#2 are saying hello dear (name) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fangdokja · 17 days ago

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Two hearts, one unspoken promise—forever best friends.

❤︎ Synopsis. Two childhood friends, inseparable since kindergarten, navigate the ups and downs of growing up, their bond blossoming into a deep, unwavering connection that feels like home. As they face life’s challenges together, they discover that their friendship might just be the most enduring love of all.

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

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Light Yagami x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. In the Name of Love - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 7,947

♡ TW. psychological and emotional trauma, loss of loved ones, abandonment issues, angst + tragedy, implied family issues, depression and mental health issues

♡ A/N. This is a request, but I have not yet fulfilled the full request (hence the lack of proof of request). When it comes to long-form content, it feels so wrong in my brain for my writing to not set up the atmosphere and vibes properly. It don't feel right. And anyways, this Part 1 is genuinely one of my LIGHTEST and legitimately wholesome works among all my writings haha. Wow first time posting wholesome yandere content? ahahhaahh. This is ACTUALLY SO GOOD. I COOKED GUYS (both in Part 1 and 2). ahhhhh. I WANTED TO INCLUDE PART 1 AND 2 TOGETHER. But. It's 15k+ together already ahhh. Also, important to note. Unlike my usual long form content, the 'introduction' before actually dark + nsfw yandere centric content may come after Part 2 or 3. WHAT. Did this become slower burn than the Yandere! Ex-boyfriend??? Bro, it's because I just had to include the childhood trope arc. Seriously.

Light Yagami was five years old when his family moved into the tidy, tree-lined neighborhood. His parents, proud and proper, spent days meticulously unpacking and arranging the house while Light obediently helped, though his mind was preoccupied with the mystery of what lay beyond their new front door.

“Light, dear,” his mother said, kneeling to his level, “why don’t you go introduce yourself to the neighbors? There’s a family next door with a little girl about your age.”

“All right,” he replied with his usual crisp, confident tone. Even at five, Light was the embodiment of charm and discipline, traits his parents were immensely proud of. He tugged on his neatly ironed shirt and marched toward the house next door, ready to dazzle the neighbors with his impeccable manners.

The house was a bit chaotic in contrast to the Yagami’s orderly new home. The lawn was slightly overgrown, and a lone bicycle lay toppled in the driveway. Light’s tiny hand knocked on the door with perfect rhythm—polite but assertive.

The door creaked open, and a woman with a wide, warm smile greeted him. “Oh, hello! You must be the Yagami boy! Aren’t you handsome?” She called over her shoulder, “Our new neighbors are here! Come say hi!”

Light’s chest puffed with pride at the compliment. “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Light Yagami. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The woman’s laughter was bright as she introduced herself in return. “What a little gentleman! Please hold on. Let me call my daughter.”

She turned and called your name. Light heard the sound of something—or someone—dragging across the floor. Then you appeared.

Tiny, smaller than Light had expected, with oversized pajamas hanging loosely off your sickly frame. Your hair was messy, your expression vacant, and you held a stuffed black kitten in one hand as though it were a limp, lifeless thing. But the most striking part of you was your eyes—dark, hollow, and uninterested, like you’d already seen the end of the world and decided it wasn’t worth commenting on.

Light blinked. This was not the bright and cheerful playmate he had envisioned.

“Say hello to our neighbor, sweetie,” your mother said in a sugary tone. “His name is Light.”

You said nothing. Your gaze drifted lazily toward him, then back to the floor. You swayed slightly, as though gravity was a suggestion rather than a rule.

Light cleared his throat and stepped forward, undeterred. “Hi,” he said, flashing his most winning smile. “I’m Light. What’s your name?”

You stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. Then, in a voice so small it was nearly a whisper, you muttered your name.

“That’s a nice name,” Light said, his tone bright and rehearsed. “Do you want to play?”

You blinked, slowly. Then you turned to your mother and said, “I’m going back to bed.”

Light watched, dumbfounded, as you shuffled back into the house, dragging your stuffed black kitten behind you.

Your mother laughed nervously. “She’s a bit shy. And... well, she’s been under the weather a lot, poor thing.”

“That’s all right,” Light said, his voice cheerful despite his confusion. He was used to people liking him. This was new.

———

Light didn’t give up easily. Over the next few weeks, he made it his mission to befriend you. He knocked on your door nearly every day, always with a new idea:

“Do you want to play tag?”

“I brought my soccer ball!”

“I found a cool bug. Do you want to see it?”

Your responses ranged from blank stares to monosyllabic grunts. Sometimes you didn’t answer at all, leaving Light standing awkwardly on the porch while your mother assured him that you were just tired.

One day, Light found you sitting on the front steps of your house, your stuffed black kitten in your lap. He approached cautiously, as though you were a skittish animal.

“Hi,” he said, sitting down beside you. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t look at him. “Thinking about how everything dies.”

Light blinked. “Oh. Um... why?”

You shrugged. “Because it’s true.”

Light frowned, unsure how to respond. After a moment, he said, “Well, yeah, I guess everything does die eventually. But that’s why we have to make the most of the time we have, right?”

You finally looked at him, your expression unreadable. “Do you really believe that?”

“Of course I do,” Light said firmly. “I want to do something great with my life. Don’t you?”

You tilted your head, considering this. “I don’t know. I guess I just want to sleep.”

Light laughed, a genuine, bright sound that startled you. “You’re funny,” he said. “I like that.”

You didn’t respond, but for the first time, you didn’t immediately walk away. Light took it as a small victory.

From that day on, you and Light fell into an odd sort of friendship.

He would drag you outside to play, and you would sit under a tree and watch him with a mixture of boredom and mild amusement. He would talk about his dreams and ambitions, and you would listen quietly, occasionally offering a dry, morbid comment that made him laugh despite himself.

Light Yagami, the star of the class, and you, the apathetic enigma, were an unlikely pair. But somehow, it worked.

────────────

The first day of kindergarten marked yet another stark contrast between Light and you. While he marched into the classroom like a young prince, his satchel impeccably organized and his confidence radiating, you shuffled in ten minutes late, pajama top peeking out under your sweater, and bedhead that defied gravity.

Light glared at you from his seat as the teacher politely redirected you to the cubby area. “You forgot your backpack,” she said, her tone strained with the kind of forced patience adults use for particularly hopeless cases.

You shrugged. “I don’t need it.”

Light’s hand shot into the air. “Miss Tanaka, I can share my supplies with her today.”

“Oh, what a kind offer, Light!” Miss Tanaka beamed.

Your disinterested gaze flickered to Light as you slid into the seat next to him. “You’re too much,” you mumbled, barely audible.

Light leaned over, his smile tight. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Do you even want to be here?”

“Not really,” you replied, laying your head on your arms. “But my mom said I had to come.”

Light huffed. “Fine. At least try not to sleep through everything. You’ll fail if you don’t pay attention.”

“Fail what?” you asked, voice muffled against the desk. “It’s kindergarten. What are they gonna do? Hold me back from learning colors?”

Light groaned, already regretting sitting next to you.

———

It didn’t get better. Every day, Light arrived prepared, polished, and ready to dazzle the teacher, while you dragged yourself in like you’d just crawled out of a cave. During lessons, he’d sit upright, hand raised with every answer, while you doodled spirals in the margins of the workbook he had to open for you.

“You’re not stupid,” he hissed during snack time one day. “I’ve seen your library. Who hides research papers under their bed? You could be at the top of the class if you tried.”

You tilted your head at him, crunching on your apple. “And what do I get for being at the top of the class? A gold star?”

“You get respect,” Light said, his voice rising. “You get opportunities. You build the foundation for a successful future.”

You shrugged. “I’m not really into respect or opportunities. I’m more into naps.”

Light clutched his juice box like it was the last thread tethering him to sanity. “Do you realize how frustrating you are? People would kill to be as smart as you.”

“Okay, so let them kill me,” you replied. “Then they can have it.”

He blinked, stunned. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

Light opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, stabbing his straw into his juice box with unnecessary force.

———

One afternoon, Light cornered you on the playground after recess. You’d been lying under the slide, watching clouds with your stuffed kitten perched on your chest.

“Explain this,” he demanded, holding up a scrap of paper he’d found in your desk. Scrawled on it was a complex math equation, solved perfectly.

You squinted at him. “What?”

“This! You did this in, like, ten seconds during free time. Why don’t you do this in class?”

You shrugged, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Class is boring. I already know all that stuff.”

“Then prove it,” Light snapped. “Get the answers right during lessons. Participate.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll fail otherwise!”

You sighed, exasperated. “Light, kindergarten isn’t that deep.”

“It is if you want to be taken seriously,” he shot back. “What if people think you’re dumb?”

“They already do,” you said, stretching lazily. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, it bothers me!” Light exclaimed. “You’re my...my first friend, and you’re embarrassing both of us.”

You raised an unamused eyebrow, staring at him. “Friend?”

Light flushed. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

For the first time that day, you showed some form of emotion—a small, amused quirk of your lips. “Wow, that’s a lot of effort to impress a lazy failure like me. You sure you’re not the embarrassing one?”

Light threw his hands up, stalking off. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Completely hopeless.”

You watched him go, your smirk lingering. “You’re funny when you’re mad,” you said to your stuffed kitten. It didn’t reply, but you imagined it agreed.

────────────

Light Yagami was on a mission.

Every morning, he’d march over to your house, perfectly polished shoes clacking against the pavement, carrying a spare set of pencils and a stack of workbooks just in case you’d “forgotten” yours again. He’d ring the doorbell with an air of determination that would make even seasoned professionals cower.

Your mother would answer, always frazzled and apologetic. “Oh, Light, thank you so much for your help! She’s...well, you know how she is.”

Light offered a tight-lipped smile, his patience stretched thin but holding. “It’s no problem, ma’am. I’m happy to help.”

And then he’d march up to your room, where you’d be sprawled on your bed, half-asleep, clutching that perpetually limp black kitten.

“Get up,” he’d order, pulling open your curtains to let the sunlight in. “You have a spelling test today, and if you fail it, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” you mumbled, turning over to face the wall.

“I’ll never forgive you,” he snapped, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright.

You blinked at him groggily. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re insufferable,” he retorted. “Now get dressed. You’re not walking into class looking like you just rolled out of a dumpster again.”

———

It took weeks of constant pestering, but eventually, you caved—mostly out of guilt.

One evening, as Light sat at your kitchen table drilling you on basic addition, you noticed how tired he looked. His hair, usually immaculate, was slightly mussed, and his usually confident posture had a slight slump.

“Why do you care so much?” you asked, interrupting his lecture on number lines.

Light blinked, startled by your uncharacteristic question. “Because someone has to. You clearly don’t.”

You frowned, fiddling with the edge of your worksheet. “You could just...not.”

Light sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re my friend. Friends help each other.”

Your stomach twisted with something unfamiliar. Was it guilt? Or...gratitude? Either way, you muttered, “Fine. I’ll try.”

Light’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I said I’ll try. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

For the first time that day, Light smiled—a genuine, relieved smile that made your chest ache a little. “Good. That’s all I ask.”

