die down. Her tears illuminated by the glow.

“Y/N,” Bucky moves towards her, she closes her eyes, squeezing them tightly. Trying to forget everything, keep her mind blank. To not be taken under any flashes of memories, she needed to go.

She hears Bucky kneel near her, his hand comes to rest on her upper arm. She shrugs it away, eyes opening and she looks directly at Clark, asking him to leave through a non verbal conversation.

‘You may go.’ He dismisses her seeing the white glow is gone.

With the three words she leaves not looking back at Bucky who wants to go behind her but decides otherwise.

“What?” Bucky pauses taking in the look the three are giving him.

“She needs her best friend.” Clark shrugs as if it is blatantly obvious.

“She does, yes, there is only so much a vampire boyfriend and vampire bestfriend can understand.” Miles sighs, palm on his own chest.

“Miles, you can’t be serious.” Bucky gives the two husbands a look of disbelief and then turns to Sierra who holds her own disappointed look.

“You too?” He hands his palms turned upward not understanding this ambush.

“Bucky, you’re someone who understands what is going on.” Sierra tries to get him to understand, “I know this is hard for you too, but you need a support system as well. I’m sure Gramma would agree.”

“She would have swatted the back of my head. She did it, when she came to know I stopped speaking to Y/N anymore.” Bucky shakes his head at the memory.

“Look, if speaking to her is difficult, then tell her. The minute it gets difficult you verbalise. Just don’t leave her in the dark.” Miles explains and he nods.

“I’ll go to speak with her.” Bucky follows from where she left, conjuring a small compass to locate Y/N.

Four Days Before Alexander Arrives.

Luna and Zemo watch as they finally have an audience with everyone. Nighttime as the moonlight gleams through the windows. He looks upon Y/N, she seems tired. Her demeanour hunched.

Zemo tilts his head, curiosity bringing out his ability, Y/N looks at him. He smiles.

“I don’t have the energy to keep you out.” She tells him, as everyone focuses upon them.

“Zemo.” Luna chastises. He only smiles back at his love.

“I apologise, curiosity tends to get the best of me.” He explains.

“You do know curiosity killed the cat.” Nia pipes up, quirky a brow.

“I’m already dead, so.” Zemo chuckles and Luna shakes her head.

“Satisfaction brought it back.” Y/N adds, and Luna looks at her intently.

“I’m pretty sure Lord Vampy here would love to pry through your soul.” Nia gestures towards him, earning a chuckle from Loki and Strange.

“What?” She asks, “Is he a Lord?”

“I hail from Barons.” Zemo shrugs.

“Oh the rich aristocrats?” Nia observes and he nods.

“Have the niceties been exchanged?” Bucky questions and Y/N looks at him, wondering if they would ever speak like before.

“Be nice.” Sierra says, Bucky looks at her and then they break into a grin, sharing a joke.

Loki turns his head to Y/N when the bond ripples with irritation.

“Are you alright?” He murmurs, she feels guilty for subjecting him to trivial emotions.

“It’s nothing, I’m sorry.” She takes his hand in hers and they look back at Zemo and Luna.

“Alright. So Alexander is set to arrive, you all need to be prepared for him trying to manipulate your weak areas, unclaimed mate, chosen family, friends, anything that would force you to turn to his side.” Zemo informs them.

“We expect Maya, who can shape-shift, into any creature, any person.” Luna adds.

“He may leave a note or no note, or Maya may be the one delivering the message.” The Baron adds.

“He will keep them alive, till your allegiance is sealed to him. In that event, please turn to his side. Pretend. Do what you think is correct to keep your loved one safe.” Luna urges all of them.

“What if we chose not to?” Miles questions, knowing he has no one remaining, apart from Clark.

“Then you should not feel guilty for the blood that is shed.” Clark speaks up, lacing their hands together.

“You must know, there are several vampires who will be there, illusionists, strength, mind manipulation.” Luna informs them and looks between Y/N and Bucky.

The two have their gazes meet briefly but then look away.

“So we have to be prepared for anything. We’ll need a lot of stakes.” Nia sighs.

“We have several.” Sierra announces.

“We’re working on a recall spell, so in case anyone loses out on their stakes more will come through.” Bucky informs them, Y/N looks to Miles, confused.

“You needed time, so we didn’t…” Miles trails off and Y/N nods. Was she even a part of anything?

“That would be so cool.” Nia cheers.

“Yes, it’s all very exciting.” Thor murmurs, on edge since the plans are all rapidly changing. Rendering his ability useless.

“I understand how you feel, however, till you do not pick a path you won’t know.” Luna advises and Thor nods understanding but still dissatisfied.

“Is anyone else going to turn against him?” Loki questions, Zemo shakes his head.

“I’m afraid we are the cavalry.” he affirms.

“You both will be on his side till the last minute, correct?” Stephen finally speaks from his place near the wall.

“Yes, we have to keep appearances up, as will Maya.” Luna gazes upon Y/N again.

Loki runs a comforting hand over her back, she leans closer to him. Through his periphery he sees the small moon appear. Cupping her cheek, he tilts her head back till her eyes meet his green.

Y/N furrows her brows, then notices the small moon. She sighs. Looking back at Loki her eyes flicker towards the white glow.

A surge of power envelopes Loki, he feels his fangs descend, in tandem with her eyes harbouring the white glow.

The room glows, a foggy path illuminated by moonlight.

Y/N takes a step forward but someone grabs her hand and she swiftly turns to find Loki.

‘How are you here?’ She questions,

‘This…’ Loki pulls her close as his past self falls to the ground from the tree.

Y/N looks between the two, ‘The night of–,’ Her words die on her tongue as the Loki in front hunches over in pain. Begs the moon to save her.

‘You asked me to protect her.’ A soft voice whispers amongst them as the hunched over pleading Loki disappears amongst the fog.

‘Who are you?’ Loki turns, keeping Y/N close as they try to discern the source.

‘Oh creature of the night. You forget the one who granted your wish?’ There is a soft chuckle and Y/N looks up at the moon.

‘Your mate is smart.’ The voice still has mirth.

‘I,’ Loki looks at the moon in disbelief.

‘Is it not intriguing? In the moments of absolute faithlessness and despair is the faith the strongest.’ The voice continues.

‘In that moment all else is addled with disbelief. The need fuels the prayer.’ Y/N speaks and feels a soft caress on her cheek.

‘I’ve watched you over years and centuries. The two of you were destined. I forged the bond the night your mate saved the woman who carried you. The spell your mother casted brought you back to me.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ The witch questions.

‘Because you wonder why can’t you feel the embrace of someone of your own.’ The voice sighs, Y/N looks onto the ground.

‘Your mother is proud of you Loki. She watches over you. You’re right she adores your mate.’

‘Mother?’ Loki’s lips part in shock.

‘She misses you.’

‘I miss her as well.’ Loki admits and Y/N gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, letting him know she is there for him.

‘why are we here?’ Loki questions, ‘in this memory?’

‘you see, the man you are to face soon enough,’ the voice begins and the ground shakes.

Loki and Y/N hold onto each other.

‘i will meet you both again. go back to your reality now. the next time i try to speak with you come willingly.’

Y/N gasps as her field of vision turns from the forest to the living room at the Manor. Loki returns after her.

“What happened?” Luna raises a brow, their futures becoming seemingly obscure.

“Repeat from the past.” Loki covers up, Y/N nods.

“What was it?” Nia stands beside her.

“Just another one of John’s well, treats.” Y/N murmurs which is believable.

Bucky’s lips press into a thin line. It doesn’t seem right to him. As if the two aren’t saying something.

“I’m sorry.” Nia hugs her best-friend. Y/N huffs. “Nia super strength….” She laughs when Nia pulls away worriedly.

“Sorry, sorry, bit of a learning curve by being supernatural.” She laughs.

“As we were discussing,” Zemo garners their attention again.

He begins to go over their plan, based upon the two strategies that Alexander has shared with them. Clark decides that the coven will not be at the forefront immediately since they need to have a semblance of surprise under their belt as well.

Luna agrees, party because if it is deemed she let go of Celestials; Alexander would not allow her next unnecessary inhale to plead.

Two Days Before Alexander Arrives

Stephen Strange uses every ounce of his speed to reach their home. Shrubbery suffers at his hands, breaking into splinters as he rushes through them.

“They have to be at the dorm the spell won’t fail on me.” Y/N was frantic over the phone. The locating spell kept showing her the dorm building. She had studied with Emery in the study quite a few times to recognise it.

Emery’s dorm was on the third floor of the building.

There is no semblance of panic through the hardly formed bond, it irks him that he cannot discern their whereabouts.

Stephen reaches for the door, the reception guard greets him he nods politely.

“Which is Emery Castillo’s room?” He questions the guard who looks at him sceptically.

“Um, Sir, I do not have permission to give that information out.”

The marble counter top holds indents from his fingers, frustration grows within his chest.

Stephen leans forward maintaining eye contact with the guard.

“I think you should be able to do that.” He whispers and the guard’s gaze blanks.

The guard blinks several times, fingertips gliding over the keyboard.

“345.”

Stephen cares not for the security footage as he uses his speed again, as his hand reaches for the door, he’s tackled to the side by another vampire.

“Hail Alexander.” The vampire digs into Stephen’s arm with their fangs.

The doctor turns them, using his own arm as a lever to extend the back while his knees dig into their thighs.

The vampire groans as his body is manoeuvred, the of the vampire flesh begins to tear with the weight of Strange’s strength with one final push his body tears apart, he drags the body to the supply closet and the flesh begins to merge.

Panting the Doctor retrieves his stake, spearing it into the apex of the heart and the flesh remains dismembered. He checks his attire and is pleased to find no blood. Stepping out of the supply closet. He turns to find Emery looking up at him.

“Professor?” They tilt their head and Stephen feels relief flood through him at the small flutter in his chest.

“Yes, um, I was on my way to seeking you.” He steps closer needing to be near.

“Oh, um about what?” They ask, tucking their book under their arm.

“Are you planning to go anywhere?”

“Um?”

“Sorry I meant to the PT convention in Manchester, I well, the staff gives a free ride to the student with the highest grades and that is you…”

“Oh my god.” They jump up and down excited and Stephen smiles admiring them dearly. Emery’s hands come to rest over his arms, gripping tightly.

“Professor if this is a joke I will cry.”

“It isn’t, I, I wanted to offer you a spot in any case. I believe you even have a spot for a research position next year.” Stephen admits.

“Oh geez, this, wow. Wait, why didn’t you email?” They remove their hands from him and Stephen dislikes the emptiness left in wake of the movement.

“Oh I was passing by and these good news things are best said in person.” He shrugs.

“Oh, well um, I’m excited for your presentation.” A slight blush coats their cheeks. Stephen smiles warmly.

“I’d invite you in but I have a new roommate and he’s a little reserved. So um,” Emery scratches the back of their head.

Stephen only has a few moments to contemplate when the scent hits him. He turns and Emery does a double take of the speed at which Stephen tucks them behind his body.

A snarl ripping through his throat.

“Pro-professor?” Emery clutches onto his coat, their heart thudding rapidly.

“Do you have your phone?” Stephen hisses moving in a semi circle pattern as the person in front of them takes a stance that indicates their impending lunge.

There is a growling and Emery understands this is not something that is some kind of prank or practical joke.

“Yea-Yeah.”

“Call Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Is she also?” Emery retrieves their phone and begins dialling her number.

“She knows.” Is all he says and grabs the vampire and throws him to the other side.

“We need to get in your room.” Strange tells them and they lead him in and he is blocked from entering.

“Why aren’t you—,” Emery screams just as Y/N receives the call.

Strange is thrown on the floor as the vampire presses a stake to his throat.

Something in their own chest rips apart.

“Emery? Emery?” Y/N calls out trying to reach through the stupor they had fallen into.

The vampire puts the stake through Stephen’s shoulder latching it to the ground and then turns toward Emery. Menacingly looking at them.

They stand at the door.

“Invite me in.” They seethe.

“Emery do not invite that being inside and do not look at them.”

Emery closes their eyes, “Y/N what the fuck is going on?”

“I, its a very long story— Loki and I are on our way.”

“There is a demon outside and you want to come here?” Emery deadpans and Stephen chuckles dryly outside, carefully taking out the stake from his shoulder.

“We’re kinda on the side of the good.” Y/N reasons and there is the click of a door and seatbelt.

“Do you want to stay on line?” She questions and Emery just watches Stephen.

The vampire turns in time for Stephen to move close as if hugging him, and driving the stake into his heart.

The creature slumps against Stephen and he pushes the body yet again into the supply closet, he takes a deep inhale.

Standing at the door, “Hey Emery?” Strange greets, running a hand to fix his hair.

Emery peeks open one eye and then opens the other.

“You, you can come in.” They allow him and Stephen walks in, shutting the door.

“I’m sure you have several questions—,”

The wind is knocked out of him as Emery wraps their arms around him and Strange encircles his arms around their shoulders.

“Are you okay?” They ask, voice laden with worry.

“I’ll heal soon.” He pulls away slightly, cupping their face. Emery sighs contently at the contact. Their chest feeling as thought a flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

“Will you explain why there is a feral demon in the dorm?” They question, Stephen chuckles.

“Why don’t we sit down for this?” Stephen suggests and Emery points to the sofa tucked away in the corner.

“Sorry, I didn’t clean up much.” They move the blanket and knock over their library copy of the neurology book Stephen had carried around since a few weeks.

“You’re interested in neurology?” His eyes light up as he picks up the book.

“Saw you reading it…” Emery blushes again.

“So I influence your reading choices?” He quirks a brow.

“Only academics.” They chuckle as he frowns playfully.

“Leisure reading?” He sits when they ask him to, two feet away from them.

“I enjoy fiction.” They reply, watching him run his fingers over their notes.

“This is stellar work.” He praises, smiling encouragingly.

They give him a tightlipped smile.

“I believe it is time for me to come clean.” He sets the book between them.

“I’d appreciate honesty.” Emery reminds and Stephen nods, making a cross over his heart.

He takes a deep breath, looking into their eyes as he exhales then finding the right words to begin to tell them his true nature.

Three Days Before Alexander Arrives

Bucky checks the terrace first, it was they place the two had gone to on that ill-fated night of their buried memories ripped open.

He thought about it long and hard, Sierra’s words echo in his mind. Would it have to be continuously re-lived? Just four days ago she was reminded yet again. How could Y/N still want to speak to him or want him in her life. Beyond being a soldier going to war, how could she see him as a friend she wanted to keep around?

Disappointment laces his features finding the terrace empty. His feet carry him to Loki’s room. As he draws closer he can hear murmurs. The door is ajar, he stands gathering himself.

He knocks and the conversation is cut off. Y/N opens the door, her distress palpable and Loki stands from where he sat on the bed.

“Can we help you, James?” Y/N wants to scoff at Loki’s pleasantries.

“Probably has other friends to have it covered.” She mutters.

Bucky gives her a pointed look. Loki shakes his head.

“I wanted to check up on you.” Bucky gazes into her eyes which used to be so easy to read.

“I’m fine as you can see so I believe you can return to ignore me.” Y/N begins to shut the door.

Bucky blocks the door and Loki opens it again.

“Hear him out.” Loki urges and Bucky looks at him grateful.

“He’s not here on his own accord.” Y/N huffs.

“That is untrue.” Bucky says, moving into the room.

“Really? So my coven didn’t have to make you feel bad that I have no one like me and you’re here out of respect for our friendship and not guilt?” She sneers at him.

“It’s difficult for me too okay? Do you think I like losing the one genuine friend I have? Do you think I like ignoring you or being ignored by you? Walking on eggshells?” Bucky bellows and Y/N looks up at him. His hands tremble.

“You’re making it look extremely easy. You cut me off once. You could do it again.” She accuses.

“I made a mistake.” Bucky admits.

“Are you making one again or is it written in blood?” She enquires.

Loki watches, feeling the turmoil across the bond, he tries to send comfort. But he had seen this play out before where it broke her and chipped away at her heart.

“‘i watched you leave from a distance,

i had myself erased from your existence,

in the laughter of others i reminisce,

the melodies and stories we once shared,

i hear your haunting echo in the smiles of your friends,

as they speak to you while for you i no longer exist,

i wish i could tell you i remember you beyond that night,

right from your curious eyes oh so bright,

to the calloused fingers that wiped my tears,

while delaying their own,

i wish i could tell you you still have place in my heart,

but you’re not here and by you i’ve been exiled.’ ” Loki recalls and recites the piece Y/N wrote a week after Bucky left.

Y/N closes her eyes, the pain of that piece returning.

“You wrote it for him.” Loki states, “Him leaving had a deeper impact than you have let on.”

“I’ve been left enough times that it shouldn’t hurt.” Y/N shrugs, biting the inside of her cheek.

Loki sighs, the pain from that piece had twinged at his heart as well, a longing for a companion, a confidant.

“I should not have cut you off.” Bucky states, stepping closer to her, “I really wish I could take it back. That day when Maria spoke to you, I had to restrain myself from jumping through the phone.” He admits.

“Everyone leaves or they don’t remain present Bucky, like I told you. Like I told him.” Y/N wants to shrug it off.

Loki holds her hand.

“We both were stupid.” Bucky admits.

“Extremely stupid.” Loki agrees.

“Find it in that big heart of yours to forgive me?” Bucky offers her his hand, she gazes into the blue of his eyes.

“You mean it? Or is it just so you can leave after?” Y/N looks at him, tears building in her eyes.

“Clark offered me a place in the coven. I will be taking it. To be your annoying friend who won’t give you a second to breathe, and also to spend Nia’s money on cheesecakes.” He smiles when she breaks out into a watery grin. Rushing to hug him as she still holds Loki’s hand. Who only smiles and then looks at James.

“You hurt her again, you will get hurt.” Loki warns, Bucky nods.

“Loki—,” Y/N tries pulling away from Bucky, her eyes are aglow.

“Bucky, let her go—,” Loki is cut off when the bond pulls him in as the vision takes over.

“No, Loki, I can help—,” Bucky is cut off as he is placed on the street opposite the book store.

He frantically looks to the side, Loki stands next to him much more calmer. Seeing Loki something urges the similar calm to wash over him. They watch Y/N gazes around confused inside the bookstore.

‘Welcome James,’ The voice that spoke to Loki and Y/N a day ago greets.

‘What is this? Loki what are you doing—,’

‘You need to look up.’ Loki points and Bucky peers at the sky.

‘Hello James.’

Bucky takes several steps back.

‘I know, it is a lot to take in, but I needed to speak to the three of you.’

Both men look at Y/N stuck inside the bookstore.

‘Well first the two of you, then her together.’

‘Why?’ Both ask synchronous.

‘Because my dears, that is my daughter, to whom the two of you have cause quiet a bit of hurt.’ The voice grows stern and both men pale slightly.

‘I assure you we’re doing our best to repair the damage.’ Loki states.

‘You will not erase her memories, no matter how much she pleads.’

‘How—,’ Loki looks bewildered.

‘Child.’ The moon all but exasperatedly sighs.

‘Wait erase, what?’ Bucky looks from the moon to Loki.

‘Y/N asked, if after everything, I would manipulate her memories to make her forget everything.’ Loki informs.

‘Can you actually do that?’

‘James, I suggest you also not traverse upon that tempting path.’ The moon reprimands.

‘I won’t do it.’ Loki agrees.

‘Good, now James, you will not join the Celestials.’

‘But—,’

‘That isn’t your coven, you may partake, but do not be inculcated.’

‘Is there a reason you’re telling us this?’ Bucky raises an eyebrow.

‘You three, are what it will come down to, however, my child in the bookstore is a self sacrificing being.’ The voice sounds worried.

‘Wait, are you suggesting she—, I will not allow it. How has Luna not seen this?’ Loki implores, frantic to prevent losing his mate.

‘Luna is only shown one possibility, when the future keeps changing, destiny remains not on one side.’ The voice explains.

‘Please, there must be something you can do.’ Loki begs.

‘We won’t let it happen.’ Bucky places a hand on his shoulder.

‘I trust the two of you will keep her safe and even yourselves. The others who are part of your entourage are more guided by their selfish desires and outcomes.’

The men stay quiet, considering the words. Bucky had realised it would turn into every person for themselves. Clark was playing a strategy though it made sense it had selfish connotations written all over.

Loki gives a glance towards Y/N, who was trying to pry the door open. He had to be selfish to protect her. Even if she may want to save everyone. He’d be selfish for the two of them.

‘So she is the child that was hidden?’ Bucky questions,

‘Yes. She was under my care, unfortunately much like my own dark side, her destiny was cast into darkness. An unfortunate consequence of the spell.’

‘But even you begin to reappear.’ Loki states.

‘As did the two of you.’ The voice sounds almost smiling.

The bookstore door opens and Y/N runs out, crossing the empty street to Loki and Bucky.

‘I was stuck inside.’ She explains.

‘I was stuck in an Uber.’ Bucky winces at the memory and lie.

‘I was at my own home.’ Loki adds onto the lie.

‘So basically, where we were the night you took a flight to Romania.’ Y/N concludes, then gazes at the moon.

‘Hi.’ She waves.

‘Hello, child.’ The moon’s voice greets.

‘I needed the three of you here so I could tell you that I will be providing a fraction of my abilities to enhance you already present abilities.’

‘That, that is generous.’ Y/N nods and looks at Bucky and Loki.

‘Indeed.’ Loki says and Bucky nods.

‘Do you know what will occur?’ Y/N questions.

‘I know all the outcomes but not the one that will occur. What you make happen shall be written.’ The voice explains and Y/N feels a soft caress over her hair.

‘I always found solace in you. If no one watches at least you watched in the night.’ Y/N smiles at the memory.

‘I know destiny has not been kind. However you’ve remained much kinder. Remember to show yourself kindness. All three of you. Now I believe it goes without saying that keep quiet about this.’ The voice grows stern again but then chuckles.

‘Oh and Bucky, your Gramma says she loves you and is proud of you, also she says she gives Y/N permission to swat your head because you’re being an idiot pushing a friend away.’

‘What if he wasn’t ready to deal with what I remind him about?’ Y/N tries defending.

‘He’s thinking he’s making it easy for you, when its difficult for you both equally, same like your mate here. Always thinking leaving is the solution.’ The voice chuckles repeating Gramma’s words.

‘That sounds like Gramma alright.’ Bucky chuckles.

Loki looks at the moon a question dangling at the forefront of his mind.

‘You will have to speak to your mate about that, Loki.’ The voice says and Y/N looks at her mate curiously.

‘Very well. But do you approve?’ He counters.

‘If you plan on not repeating certain actions then, yes.’

‘I intend not to fall under false guises.’ Loki assures.

‘Can the mate know?’ Y/N chuckles as she questions.

‘In due time, my love.’ Loki kisses the back of her hand.

‘Now you must return my children, remember all that was said..’ The voice echos.

The street dissolves into grey nothingness, then the hardwood floor appears beneath them, finally the pale walls of the vampire’s room greet them.

“Hey…” Nia walks in hesitancy lacing her entire demeanour.

James looks at the other two, realising how close all of them were standing, he takes a step back. Loki and Y/N remain closer.

Nia looks at Y/N, “Can I speak to you? Privately?”

Loki and Bucky exit the room, heading to the room given to Bucky for his stay.

As the door closes Nia turns to her best friend, “I know you used to read two character x reader fanfics but with the bond is that possible?”

Y/N furrows her brows and Nia can see how the blush creeps up from the edges of her cheeks to the apples.

“We aren’t in a polyamorous relationship, if that is what you’re implying.” She shakes her head, bewildered at why Nia would think that way.

“I only ask because that looked too close to be platonic and Loki had a smile on his face.” Nia narrows her eyes, she doesn’t want to use her ability but her best friend had just lost the two men and regained them.

“Look, Bucky and I weren’t talking, and today at practice I sort of lashed out, I told you about how its annoying me right him getting all best friend with Sierra?”

“Yeah, I don’t like it either he’s rubbing it in your face.” Nia’s lips twist into a disdained frown.

“Well Loki recalled a piece I wrote after Bucky left… and we talked it out, and Loki could feel my happiness through the bond.” Y/N answered with honesty.

Nia regarded her with a look, Y/N rolled her eyes.

“You can use your powers if you don’t believe me.” She shrugs.

“It’s not that, I just, I worry. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Just keep your heart safe.” Nia pulls her in for a hug.

“Is everything okay with you and Thor?” Y/N questions, hugging Nia tighter.

“He’s withholding something, I mean with him twisting up the entire Loki leaving and not protecting you. I, I, he feels like a stranger.” She confesses.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Y/N suggests.

“I don’t want to use my powers… but I fear if I do not, then…” She trails off.

“At least the truth will be known, Nia you can’t have him not tell you things. Look these primitive creatures, no offence.” Y/N gives a half smile and Nia laughs.

“Yeah the older man kink came in.” Nia giggles.

“They think not telling us is protecting us. Which sucks.” Y/N rests her head on Nia’s shoulder.

“Don’t take this the wrong way but you do smell good.” Nia chuckles.

“Thanks, I was worried about not being appealing to out quote unquote father in law.” Y/N giggles and Nia looks horrified.

“I didn’t think of that.” Nia bursts out laughing as well, just as Loki and Bucky return to find Y/N smiling wide and seeming less tensed.

They looked at each other once again, with a nod. Solidifying what they had decided is to be done.