———

To everyone’s shock (and to Light’s immense relief), you barely passed your next test. The teacher, Miss Tanaka, called the class to attention, holding up your paper as if it were a trophy.

“Everyone, let’s give a round of applause for our most improved student!”

You wanted to disappear into your chair as the class clapped, but Light sat next to you, beaming with pride as though he’d aced the test.

During recess, your parents showed up unannounced, their faces glowing with joy. Your mom hugged you tight, tears streaming down her face. “You passed! My baby passed!”

“It was one test,” you muttered, mortified. “And I barely passed.”

“Doesn’t matter!” your dad exclaimed, pulling out his phone to take a picture of you holding the crumpled test paper. “This is going on the fridge!”

Light stood off to the side, looking smug. “You’re welcome,” he muttered under his breath.

────────────

One crisp autumn afternoon, you and Light sat together in the corner of the library. He was meticulously highlighting passages in his textbook, while you doodled lazily on a scrap of paper. The silence between you was companionable, save for the occasional scratch of a pencil.

After a while, you set your pencil down and leaned back in your chair, staring at him. He didn’t look up, but you knew he noticed.

“What?” he asked, his tone as sharp as the lines he underlined.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked bluntly.

He blinked, finally meeting your gaze. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the books, the papers, the entire setup. “You could’ve chosen literally anyone else to help. Someone smart, someone who wouldn’t drive you insane. But you chose me. Why?”

Light frowned, setting his highlighter down. “You’re my friend.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said flatly. “You made that choice before we were friends. So why?”

He sighed, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Why do you think?”

“I have theories,” you said, counting them off on your fingers. “One: you’re trying to make yourself look good by being the hero who saves the hopeless case. Two: you want to use me somehow, maybe turn me into some kind of pawn. Three: you just pity me. Or four...you’re a masochist who likes torturing yourself.”

Light’s lips twitched, though he fought to keep his expression neutral. “Those are some dark theories.”

“You’re not denying any of them,” you pointed out.

He sighed again, rubbing his temples. “Fine. If you want the truth, I’ll tell you.” His gaze turned serious, his eyes locking onto yours. “It’s because you’re...different.”

“Different?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

“I mean...the way you see things,” he explained, his voice softening. “Most kids our age don’t say the things you do. They don’t talk about how they’d let someone kill them if it meant they’d get something out of it. Or how they don’t care about respect or opportunities. You’re...disconnected from everything. It’s like none of it matters to you. Not even your own life.”

You stiffened slightly, his words hitting a little too close to home. “So you think I’m broken or something?”

“Not broken,” Light said carefully. “Just...strange. Most kids don’t think about death the way you do. They don’t talk about it so casually. And they definitely don’t seem like they’re one bad day away from giving up completely.”

You swallowed, looking away. “Maybe they just don’t say it out loud.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But you did. And it made me curious. I wanted to know why. I still do.”

“Curious?” you repeated, turning back to him. “That’s it? That’s why you’ve been dragging me out of bed and making me study? Because you’re curious?”

“Well, at first, yes,” he admitted, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “But then you started growing on me. You’re frustrating, sure, but you’re not...hopeless. You’re just someone who hasn’t been given the right reason to try yet.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. “You’re weird, you know that?”

Light chuckled softly. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a moment, the two of you just sat there, the quiet of the library wrapping around you like a blanket. Finally, you broke the silence. “So what’s your endgame? What do you want out of this?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Honestly? I want to see what you’ll do if someone actually believes in you.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected. You didn’t respond, unsure if you even could. But for the first time, you found yourself wondering what it would feel like to prove him right.

────────────

Over the years, Light’s persistence and your reluctant tolerance had blossomed into something neither of you could have predicted: an unshakable friendship. From kindergarten to grade school, you and Light Yagami had become inseparable—a fact that delighted your parents and baffled your classmates.

“You two are like an old married couple,” your mom teased one afternoon as Light sat at your kitchen table, carefully outlining a study plan for your next science test.

You gagged dramatically. “Gross, Mom. I’d rather marry my stuffed kitten.”

Light didn’t even look up. “The kitten has better manners, anyway.”

Your dad chimed in from the living room. “You sure about that, son? You’ve spent more time here than at your own house. Feels like you’re already part of the family.”

Light flushed, but he composed himself quickly. “It’s only because I need peace and quiet to work, Sir. Your house is quieter than mine.”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here all the time,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I thought you just liked annoying me.”

“That too,” Light quipped, giving you a smug smirk.

———

Your parents weren’t wrong. Despite the bickering, the teasing, and the endless sarcastic remarks, the two of you were practically attached at the hip.

Weekends were spent either at your house or his, depending on whose parents caved first to the persistent question: “Can they stay over?” His room was always spotless, the air smelling faintly of fresh linen. Yours, on the other hand, was a cluttered mess of books, art supplies, and random knickknacks you refused to throw away.

Light always insisted on tidying up when he was over. “You’re a walking disaster,” he’d grumble, picking up a pile of papers. “How do you even live like this?”

You’d shrug, tossing a pillow at him. “I thrive in chaos. Unlike you, Mr. Spreadsheet-for-Everything.”

Still, for all his complaints, he never stopped coming over.

———

Trips with both families were another routine you’d both grown used to. Your parents and his got along swimmingly, exchanging recipes, stories, and laughs over bonfires and picnics while the two of you wandered off to do your own thing.

One summer vacation, both families rented cabins by a lake. Light had been determined to teach you how to skip stones—a task that proved far more difficult than he’d anticipated.

“You’re not even trying!” he groaned as your stone plopped into the water with a pitiful splash.

“I am trying,” you protested, flopping onto the grass. “You just have unreasonable expectations.”

“It’s basic physics,” he argued. “Angle, spin, and force. That’s all it takes.”

“Then you do it,” you challenged, crossing your arms.

Light rolled his eyes, picked up a stone, and launched it across the water in a perfect arc. It skipped five times before sinking.

“Show-off,” you muttered, though a small smile tugged at your lips.

———

Study dates became an unspoken tradition. Whether at your house, his, or the library, you’d sit side by side, each absorbed in your respective work. Light would meticulously annotate his textbooks, while you alternated between actually studying and scribbling doodles in the margins of your notes.

“You could at least pretend to focus,” Light said one evening, glancing at the tiny cartoon you’d drawn of him glaring at a stack of books.

“I am focused,” you replied, grinning as you added a speech bubble that read, “Don’t breathe near my books!”

Despite his exasperation, Light always made sure you understood the material. He had a way of breaking down complex topics into something manageable, and while you’d never admit it out loud, you’d grown to appreciate his efforts.

———

Free time was a mix of quiet companionship and playful banter. Video game marathons often ended with Light grumbling about your reckless strategies, while you’d laugh at his over-calculated moves. Reading sessions were even quieter—Light engrossed in a novel while you skimmed through whatever caught your interest.

“Do you ever read anything normal?” he asked once, holding up your dog-eared copy of a horror anthology.

“Do you ever read anything fun?” you shot back, gesturing to his thick political science book.

———

And, it's been like that, a normal friendship of two childhood friends.

But, after spending time with you constantly.

Light could tell you always kept him at a distance.

Even when you showed lazy smiles and seemingly emotional outbursts, nothing you did seemed... real. At least nothing genuine.

It annoyed him more than he cared to admit.

────────────

It was the same day every year.

For as long as Light Yagami could remember, you disappeared on this exact date, slipping away as if the world itself no longer had a claim on you. No calls, no notes, no explanation. You’d vanish without warning, leaving behind nothing but questions and silence. It was frustrating, baffling, and for Light, who prided himself on always knowing the answers, intolerable.

He’d tried everything—calling you relentlessly, asking your parents (who seemed strangely tight-lipped about it), even checking the places you frequented. But every year, no matter how determined he was, you eluded him.

This year, however, was going to be different.

Light sat at his desk, staring at the calendar with a furrowed brow. He had spent the last week piecing together fragments of information, retracing your habits, looking for any clue that might give him an edge. The truth gnawed at the edges of his mind—this day was important to you. It wasn’t just another day.

It was your birthday.

And yet, you always spent it alone.

———

When the day arrived, Light was prepared. He skipped school, opting instead to scour the neighborhood, the nearby park, the library—every possible place you might hide. Hours passed, and frustration simmered beneath his calm façade. The rain that had started as a drizzle was now a relentless downpour, soaking him to the bone as he wandered.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that he found himself near the outskirts of town, a forgotten area filled with rusting machinery and abandoned warehouses. Light almost dismissed it—why would you come here?—but something compelled him to look closer.

And then he saw you.

Huddled under the sagging roof of a dilapidated warehouse, you sat clutching your worn black kitten stuffed toy. The sight of you stopped him cold. You weren’t crying, but the emptiness in your eyes sent a chill through him. It was the same look you had when he first met you—hollow, weary, like the weight of the world rested squarely on your small shoulders.

Light didn’t approach immediately. For the first time, he hesitated, unsure of how to close the distance between you. The rain thundered against the metal roof, drowning out the sound of his shallow breaths. Something about the scene felt fragile, as though one wrong move might shatter whatever thread kept you grounded.

Finally, he stepped forward, moving carefully so as not to startle you. When he reached the small, makeshift shelter, he crouched beside you, his school uniform drenched, water dripping from his hair.

“You’re going to get sick sitting out here,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil churning in his chest.

You didn’t respond. Your fingers clung tightly to the stuffed toy, knuckles white, but your gaze didn’t lift from the ground.

Light didn’t press further. Instead, he slipped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. The space was cramped, but he adjusted, shielding you from the worst of the rain that still managed to seep through the cracks. His embrace was firm yet gentle, radiating warmth despite his soaked clothing.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. He could feel the faint tremble in your frame, the shallow rise and fall of your chest. Light’s jaw clenched as he held you tighter, willing his presence to do what words couldn’t.

He didn’t ask why you were here. He didn’t ask what had happened. Those questions could wait. Right now, all that mattered was keeping you close, anchoring you to something steady.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “But I’m here, okay? I’ll always be here.”

You didn’t respond, but your grip on the stuffed kitten loosened slightly, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. It wasn’t much, but to Light, it was enough.

Minutes stretched into an hour, the rain showing no signs of letting up. Light’s teeth chattered as the cold seeped into his skin, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when you were like this.

He rested his chin lightly on top of your head, his eyes closing as he focused on the steady rhythm of your breathing. “I hate seeing you like this,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “You don’t have to be alone. Not ever.”

———

The rain continued its relentless rhythm, pattering against the warped metal roof above you. The cold seeped into Light’s skin, but he paid it no mind. His focus was entirely on you—on the small, trembling frame in his arms and the fragile silence that surrounded you.

And then, for the first time, he saw it.

A single tear slid down your cheek, blending with the rain before it could fall to the ground. You didn’t sob. You didn’t even make a sound. The tears seemed to escape against your will, slipping out silently as if they’d been held back for too long.

Light’s breath hitched. He had never seen you cry before. Not once in all the years he had known you. You were always the one who laughed mockingly at his exasperation, who messed with him with your messy habits and lazy smile. But now, the person in his arms seemed like a stranger—someone hollow, distant, and impossibly fragile.

His arms tightened around you instinctively, pulling you closer to shield you from the cold and rain. He felt an ache in his chest, a helpless frustration that he couldn’t name. He wanted to ask—wanted to demand—what had brought you here, what had hurt you so deeply. But the moment was too delicate. He couldn’t risk pushing you further away.

Instead, he spoke softly, his voice barely audible over the rain. “You’re freezing,” he murmured, his tone gentle. “Let me keep you warm, okay?”

You didn’t respond, your gaze still fixed on the stuffed black kitten in your hands. Light’s eyes flickered to the toy, the one you always carried with you no matter where you went. He’d teased you about it countless times, calling you childish for holding onto it like a lifeline. You’d always deflected with a laugh, saying something about how it was “just a habit” or “blessed.”

But now, as he watched you clutch it with a desperation he hadn’t seen before, Light wondered if there was more to the story.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his position so he could better shield you from the rain. His movements were deliberate, careful not to startle you. “You always carry that thing,” he said softly, his voice laced with a warmth he rarely used. “I used to think it was just because you liked it. But…” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish the thought.

You didn’t look at him. Your fingers tightened around the kitten, its worn fur darkened by the rain. Light swallowed, resisting the urge to press further. Instead, he leaned his head slightly against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I’m here. That’s all.”

He could feel the faint tremble in your frame, the quiet, unsteady rhythm of your breaths. The rain poured on, but Light stayed where he was, holding you as though his presence alone could chase away whatever darkness had brought you here.

“You’re not alone,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “Not while I’m here.”

Still, you didn’t speak. Your focus remained on the stuffed kitten, and Light felt a pang of frustration—not at you, but at his own inability to reach you. He wanted to fix this, to take away whatever was hurting you, but he didn’t know how.

So he stayed quiet, his arms steady around you, offering you the only comfort he could. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer than before.

“When you’re ready,” he said, his words gentle, “you can tell me. Or not. It’s up to you.”

Your shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and though you still didn’t speak, Light took it as a sign that his words had reached you, even if only a little.

He stayed there with you under the cramped shelter, the rain soaking through his clothes, his heart heavy with unspoken questions. But for now, he focused on keeping you close, on being the steady presence you needed.

Because whatever it was that haunted you, whatever it was that had brought you to this place, he wasn’t going to let it take you away. Not now. Not ever.

———

You sat there, clutching the black kitten stuffed toy tightly, your expression blank and weary. Light stayed silent, his arms still wrapped around you, his mind whirring with unspoken questions. Then, at last, you spoke.

“Kuro’s dead.”

The words were quiet, devoid of emotion, but they pierced through the air like a knife. Light blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Kuro? Who was Kuro? He had his theories—the kitten stuffed toy, perhaps—but he didn’t interrupt. He waited, sensing that you had more to say.

“It’s stupid,” you added, staring down at the toy in your lap, your voice flat and almost detached.

Light didn’t move, his arms steady around you, letting you take your time.

You cried silently, tears slipping down your cheeks without a sound, mixing with the rainwater that clung to your face. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you continued, your words halting and broken.

“Don’t… don’t tell anyone,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “But… I’m not close with my parents. At all.”

Light’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t speak. He only held you closer, letting you keep going.

“I don’t… I don’t even like them that much,” you admitted, your voice so soft he had to strain to hear. “I respect them. I’m thankful for what they’ve done, I guess… they’re humble, and they’ve done well for themselves. But…” Your voice wavered slightly, though it still carried that hollow tone. “I don’t love them. Not really.”

You paused, gripping the stuffed kitten tighter, as though drawing strength from its presence.

“I had one friend,” you said, the words trembling just slightly. “Before you.”

Light’s chest tightened at that. He didn’t speak, but his gaze softened, his arms shifting slightly to shield you more from the rain.

“A small kitten. I found him… Kuro. Tiny. Weak. Just like me.” You took a shaky breath, your tone still muted but tinged with a deep sadness. “I took care of him for years. Before I met you.”

You stopped again, your gaze distant, focused entirely on the stuffed kitten in your hands. “He… he kept me company. More than my parents ever did. Gave me more love than I’ve ever had.”

Light felt his throat tighten at your words, but he stayed silent, letting you continue at your own pace.

“But one day… one day, he disappeared.” Your voice cracked, and Light’s arms instinctively tightened around you, his silent way of telling you he was there. “I… I never found out why. I searched for him everywhere. I still do.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek, your expression still blank, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your hands clutched the black kitten stuffed toy tighter, your knuckles turning white. “Kuro… he loved me. I know he did. And I loved him.” Your voice broke. “But I never knew what happened to him.”

You paused, the silence heavy between you, before you finally spoke again, the words soft but heavy with meaning.

“It was on this day,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “My birthday. The day I found him… and the day I lost him.”

Light’s heart ached at the sight of you, so small and broken, clutching that stuffed kitten like it was the last piece of Kuro you had left. He wanted to say something, to comfort you, but he knew words wouldn’t fix this. So instead, he held you tighter, leaning his head gently against yours.

The rain continued to fall, but in that small, cramped space, Light made a silent vow. He didn’t know how, but he would make sure you never felt this kind of pain again. He wouldn’t let you be alone—not on this day, not on any day.

For now, though, all he could do was stay by your side, his quiet presence a promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.

———

The rain poured down relentlessly, the chill seeping into your skin despite the tight, makeshift cover Light had helped you take refuge under. You still hadn’t moved much, your gaze locked on the black kitten stuffed toy clutched tightly in your hands. You were out of it—emotionally drained and distant, like you were too far away to notice anything around you.

Light stayed close, his arms still wrapped protectively around you, but this time, he gently reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. His grip was firm but not forceful, a silent reminder that he was there.

You didn’t react. Not to the touch, not to the warmth. Your fingers remained limp in his grasp, as though nothing around you mattered.

After a long moment of silence, Light spoke softly, his voice steady and sure despite the emotions simmering beneath the surface. “I’m not going to leave you.”

There was no reaction at first, just the quiet sound of rain pattering against the warehouse roof. Then, finally, you murmured, your voice flat and resigned, “You don’t have to say that.”

Light frowned, but he stayed silent as you continued, the words coming slowly, emotionlessly. “I won’t be mad if you leave. Even if it’s you. I’m used to it. People always leave, eventually.”

The casualness of your words stung, like they’d been spoken countless times before. Light’s grip on your hand tightened briefly before he let out a low, frustrated sigh.

And then, without warning, he flicked your forehead—sharp enough to sting but not enough to hurt.

You winced, glaring at him in offense as you finally snapped out of your daze. “Ow! What was that for?”

“That,” Light said, his expression firm but his tone softer than usual, “is for saying something so stupid.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t get to decide that I’ll leave, or that anyone else will. And you especially don’t get to act like it doesn’t matter if I do. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

You glared at him, the tears still slipping down your cheeks betraying the anger in your eyes. “It’s not stupid. It’s realistic—”

Light interrupted again, this time by pulling you closer, his free arm wrapping around you securely. “Stop,” he said, his voice quieter now, though no less firm. “You’re my best friend. Or did you forget I existed?”

You blinked at him, your lips parting in a faint protest, but no words came out.

“Too stuck in your own bubble to notice anything?” he continued, his tone softening just enough to take the sting out of his words. “Do you know how frustrating that is?”

You looked away, uncomfortable under his gaze, but he didn’t let you pull back. Instead, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, intertwining your fingers even tighter.

“And though it’s embarrassing to say,” he muttered, his cheeks faintly pink but his expression sincere, “I love you. You’re my best friend, and I’m not going anywhere. So don’t say things like that, okay?”

You glanced up at him, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his words. For a moment, the faintest flicker of something broke through the haze clouding your mind—something warm, something soft.

Light sighed, brushing a strand of wet hair away from your face before resting his forehead lightly against yours. “I mean it,” he said quietly. “So stop acting like it doesn’t matter.”

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t pull away either. You stayed there, silent and motionless, as Light held your hand a little tighter, his warmth chasing away some of the chill. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel so alone.

———

You clutched the black kitten stuffed toy even closer, holding it as if it were the only thing grounding you to the present. Yet, you didn’t resist when Light pulled you closer, his arms wrapping securely around you, his warmth seeping into your cold, damp frame.

Light buried his face in your shoulder, inhaling the subtle, familiar scent of you that always lingered—a soft, flowery fragrance that felt uniquely you. For a moment, his tension eased. He could feel the faint rhythm of your breathing, slow and steady, a sign that you weren’t as distant as before.

When he finally lifted his head, he noticed the shift in your expression. You weren’t out of it anymore—your gaze was clear, steady, and focused. He stared at you, his face inches away from yours. There had been moments before where you were this close, but something about now… felt different.

His eyes lingered on you, tracing the lines of your face—your soft features framed by damp hair, the way your lashes glistened with lingering tears. His chest tightened, and his heartbeat quickened, a rhythmic thrum he couldn’t ignore.

Light didn’t understand it. You were his best friend. You’d always been. But the way the air felt heavier between you, the way his gaze locked onto yours as if it couldn’t look away—it was unfamiliar. Strange.

You blinked at him, your eyes meeting his directly. There was no hesitation in your gaze, no walls, just you looking back at him. And somehow, that clear, unguarded look made his breath catch.

Without realizing it, Light leaned closer, the space between you shrinking. His heart thudded louder, and for the first time in his perfectly calculated life, he didn’t know why.

You tilted your head slightly, a small, curious motion that made him freeze. Light’s gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. He swallowed hard, shaking off the thought before it could form fully.

This is just normal… right? You’re best friends. That’s all this is. It’s nothing.

Clearing his throat softly, he raised a hand to your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. He wiped away the last of your tears with a gentle touch, his expression softening as he did.

“There,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “No more tears, okay?”

You didn’t reply, but you didn’t need to. The way you stayed still, letting him be there for you, letting him take care of you—it was enough.

Light exhaled slowly, his fingers lingering against your skin for just a moment longer before he pulled back, his face still alarmingly close to yours. His gaze flickered down once more before snapping back to your eyes, and he forced himself to look away, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Let’s… let’s get you warm,” he said, his voice slightly uneven. But he didn’t move away, his arms still wrapped around you as the rain fell around the two of you.

———

And then, you finally—hesitantly—wrapped your arms around Light in return. It was small at first, almost uncertain, but then you leaned into him, letting the weight of your stuffed kitten fall against your chest as your grip tightened around him. For the first time, you seemed genuine in not holding back, no barriers or pretense.

Light stilled for a moment, taken aback. The soft press of your arms around him felt different. It wasn’t just the act of hugging; it was the way you allowed yourself to depend on him, even if only for a moment. Slowly, his arms tightened, pulling you closer as if he could shield you from every storm that ever dared to touch you.

But then you spoke, your words cutting through the quiet. They were low, trembling, as if pulling them from within you was an effort: “People always leave, Light… It’s normal. It’s okay. I’ve stopped being mad about it. Even if they hate me, or forget me, or just… leave. It’s fine.”

You didn’t sob. You didn’t even sniffle. But the way your voice cracked faintly at the edges told him everything.