—<>—

When Loki and James reached the room of the latter they stood for a few moments collecting their racing thoughts.

Loki observes James, the furrow in his brows as the storm he held in his blue eyes.

“May I ask you something, James?” Loki decided to open the conversation.

Bucky looks up at the vampire, nodding.

“Why did you not actually maintain contact with her?” The question swirls in his mind.

“It was a mix of things, I didn’t know she was a witch. I did not know I could tell her. She was already falling for you. Almost thought we could have something…” Bucky looks out of the window and then at Loki.

“Our bond was in the earlier stages.” Loki informs, sitting on the chair by the bed. Bucky follows suit and takes a seat on his bed.

“I know. When our hands touched, yours and mine, when I had my awakening. I had this weird feeling as though I was burned. I brushed it off. When I thought about it months later I realised it felt like holding ice in the palm f my hand for a long time.” Bucky shrugs, then chuckles, “Whenever I picture it it feels like a bunch of snowflakes not melting against my skin.”

“What did you feel with her?” Loki watches as a fond smile takes over the warlock’s face.

“Akin to a tingling, when I think about it, like sparks?” Bucky pronates his hand, gesticulating his confusion.

They remain silent for a few more moments.

“May I ask you something?” Bucky asks and Loki chuckles.

“You may.”

He draws a deep breath, “Can you actually alter memories?”

There is a hopefulness woven into the question and Loki sighs.

“I possess that capability. However, I have never been able to penetrate your mind, much like Y/N’s I can only enter when she permits me. Alas, I cannot do what you may ask of me.” Loki admits and James fidgets with his fingers.

“Is it because of the moon or your own choice?” Bucky locks his gaze with Loki.

“Both.” The vampire answers without delay.

Bucky covers his eyes and lays back onto the bed.

“How are we supposed to save her? How am I supposed to save her when I’m this fucked up?” He contemplates.

Loki stands to look at him, “I ask myself the same question.”

“Do you really?” he sits back up. Loki nods.

“Do you have an answer?” Bucky questions.

“I do, however it isn’t insightful.” Loki gives a humourless chuckle at Bucky’s unimpressed expression.

“Would you like to know?” Loki still chuckles.

“Something better than nothing.” Bucky shakes his head chuckling as well.

“We try our hardest, use every spell, trick, power in the book. We try our hardest.” Loki explains, searching James’ face for a response.

James looks down at his hands again, Loki feels a shiver pass through him.

“You’re right.” Bucky looks up at Loki.

“I am?” Loki quirks a brow.

“It isn’t very insightful.” Bucky deadpans and Loki feels a laugh blooming within his chest, in which Bucky joins.

Present.

Loki stood next to Thor, both holding hands with their respective mates. Bucky remains stoic, a few feet behind Loki. Next to him, a kneeling John who still has several stakes buried into his body.

Stephen stands back, he had Bucky charm his own home, and laced the entry points with vampire weaves. Emery making a joke that he gifted them a home so early on in their ‘courting’ wouldn’t expedite things. Stephen only laughed at their humour. Relieved that they were safe. To their knowledge no one else had been taken from their close ones.

So there they stood waiting for the moment it all came down onto, the moment when Alexander would grace them.

The night is illuminated by the waxing gibbous. Y/N finds the wind pick up. Loki’s grip tightens around her palm.

“They are here.” He says, loud enough to let them all know.

Bucky sends a text to the hidden away warlocks and witch. They operate from their coven base. Bucky scoffs at the thumbs up emoji and deletes the thread.

“Ivan Vanko.” Thor informs.

“Electric current, even from a distance.” Loki completes.

“Malekith.” Loki spots the second person.

“Teleportation and reality alteration, unlike Loki’s his is not as strong, you have to find the thin strand of actual reality amongst his alteration.”

“Karla Sofen and Wong.” Strange identifies the two he had met years ago.

“Time manipulation, summoning of fears from the psyche for Wong. Karla has photokinesis, and gravity manipulation, which could end with being speared on a stake.”

“Outnumbered.” Bucky comments, spotting Maya as they near to enter the field of vision of the humans.

“Maya.” He says and they give him a once over then their gaze shifts to John, a pleased smile on their face at his state.

“So electricity, teleportation, reality going to shit, time being altered, a lady who can slow us down and make us float and a shapeshifter.” Nia summarises nodding her head.

“Ain’t a fair fight.” Y/N murmurs.

“Which one ever is?” Nia retorts.

Bucky chuckles dryly, “The ones where we kick vampire ass.”

Nia snorts in response.

There are others, about twenty more. Who neither of the four vampires recognise. They stand forming a semicircle, with place left at the centre. A twenty vampire disadvantage.

Loki begins to seep into their minds, carefully trying to formulate weaknesses and strengths.

There is a sudden wave of dread that Bucky and Y/N feel. Loki finds it seep into the bond.

Two familiar faces come forth and then Alexander enters, his cloak gliding with the wind as he walks forward flanked by Luna and Zemo who wear their cloaks to cover their head.

“Children, such a warm welcome.” Alexander smiles and there is a twisting feeling in Y/N’s gut.

“Father.” Thor greets, a pleasant smile on his face.

“I see you have not taken well to your brother.” Alexander tuts.

John looks at his father, “Father.” He speaks against the cloth that harbours charmed pieces of the stake that is kept to muffle his voice.

Alexander turns his gaze back to Thor and Loki.

“I come with mercy, my children.” He stands arms behind his back, “I see Thor has already completed the bond and turned his mate. Welcome to the family, daughter.”

Thor squeezes her hand.

“Thank you.” Nia mutters, they needed to delay his wrath for long enough.

“Manners. Very good, however, mates as young as you, kneel.” He tuts again, eyes flickering to Thor.

“I treat her as an equal father.” Thor defends.

“Very well.” He turns to look at Loki and then Y/N, his gaze lingers on her pendant.

“Open defiance of the rules, Loki, I had high hopes for you. You knew I held you with such high regard.” Alexander sighs, a frown on his face.

“Father, I haven’t completed the bond.”

“She is a Celestial, Loki!” He hisses.

“I recently knew of her status her awakening took place just days ago. Upon my return.” Loki keeps his voice level. Y/N’s heart beats rapidly.

Bucky keeps his gaze set on Zemo and Luna. Their faces remain impassive.

“Yes, John informed me. You do know the rules, a Celestial should be brought to me. Mate or not.” The coven leader reminds, “And what did you do Loki? Hurt one of your brothers for her.”

“He was about to kill her.”

“Lies.” Alexander’s booming voice echos.

“Father, you are the one to decide, I left her. I, you know how I feel about bonds.” The green eyed vampire recounts.

Father’s eyes move to the hands held. His jaw tightening.

“Explain why is she this close to you then?” He challenges.

“She has changed my perspective.” He admits.

“Witchcraft!” One of the vampires yells the remaining vampires break into a cacophony of clamour.

Alexander raises a hand silencing everyone.

“You then know the rules, for her survival she must be of value.” He walks across the clearing, moving in front of his coven of vampires.

“Luna, tell her, why were you saved.” He stands back as Luna’s auburn hair gleams in the moonlight as her hood falls back.

“I was a, Celestial.” Luna verbalises, a disdained expression masks her face. Y/N and Nia pretend to be shocked by raising eyebrows.

“I was scouted by Father before my mate found me. He was taken by your witch coven, right in front of my eyes.” Luna’s eyes pool with venom.

“There, there, my child.” Alexander runs a hand over her hair, Luna stiffens.

Zemo keeps his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I wonder did you receive your gift Loki?” Alexander gleams when he sees the red rims encircle Loki’s eyes.

“The monster inside you seems to be taken with her.” Father comments.

“He’s more primal than I am. I had given over control to him once.” Loki blinks and his eyes return to green.

“Hand over John to me.” He demands, looking at Bucky, “Oh, warlock, were we not kind enough?”

Bucky chooses not to answer. Looking at Loki, to carry out their plan.

“He’s under my control.” Loki says, Y/N looks up at Loki.

“So you won’t mind asking him to hold your mate while John revives himself with a sip.” Alexander smirks, watching Loki reveal all his cards.

“I cannot permit him to drink from her.” Loki clenches his teeth.

“She is already on thin ice.” Pierce reminds.

Y/N can feel his apology through the bond, the stars dull as Loki gazes at Bucky. Whose own eyes are ice cold, closed off. They had decided this; to pretend he was under control.

Bucky raises his left hand, fingers abducted, he makes a fist all the stakes connected with John’s body fall to the ground.

John stands, wobbling, undoing the cloth from around his jaw.

“He isn’t under control father.” John groans at the open wounds.

“Warlock. Weave.” Loki mutters and Bucky begins to draw a weave around John’s feet.

“Small enough to only allow standing.” Loki adds and Bucky follows.

“Loki.” Thor says in warning, the tick in Alexander’s jaw foreshadowing trouble.

“Let him go and summon the blood bag.” Loki watches Alexander, as Y/N watches the bottle hover in front of John and he eagerly drowns in the blood as it fills him, the wounds begin to close keeping him out of danger but he needs the rose salve. That none of their entourage was willing to offer.

“Missed you, little flower.”

Y/N shivers as John’s voice is too close. Bucky clenches his hands into fists.

Loki moves, pulling Y/N behind him. Eye to eye with John.

Bucky lightly brushes her upper arm trying to provide quiet comfort.

“I suggest you join Father.” Loki warns with a tilt of his head, “You are alive only because of him. Otherwise you would have died at my hands the minute you tried to touch her.”

“Bold of you to think she isn’t going to die.” John trudges forward as Alexander welcomes him with open arms.

“My son.” He pulls John into an embrace, “An embarrassment.”

John’s eyes widen.

“Father—,”

“Silence. Go join your brothers and sisters.” Alexander instructs, releasing him and looking into Y/N’s eyes.

“Have you practiced any spells?” He enquires as though this isn’t a conversation that rests the fate of her living status.

“I have.” She keeps the answer bare minimum.

“What was your first spell?” He takes a step closer.

“Levitation of objects done without intention.” Y/N takes a breath when he takes a step closer.

“What can she do with intent?!” Another vampire bellows. Alexander raises his hand once again to keep the clamour at bay.

“Do you remember me?” He tilts his head and her mind flashes to the forest.

“Y-Yes.” She stutters.

“You’re afraid.” He remarks, smiling.

“I don’t want to lose him.” Y/N admits, looking up at Loki before looking back at Alexander.

“I recollect telling you that you are ordinary. By virtue of my rules, you need to perish, since you are unworthy of being in my coven.” He shrugs.

“Father,” Loki takes a step forward, Y/N holds him back.

“Why did you erase my coven, I have no one remaining.” She questions and Alexander smirks.

“The only use you have is being a blood bag.” He moves forward raising his left hand and Loki is pulled harshly away from her. Alexander stands two feet away, taking a step forward when he’s held back.

He looks at Y/N, she gives him a smile.

“I may be an ordinary vampire, but I’m not an ordinary witch.” She smiles taking two steps back to create more distance.

“My coven will protect me.” Alexander warns from his placement in the weave.

“Ask them.” She challenges and John steps forward.

“You bore me honestly.” Bucky has the tree roots wrap around John’s feet pulling him to the ground.

“Coven, see this witch trying to kill me.” Alexander lies, and his coven is about to go into uproar

“Kill you?” Y/N raises a brow. Her eyes begin to glow.

“I wish I could just end it all by killing you.”

“You, you’re her. Just like her.” Alexander stammers, all of his children gaze at him confused.

“Do they ever talk in normal conversation or riddle me this only.” Nia rolls her eyes.

“Right from the smell, to taste, to appearance.” Alexander reaches out but is stopped by the weave again.

“Loki,” Thor says in warning seeing sparks near Vanko’s fingers.

“I’m going inside his mind—,” Loki groans, as his body jolts on the floor.

Bucky looks towards Vanko, who gazes back at him a smug smile on his face. As Bucky too falls to the floor. Y/N’s jaw clenches, Alexander jolts within the weave.

“Call it off.” She warns Vanko. He only continues.

“I said call it off.” Y/N warns again, Alexander twists in agony.

“I won’t.” Vanko says with a heavy accent.

“Very well.” Her right hand is raised and Vanko falls to the floor, withering in a manner similar to his own power.

Bucky and Loki pant as they begin to recover.

“I warned you.” Thor says helping his brother up. Stephen assists Bucky.

“All clear.” Stephen whispers.

“Next time do better than warning, brother..” Loki murmurs.

The electric current is stopped by Y/N, Vanko and Alexander wheeze on the floor as others remain silent spectators.

“Oh you defiantly have her fire.” He praises dusting himself off, Y/N looks at him in disbelief, “Oh that? That was just theatrics, a child like you is no match for me, darling.” Alexander gives a menacing smile.

“Karla be a dear and have them all but her stay on the ground.” Alexander turns to face the woman who only nods before closing her eyes.

Thor grabs onto Nia as she begins to levitate, the toe of her shoes making small indents as she struggles to catch on the same begins to happen to Thor and then Stephen and Bucky.

They flail their arms around trying to get away from Karla’s ability to no avail.

“Run.” Loki whispers as he is being raised.

“Loki—.” She looks up at him, hand brushing past his fingertips.

“Y/N, run.” Bucky adds from his spot hovering over them. His left arm glowing with the blue lines as he draws the runes that may work.

Y/N still stands, raising her hands to cast the next spell. Alexander takes as step towards the edge of the casted weave.

“Run!” Loki bellows and Y/N takes off just as Alexander steps out of her weave with ease chasing her down the forest.

“I see you want us to return to where I was supposed to taste you from your mate mark. The sternum. I remember.” Alexander’s menacing laughter reaches her ears as she stumbles over the roots delving deeper into the trees.

“Fuck.” Y/N stumbles, the rocks causing cuts on her palms.

“I can even smell you better now.” Alexander is close, too close.

She turns to the right, Alexander’s chest greets her vision as he towers above her with a smile.

Rendering her frozen in place. Grabbing her hand, he brings her palm to his mouth, licking the oozing blood.

“Please.” Tears pool in her eyes.

“You even beg like her, my mate.” He clutches her hair, pushing her down to her knees.

“What is your motive to return?” He pulls at her hair harsher.

“I’m—I don’t know her I swear.”

“Oh you lying little witch.” Alexander pulls her up and throws her towards the tree trunk, Y/N conjures up a shield that has her stop inches away from hitting the tree.

“Magic at your fingertips, your smell. Even the bond mark in the very same place.” He grips her again by her neck.

“The very first Celestial. My mate. I killed her with my bare hands, centuries ago. Now you return, as a mate for a son who cares little for the throne. Weak like his father said. Only worried about having a mate.”

She wheezes, “Loki is not weak.”

Alexander squeezes her throat harder.

“Why that imbecile of a son?” Alexander questions again as dark spots cloud Y/N’s vision. Her hand raising to push at his face, at the scent of her blood his grip loosens.

Darkness still clouds her vision as she is laid on the ground. Her whimper comes out as a hoarse cry. Alexander groans and spits out the blood he drinks.

“Why do you not taste pleasing anymore?” Alexander grips her shoulders, then throws her back against the ground. The rocks piercing into her skin.

Y/N only blubbers incoherently in response.

“Tell me why are you haunting me, Faria? Why do your eyes still haunt me? Why have you returned. I made sure to end all your bloodlines. I ended all chances of an heir.” Alexander demands, taking the name of his mate long gone.

Y/N still denies, Alexander grabs her jaw harshly.

“You are her. You were supposed to be mine.”

Darkness ebbing towards the centre of Y/N’s vision, body feeling heavy and the moon shining upon her. Giving into the darkness felt so right.

“She said an heir would come, Faria how is it, you grace me with your own presence?” He pushes her body up against a tree, flashes of Faria’s bleeding body overlay upon Y/N. Their resemblance striking, right down to the taste of her blood and placement of the bond mark.

Alexander needs to know how is she back after nine hundred years of dying in his arms.

She blinks, swirls of blue, green, blue, green-blue slate, then pitch black.

Nine Hundred and Ten Years Ago.

The village is quiet, the celebrations of a young couple’s marriage having simmered down.

Midnight the candles are all extinguished and the men are preparing to stand guard. Even the young groom.

The various religious figures of the villages near and far warned them, for the creatures that roam through the forest. Preying upon innocents and taking captive others.

Creatures that God hates, who are a gift of the devil. Only the devil is capable of such atrocities. He sent from hell to harm the good people and their piety.

In one of the houses where the dying embers of the fire illuminate mirth filled smiles. In the house that harbours love and mercy. Alexander pulls Faria close, her lips meeting his, as he cherishes her in his arms before he has to leave for the nightly watch.

“Alexander,” She giggles as his hair tickles her neck from where he places kisses over her shoulders.

“Your happiness says otherwise my love.” He smiles, the moonlight dancing off of her features, magnificent he declares.

“You must be on your way.” She chastises, helping him fix the overcoat her hands fiddled with, she smiles up at him once again. Her heart filled with love but also a longing to tell him the truth.

“What is it?” Alexander questions, cupping her cheeks, sensing her discomfort.

“Nothing, just, when father chose you, someone older, I was worried, but then you, Alexander you, you bloomed into being this wonderful, kind and loving man. I cannot fathom my good fortune.” Faria kisses the palms of his hands.

Alexander’s blue gaze softens as he takes in her words.

“My dear, if I can protect, cherish and love you. My duties as your other half are complete.” He smiles at her.

“I know.” She smiles as well.

“Now, I shall return earlier if possible, till then lock the doors and do not let anyone enter.” Alexander instructs, grabbing his rifle from the stand. The hardwood floor creaks under his weight.

He only turns away from the door at the groan of the lock and her whispered declaration of love.

Heart thumping as he joins the men he grew up with to guard the perimeter. Beginning at the church and ending at the common well.

They walk in synchronised steps, soft thuds upon the ground. Holding lanterns and their weapons closer.

As they complete the third round of the night, it is almost close to dawn. The men gaze longingly at their homes, seeking the comfort of their family and the warmth of their beds.

“Boy go on home, must not keep the wife waiting.” Alexander tells the young groom, whose expression lightens up. Making everyone chuckle.

“Are you sure?” He questions, still skeptical.

“Go on boy, it is almost dawn, these creatures hide in the dark of the night.” He says, waving the boy home as Nicholas rolls the cigarettes for the remaining eight men.

Eight small red dots are ascertained by the young groom, as he turns to wave a final goodbye to the men. The men watch as the boy is engulfed into the darkness and his scream echoes through the village.

The cigarettes are thrown and riffles are mounted, shooting into shadowy blurs. As the sun’s first rays bless the village, the carnage does not stop. Alexander groans spurting blood from his mouth, tears from his eyes as he is dragged from the front of his house. The embers consuming the small cottage Faria called home.

The moon shone brightly the night everything was taken from him. The creatures of the night drank from him every day till he lost count. Then they began feeding him. Not food, something bitter, the viscosity akin to blood, they kept him in a dark cellar.

One night he groaned in pain as the last of the drops of his drink cascaded down his throat.

The entire night was a loop of all of his memories even the ones from childhood he thought were well forgotten, he clung onto the one of his last night with his love, his Faria.

When his eyes opened, as the visions of his memories died down. He was no longer in the dark cellar. He was placed in a room. One where the fragrance from the rosewood desk was pleasing. There was another sweeter aroma, turning his head to the side a man with a silver streak in his hair.

“My name is Ikaris.” The man says, his dialect much different to Alexander’s village.

“That decadent scent that is urging you to hunger, is for blood.” Ikaris explains, opening the door of the room. The young bride of the town stands trembling.

“You must feed to survive, feed to gain strength. Feed to fight with your new family.” Ikaris pushes the girl onto her knees.

“I will not harm one of my own.” Alexander, leaps towards the opposite side of the room, rubble from the wall drizzles around him at the impact.

Ikaris only smiles smugly. Alexander wishes he could close his eyes before the vampire beheads the young bride, setting his thirst into a burning inferno.

As Alexander drinks from the young girl he realises tears don’t flow from his eyes. Only a stinging substance coats his eyes. Mourning he drinks deeply. At so many losses he amassed in the time he was here.

Alexander then rose through their ranks, his ability to know what another vampire’s ability is and its weakness, it helped him defeat several, turn even more humans into his new breed.

Ikaris remained the designated leader as they moved through towns and shelters, it had been more than a year since he was turned. Allowed to return to his old down he saw the burnt pieces of the home, that was turned into nothing.

The only memento of his Faria that remained was the necklace he hid under the hollow stone step, now covered in soot.

He carried it with him, the blacksmith forged it with moons and stars and all Alexander saw was his wife.

They walked now surrounding a witch coven shelter. Enemies of vampires, out to hunt them down. He tucks the necklace back, into his shirt. it rests against his chest where her head would lay.

“I suggest you move forward, Alexander. Entice a pretty witch for us.” Ikaris gleams, stroking the cheek of his mate Thena.

Thena, mindlessly would follow every word Ikaris uttered. The power of a mate’s command, never withdrawn. Placed when she was human, carried onto her immortal life.

Alexander nods, moving out of the shadows and walking at a human pace. The shelter is alit by lanterns. He crosses the threshold, the people stop and murmur.

“I seek refuge.” He requests, “Please, I’ve been travelling for days. I shall leave tomorrow, but I need shelter just for tonight. My legs are weary. Please” He pleads, sinking to his knees.

“We can take you to our matriarch.” One man says, offering his hand. Alexander looks up and the man bore an eye-patch. He takes the hand, following with a grateful bow of his head.

“Yes, Joseph?” Faria’s voice greets Alexander’s aching ears. He looks up at her. Faria gasps.

“Alexander?” She stands from her place, shakily reaching for him when he closes the distance between them. A flower blooms between them, it’s petals slowly breaking away and dancing across their chests.

“Soul mate.” He whispers, she cries, pressing her lips to his.

“They took you—,” Faria cries, pulling herself closer to his colder body.

“I thought you were gone—,” Alexander’s words come out like a sob.

Their hands tracing over each other, memorising them.

“How—, why didn’t you tell me?” He begs to know why she hid her heritage.

“The village, they hated all creatures…”

“My love, I would have not, I, I can’t still believe you’re alive.” He smiles, after months of mourning.

“Alexander I was with child—,” Faria admits and then a loud boom echos as the tented structure begins to collapse.

“Faria!” Alexander pulls her close and moves swiftly.

“Never trust witches, little vampire.” Ikaris warns, as his coven sheds blood through the shelter. Alexander holds off resorting to use his inner beast, the most primal aspect of being a vampire.

Faria watches as his blue eyes begin to be surrounded by red rims, she hands him the stake. He looks at her once then in a blur Ikaris’ body slumps in his arms. Thena screams but is silenced, slowly Alexander makes his way through the vampires that would not stop killing.

The ones that remained, bowed to him. As he stood next to Faria. Wiping her tears. Vowing to protect her. Vowing to never let anyone touch her. No one would take her away.

Nine Hundred Years Ago.

Ten years he still kept her human, so she could match his apparent age. Their bond established and blossomed akin to the flower that graced them. Each time they thought about the other.

When they broached the subject of the lost child, Faria admitted she cast a spell giving the child away to the moon, to protect nurture and cherish.

Alexander wondered if he would ever see the child again, ever hold his own flesh and blood in his arms, turn the child when the time came into an immortal being so the three could remain a family.

Faria only smiled tightlipped, whenever Alexander spoke of the child that she hid with the moon. The man who harboured kindness and love had turned into those very ruthless creatures her mother taught her to stake.

She thought he would be different, maybe their love would cast a curse upon his dark side. Leave it cast away while they spent eternity, together. A pair that went against the odds in the best way.

Ten years watching him rip apart bodies, watching him pick and choose, watching him build an army. Watching him turn into the shell of a man. No trace of the kind soul she married years before.

Faria’s long silk robe, glided along the marble flooring as Alexander carried her through the hallways of the castle, his castle.

His lips attached to her neck, as her fingers twisted into his hair. He hums at her decadent flavour. Their bond thrums between them. Content, happy. Blooming.

He rests her down on their shared bed. Faria, cups his face. Her robe undone by his hands as his blue eyes meet her own. Faria gasps as he traces their bond mark with his thumb.

“Alexander.” She calls out, he smiles. Then nips at the mark, “Please—,” “Shh,” He instructs.

“Alexander, please, you need to stop this madness.”

“Faria, I told you I would once, I took over this part of our lands. I will cease to do all that you turn your eyes away from. I vowed it.” He raises himself to look down at her eyes, the ones that showed him his entire world. For ten years he had her, since he was turned, since he began to rule in this immortal life, since she was gifted back to him.

He places his forehead against hers, eyes closed. Relishing her warmth.

He had handpicked those he allowed in his coven. Amassing an army worthy of the jealousy and fear of his enemies and a mate who remained his only source of pure sweet blood.

His witch, that gave him more power than immortality allowed, his celestial angel. Forged by the moon herself, birthed in the night of a new moon. Illuminating his life with the light of the full moon. His love, his mate.

Alexander opens his gaze and the bond filled with distress.

“Faria.” He accuses, her hands pause above his back clutching the charmed stake.

“Alexander.” Tears pool in her eyes, the tip of the dagger pierces through his back.

“Why?” He pleads.