“It’s not fine,” Light said firmly, his voice steady even as his chest ached at your words. “I’ll never leave you. Never.” He paused, his voice softening. “Even if the whole world turns against you, even if everyone else leaves or hates you, I won’t. I could never hate you.”

He shifted, leaning back just enough to look at your face. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice low, steady, and filled with a conviction he hadn’t fully realized was there.

And then, it happened.

Slowly, tentatively, you smiled.

Not the lazy grin you threw out when deflecting his teasing, or the carefree smirk you donned when pretending nothing could touch you. This one was different. Small, shy, and vulnerable. A smile that spoke of a quiet happiness you hadn’t felt in a long time—perhaps ever.

Light’s breath caught. He was utterly at a loss for words, a rarity for him. He wanted to say something—anything—but his mind seemed to go blank, his focus completely captured by that tiny, genuine curve of your lips.

His heart stuttered in his chest, a rapid pounding that he prayed you couldn’t hear. His gaze flicked down, his thoughts racing. He didn’t even realize he was leaning closer again, his eyes tracing the soft lines of your face, the way your damp lashes framed your eyes, the faint warmth in your expression.

The urge came so suddenly, so powerfully, it almost startled him. A quiet, insistent desire to press his lips to yours, to see if that warmth would spread, to feel the closeness that his words couldn’t seem to bridge.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he tightened his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer. His face buried in your hair, his breath unsteady as he inhaled the faint, flowery scent of you—a scent he found oddly intoxicating. He closed his eyes, willing his heartbeat to calm, to stop betraying the storm of emotions he didn’t fully understand.

What’s wrong with me?

But he wouldn’t let you know. Not now. Maybe not ever.

For now, this was enough. You were his best friend, after all. That’s all this was. Or so he told himself.

────────────

Ever since that rainy day, something between the two of you shifted. The walls you had so carefully constructed around yourself didn’t crumble all at once, but they softened—just enough to let Light slip through. You stopped deflecting his care with dismissive remarks, stopped brushing off his attempts to get close. Your reactions around him felt different now: genuine, unguarded, like you no longer saw the need to pretend.

It didn’t happen overnight, but over the years, Light noticed the subtle changes. The way you let yourself laugh freely when he teased you instead of smirking half-heartedly. The way you didn’t hesitate to lean into his shoulder when you were tired, trusting that he’d hold you steady. The way you’d meet his gaze, no longer distracted or distant, and actually see him.

It was as if the two of you had carved out your own private little world, a space where no one else existed. It was always just you and him, whether you were crammed into the corner of the library whispering about your latest inside joke or walking home side by side, sharing a single umbrella that never quite fit the both of you.

And honestly? He loved it.

He loved the way you’d wrinkle your nose at his over-planned schedules but still follow along without complaint. He loved how you’d surprise him with random facts you thought he’d find interesting, your voice tinged with excitement just for him. He loved the way you always looked for him first in a crowded room, your eyes lighting up the moment they met his.

He told himself it was just the comfort of familiarity, the bond of having a best friend who understood him better than anyone else. But deep down, there was another part of him that relished it for an entirely different reason.

Because in this little bubble you’d created, there was no one else. No competition, no distractions, no one vying for your attention. It was just him.

You were all his, whether you realized it or not.

Light never said it out loud, of course. He always played the part of the doting best friend, careful not to overstep, not to scare you off. But he couldn’t help the satisfaction that bloomed in his chest every time he caught someone staring at you, only for you to brush it off without a second thought.

You didn’t need anyone else.

You had him, and that was enough.

And as selfish as it was, he hoped it would stay that way forever.

────────────

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General TAG LIST of “World Ablaze”: @berry-berry-beam , @magica-ren , @hyakki-yosai , @esthelily , @zombeepuppy , @mololoteco , @whyamaris , @iciel , @songbirdgardensworld

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cjlouwho · 3 months ago

Text

part 2 to my lonely tommy fic. this time he's not so lonely anymore.

“What did you do this time?”

“Angela!” Tommy exclaimed, smiling brightly as she walked into the room. “Or Angie? Angel? We never clarified that.”

“You know, when I saw your name I thought dear God, that man's still alive? I was certain you would have sawed off a few more body parts by now.”

“I'm trying to keep my limbs, I promise.”

“So then tell me why you're here, back in recovery.”

“My appendix hates me.”

“Oh, that's a pesky little thing, isn't it?” she asked.

“It is. Are you my nurse today?”

“Not supposed to be, but I've got seniority on Gina, so she can deal with the jackass in 212.”

“I knew I was your favorite,” he replied, giving her a wink.

Angela rolled her eyes. “I haven't looked through your paperwork yet,” she said, waving the file in her hand. “Should I assume nothing's changed from last year?”

“You know what they say about assumptions, Angela.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you telling me there's gonna be a person to call in here?”

He nodded. “There is a name and a number. And it's a person I actually know. You won't have to call though.”

“I swear, if you tell me you brought yourself here again-”

“No, no, I didn't this time. I just-”

“I got some jello cups from the nurses station, and ice for- Marie?!”

Angela's eyes widened, a grin on her face. “Buck!” she exclaimed, opening her arms for a hug.

“Marie?” Tommy questioned, confused.

Ignoring him, Angela kept her focus on Buck. “What are you doing here? And in normal clothes! I only ever see you when you're in the bed!”

Buck laughed. “I'm a plus one this time. Tommy's appendix decided to burst in the middle of his shift.”

“You two work together?”

“Oh, no. He's at 217, I'm at 118.”

“He's my boyfriend,” Tommy clarified.

“Ohh, okay.” She turned toward Tommy, wiggling her eyebrows. “That's some new information for me.”

Buck took the ice and jello over to Tommy. He tore off the lid and scooped a little bit of the lime jello onto a spoon, then brought it up to Tommy's mouth. He took the bite without complaint.

“They only want him eating soft foods for the next few hours,” Buck said as Angela watched them both with nothing but fondness on her face. “But he gets hungry so fast I keep going for more jello cups.”

“How about I search around for something that will keep you fuller a bit longer?” Angela suggested. “Like some mashed potatoes?”

Tommy swallowed the next bite of jello. “That actually sounds really good.”

“I'll be right back.”

“Wait!” Tommy exclaimed before she could get too far. “Marie?”

She walked back over to his bed. “It's my middle name, and it's what everyone else calls me. You have to keep calling me Angela, because you pissed me off,” she said, gently smacking his leg with the file folder.

“Ohhh,” Buck teased, looking at Tommy with wide eyes, “someone's in trouble.”

“You had me worrying about you for a whole damn year while you were cozying up to one of my favorite patients? The nerve, Thomas.”

“Yikes,” Buck grimaced. “You got Thomas'd.”

“That's just Angela's way of telling me she loves me.”

“Mhm. You've aged me, Mr. Kinard.”

“This could have all been prevented if you'd let me use you as my emergency contact.”

She shook her head. “I'll be back with potatoes. Keep him in check, Buck!”

“Will do.”

Once she left the room, Buck eyes Tommy. "So you know Marie too?"

He nodded. "I do."

*****

After eating some potatoes, Tommy dozed in and out for the next couple of hours.

After that, he and Buck were in the middle of a very competitive episode of The Price is Right when there was a knock on the door.

One by one, people began to file in, much to Tommy's surprise.

Eddie, Hen, Bobby, Athena, Maddie, and Howie gathered into the room, hands filled with different items.

After all the hello's and how are you's, they took turns handing over what they brought.

“We brought flowers,” Athena said, setting them on a corner table. “To brighten the place up a bit.”

“Jee wanted to make you something special to look at while you're in here,” Maddie said, breaking through the crowd to hand Tommy a piece of paper. “She said it's her, her Uncle Buck, and her Uncle Tommy at the zoo.”

Tommy stared down at the picture. Three people, a step above stick figures, with their hands connected as they walked down a path. Some birds and other unidentifiable animals surrounding them.

“It's beautiful,” he said, speaking softly. “Tell her I said thank you. I love it.”

“Karen made cookies.” Hen dropped a bag down on Tommy's tray table. “Snickerdoodle and red velvet. They're your favorites, apparently?”

“They are!” Tommy replied in surprise. “I can't believe she remembered that. I just mentioned it in passing one day.”

“Karen remembers everything about the people she cares about,” Hen responded with a grin. “One of the many things I love about her.”

“We made a schedule,” Eddie said, pulling a piece of paper out of his back pocket.

“Buck made a schedule,” Chimney clarified.

“I've given Buck a couple days off,” Bobby said, “and after that we will be bugging you in shifts.”

“You guys don't have to-”

“Don't even try to fight it,” Hen interrupted. “We've already been made to memorize our individual schedules and tasks.”

“This is happening, Tommy,” Eddie said, giving him a pat on the shoulder, “whether you like it or not.”

Athena hummed. “And I can guarantee by the time you have fully recovered, you will not.”

“He's gonna love it,” Buck said, glaring over at Eddie. “Who brought the balloons?”

“That would be me,” Eddie replied. “Along with an airplane-shaped stuffed toy that actually used to be Christopher's, but he hasn't touched it in years.”

“And I found the cutest teddy bear in the gift shop,” Chimney said, coming up beside Tommy to tuck the bear into his side, “because I don't bring used toys to my friends.”

“Rude!” Eddie exclaimed. “At least he likes airplanes.”

“He likes bears too!” Chimney defended, then he looked down at Tommy. “You like bears too, right?”

“That could mean so many different things to me,” Tommy replied honestly. “But, yes, I love the teddy bear and the airplane. Thank you guys. All of you.”

“I know I didn't technically bring anything,” Bobby said, “but I will be making you guys some meals that you'll just have to heat up for the next couple weeks, at least.”

“You don't have to do that, Bobby.”

“Well, it's not just for you,” Bobby explained.

Athena rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“These are new meals I'm trying out,” Bobby continued, “So I need honest reviews before I start making them at work. Don't sugar coat it.”

Tommy lifted three fingers. “Scouts honor.”

As the conversations picked up around him, Tommy settled further into the bed. Buck smiled over at him, taking his hand. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn't know they'd all be coming at once.”

Tommy shook his head. “Don't be sorry,” he replied, giving Buck's hand a squeeze. “This is perfect.”

*****

It was dark outside when Angela came back into the room for her final check before getting off shift. The only light filtering through the room came from the bathroom. Tommy was sitting up, staring down at the drawing Jee had given him.

“Wow!” Angela exclaimed as she walked in. “Someone had a lot of visitors today.”

The room was littered with items that had been left behind.

Tommy smiled up at her. “Yes, Ma'am.”

“We could hear you all laughing from down the hall,” she said as she began to switch out his IV bag. “It was nice.”

“Yeah, it... It was.”

“Did you finally get your boy to go home?”

“Uh, no.” Tommy set the drawing back down on the table. “He's actually gone to get more blankets. I told him I was fine, but he said my feet always get cold at night so I'd need extra.”

“He takes good care of you.”

“Yeah, he does.”

She grinned down at him. “You take good care of him?”

“I try to,” he answered honestly.

They fell into a comfortable silence as she finished up her work.

She gave him a couple of sideways glances before asking. “You okay?”

He bit at his lip, suddenly overcome with emotion as he stared at his GET WELL SOON balloon. Everything had changed so much in the past year. His old life felt nearly unrecognizable.