“You have gone mad with power. You are harming innocent souls.” She accuses, driving the stake deeper, “Those young children? Those witches? How could you kill them? Just for having no talent to add to your army? What is this madness, my love?” She pushes hard, to drive the stake deeper.

“My love, why must you have me, kill you?” He asks, clutching her jaw. The pain from the one movement causes her hold on the weapon to break.

Faria scrambles to the side, summoning her crescent moons to defend herself. A gift by the moon, parent to daughter. The stake falls from his back with a clang. Alexander’s eyes wild, red rimmed with no hint of mercy.

He uses is speed to appear before her, lifting her off of the ground, her crescents drive into his sides, he only flares into a deeper anger laced with betrayal. With a loud growl he bangs her head into the wall as she wails, blood spurting from her mouth and nose. Alexander only brushes his lips over her own.

“My coven will keep returning, to bring you to your death.” Faria warns, “You will die at the hands of an heir.”

“I can control my children. I vow to kill your coven, every time they rise. I will seek them out and have them lay on the ground. Your precious celestial body prefers her children of the night and not you wicked witches and warlocks.” He moves to grab her necklace, but it disappears.

“It has been decided. The heir of the Celestials will cause your demise. You will search and search with no respite.” Faria says, coughing more blood as the ache from her head gains crescendo.

“You pit my own child against me? Is that why you gave away my heir?” Alexander questions, the bond begins to crumble around him, their world begins to fall apart.

“Twins, we had twins. One was born and the other hidden by the moon herself.”

“How dare you take away my heir!” He slams her head back into the wall, tears of blood pool out of her eyes.

She looks into his feral gaze, one more time, “You will perish, my love. I vow.” She says with her last breath.

Alexander wails as the bond breaks into pieces, numbness overtakes him from the inside out.

Burning his veins.

Igniting his arteries with revenge.

Cursing his nerves with a death he would not allow to touch him.

-x-x-x-x-

a.n: hey everyone! hope you enjoyed the chapter, also it isn't total sixteen chapters anymore, there might be eighteen (or more idk), as i was writing i realised that wrapping everything up warrants for more chapters so we're in for more *dances*, also i apologise for pushing back the date i was struggling with this update because i was scared about how i wanted the plot to go and i spoke to @stevesmewmew and they helped me realise that its my story so i can do what i want with it so get in the car people its about to get more *gasp* moments

taglist open! just comment below to be added!

tagging: @camerons-specialinterest @stevesmewmew@pandaxnienke

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shoutogepi · 5 years ago

Text

Jealousy Has Its Perks

Todoroki Shouto

word count : 10.4K holy shit im tired

[ ✘ (nsfw!), ☀︎ ] sin with a cute ending

themes : jealous,dom!shouto, brat,sub!reader, friends with benefits, degradation, quirk use, edging, overstimulation, general bdsm things, & a sweet lil confession

bio : Even though you’re not his, Shouto can’t help but turn green with envy when he sees you dancing on another man at the club.

author’s note : uhhhh can i get a hell yeahhHHH for jealous fwb trope? lmao my basic ass loves these. hope y’all do too <3

also available on AO3 here

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🅂hinsou’s hands land on your waist, cold fingertips pressing into your exposed midriff and guiding your hips along with his. The circular motion has your head spinning, and you let your skull fall back onto his sturdy chest at the feeling of his semi brushing against your ass. Shinsou’s purple locks tickle your neck as he bends and presses his lips to your skin, sucking on the skin just hard enough to leave a ghost of a bruise. His hands cup your hips, squeezing the flesh there softly while his thumbs trace the crest of the bones.

The song blasting through the club changes, a novel and heavy bass causing your throat to vibrate. The sudden need to quench your thirst emerges, and you pull away from the handsome man regretfully. His lavender irises regard you with understanding as you point to the bar, holding up a finger to signal you won’t be long.

Your heels stick to the dancefloor slightly as you cut through the throngs of club-goers, and unsurprisingly a handful of guys attempt to stop you on your travels. Finding a familiar pink head of hair, you slip into the empty spot next to Ashido and let out a sigh of relief as your elbows land on the wooden counter. Perspiration makes the hairs at the back of your neck stick to your skin, and you fan yourself with a cocktail napkin as you attempt to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Not doing so bad for yourself, Y/N,” Ashido grins at you coyly, her words a tad slurred as her black eyes give you a once-over.

You let out a chuckle, painted lips curving knowingly. “Yeah, well… he used to have a crush on me back in the day,” you explain with a nonchalant shrug, finally giving your order to the woman behind the bar. You look at Shinsou over your shoulder, who has returned to his table of friends and is currently being shoved, high-fived, and noogied animatedly.

Ashido gasps exaggeratedly, her mouth turning from an ‘o’ of shock to a grin of delight. “Two heroes wrapped around your finger at once? I can’t believe you,” she laughs, perhaps too hard, because you have to hold her arm tightly to keep her from falling off her stool.

“Hey now, I’m a free woman!” You reason, thanking the bartender as they hand you an icy glass. “I can fool around with whoever I want, thank you very much.”

“Can’t argue with sound logic,” Ashido taps your glass with hers, throwing back the remaining contents of her drink. “You know, you should tap Bakugou, too. Last night, he Lord-Explosion-Murdered this pussy.”

You snort, the alcohol burning your nostrils as it leaks into your nose from the abrupt reaction to Mina’s words. All the pink-haired woman does is laugh with you, the both of you maybe a step past tipsy but not nearly blackout drunk. Not yet, anyway.

“Shinsou though, really? I’m surprised… I thought you were too in love with IcyHot’s dick to tap anybody else,” Ashido teases, poking your shoulder as a frown forms on your face. Her words are playful, but they send irritation surging through your veins. That asshole had cancelled your weekly appointment tonight, which is why you’re here at the club, prowling for a suitable replacement.

You shrug again, allowing the bitter liquid to drift past your lips before you speak again. “What can I say? He knows how to get the job done, and he’s sexy as hell.”

“You sound a little smitten. He must be pretty damn good,” Ashido wiggles her brows at you, a devious smile making its way to her face.

You disregard her comment, looking away from your friend with an eye roll. Smitten? Your relationship with Shouto is strictly physical. But maybe you had been a bit too disappointed when he’d sent you that text earlier. Shaking your head, you take a gulp of your drink, willing the intrusive thought to disappear.

Ashido’s phone vibrates and you watch her face light up at the message. After a brief moment, she stands, collecting her jacket and purse. “Hmm, seems like Bakugou is calling for an emergency meeting,” she winks at you, flashing you a rather lewd photo of the blonde that was clearly not meant for you to see as she walks away. “Give my regards to Shinsou! I wanna hear about all the nasty stuff he does to you with that mind control quirk of his.”

You can’t help but chuckle at that, sighing as you cross your arms. Would Shinsou really be enough to satisfy your cravings? His quirk does interest you sexually, but it’s unclear if he’d be willing to dominate you like that. He always seemed like the type to go with the flow… and tonight, you really need someone to force you to swim against the current, so to speak.

“Shinsou, huh?”

Speak of the icy devil. The voice behind you makes your body still, your eyes widening at his deep tone. The scent of his encaptivating cologne infiltrates the air around you, and a hand slides around your waist, pushing you backwards against his firm chest. You swallow, your tongue poking out to wet your lips in anticipation. What’s he doing here?

“Already forgetting about me, angel?” Lips ghost over the shell of your ear, his hand gliding across your torso until it reaches the other side of your waist, grabbing there and spinning you around. He catches you as you turn, snatching your wrist with his other hand to steady your half-finished drink.

You look up into his heterochromatic eyes, noticing a new emotion simmering there. Is that… jealousy? His cold breath fans over your flushed face, and you bask in the cool relief it provides in contrast to the stuffy club air. “It was you who cancelled our appointment,” you murmur, feigning innocence as you look to the side in a faux-bashful manner, “I needed to find a substitute. A girl has needs, you know.”

Shouto grins down at you, but it seems like more of a snarl as his eyes glare down at you with hostility. One eyebrow raised in mockery, he chuckles lowly. “And Shinsou Hitoshi is gonna do that for you? Are you sure he’s big enough to fill my shoes, angel?”

Your eyes wander back to the intimidating man before you, lingering on the ridges of his muscular form hidden underneath his button-up and slacks. Feeling brave, you down the rest of your drink, tongue rolling out and over the lip of the emptied glass. Shouto’s eyes burn as they follow the movement, his lips parting slightly while his grip tightens on your waist. Shooting him a playful smile, you tug your wrist free, placing the vacant glass on the bar. “What are you even doing here, Shouto?” You change the subject, hand reaching up to tug on his slim tie as a cheeky grin splits your lips. “You don’t like to have fun.”

The action causes him to lean closer to you, his face next to yours. “I was dragged here against my own will, of course— boy’s night. But would you believe my surprise when I saw my little minx walk in, all eyes on her in her skimpiest dress?” His baritone voice loud and clear despite the blaring music, his lips hover dangerously close. The hand you’d freed strikes your ass abruptly, causing you to jump closer to him in shock. His fingers hold the reddened cheek through the thin material of your dress, gathering you into his chest. No one seems bothered by the blatantly sexual action in the club, everyone distracted with their drinks and their own sensual pursuits. “And then, can you imagine how I felt watching her grind up against mind-control, watching him put his filthy fucking hands on what’s mine?”

You let out a heavy breath, delighted at how responsive he is. How possessive he is. “What’s yours?” You challenge, hands landing on his broad chest. His expression makes you press your legs together eagerly, your body starting to bend to his will.

Shouto’s hand leaves your waist to cradle the back of your neck, forcing you to bend your gaze to meet his. “Mine,” he whispers, his lips inching closer to yours by the second. Your pulse pounding, your fingers curling into the cotton of his shirt, your eyes flutter closed. His lips brush over yours, and then he pulls away.

A whine of protest escapes you, and you shove your palms against his chest in annoyance. But he doesn’t even budge, his fingers slipping into your hair and pulling your defiant face to look at him.

“Let’s get outta here, angel,” he nods toward the exit, releasing you and lightly smacking your ass again before his fingers settle at the small of your back, “I think I need to remind you who you belong to.” Shivers shoot down your spine at his choice of words, effectively drowning the bratty response you were so ready to quip at him. Without even a glance at Shinsou, you allow Shouto to guide you out of the establishment and into the crisp night air.

The brisk walk to his luxurious apartment is silent, but laden with anticipation. Your brain begins to ponder if his words had a deeper meaning. The two of you had been engaging in this affair for months now— you aren’t quite sure how it came to be. Your relationship had remained stringently physical, but you couldn’t help the butterflies that filled your stomach when he held you through the night, when his hands would rub your exhausted body tenderly, and when he would kiss you for hours before you’d slip into a satiated, peaceful slumber. And you did not dare to acknowledge the warmth that would blossom in your chest when you’d drowsily awake, still swaddled against his muscular chest with his arms around you as sunlight peeked through the blinds. Physical, yes— your relationship is only physical… regardless of the fuzzy feelings that ebb through you when you’re next to him.

And when he had proposed to have you come over twice in one weekend, you’d nearly panicked at the raw excitement that coursed through you at the premise. After much consideration you had denied his request, fearful that if you allowed yourself even a shred of further indulgence you’d be entirely consumed by the captivating man. He hadn’t overstepped that boundary since, and you weren’t sure if you felt appreciative or disappointed.

Your train of thought is interrupted as you reach the tall doors of his apartment building. The complex is perhaps one of the most expensive in the city— the lobby boasts flat leather sofas and sleek wooden tables. Lush tropical plants with leaves as wide as tennis rackets break up the space, magnificent orchids dotting the area just sparingly enough, and to top it off, an entire wall with running water rushing over the flat surface, creating a sheet of liquid that trickles quietly as you wait for the elevator.

Next to you, Shouto has his hands in his pockets, a blank expression on his face as usual. But after months of getting to know him, you can easily recognize the irritation lingering on his handsome mug. You are not able to think of any words that could possibly calm Shouto’s crackling, brooding intensity, but honestly, a large part of you desperately wants to find out what exactly he has in store for you. It’s clear that he has no intention of forgetting you were about to leave with another man, and his blatant acrimony brings a sliver of joy to you while jealousy oozes out of his every pore— you know you’re in for a wild night.

When the door closes with a deafening click behind you, your body freezes as you wait with bated breath. Sure enough, two large hands curl around your stomach, coasting down your pelvis in a V shape. His long fingers nearly graze your clothed slit, but he changes direction at the last moment, instead securing his palms on your inner upper thighs. He rubs the flesh there roughly, making your head fall back against his shoulder as you gaze up at him. His smoky eyes are already on you, a smirk decorating his pretty lips as his fingers work on your sensitive muscles. Thumbs brushing against the sides of your panties, his movements push the hem of your short dress up along your hips.