“It's just a little overwhelming,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “Last time I went home from here I was alone. I took care of myself until I got better. This time I have a schedule to memorize of who is visiting when.”

“Sounds like a good problem to have to me.”

“It is,” he agreed, even as his voice broke. “I just never thought I'd have people.” His eyes burned, filling with tears. “Doesn't feel like I deserve it.”

“Oh, honey.” She leaned over the bed, cradling his head in her arms. She could feel the wetness from his tears on her sleeve. “You are so loved,” she told him as he let himself be held. “You deserve that.”

She leaned back enough to hold onto Tommy's face, wiping his tears with her thumbs as she spoke to him. “All these people who showed up for you today, they came because they love you. Because you show them the same love. And that man you've got, well, he looks at you like you're more precious than gold. Let yourself be happy, okay? You've got people now. You've got people forever.”

He took a shaky breath and nodded, Angela wiping away the last of the tears before letting him go.

He grabbed a tissue off his tray table and wiped his nose. “Do I get to call you Marie now?” he asked.

She laughed. “Oh, no. You're special, so you're stuck with Angela.”

“I got five blankets and two pillows,” Buck said as he entered the room, “which I know you won't need, but I'm trading chairs with the guy in 212- who's a bit of an ass, by the way- so I get the recliner.”

“You're staying the night?” Angela asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh, um, yeah,” he answered sheepishly, his cheeks going pink. “I didn't ask, but I- I figured-”

“It's fine,” she assured him before heading for the door. “I didn't think you'd be leaving anyway. I'll see you two lovebirds in the morning, alright?”

“Goodnight, Marie!”

“Thank you, Angela.”

Buck took one of the blankets and spread it out over Tommy's legs. “I gotta go switch these chairs out. Are you good until I get back?”

Tommy reached out for Buck's hand, tugging on him until he was close enough to kiss. When he pulled away, he smiled. “I'm good.”

#bucktommy #911 #tommy kinard #evan buckley #the whole gang is here

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thebestsetter · 4 months ago

Text

"3...2...1...go!" You said, pressing the record button and smiling

"Hello everyone! This is Bachira Meguru!" He smiled, grinning at the camera you were holding and pointing at himself

"Hi! My name's Isagi Yoichi!" He also smiled and waved a little while you adjusted the camera in the tripod

"Itoshi Rin." You rolled your eyes at his tone

"And today" Bachira made up for his friend's lack of enthusiasm "We're going to do a livestream answering questions from fans! So don't be afraid to send them! Our helper is going to read as most as possible so we can respond!" Of course, by helper, he meant you, so you just turned the camera a little (without showing your face) and waved.

"Hello everyone! I'll try my best to read them all! Just write the name of the player at the beggining of the sentence so I can know who to ask!"

In instants, lots of questions flooded the chat

"Wow! There's a lot of questions" you adjusted the camera back to the athletes.

So, here's the thing: you were a sports journalism student, which means you were usually the person the "Blue lockers" asked for help when it came to interviews and other things envolving the media. Also, you were the japanese team's official journalist, so you did lots of interviews with them and they felt more comfortable around you.

Ah, there's other thing worth mentioning: you were the one and only Isagi Yoichi's very first girlfriend.

"This one's to Bachira!" You smiled and mimicked that good old journalist way of speaking "How did it feel to carry the Barcha team on your back during the Neo egoist League?"

"Well... I did play pretty good" he smirked, chest puffing with pride "So I'm gonna say it felt great. But there were other good players, like Otoya."

"And who else besides Otoya?" Isagi teased, crossing his arms "We both know damn well you were the only ones to participate in the team's goals"

"You're the one saying it, not me"

"Next question" Rin interrupted, clearly not wanting to be there and wanting this livestream to end as soon as possible

"Since you're so eager to continue" you smirked "This one's for you, Rin. It's from 'It0shis_lover'" he rolled his eyes at the name "'Let's go on a double date: you and me plus Isagi and his cute girlfriend'" you smiled "Why, thank you for the compliment, dear!"

"No." Rin estated without any emotion

"Don't be rude, Rinrin!" Bachira smiled "Why not?"

"I don't want to watch Isagi and his girlfriend almost eating eachother with their eyes. He's such a loser it makes me sick"

"Hey!" Isagi cut him off, blushing a little "I am not a loser!"

"Sure. And you also weren't pouting when the person from the comment called your girlfriend 'cute'" Rin retorted

"I wasn't!" Isagi blushed even more

"Yes you were~!" Bachira shook his friend's shoulder while laughing

"It looks like the chat is going crazy with this brand new information!" You laughed "Guys, Isagi do acts like a loser. He got better after 3 months of dating, but he was so clueless at the beggining!"

"Hey! You're supposed to back me up here, love!" Isagi crossed his arms and pouted at you

"I can't lie, can I?" You smiled at him (which made him smile back, since he couldn't look at your smile without feeling the urge to smile too), gazing back at the chat for a while "People are asking 'why do we think he's a lovesick loser'. Who wants to answer first?" You teased

"Oh! Me first, me first!" Bachira shot his hands up high.

He put his finger in his chin in a thinking position, then suddenly perked up (if you squinted your eyes enough, you could almost see a light bulb appearing on the top of his head) "Oh! Do you guys remember that time when Reo accidentally used and broke her hair tie?"

"I do!" You laughed behind the camera "Do you guys want me to tell you the story?"

"No way you're going to expose me like that" Isagi sweatdropped

"People want to hear more about Japan's hero Isagi Yoichi, it seems" you smiled "Alright. You ask and you shall recieve!" You cleaned your throat and began "It all started when I gave him my favorite purple hair tie, telling him this exact same sentence:"

"Yoichi! I know you have an important game tomorrow, so I decided to give you a good luck gift!" You smiled, your hands behind your back so he wouldn't see your gift. Your boyfriend was just heading to his daily practice when you stopped him.

"Really? You didn't have to, babe!" He blushed a little, curious about the gift "You are my good luck charm already"

"Do you guys get what I mean?" Rin rolled his eyes "He's so corny it makes me wanna vomit"

"Don't interrupt her!" Bachira exclaimed "Continue, please"

"As I was saying..."

"...you are my good luck charm already"

"I know, but I wanted to" you giggled, grabbing one of his arms and strechting it with one of your hands while the other stayed behind your back "Close your eyes and open your hand"

"Sure..." Isagi smiled gently and did as you told him.

He then felt something circular and soft in his hand. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Your gift was...

"A hairtie?" He asked, confused "I don't even have enough hair to use it"

"First of all: it isn't any hair tie. It's my favorite one" you pouted "And second: you don't use it in your hair. You wear it around your wrist, like a bracelet" you smiled, taking it from his hand and putting it in his wrist for him (which made him blush hard. Even the smallest brush of your skin against his made him go insane).

He analysed the hair tie with such a complex gaze that you couldn't help but feel a little self conscious about the gift.

"Y-you obviously don't have to use it, you know?" You smiled shyly

"No." Isagi said "I'll wear it. Even if it was the ugliest thing ever -which it isn't - I'd still wear it, cause it's from you. Thank you. Thank you so much for this. I'll treat it with care, I promise" he caressed your cheek "In fact, I'll even take it to practice with me today, just so I can get used to it!" He smiled, his eyes glowing

"Sure, babe" you giggled, putting your hand on top of his "And you're welcome. Now go! We don't want you to be late."

"Okay, okay. I'm going" he laughed, and then stopped when he was closing the door

"Thank you again!"

"Don't mention it"

"And then when he got to the training" Bachira said "He showed it to everyone. And when I say everyone, I do mean it. Even Ego couldn't escape it!"

"Of course I did!" Isagi shouted "It's the greatest present I've ever got. Well, at least it was, before that stupid purple haired idiot with attach and trust issues broke it."

"It's clear he still holds a grudge" Rin rolled eyes, and -wait, was that a smirk on his lips?- "Everything was going well, until Reo asked if anyone had a hair tie, since he forgot his at the dorms and couldn't play well without one. Meanwhile, Isagi went to the showers and left his 'good luck gift' in his locker, which was open. Someone probably passed by and made it fall to the floor, so Reo picked it up and used it."

"He literay stole it!" Isagi argued "He should be arrested or something!"

"Yoichi, no one's arrested for stealing a hair tie." You giggled (your cheeks were already hurting from how much you were laughing today)

"And then while that dumb son of a -"

"Yoichi!" You interrupted like a mother scolding her kid

"While the lovely Reo Mikage was playing with it" he continued "I was looking for it everywhere-"

"He was almost crying" Rin side eyed him

"No one told me that before!" You said, amused "Did you really cry, love?"

"He did. He began to sob a little-"

"Let me continue!" Isagi blushed even more "And then I saw it on Reo's hair, and..."

"I remember that part!" Bachira said "When Isagi saw the hair tie, he said:

"What. The fuck. Are you doing with that hair tie?"

"What?" Reo asked "Oh, is it yours? I didn't knkw. You don't even have enough hair to use it"

"That's none of your business. Give it back, now."

"Alright, alright! My bad! Calm down, it's just a hair tie."

"I'm not gonna ask again. Give. It. Back."

"Sure" Reo tried to take it off of his hair, but realized there were knots stopping him from completing the action "Shit, it's not coming out" Reo said "Wait a second, I'm gonna pull harder"

"Be careful. Break it and I break your fucking spine."

"Of course I'm gonna be careful! When was I not careful-"

Cleck.

Oh oh.

In Reo's hands, laid the now broken object.

"Oopsie?" Reo smiled nervously while putting the hair tie on Yoichi's hands "I'll buy you another, don't worry. An even more expensive one, even."

"Shut up. I'm gonna kill you." Isagi said, seething with rage "How the fuck do you even manage to break a hair tie? Are you dumb? That's the only plausible answer. You're so dumb that you still keep going back to your so called "best friend" who left you to rot. You're stupid. You're useless. You're just an shitty, poor excuse of a player. You should just give up on football already, motherfucker. Why don't you just jump off a cliff bla bla bla..."

"Reo still has nightmared about that day" Rin stated "Isagi humilliated him"

"He was stupid. How do you even break a hair tie?"

"And then he got home and told me sorry at least 100 times" you laughed "I just gave him another one and thought everything was solved. I still want to know what happened to the broken one though"

"Don't worry about it, babe. I love the new ones"

"Ugh. I actually hate you both" Rin said "Not to mention that this wasn't the only time Isagi did something that proves he's a loser. There are other examples. Like, when they first meet and she told him what was her favorite series, who he spent the whole night awake binge watching it just so he could have something to talk about with her"

"It was good though" Isagi retorted

"Or when the U-20 guys spoke to her" Bachira added "And he got so jealous that he swore to - how did he word it? - Ah! He swore to 'step on their head and use their pathetic habilities at football as a stepping stone for his growth'"

"They were literally eyeing her up and down!"

"He also told me one time: 'I'm gonna score a goal for you today!' And scored none" you smiled fondly at the memory

"Hey! Don't bring that up!" Isagi had smoke coming out of his ears from how embarassed he was "Whats with you guys and making fun of me today?!"

"Whatever. Even if he's a loser, I love him. So don't laugh at him guys. He may be a loser, but he's my loser" You joked. But you should know that your words always have an impact on Yoichi. And it's not subtle.

He was now was red as someone who stayed 5 hours on the sun withou sunscreen. Maybe even redder.

"...why would you say this!?"

"Someone's blushing~"

"SHUT UP!"

"This live was a fun idea" you laughed "The next one's for Isagi: 'Care to share your girl with me?'"

"...What's the user of this motherless fucker?"

Needless to say, the livestream ended up getting millions of views. People were amused and curious about yours and Yoichi's relationship, so he was flooded daily with questions about you on interviews. Tik tok was filled with edits of you both. Even fanfiction was made!

Journals now referred to him as "The lovesick japanese player", and fans jokingly called him a loser. At least he thinks it's a joke. He hopes so.

Whatever. They didn't need to know how every goal he made was dedicated to you and only you. Didn't need to know that you were the one comforting him after the games he lost, patting his head gently and letting him cry or shout on your shoulder. And they definitely didn't need to know that he kept the broken hair tie, which he ties in his football shoes' laces every game, kissing it as a good luck charm (cause it was his good luck charm. You were the one to bring his good luck.).

Cause, as you said, ha may be a loser, but he was your loser, and he'd wear that title with pride, just as he wears your hair ties. And just as he hopes you'll wear his last name soon, too.

Afterall, if he wears your hair ties with so much happiness, imagine him with your wedding ring.

God, he really is just a lovesick fool.

~ A/N: not proofread!

Masterlist

#SEASON 2 GAVE ME INSPIRATION TO WRITE THIS 🔥🔥#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk manga #bllk x reader #bllk x you #blue lock x you #bllk isagi #isagi x you #isagi x y/n #isagi x reader #blue lock isagi #isagi yoichi

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authorhjk1 · 2 days ago

Note

Good to know we can send requests for the same ones then especially for Irene…if you thought it was the pink one I think I might surprise you instead…a perfect combination for a good two part perhaps of the same color like your bronze ones.

https://kpopping.com/documents/52/4/2567/231119-Red-Velvet-Irene-Seulgi-Supersound-Festival-in-Bangkok-documents-2.jpeg?v=fe4c1

https://kpopping.com/documents/2a/3/2625/231119-Red-Velvet-Irene-Seulgi-Supersound-Festival-in-Bangkok-documents-3.jpeg?v=9004f

I mean with this gown Irene is wearing its the perfect scenario for stripping her naked easily and having your way with her while for Seulgi the same scenario I guess would do, since who wouldn't like to be in the presence of two gorgeous naked ladies ready to be taken by you by giving them what they wanted the most from you…your big…heart of gold.

I leave the plot in your hands dear writer. 🙏🏻

White pair

(Irene X Seulgi X Male Reader)

Seulgi moans. Every touch of yours and every thrust of your cock into her pussy taking her by surprise. She's lying on your bed, two of your ties keeping her hands next to the bedposts, while a third one serves as a makeshift blindfold.

"Damn, Seulgi. I love your pussy."

You groan into her ear as you lean above her, your cock continuously moving in and out of her.

"D-Do you..."

A loud moan rips through her sentence.

"Do you like it more than-than hers?"

Her question makes you smile and you look up to your right. Your girlfriend is leaning against your bedroom's wall, one of her hand underneath her dress. She bites her lip, while her eyes tell you to trick Seulgi into digging an even deeper hole.

"Of course I do, baby."

You kiss her cheek and her jaw, down to her collarbone.

"Your whole body is a piece of art."

Seulgi moans and arches her back off the bed as your lips find the sweet spot on her neck.

You feel her pussy tighten around your cock as you continue to thrust into her. That and Irene watching you fuck her friend makes you pound into Seulgi harder than she's prepared for. Underneath your tie her eyes roll to the back of her head. Your hands on her butt slightly lift her lower body off the mattress, giving you an even better angle.

As Seulgi moans and whines, you realize that this must be the hardest you've ever fucked her. She instinctively fights against the restrains, her whole body begging for freedom. That freedom finally comes in form of an orgasm a couple of minutes later.

Seulgi, moaning your name again and again, cums on your cock, coating it in her juices. Her whole body shakes and shivers. The sight almost makes Irene moan as well. Her own knees are buckling while she watched Seulgi cum on her boyfriend's cock.

"You're such a good girl, Seulgi."

You praise her, whispering against her neck while you give her slow and shallow thrusts. She whines in response, riding out the last bit of her orgasm while you lick her neck.

Although you wish you could fuck the two of them, you can already feel how Seulgi's tight pussy is trying to make you cum. You look at Irene again, who finally gets her hand out from underneath her dress and motions you to walk over to her. Pulling out of Seulgi has the younger woman moan in disappointment. But before she can say something, she feels someone pulling at the tie in front of her eyes.

When Seulgi can see again, a cold shudder washes through her. She stares right into Irene's eyes, who's standing next to the bed and leaning over her.

"Hello, Seulgi."

The younger of the two almost dies of shame. It's the first time she realizes what she has actually done. She made her friend's boyfriend cheat on her. She still remembers how she came onto him that first time, after she had something to drink.

Seulgi averts her eyes, unable to look at Irene. She instinctively searches for you, but she can't find you anywhere.

"Oh, god."

Irene suddenly moans, her arms lowering her a little further, her face now only a few inches away from Seulgi's.

"Thanks for warming up his cock."

Seulgi takes a moment to realize what's going on. When you fuck Irene right in front of her, she finally understands why you tied her up and blindfolded her.

"Unnie, I can explain..."

Another moan interrupts her, making Seulgi tightly press her lips together.

"You don't need to."

Irene is so close that Seulgi can feel her breath against her face. She can smell her perfume, which makes her struggle against her restraints.

"You're a great cock sleeve, Seulgi."

The younger one gasps in surprise and shame. She's used to your praise and your kind words, not to Irene insulating her.

"I don't mind sharing my boyfriend, but you need to know that I'm number one."

Seulgi sighs in relief from getting off easy, but a moment later you thrust even harder into Irene. The older of the two loses her balance and falls on top of Seulgi.

"Fuck."

You groan, the combination of Seulgi's and Irene's pussies one after another has proven to be too much for you.

Seulgi can barely watch how you stay inside of Irene while climaxing, filling your girlfriend with your cum.

"You be a good cock sleeve Seulgi."

Irene sighs, now a satisfied smile on her face.

"You just won't get his cum."

#ask #anon #kpop #kpop smut #kpop girls #kpop gg #male reader #red velvet smut #irene red velvet #red velvet seulgi #irene smut #bae irene #irene #seulgi smut #kang seulgi #seulgi

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whoretan · 3 months ago

Text

ARK 45 | 03

Summary: One misstep spirals into chaos. An "audition," a quiet dinner—and suddenly, you’re in the lion's den, with secrets unraveling faster than you can catch your breath.

WC: 11.4k

Play me while you read.

Pairing: Club Owner/Mafia!Jungkook, Hitman!Reader (ft. Jimin)

tags: um, this is long af, shit is getting INTEEEENSE, everyone is up to no good, does this bitch have a degradation kink?

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 (ur here)

Your heels click against the marble floor, each step echoing like a gunshot in your skull. The security guard barely glances up as you flash your ID, probably because you look like death warmed over.

You'd spent an hour in the shower trying to scrub away the feeling of Jimin's hands, his mouth against your skin. The memory burns through your mind like acid, making your stomach clench.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for your current state of mind. You step inside, jabbing the button for the executive floor harder than what was necessary. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls, and you note with grim satisfaction that at least the bruises on your cheeks have faded to a dull pink. The ones on your shoulders, hidden beneath your crisp white blouse, are a different story.

The massive oak doors leading to Jimin's office loom at the end of the hallway like sentries. You force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the mundane task of settling into your desk and powering up your computer.

Your phone vibrates in your purse, making you jump. Unknown number. Odd. You consider letting it go to voicemail, but something makes you answer.

"Hello?"

"Joanna Webb?" A smooth female voice asks. Your stomach drops at the fake name. No fucking way. "This is Jessica from ARK 45. Mr. Jeon would like you to come in for a second interview tonight at 11."

Your throat goes dry. Jimin's office doors seem to mock you from down the hall, holding secrets you'd rather forget.

"Miss Webb?" The woman prompts. "Are you there?"

"Yes," you hear yourself say. "I'll be there."

You end the call, fingers trembling slightly as you lower the phone. The familiar ding of your email draws your attention to the screen.

Dear Park Incorporate, This is the Goutman Courier Services, regarding Shipment 401928 to the Terrero region has been successfully delivered.

The blood in your veins turns to ice. Jungkook's shipments. The very thing that started this whole mess.

You stand from your desk, legs unsteady. The walk to Jimin's office feels like a death march. Each step brings you closer to facing him, to pretending last night never happened while discussing business that could— probably will— get you both killed.

Your knuckles rap against the solid wood before you can lose your nerve.

"Come in."

Jimin's voice carries through the door, professional and detached. As if he hadn't left bruises on your skin just hours ago. As if you weren't still feeling the ghost of his touch with every breath.

You turn the handle, stepping into the lion's den.

The first thing you notice is the sound– rain beating against the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the back wall of his office. The second is the scent of his cologne, stronger now, mixing with the rich leather of his chair and something else. Coffee, maybe. Black, no sugar, like always.

Jimin doesn't look up from the stack of papers on his desk. His shoulders are rigid beneath his tailored suit jacket, an unusual tension in his normally fluid posture. A strand of black hair falls across his forehead as he signs something with careful precision.

"You received an email," you say, voice steady despite the way your pulse quickens when his pen stills. "Goutman Courier Services. The shipment to Terrero was delivered."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Still, he doesn't look up. "Close the door."

You turn, giving him your back as you push the heavy door shut. The soft click of the latch feels too loud in the quiet office. When you face him again, his eyes are fixed on the papers before him, but his pen hasn't moved.

"Anything else?" he asks, tone professionally distant. As if he hadn't left marks all over your body mere hours ago. As if you couldn't still feel the ghost of his fingers wrapped around your throat.

Thunder rolls outside, making the windows tremble. You take a measured step forward, heels sinking into the plush carpet. "ARK 45 called. They want me to come in tonight."

Now he looks up. His dark eyes find yours, and for a moment, that careful mask of indifference slips. Something hungry flashes across his features before he can catch it, gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"Interesting." He leans back in his chair, finally abandoning the pretense of working. His fingers drum once against the leather armrest – the only tell that he's affected at all. "What time?"

"Eleven."

His gaze drifts to your neck, lingering just behind your ear. A slight furrow appears between his brows. "You missed one."

Heat crawls up your spine as his meaning registers. The hickey. You resist the urge to touch the spot, to cover it like a guilty teenager. Instead, you maintain eye contact, watching as his pupils dilate slightly.

"I'll take care of it," you say, voice low. Professional. Even as your skin burns under his scrutiny.

He nods once, sharp and dismissive. "That's all."

You turn to leave, focusing on keeping your steps measured, unhurried. The weight of his stare follows you across the room like a physical touch. Just as your fingers brush the door handle, his voice stops you.