“You need to be fucked pretty bad, huh, angel?” He taunts, analyzing how your ass rubs zealously against his crotch. His smirk only grows as you nod, your hand flying up to grapple onto his bicep. “Bad enough to drop your standards so embarrassingly low?”

You snort at his words, turning your head so your eyes catch his. This asshole has some nerve getting jealous after he was the one who cancelled on you. “Shinsou is just as hot as you, Shouto,” you reply boldly, wondering what exactly the price of your words will be. How far can you push this envious beast? Will you be able to take his punishment?

Shouto’s expression darkens, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes as his stare falls to the floorboards. His hands leave your skin, and you whirl around ready to dish out another line, but he’s already a step ahead of you. He lashes out, yanking your body against his by swooping his hand underneath your thigh and cupping your bare ass. He lifts your body so your heels leave the floor, rushing to press your back flat against the drywall. He’s hoisted you up high enough to set your ass against the thin, tall table next to the door which usually holds his keys.

Your legs parted with him standing between them, he places his hands on the tops of your thighs. A low chuckle rumbles out of him, his tidy fingernails trailing up your flesh. “Just as hot as me, hmm? Is he really, Y/N?” His left hand jumps from your thigh to your cunt, the only barrier between you two your skimpy panties. The heat emanating off his palm catches you off guard, a moan tearing out of you as he easily cups your covered sex, sending a searing fever through your body.

“Fuck,” you whimper, hips bucking instinctively against his palm, your body hoping for some kind of friction. The heat makes your pussy twitch, stirring as a cat slowly pulled from a deep slumber.

He tilts his head, as if he doesn’t understand why you’re breathless. “Huh? What was that?” He wiggles his fingertips a bit, enjoying how you whine as the ends of his blistering fingers dig into your core through the material of your panties. Your wetness drips through the thin cloth to coat his hot digits, making it easier to glide them against you.

“More, Shouto,” you squeak, panting heavily as his fingers rub along your slit at an infuriatingly slow pace.

Shouto lets out a low purr of satisfaction at your plea, savoring how your smooth leg tenses up underneath his other palm. Your sweet whimpers are music to his ears, his right hand moving around your thigh to meander toward your ass. “No, baby. Not until my angel answers me,” he murmurs, ducking his head down and placing his lips against the delicate skin on your neck.

A wayward moan evades your gasping lungs as his tongue ravishes your flesh, his teeth scraping over the wet skin. Your legs wrap around his waist, wiggling your body forward so your soft breasts press up against his hard chest, your cunt inching closer to his crotch. “Ugh— nooo,” you gasp as a fingertip presses harshly against your core, just barely pushing your panties into your pussy.

“No? No what?” He laughs darkly, his breath tickling your sensitive collarbone. He draws back from you, his intense gaze focusing on the other side of your neck before he looks directly at you, a sinister glint in his eyes.

Your lip trembling, the brat you’d been so ready to let free is for once taciturn at his dominance. Your submissive nature leaking out in desperation, you whine when his fingertip recedes slightly, leaving your panties barely inside of you without the pressure you really want. “No— Shinsou’s not nearly as hot as you, Shouto!” You rush out, heavy breaths making your chest rise and fall swiftly, restless for his touch to return to you.

But Shouto does not seem appeased by your admission. In fact, his gaze becomes a glare, his mouth curling into a snarl as he grabs your hips, crushing your body against his. “I hate hearing another man��s name come out of your pretty little mouth, Y/N,” he growls.

You’re shocked by his possessiveness, your eyes widening like saucers as his teeth skim your pouting lips. His proclamation makes a cocktail of doubt and lust unfurl in the corners of your body, but you’re torn as you wonder if he really thinks of you as his. Before you can ponder the meaning behind his statement, his eyelids shut and he smashes his lips onto yours.

Your arms are around his neck in less than a second, all thoughts vanishing as your nails scratch his scalp through the short, buzzed hair at the base of his undercut. He groans against your mouth, eliciting a moan from you in response. He takes the opportunity in stride, his hot tongue thrusting into your mouth as hot steam puffs out his nose, his calloused hands squeezing your body carnally. Your lips dance with his clumsily, your other hand cupping the corner of his sharp jawline and pulling his lips closer to yours.

He pulls away from you as your hips begin to grind against his, his eyes still closed with his lips pulling back into a snarky smile. Your needy mewl of disappointment makes his eyes slit open, regarding you with a predatory gaze. He takes in your desirous expression, his stare cold yet sizzling with passion. “You let him defile your perfect skin, angel?”

The hickey Shinsou had left is barely even that— nearly indistinguishable from your skin tone— yet Shouto’s eyes make the flesh on your neck blister with his scalding intensity. Your cheeks flush red, his words fanning the fire inside of you as you bite your lip. You had hoped he wouldn’t notice, but now you realize it was foolish of you to even allow yourself to think his perceptive gaze would skip over something so blatant.

“This heavenly body is mine to mark,” he hisses, a hand fisting your hair and pulling your neck back roughly to reveal the hidden skin from the shadows. The vaguely purple mark now on display in the dim mood lighting of his entryway, more steam billows from the man as he sneers in contempt. “And only mine. Got it, baby?” He does not allow you to answer— his mouth attacks the bruise, harshly sucking the skin while he washes away any recollection of the other man with ferocious swipes from his strong tongue.

Your back bows, your body wriggling in his grasp at the surge of devastating arousal that pulses through you. You shriek his name, hands clawing hysterically into his shoulder and the soft hair atop his head. Your pussy clenches around nothing, making you very aware of the aching need for him to claim you building in your core. Your legs snag his hips closer to yours, his body crashing into you as he grunts, lips finally releasing your battered skin. Without a doubt, the once indistinct mark is now more akin to the remnants of a punch to the throat, the colors already eclipsing into a deep shade of violet.

The lust crackles in the air between you two like thunder, your body a savannah ready to receive the generous relief of the first deluge in months. God, it’d only been a week since you last saw the man, but the unmitigated yearning for him to ravage you is the only emotion you can process.

“Please, Shouto, I need you to fuck me,” you beg, the words slipping out of you like a wet bar of soap from your desperate clutches. You’re mortified at your shamefully wanton admission, your cheeks still red and your body flushed, nearly shaking. You are not accustomed to this submissive side of yourself, but the brat inside of you only watches on in avid curiosity. If he doesn’t escalate this tryst fast enough, you’re afraid your body will fold like a limp noodle in his strong arms.

Shouto seems just as affected as you, his pupils dilated and his erection painfully straining against the confines of his slacks. His hands leave your frame, going to loosen the collar of his shirt by yanking his tie loose and then beginning to unbuckle his belt. You lean forward, your lips meeting his again as your fingers eagerly land on his cheeks, beckoning him closer to you. He moans into your mouth, fist nearly ripping the leather belt from the loops on his slacks, the metal of the snake-shaped buckle klinking loudly as he discards it carelessly onto the tabletop. Hands trailing up your spine, he tugs the zipper of your dress down your back, effortlessly lifting your hips in one hand to slip the garment under your ass and off your legs.

The inferno of jealousy ignites once again as he appraises your figure, clad in a matching set of white silky lace adorned with satin ribbons on each hip and one beneath the valley of your breasts. You’d worn this and Shinsou had almost seen such a marvel? Seen your delectable body in this gorgeous lingerie that he himself had never feasted his starved eyes upon?

Unaware of his change in mood, your lips move along his, begging for him to kiss you back as your tongue swipes his full bottom lip. His palms slide along your back, moving to cup your ass cheeks as he picks you up. You nibble on his earlobe as he swiftly carries you to his bedroom, his fingers jabbing into your behind in response. He kicks open the ajar door forcefully, unflinching as the doorknob nearly cracks the wall. Sliding onto the edge of the mattress, he sits with you on his lap, your legs still secure around his torso. His rough palms glide over your hips, rounding your waist and seizing your breasts, lifting the flesh to sit more perkily on your chest in perfectly round spheres.

“Why are you so fucking gorgeous, Y/N?” He groans, eyes closing in pleasure as you feel his cock twitch beneath you. He presses his mouth to the supple skin just above the cusp of the bra, slurping and nipping and leaving a trail of pretty pink marks. “You’re damn ethereal, angel.”

You’re gasping for air, hips unabashedly rolling against his, the feeling of his strained length making your desire for him to fuck you senseless multiply. Your hands latch onto his broad shoulders to steady yourself, your mind spinning dizzily with desire and the prolonged buzz from your earlier drinks.

“Take off my tie.”

The command rouses you from your far-away state, your fingers slightly trembling as you work on the silky material of the tie. After what seems like an eternity, the knot loosens and the tie slides off his neck into your hands. Shouto’s lips cover yours again, instantly enchanting you so that you don’t notice the sleek item slip through your fingers.

All of a sudden your front meets the cool sheets, your lips ripped away from his. Instead your face meets his pillow, engulfing your senses in the sexy, virile smell of him. You moan into the pillow, ass pushing into the air as your cunt throbs between your legs, ready to be taken in whatever manner he decides. His knees land on either side of your hips, his bulge rubbing into your ass teasingly as his hands close around your wrists. Tugging them behind your back carefully, he loops the tie around the both of them and fastens the knot with a firm pull, jerking once more for good measure.

You swallow into the pillow, teeth poking out to capture your bottom lip when he trails a sole finger along your spine. He’d never tied you up like this before, and the concept excites you to the point that your arousal visibly permeates your white panties.

“Do you feel that?” Shouto inquires, rutting his hips against your bottom so his clothed cock rubs between your ass cheeks. He’s panting lightly, his palms groping your ass and pinching the skin torturously. “Can you feel how much I want you, Y/N?”

“Fuck yes,” you answer, your head turning to lay against the pillow so he can see half your face and hear your voice. “I want you too, Shouto— I need you.”

He sighs at your saccharine words, almost swayed by your submissive antics. If he gives in now, his cock could be in your tight hole in just seconds… But then he wouldn’t get to have his way with you.

“Mmm, you’re cute when you’re desperate, baby,” he remarks, grasping your hips and pulling you down the sheets. He maneuvers you over his lap, and your eyes bug out of your skull as you assume position, knowing what comes next— he’d only done this once before but the memories of that night makes your pussy twinge excitedly. Your arms tied behind your back, your face dangles perilously beside his ankle, your forehead almost skimming the wooden floor. Your body is stiff, and Shouto hums as his hands drift along every inch of your back, ass, and the backs of your thighs.

“I wanna give you what you want, angel, but I promised I would remind you who you belong to, didn’t I?” His words are phrased like a question, but his tone implies them as a statement. Unsure what he wants, you keep quiet, waiting for him to continue.

Apparently, that’s the wrong move, because his freezing hand slaps down hard onto your ass. A mix between a shout and a whine falls out of your lips, your fingers clutching onto themselves in apprehension. Your breathing picks up, ascending into a pant as his other hand caresses the reddened skin with a soothing heat exuding from his palm.

“Did you know I was going to be at the club tonight?”

His question catches you off guard, and you think for a moment before replying with a simple, honest “No.”

Shouto lets out a long sigh, his warm hand leaving your ass and making you tense in preparation.

“So you wore this little number thinking you would just show it to whomever you went home with?” Oh, that’s where he’s going with this.

Again, you’re not sure how to answer. Either way will be unsatisfactory— either you say yes and that would certainly result in a jealous smack, or you say no and he’d spank you for lying to him. You cannot come to a decision fast enough, and the next frigid slap across your other ass cheek steals your breath away as you whimper, your pussy clenching in sadistic delight.

“Answer me, angel. Or I’ll turn this flawless little ass of yours scarlet.”

“I bought it for you!” You blurt out meekly, your cheeks flushing with mortification. It’s not a direct answer to his question, but it’s more than enough to amuse him.

The warmth of his left hand feels hotter this time as it curves around your irritated skin. “Oh?” Shouto all but purrs, his brow raised in interest. “For me, angel?”

You nod, even though your head is below his eye level. “I was gonna wear it tonight, just for you,” you whisper sincerely, blush bright red as your thumbs rub over your knuckles in a self-soothing manner. Deciding you’re already deep enough into your embarrassing confession, you finish your thought with your eyes scrunched shut as you prepare yourself for what you know will come next. “But you rainchecked, so I… thought Shinsou might enjoy it instead.”

Shouto remains eerily quiet for a moment, your heartbeat accelerating wildly as he leaves you waiting, questioning just how he will react. Your body jumps as his left hand swirls around your hips, his arm resting on your back to gather your ass higher across his lap. The neat bows on your panties unravel at your hips, the cool air hitting your swollen cunt as the material is snatched away and discarded. He forces you to wait for another dizzying pause, the urge to squirm in his grasp tempting but you force yourself to stay motionless.