"And ___?"

You pause, not turning around. "Yes?"

A beat of silence, filled only by the steady drumming of rain. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: "Be careful."

The words settle between your shoulder blades like a blade.

The handle feels like ice beneath your palm as you pull the door shut behind you. Your heels click against the marble with each step back to your desk, mind racing behind your carefully blank expression.

Be careful.

The words replay in your mind as you sink into your chair. Coming from Jimin, they may as well be a death sentence. He doesn't tell you to be careful– not when you're tracking targets, not when you're disposing of bodies, not even when you're playing with fire in the form of Richard Ricci's empire.

Why would Jungkook want you back?

The question pulses through your mind as you stare unseeing at your computer screen. He'd made it crystal clear what he thought of you. Called you a whore before walking away like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience in his night.

But he'd known who you were.

He'd known, and he'd still let you grind against him, his hands guiding your hips like he owned them. Like he wasn't fully aware that those same hips had been positioned over his father's body weeks before.

Rain continues to pour outside your window, the sky growing darker as evening approaches. You spend the rest of the day moving through the motions of being a secretary, all while your mind dissects every possible angle. Every potential trap. Every way this could end with you in a body bag.

Your reflection catches in one of ARK 45's tinted windows as you approach. The black dress hugs every curve, falling just below your knees, the off-shoulder neckline exposing enough skin to be enticing without looking desperate.

You'd curled your hair, letting it fall in waves behind your shoulders, and painted your lips the exact shade of red that coats the bottoms of your Louboutins.

The neon sign bleeds red through the rain, and the bouncer simply nods, same from before, pulls the door open without a word. No clipboard. No questions.

They're expecting you.

The main floor of ARK 45 pulses with a different energy tonight. Gone are the typical strobe lights and pounding bass, replaced by something deeper, darker. The air is thick with expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and worn leather- the scent of old money and even older sins.

Red velvet drapes frame the main stage, and crystal chandeliers cast shadows that dance across the walls like wandering spirits. The usual poles have vanished, leaving an expanded platform dotted with vintage microphones and elaborate props.

Men in tailored suits crowd the tables, drinking amber liquid from crystal glasses while their eyes follow the girls who weave between tables in elaborate costumes - corsets dripping with jewels, feathers that trail behind them like oil spills.

"This way," the hostess says, leading you toward one of the elevated booths that line the upper level.

A voice like honey and smoke fills the space, drawing your attention to the stage. A woman in a black corset trails her fingers down the microphone stand, her red lips forming words that make the men below her lean forward in their seats. The backing track builds slowly, promising something sinful.

"You must be the new girl."

You turn to find a woman leaning against the railing beside you. Her costume- if you can call it that - consists mainly of strategically placed crystals and black lace. A snake tattoo winds up her thigh, disappearing beneath the lace.

"I'm Angelina," she says, eyes scanning you with the kind of attention usually reserved for identifying weaknesses. Her gaze lingers on your shoes, your dress, calculating something behind her practiced smile. "Haven't seen you around before."

You take her offered hand. "Joanna."

"Hmm." She tilts her head, studying you like a cat who's found something interesting to play with. "Private booth on your first night? That's... unusual."

The word carries weight, a warning wrapped in curiosity. On stage, the singer's voice builds to a crescendo, and Angelina's smile sharpens.

"Enjoy the show, honey. And remember,” she leans in close enough that her breath tickles your ear, "not everyone survives their first night here."

You watch Angelina sashay away, cataloging every detail with the same precision you use before a kill. The slight favor of her left leg when she walks- old injury, probably a torn ACL. The way her eyes dart periodically to the VIP section as if she's waiting for someone's attention. The calculated swing of her hips doesn't match the nervousness in her fingers as they tap against her thigh.

She's scared of something. Or someone.

The realization brings a familiar thrill to your spine, the same one you'd felt watching John squirm in his chair. People are always so easy to read when they're afraid. Like now, watching the way Angelina keeps glancing over her shoulder, the slight tremor in her practiced smile.

You could break her in half without smudging your lipstick.

The thought brings a smile to your face as the hostess gestures to the booth. You slide into the plush leather seat, letting the elevation give you a better vantage point of the club. The strategic positioning isn't lost on you- perfect view of the stage, but your back exposed to the door.

The opening notes of "Fever" fill the air as the curtains part. Three dancers emerge, their movements liquid and practiced. You force yourself to appear engaged even as your mind dissects every possible exit route. Two through the main floor, one through the kitchen if you cut through the service corridor, and, if things get really ugly, the large windows could work with enough momentum.

The leather seat dips beside you.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show."

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. You don't need to turn to know who's joined you, his presence alone sets every instinct on high alert. But you do turn because that's what an innocent wannabe dancer would do.

Jungkook lounges against the leather like he was born to it, one arm draped across the back of the seat. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill. His dark eyes find yours, and his lips curve into that same arrogant smile that had haunted you all day.

"I always keep my appointments, Mr. Jeon."

The lights from the stage catch on his Patek Philippe watch, the kind that costs more than most people make in a year. His black suit is perfectly tailored, each line custom cut to his frame, making him look like sin personified. The fabric shifts like liquid shadow as he moves, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. His hair is slicked back tonight, showcasing the sharp angle of his jaw, the dangerous curve of his lips.

A heavy silver ring adorns his right hand as he signals for service, the same hand that had gripped your hips days ago. You notice there's an engraving on it, but can't make out the details in the dim lighting.

"Champagne," he tells the server without taking his eyes off you. "The Armand de Brignac."

His voice carries that same arrogant lilt from before, but there's something else there now. Something predatory lurking beneath the polished surface. You've heard that tone before, in your own voice, right before you go for the kill.

"Expensive taste," you comment, watching his reaction. Testing.

His lips quirk upward, and he shifts slightly closer. The movement is subtle, calculated. Like a snake coiling before it strikes. "I only invest in things that interest me."

On stage, the dancers move through their routine, all glitter and grace. But you're hyperaware of every micro-expression that crosses Jungkook's face. The slight tightening around his eyes when he smiles. The controlled way he breathes. The steady rhythm of his thumb taps against his knee.

He's studying you just as intently.

"Tell me about your dance experience," he says, accepting two crystal flutes from the returning server. The champagne glows golden in the low light as he hands you a glass. "You seem... experienced in movement."

Your fingers brush his as you take the glass, and you swear you feel him tense for a fraction of a second. "I'm versatile," you reply, matching his tone. "I adapt to whatever the situation requires."

Something dark flashes behind his eyes. He takes a slow sip of champagne, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. When he lowers the glass, his tongue darts out to catch a stray drop on his bottom lip.

"Adaptability is crucial in this line of work." His gaze drops to your neck, lingering on the spot where you'd covered the hickey. "Things can get... intense here. Not everyone can handle the pressure."

The implications hover in the air between you, sharp as razor wire. Below, the music swells to a crescendo, but all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears as he leans closer.

"Are you sure you can handle it, Joanna?"

The way he says your fake name makes your skin crawl. Like he's savoring some private joke.

You meet his gaze over the rim of your glass, letting the champagne sit untouched. "I've handled more intense situations than you could imagine, Mr. Jeon."

The corner of his mouth twitches. He shifts again, angling his body toward yours, and the expensive fabric of his suit brushes against your bare shoulder. The contact sends electricity racing down your spine.

"Have you?" His eyes are impossibly dark in the low light. "Tell me about them."

On stage, one of the dancers lets out a sultry laugh that echoes through the club. Jungkook doesn't even blink. His attention is laser-focused on you, waiting for your next move like this is all some elaborate game of chess.

"My last position was..." you pause, watching his ring catch the light as his fingers tighten infinitesimally around his glass, "particularly demanding. The kind of job that keeps you up at night."

His smile grows wider, showing teeth. "I can imagine. But that's what I appreciate in my employees— dedication. The willingness to do whatever it takes."

The music shifts to something slower, heavier with bass. Jungkook's knee brushes yours under the table, and this time it doesn't feel accidental.

"Even if it means getting your hands dirty?" you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them.

Something flashes in his eyes, triumph, maybe. Or hunger. He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Especially then," he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. "Though I have to admit, you don't strike me as someone afraid of a little mess."

Your heart pounds against your ribs as he reaches across you, arm brushing your collarbone as he sets his empty glass on the table. The movement brings his lips close to your ear.

"Tell me, Joanna," your false name drips from his tongue like honey-coated poison, "what exactly are you willing to do for this position?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze at close range. This close, you can see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow. Can count his individual lashes.

"Whatever's necessary," you breathe, watching his pupils dilate. "I'm very... thorough in my work."

His exhale ghosts across your lips. "Are you?" One hand slides from the back of the booth to rest on your bare shoulder, fingers tracing patterns that feel like threats. "Even when it gets messy?"

The touch burns through your skin, but you hold still. Like facing down a predator. "The messier the better, Mr. Jeon."

His grip tightens fractionally on your shoulder. "Call me Jungkook."

On stage, the music builds to something primal, all bass and breathy moans. The dancer's silhouette writhes against the backdrop of red velvet. But in your booth, time seems to stop, crystallizing around the dangerous game you're playing.

"You know," his thumb brushes your collarbone, "I had someone look into your background."

Your pulse skips, but you don't flinch. Can't flinch. "Find anything interesting?"

His laugh is low, dark. The kind of sound that promises violence. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing before six months ago." His fingers trail up to the spot behind your ear where Jimin's mark had been. "It's like you appeared out of thin air."

"Maybe I did."

"Or maybe," he leans impossibly closer, lips brushing your ear, "you're very good at covering your tracks."

Heat pools in your stomach, warring with the ice in your veins. Every instinct screams to put distance between you, to run. But you're trapped between his body and the leather seat, his cologne filling your lungs with each breath.

"Tell me, Jungkook," you turn your head, letting your lips brush his jaw as you speak, "do you always investigate your dancers so thoroughly?"

His other hand finds your knee beneath the table, fingers splaying across bare skin. "Only the interesting ones." His grip tightens, thumb stroking slow circles that make your breath catch. "Only the ones with secrets."

You feel his smile against your temple. "And you, Joanna? You seem like you're full of them."

His thumb continues its torturous path along your knee, each circle drawing slightly higher. The touch burns through your skin like a brand, setting every nerve ending alight. You can't remember the last time someone made you feel this unraveled, this desperate to maintain control while your body betrays every attempt at composure.

"So many secrets," he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel his smile widening. His cologne fills your lungs with each shortened breath, making your head spin. Or maybe that's from the heat of his palm sliding higher up your thigh, fingers splaying possessively across bare skin.

The rational part of your brain screams that this is dangerous, that you're losing control of the situation. But your treacherous body leans into his heat like a moth to flame. Your eyes flutter shut as his other hand traces patterns on your shoulder that feel like ownership, like promises of violence wrapped in silk.

His breath fans across your neck, lips barely grazing your pulse point. "I wonder what other surprises you're hiding."

A small sound escapes your throat- half gasp, half surrender. Your fingers grip the leather seat beneath you, nails digging in deep enough to leave crescents in the expensive material. The music from the stage feels distant, muffled under the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Then. A shift.