Tears spring into your eyes as his palm crashes against you, his arctic hand causing your body to thrash in recoil, and a strong gust of chilled wind slapping against your dripping folds. A shaky breath escapes you, morphing into a distraught cry when his hot thumb plunges into your aching core, rubbing and curling against your shuddering walls with spite.

“I thought I told you not to say his fucking name,” Shouto jeers, taking his thumb out of you to rub mercilessly betwen your petals, spreading your abundant slick with ease. Coasting down to your clit, he smirks as you sob, your legs quaking.

Your hips jut backwards on their own accord, forcing his thumb to penetrate your cunt again. You moan at the stimulation, squeezing the digit and grinding so it presses against your velvet walls.

He chuckles, pressing the finger as deep as he can and savoring the shameless wails the action induces. “How can you look so pure and act so naughty?” He wonders aloud, his frosty hand trailing along your thigh as he works his thumb inside of you. “You’re really just a little slut, aren’t you? Fucking yourself with my finger so brazenly.” He sighs as he feels your core clenching around his thumb, grinning as you whine at the loss of the digit.

“Please, just fuck me,” you exclaim, turning your face to look at his haughty gaze above you, “Make me forget about anyone else!”

Shouto pinches your inflamed ass cheek, forcing another whimper to croak out of your throat. “Aha, is that your game, angel? Want me to fuck you so hard I’m the only man you see? Fuck this little pussy so good no other cock can satisfy you, hmm?” He maneuvers your body effortlessly, positioning you to face him as you sit on his lap. The smooth material of his slacks irritates your sore ass slightly, but all you can bring yourself to do is nod, your arms shuffling behind you with the want to reach out and touch him.

His hands settle on the apex of your thighs, rugged fingertips soothing the skin there before he lifts your body, standing and placing you neatly on the floor before him. Casting an innocent look up at him, you shuffle to your knees, arching your back to your breasts and ass pop out for his aerial vantage point.

“You know what to do, don’t you baby?” Shouto snickers as he untucks his shirt and begins to snap open the buttons down the center of his chest, revealing his creamy skin to your lustful eyes. Leaving the shirt on with his abs on display, he undoes the clasp and zip at the front of his hips, slowly unveiling the delicious V tapering south below his slacks. You squirm in impatience, eyes glued to the trail of fine, bicolored hair he uncovers as his slacks sag tantalizingly slow. His thumbs slither underneath the elastic band across his pelvis, lowering the hem just enough to show you the base of his thick, hard cock. “Alright, angel,” he rumbles, and you feel a stray bead of arousal drip down your thigh at his gruff tone, “Convince me you deserve to have this cock in you.”

As soon as he shoves his briefs low enough for his length to spring free, your lips drown his cockhead with haste, your tongue welcoming his hot, heavy tip with eager flicks. Shouto groans when you suck abruptly, your cheeks hollowing as you allow his member to drive deeper into your mouth. His hand landing on the back of your head, you take that as your cue to leap forward, slamming the entirety of his impressive cock into your open throat as your nose brushes into his abdomen.

“Fuck, Y/N!” Shouto gasps, his hips bucking into your face and shoving the tip of his dick into the depths of your throat.

Tears beading in your eyes, you refuse to let up, releasing a loud moan that makes his cock vibrate. Shouto throws his head back, his fingers curling in your hair as his hips recede, leaving only the tip inside your mouth and you gratefully take in a breath of air before he shoves back in.

“You take my cock so well, angel— fuuuuck, just like that,” he grumbles, pistoning into your face at a slow, deep tempo, the back of your throat caressing his tip delectably as a fat tear races down your cheek. Your cheeks flush pink and your chest tightens from the lack of air, but Shouto’s low grunts falling on your greedy ears has your cunt pulsing with need, your spit trickling down your chin. Shouto’s rabid gaze locks with yours, monitoring your wet eyes and your pleading pout as he speaks, “You look so beautiful slobbering on me like this, my little slut.”

You flutter your eyelashes at him, humming on his length as you continue to bob back and forth. Your tongue lathering the veiny underside of his length, the promiscuous flavor of salty pre blooms on your tastebuds. Your head recedes back, keeping just the swollen head inside your mouth as you twirl your tongue in circles around him.

You pop his cock out of your mouth, and send him a closed-lip, coy smile as you smear the slick tip against your mouth. Shouto sighs when your half-lidded gaze meets his, your tongue poking out and curving to dawdle up and down his length.

“That’s enough, baby. Come here.” Shouto bends and picks you up from the floor, kneeling on the mattress and crawling toward the center with you in his arms. Your back collides with the silky sheets, your arms awkwardly stuck behind you with the tie rubbing your wrists. Shouto opens your legs, hovering over your body and making you suddenly feel small in comparison to him. Your cunt parts at the motion, exposing your twitching, saturated hole to him and sending a fresh blush to your cheeks. One hand propping himself up, the other stroking your cheek gingerly, he ushers you to look at him. He whispers to you, his voice calm yet enticing, “You want me to make you feel good, angel?”

“Please,” you implore, your voice hoarse and quiet from his abuse on your throat, “Please touch me, Shouto.” Your mind hazy with a lascivious fog clouding your senses, you can barely find the words to beg.

Even just his hands floating down to your breasts makes you shiver. Your lip between your teeth again, Shouto smirks at you as his fingers pinch the ribbon holding your bra together. Deliberately taking his time, he unravels the neat bow, examining how the silky fabric falls apart so smoothly. The bra cups fall to the side, exposing the smooth skin of your breasts to his feasting eyes. You release a string of mewls as his lips graze the marks he’d left behind earlier, darkening the blemishes with gentle bites. Tongue tracing around your areola, your thighs squeeze around his waist when the warm muscle brushes along a pebbled nipple. Pressing your lips together harshly as he sucks the pert bud into his mouth, your hips jolt against his. His hand kneads your other breast expertly, tweaking your nipple between his skilled fingers. The rough pads of his fingertips only make your nipples stand out more, scraping against you and sending your head spinning.

“You like that, Y/N? Want all my attention on you, don’t you, greedy girl?” Shouto purrs, your breast falling from his lips as he grins at your cheekily.

Swallowing another moan, your breath comes out ragged as you retort, “I could say the same for you, baby.” His fingers on your nipple press together in a pinch, eliciting a strained whimper from you.

Shouto chuckles, poking his tongue out to rove over your other breast, flicking the nub playfully before he speaks a single word. “Touché.” Drifting lower between your legs, his lips leave a wet path down your torso, nibbling and slickening your skin. His mouth littering your body with kisses, an artist eager to make a fresh blank canvas his own. Hot breath colliding with your glistening sex, he groans at the sight of you spread before him. “But damn, angel, can you really blame me?”

Without any warning, he thrusts his tongue into your folds, swiping vertically along your slit and dipping into your entrance with a moan, eyes closed as he relishes your sweet nectar. Your hips dig into the mattress as you struggle to handle the instant relief his touch provides, unfiltered noises of pleasure escaping you. One of his hands slides underneath your thigh to cup your ass and bring your body closer to his face.

Every time Shouto’s mouth is on you, you’re reminded of just how good he is at pleasuring you. He alternates between rubbing his tongue along your silky inner walls and curling the muscle around your clit, sucking the nerve into his mouth and applying just enough suction to steal your breath away. Your body reacts to his touch naturally, with each moan summoned true and raw.

His fingers prod your sex gently, coating the digits in your essence before they slide into your body at a snail’s pace. The friction of his touch inside of you makes your legs clamp around his head, eliciting a deep laugh from the man that reverberates against your clit. Your eyes roll backwards as he begins to pump the digits at a reasonable pace, knuckles curling deeply in search of that plush spot that makes you fall apart underneath him. Saliva mixing with your arousal, Shouto’s chin is drenched in the sinful concoction as he continues his hunt with determination.

“S-Shit,” you choke as his fingertips push into just the right place, your thighs gripping his head so tight you think you’ll crush him. But Shouto doesn’t seem to care, angling his wrist to gain better access, lithe fingers speeding up as his teeth graze your clit. His vigilant eyes fix on your face twisted in ecstasy, minding how your pussy begins to clench onto his digits in desperation, trying their best to suck them back inside. Your heels dig into his broad back as your body begins to squirm, preparing for your first orgasm of the night.

But just as you’re about to tip over the edge, Shouto pulls back. Your eyes fly open to look at him in distress, your lips parting with a gasp as your climax flees without a trace. “Shouto!” You hiss, regarding his sultry smirk in shock. This man has some audacity. “I was about to-”

He interrupts you, his fingers gliding back into your core without resistance, lips wrapping around your clit again. The sudden pleasure of the intensity stokes the mere embers of your previous orgasm with fervor, your head flinging backwards onto the pillow as your spine bows.

Your palms behind your back are slick with sweat, your hardened nipples cutting into the still air of the room as your body writhes on its own accord. Your thighs tremble ever-so-slightly on top of his shoulders, your eyes shutting again as you try your best to hold in your whimpers.

But Shouto doesn’t like that, his mouth abandoning your pearl to snarl, “If you wanna cum I’ve gotta hear your voice. I wanna hear you beg for me, baby.”

His dirty words send a new wave of humiliation crashing over you, your mind horrified at your body’s betrayal. Your submissive demeanor is by no means akin to your usual behavior during your weekly rendezvous, and you’re honestly impressed and shocked that Shouto had coaxed it out with such ease. Already you can feel the tension building in your core, your body happily receptive of his generous caress. Your chest heaves as you attempt to even your frazzled breaths, but once your focus switches to that, the pleasure increases exponentially between your legs. Your cunt quivers obviously, Shouto’s eyebrow raising as he shoots you a taunting look.

“I’m the only one who can get you so close so quick, angel. Aren’t I?” His mouth leaves your clit to speak but his teeth capture the nerve instead as he speaks, his hot breath steaming against your throbbing cunt.

Your chin against your chest, you nod vigorously, your hips inching closer to close the distance between your cunt and his mouth. Your fingers curled into fists against the sheets, your back sticks to the sheets with perspiration.

Shouto shakes his head, teeth releasing your aching clit as he clicks his tongue at you. “I said, let me hear you, Y/N.” His fingers pull out, the fingertips just barely inside as he rims your entrance, just enough to keep your pussy throbbing. He exhales, an icy breath rushing over your sopping sex.

“N-No!” You wail, your voice nearly breaking as your orgasm fades away once again. You were so fucking close! You let out another sob, tossing your head to the side in humiliating agony.

“There’s that divine voice of yours,” Shouto chuckles, nipping your inner thigh playfully. Taking his fingers away, his thumb replaces them as it glides over your soaked slit, dipping into your clenched core amusedly before tearing it away again. Your destitute whine only feeds his dominance, and he rolls his thumb over your puffy nerve gently, enjoying how your hips buck weakly in response. “Come on now, angel. Just tell me what I want to hear.”

Your chest jolts as his thumb presses down just a pinch, cruising down to rub your entrance brusquely. “You’re the only one that can make me so breathless, Shouto. Please,” your voice wavers as you grovel, eyes locking with his, “Please, make me cum! I need your touch, I need your cock, I— I need you!”

Shouto’s gaze flickers for a moment before he smirks, ducking down to kiss your clit softly. “See, baby? Was that so hard?” He murmurs, his words rumbling on your shivering pussy before his tongue parts your folds, driving deep inside you.

You scream at the intense bliss as his thumb works quickly over your clit, his tongue assaulting your velvet insides. Your thighs weakly tighten around his head, your body unable to stay still as the pleasure wracks through you. Lewd moans and swears tumble out of you as you grind against his face, thrilled by the way his tongue never tires. The pressure between your legs is back and faster heightening, your eyes flying open in shock at how astonishingly fast your climax is approaching.

“S-Shouto, I— I’m—,” is all that you can get out before you seize in his arms, your entire body spasming in ecstasy. Shouto only pins your hips down against the mattress with his free hand, forcing your legs to stay open as he continues to assault your cunt, tongue pummeling your tender core and thumb abusing your clit. You can’t even let out a moan because your lungs are empty— all that slithers out of you a string of shrill and broken cries. The pleasure thrums through your body from head to toe, your fingers and toes curling and splaying as sweat runs down your skin.

Shouto diligently continues to lap at your cunt, slurping up the fresh essence dripping out of you onto the sheets. When he pulls back all he can see is your blissed-out, flustered expression, and your nipples standing upright in arousal. Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, he tears the shirt off his shoulders in one swift motion. His slacks shed just as quick, he grabs your hips and throws you onto your front, your face once again in his pillow. “You came without my permission, angel. You wanna be a slut? I’ll treat you like a fucking slut,” he snarls, rugged palms coiling around your hips and forcing them into the air, bending your spine so your body transforms into a delicious arch.

Your heart slams against your ribs in apprehension, your mind still too woozy to make a complaint as his cock plunges inside of you. Your walls spread for his length welcomingly, your arousal and your cum lubricating your cunt. Your eyes roll back at the fullness— the stretch of him stuffing your cunt with his thick cock so delectably euphoric. You’re so wet that it doesn’t even hurt as he impales you, pleasure the only feeling coursing through you.

Shouto growls, your pussy hugging his length so snugly he has to take a moment for his head to stop spinning. “Fuuuck,” he utters huskily, sliding out halfway and inspecting how your cunt grips his slippery cock so desperately.

You cry out as he thrusts back in, the angle already perfectly locating your g-spot and making stars flash across your vision. Your body shakes as a palm cracks against your ass, more tears collecting on your lower lashes at the pain that hurts so good.

Shouto grabs the tie around your wrists with the other hand, yanking your body backwards to slap against his hard torso. Hands flying to your hips, he drills into you as he holds you upright against him. Your breasts bounce as your back arches, cunt trembling at the familiar tension building deep inside of you.

“You wanna fuckin’ cum already, don’t you, slut?” Shouto barks, a hand leaving your hip to hold your breast, trapping your nipple between his long fingers. The friction he provides is exquisite, and long, unabashed moans float out of your parted lips.

“Yes! Yes! Please— Make me cum, Shouto!” You howl, your toes curling at the sacred pleasure so close to peaking within you. Lips latched onto the claim he had laid on your neck, his teeth pinch your skin. His ragged grunts in your ear make your core clench around him, about to reach salvation for the second time.

“Do it, Y/N. I want my slutty angel pussy to cum all over this cock,” he commands, forcing your hips to crash down onto his so his tip jabs your g-spot harshly.

Your body collapses at his approval, cunt squeezing and fluttering and leaking onto him as you release a lewd scream. White hot bliss shoots through you as sinful tides of delirium pull you under. Your body trembles as the ecstasy pulses in your veins, your jaw unhinged and your eyes rolled into your skull.

Shouto pushes you forward so your torso falls flat against the mattress limply. His hips do not stall, continuing to push into your tightened cunt with determination as he drags out your orgasm. “Where’s my nasty little brat now?” He laughs crudely, slapping your ass gently and grabbing the reddened flesh, pulling your hips back against his. “Nothing to say, hmm?”

As if your brain is functional enough to form words. Your limbs feel like jello, wiggling with pleasure and shock as he advances his plight. Your throat is dry from all the panting, your ass sore underneath Shouto’s oppressive grip. But it feels so fucking good, you can’t bring yourself to tell him to stop.

Shouto sucks a breath in between his grinding teeth, watching how your ass bounces against his pelvis as his cock slides into your depths. Sweat dripping down his chest and along your back, his hold on you is tight enough to cut off circulation. His lip twitches as he recognizes his orgasm creeping up inside, and he groans as he pulls out of you abruptly.

You whine at the loss, but you’re silenced immediately as he flips your body and presses his lips to yours. His kiss is pleasantly soft, a harsh contrast to his rough hands which slide around your back and fumble with the tie around your wrists. His tongue pushes inside your mouth, searching for yours and caressing it at first touch. Once the silky material slips off you, his hands rove over your breasts, massaging the heavy flesh tenderly as his cock brushes along your slit. A string of saliva stretches between you as his lips leave yours, a hot, breathy sigh fanning over your face. “This beautiful body is all mine, Y/N,” he whispers, tip slipping between your folds and entering your cunt with ease.

Your eyelids flutter shut at the feeling of your aching hole being filled once again, but the pain makes the pleasure so much more enjoyable. His lips wander along your neck as he begins to thrust into you, your legs wrapping around his waist. He kisses along your clavicle and down your breast, tongue washing over your nipple as his cock brushes along your velvet walls so perfectly.

The friction has your eyes nearly crossed, and the pleasure only intensifies when Shouto guides your legs to rest against his chest, your ankles by his ears. The angle allows greater access, his thick member reaching new depths that elicit a sharp gasp from you. His left hand pushes your abdomen down slightly, his thumb travelling south to flick along your clit lazily.

“Shit, Shouto, I— s-so sensitive,” you whimper, your hand timidly reaching out to rest on his flexing abdominal muscles. The sensation of him dragging against your g-spot so sensually causes your bottom lip to tremble, a tear sneaking down your cheek to land in your hair.

Shouto’s large hand guides yours to land on your thigh, and he tucks his arm so his own hand covers yours as he pulls your thighs closer to him. “One more, baby,” he moans, the thumb on your clit speeding up.

The extra attention summons that familiar build up in your core, a long whine falling from your lips. “I can’t, I can’t,” you mewl but your body says otherwise, pussy tightening slightly as your ankles cross behind his neck.

“I thought you wanted to cum, angel?” He uses your words against you as he sighs, hips picking up to ram into yours. He holds his breath as you clamp down on him, your sinful expression fueling his impending orgasm. “You gonna make me finish on my own?”

The thought of him blowing his load into you has you biting your lip, your hips shuffling against his. Shouto moans, thumb circling your puffy nerve even faster as he continues to pound into you. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room, the only noise to interrupt that your huffs and moans.

Steam billows from Shouto’s nose as his eyes nearly close, his abs flexing out of his torso as he fights to keep his orgasm at bay. His heavy breath and visible restraint convince your body to give in, and you weep as you sink into euphoria for the third time tonight. Shouto’s right there with you, a strangled growl mixed with a moan ripping from his lungs as his seed spurts into you, his cock twitching and balls draining as he falls to his elbows above you.

Your body feels sluggish as your limbs tremble slightly, the high from your orgasm still clouding your brain as your arms wrap around Shouto’s shoulders. His cold breath refreshes the moist, flushed skin on your neck, long eyelashes tickling your jaw as your nails scrape carefully down his spine.

When he pulls out your body feels incomplete, but Shouto nuzzles into your jaw affectionately, his hands sliding between the damp sheets and your skin to hold you close. He scatters sluggish, persistent kisses along your throat and up your jaw. And when he moves to your face, they only become longer and more intimate, gently guiding you back to reality.

You sigh in content as you lean in to capture his lips, moving sweet and slow against each other. Your digits amble into his hair, combing back the soft tresses so you can see more of his charming face. He moans at your touch, pleased by the soothing sensation of your fingers feathering along his scalp. His own hand follows your lead, fingers steering a stray hair off your forehead and gliding into your tresses to hold your head in his palm.

The pair of you continue to kiss for who knows how long, touching each other tenderly and savoring the feeling of skin against skin. Your lips melding into one, cradling one another fragilely as if you mutually fear the other will break without your embrace. You could spend eternity like this, high off his ambrosial, tender care.

You are the one to pull away first, knowing Shouto would keep this going until morning if he didn’t think you’d come back down from your high. Not that you would mind that, but you should probably clean up the mess that your passionate session had created— his release beginning to trickle out of you onto the sheets. As he pulls back, the emotions swirling in his striking two-toned gaze shock you. His brow is slightly creased as he nibbles at the corner of his lip, eyes darting around your face.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, sitting up and scooting off the mattress, disappearing around the corner of the bathroom door. The sound of water splashing in the sink fills the silence as you sit still, closing your eyes as the cogs in your brain begin to turn.

Oh god, you’d been so shameless tonight— you’d taunted him and he had made you fall apart and beg in return, bending to his every command. Sure, he had always been the dominant one in your rendezvous before, but tonight was different. He had been jealous, when he had no right to be. But is that why your heart is beating so quickly in your chest? Suddenly you’re anxious, overthinking as usual. This is just sex, right?

But then, why did you leave Shinsou’s side so quickly at the bar when Shouto had been the one to cancel on you? And then there was that, too— why had he just ditched his friends in the middle of boys’ night when it was the reason he cancelled on you in the first place? And he had clearly been furious at the thought of you spending the night with another man. Was it because he knew Shinsou? Or was it because he wanted to be exclusive with you?

Well, if he wanted to be exclusive friends with benefits, isn’t that the same thing as dating? Would he ever date someone like you? Wait, would you even be willing to date him? Do you want him to be your… boyfriend? Your eyes widen and a pink girlish blush emerges on your cheeks at the label. What are you, eight years old? Why do you feel so giddy at the possibility of him wanting you, for more than your body?

Shouto strolls out of the bathroom just in time to catch that embarrassing look on your face, but he only smiles sincerely at you and it makes you blush even harder. What the hell? You’re extra submissive for one night and now you’re thinking about your feelings for him? Wait, did you just admit you have feelings for him?

He clambers over to you in the middle of the bed, a washcloth draped on his slender finger. He leans down and pecks you like it’s no big deal, humming as his lips linger on yours just long enough to make you want more. Your body jumps at the feeling of the damp warmth the towel provides, but you relax as the feeling soothes your aching core.

“Was that okay? How do you feel, baby?” Shouto asks softly, watchful eyes gauging your expression as you look at him. “You seemed like you were enjoying yourself, but, I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

You let out a breathless, mirthful chuckle at his concern, reaching out to put your hand on his strong arm. “No, I’m fine. And it was… great. Mind-blowing, actually,” you smile at him bashfully, hoping it was just as good for him.

Shouto’s eyes twinkle as he smiles back, nodding slowly. “It was, wasn’t it?” He helps you sit up, maneuvering you carefully off the bed and gesturing for you to use the bathroom.

After relieving yourself, you look at yourself in the mirror that hangs above the sink, vision falling on the massive bruise blossoming on your neck. You sigh when you inspect the purple mark, but when your gaze floats back to your face, you’re dumbstruck to find yourself grinning like a fool. Terror and thrill floods through you at the realization that if any other guy had left a mark this nasty on you, you’d be furious. And yet, having Shouto’s claim on you makes you feel like the luckiest girl on the planet.

Shit. Looks like you do want him to be your boyfriend.

You’re half expecting the reflection to show a stupid cartoon character with the way that your heart feels like it’s thumping out of your chest. Taking in a deep breath, you determinedly point at yourself in the mirror and breath out shakily, “You can do this.”

Exiting the bathroom, you return to find Shouto leaning against the headboard, the sheets pulled up to his waist and his fingers rubbing together awkwardly. His eyes on his lap, he almost looks anxious. But he notices your presence right away, peeling back the corner of the blanket and beckoning you to slide in.

Placing yourself stiffly on the side of the bed, you take in his confused expression. “I need to tell you something,” you say as steadily as possible. Man, that’s a scary sentence, even if you’re not on the receiving end.

Shouto’s lips part and he looks like he wants to say something, but he swallows whatever it was down and nods, his expression guarded. “I’m all ears,” he replies, placing his hand on the pillow in front of you.

With the spotlight on you, your throat feels dry as dirt, and you nervously shuffle, suddenly very conscious of your nakedness. “Um,” falls out of your mouth, anything to split the suffocating silence. Your palms are clammy, and your fingers delve into the folds of the sheets to hide your nerves. “I know this is gonna sound kind of lame, but… well, I um…” Shouto’s gaze is burning your face, your cheeks redder than ever as you will this humiliation to just end already. Sucking in another breath, the words blurt out of you. “I have feelings for you.”

The surprise on his features is unmistakable. All you can do is stare at him, frozen in uncertainty but strangely enough it feels like a weight has been lifted off your chest. A heavy one at that— one whose existence you refused to acknowledge until ten minutes ago.

“R-Really?” Shouto stutters, looking like he’s just seen a ghost with how wide his eyes are.

You aren’t sure how to take that response, but as soon as your gaze falls from his, his hand shoots out to latch onto your wrist. When you look back at him, a different emotion is painted over his face, one of… hope?

“I have feelings for you, too, Y/N,” he whispers, his own blush dusting over his cheeks. His eyes are soulful and hold nothing but candor and content.

Before you can process his words, his hands are rounding your waist and pulling your body toward his. A different kind of high bursts through you as his lips touch yours, joy storming through the both of you and warm, tingly static crackling between you. These kisses feel different— your heart feels like it’s about to pop, swelling with excitement and relief. Shouto begins to laugh against your lips, and the alluring sound infects you, too, as you join him with a giggle. The both of you are laughing at nothing in particular, but you don’t need a reason to let the noises of elation loose.

Once your laughter ceases, Shouto collects your chin in his hand and places a gentle kiss upon your grinning lips. When he pulls back, his eyes contain a wisp of that jealous fire that had consumed him only hours earlier, and he shoots you a mischievous smirk as he squeezes your ass playfully. “Do you think Shinsou could ever make you feel this good, angel?”

You roll your eyes, chuckling in exasperation at this man’s relentless, absurd envy. “Hmm,” you pretend to think for a moment before you lean closer to him, hands hung loosely around the back of his neck. “Shinsou? Never heard of him.”

─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

you reached the end!! thanks for reading this long ass fic lmao, i know it was an investment. I hope the ending was not too cringe, I usually just end my fics after the nut but I wanted to try something new :’) be sure to lmk if you enjoyed <3

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