The pressure of his fingers lessens incrementally. His breath moves away from your neck, the loss of heat making you suppress a shiver. When you force your eyes open, he's leaning back slightly, watching you with dark satisfaction.

"Tell me something," he says, voice dropping lower as his hand stills on your thigh. "Do you always get this... affected during job interviews?"

The question cuts through the haze like ice water. You watch as he withdraws completely, each movement deliberate and controlled. He straightens his perfect suit jacket, adjusts the heavy silver ring on his finger. All trace of intimacy bleeds from his expression, replaced by cool professionalism, except his eyes. His eyes still burn with dark amusement at your flushed state, at the way your chest still rises and falls too quickly.

"Well," he says, tone shifting to something lighter, almost casual. But there's a edge underneath, sharp as a razor. "I think you'll make an excellent addition to ARK 45."

You force your breathing to steady, trying to ignore how your skin still tingles where he touched you. How your body aches at the sudden loss of contact. His calculated withdrawal feels like another form of torture, knowing he can affect you this way and simply choose to stop, like flipping a switch.

"The position is yours, if you want it." Each word is crisp, businesslike. But the slight quirk of his lips betrays his satisfaction at your struggle to compose yourself. "You'll start tomorrow night. Eight sharp."

The smirk playing at the corners of his mouth grows wider as he watches you process this shift. This is what he wanted: to prove he could unmake you with a touch, then sit there looking perfectly composed while you try to piece yourself back together.

His eyes gleam in the low light, and the message is clear: he owns this game.

"I should check on the other girls." He glances at his Patek Philippe, the gesture unnecessarily theatrical. "Busy night."

You watch him stand, every movement fluid and precise. Like a predator who's finished playing with his food for now. The leather of his shoes catches the stage lights as he steps back from the booth, giving him just enough space to button his suit jacket with practiced ease.

"Oh, and Joanna?" The fake name rolls off his tongue like a threat wrapped in velvet. "Wear red tomorrow. It suits you."

His eyes drift pointedly to your lips, then lower, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical touch. You know he's remembering the other night - you in that red dress, grinding against him to The Weeknd while he played along with your charade.

He turns without waiting for a response, without a second glance. Like you're already forgotten. The dismissal stings more than it should.

The leather seat still holds his warmth, a ghost of his presence that makes your skin prickle. Through the crowd below, you catch glimpses of him, the broad line of his shoulders, the predatory grace in his movements. Bodies part for him instinctively, and you notice how the other dancers' eyes follow his movement, some with hunger, others with barely concealed fear. Even Angelina straightens her spine when he passes.

He stops at the bar, and even from here, you can see how the bartender's hands shake slightly as she pours his drink. Everyone in his orbit seems to vibrate at a different frequency. Like planets circling a black hole, both drawn to and terrified of getting too close.

You press your own trembling fingers against the cool glass table, watching condensation gather beneath your skin. Your thigh still burns where he touched you, each point of contact a silent reminder of how easily he'd played you.

You're supposed to be better than this. You've tortured men twice his size without breaking a sweat. Have ended lives with the same hands that are now unsteady against the table's surface. The Viper doesn't get rattled by pretty boys in expensive suits.

Except Jungkook isn't just a pretty boy, is he?

The way he'd touched you, like he knew exactly how it would affect you. How he'd pulled back at the precise moment you started to lose control. Each word, each gesture calculated for maximum impact.

Wear red tomorrow.

Your lip catches between your teeth as you watch him disappear into his office. The entire interaction plays on loop in your mind: his fingers on your skin, that dangerous smile, the sudden shift to cool professionalism. Like a choreographed dance where you'd somehow missed half the steps.

On stage, the dancers transition into something slower, more sensual. The spotlight catches on their jewels, sending fractured light across the walls like broken glass. Like the shattered pieces of your usually impeccable composure.

What kind of game is he really playing?

The champagne bubbles mock you from their crystal prison, and you resist the urge to knock the glass over. To create some small chaos in his perfectly controlled world. Instead, you dig your nails deeper into your palms, using the sharp pain to center yourself.

Two can play at whatever this is. Tomorrow night, you'll be ready for him.

At least, you hope.

The untouched champagne mocks you as you finally push yourself up from the booth. Your legs feel steadier now, the trembling in your hands replaced by something more familiar: determination. Tomorrow, you'll be ready for whatever game Jungkook's playing. Tonight, you just need to get the fuck out of here.

The music thrums through your bones as you navigate the upper level, each step carefully measured in your Louboutins. The red soles flash with every movement, reminding you of his parting words.

Wear red tomorrow.

Your heel catches on the last step down from the VIP section when a solid wall of expensive fabric collides with you. The sound of glass shattering cuts through the music, followed by a string of creative expletives.

"What the fuck?"

You steady yourself against the railing, taking in the man before you. Honey-blonde hair, sharp features twisted in fury, and a white button-down now soaked through with what smells like top-shelf whiskey. The liquid darkens the fabric, making it cling to what's clearly an expertly muscled frame.

"Watch where you're fucking walking," he snarls, accent thick with anger. His eyes flash dangerously as he assesses the damage to his clothes.

Something hot and familiar rises in your chest. The same feeling you get right before you make someone bleed. Your body shifts automatically, weight transferring to the balls of your feet. You catalog his weaknesses with practiced ease - the slight favor of his left side, the exposed tendons in his neck, the way his anger makes him drop his guard.

Three moves. That's all it would take to put him on his knees. Heel to instep, elbow to throat, knee to solar plexus. You can almost taste the violence, feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath your hands.

"Maybe you should watch where you're going," you snap back, straightening to your full height. "Or is spatial awareness not a requirement for whatever it is you do here?"

His eyes narrow, jaw clenching. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

Your fingers curl into a fist, nails biting crescents into your palm. The urge to hurt him pulses through your veins like poison. You imagine grabbing the broken glass at his feet, showing him exactly who you are by opening his throat right here on the club floor.

He notices your stance, the predatory stillness that's overtaken your body, and his lips curve into something cruel. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Try it."

You're moving before you can think better of it, body coiling like a spring. The distance between you closes to inches, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the moment his eyes widen as he realizes his mistake in challenging you.

But then you catch it— movement in your peripheral vision. In the VIP section above, Jungkook lounges against the railing, watching the scene unfold with undisguised amusement. His dark eyes meet yours, and that familiar smirk plays at his lips.

The reminder of where you are, who you're supposed to be, hits like cold water.

You force your body to relax, untangling yourself from the knife's edge of violence. The smile you plaster on feels like broken glass in your mouth. "I'm so sorry about your shirt. Send me the cleaning bill?"

The blonde's eyebrows shoot up at your sudden shift in demeanor. He opens his mouth to respond, but Jungkook's voice cuts through the tension.

"Taehyung." Just the one word, but it carries weight. A warning, maybe. Or a command.

Taehyung's posture changes instantly, though the anger still simmers in his eyes. "We're not done," he mutters, low enough that only you can hear.

You watch him stalk toward the VIP section, those expensive shoes crushing broken glass beneath them. When you glance back up, Jungkook is still watching you. His grin widens like you've just confirmed something he suspected.

Like you've just played right into his hands.

The broken glass crunches beneath your heels as you turn away, forcing yourself to maintain an easy stride despite the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. You can feel Jungkook's eyes following your movement, heavy as a physical touch. But you don't look back. Won't give him the satisfaction.

The main floor feels suffocating now, with too many bodies, and too much perfume mixed with smoke and expensive liquor. Your skin prickles with awareness, hyperconscious of how many of these faces might report back to him. How many are watching your exit, cataloging every micro-expression?

The cool night air hits your face like salvation when you finally push through the entrance doors. Rain still falls in sheets, casting halos around the street lights and turning the sidewalk into a mirror of neon reflections. Your hair will be ruined, but you welcome the excuse to duck your head as you navigate to your car.

It's only when you're safely behind the wheel, rain drumming against the roof, that you let out the breath you've been holding. Your hands shake slightly as you pull out your phone, droplets of water falling from your hair onto the screen.

You stare at Jimin's contact for a long moment before typing:

Need to meet. Now.

The response comes before you can even set the phone down. One word, like a command:

Côte.

Of fucking course. Trust Jimin to pick the most pretentious restaurant in the city after the night you've had. The kind of place where the waiters look down their noses if you can't pronounce 'bouillabaisse' with the proper French inflection. Where they serve portions that wouldn't satisfy a toddler and charge more than your monthly ammunition budget for the privilege.

He's probably already there, sipping some overpriced wine and charming the staff with his perfect pronunciation while you sit here in rain-soaked designer wear, still trembling with the urge to break Taehyung's pretty face.

You start the engine, watching rain cascade down the windshield. In the rearview mirror, ARK 45's red glow bleeds into the night like an open wound.

Time to find out just how deep this one goes.

Côte buzzes with the quiet murmur of New York's elite, the soft clink of crystal, the whisper of expensive fabric, the gentle scrape of silver against bone china. Every table draped in pristine white cloth, every surface reflecting the warm glow of crystal chandeliers.

Jimin sits at a table dead center in the dining room, positioned like a king holding court. His suit is different from this morning, a black Tom Ford that probably costs more than a car. The rosary still hangs at his throat, catching light with each breath.

He doesn't look up from his wine when you approach, just gestures to the chair across from him with two fingers. The movement is elegant, casual. Terrifying.

"You're late," he says, voice pitched just loud enough to carry across the table. A waiter materializes beside you, pulling out your chair with practiced efficiency.

"Traffic." You slip into the seat, hyperaware of the other diners. A couple to your left celebrating an anniversary. Business meeting three tables over. Everyone within earshot of whatever game Jimin wants to play.

His eyes finally meet yours as he sets down his wine glass. "How was your evening?"

The question sounds innocent enough, but his gaze is sharp as a blade. Testing.

"Productive." You accept the wine list from the hovering waiter, not bothering to open it. "My interview went well."

"Wonderful." He smiles, the kind that makes people think of angels instead of demons. "The Château Latour, François. The 1982, I think."

The waiter's eyes widen slightly at the casual mention of a wine that costs more than he makes in a month. "Excellent choice, monsieur."

Jimin waits until François retreats before speaking again. "And the entertainment? Up to standard?"

You think of Jungkook's hands on your skin, of Taehyung's fury, of the violence you'd barely contained. "Exceptional. Though I had a small wardrobe malfunction."

His finger traces the rim of his glass, the motion hypnotic. Deliberate. "Nothing that can't be fixed, I hope?"

"No permanent damage." You hold his stare, refusing to look away first. "Though I might need to adjust my approach."

"Hmm." The sound is noncommittal, but his eyes darken fractionally. "The clientele can be... demanding. Particularly the regulars."

François returns with the wine, going through the elaborate ritual of presentation and pouring. Jimin maintains perfect posture, the picture of refined wealth, while you fight the urge to drain your glass in one go.

"I noticed," you say once the waiter disappears again. "One seemed particularly interested in my qualifications."

Jimin's lips curve slightly. "Natural talent tends to draw attention."

"The foie gras to start," Jimin tells François without consulting the menu. "For both of us." His eyes never leave your face, studying every micro-expression like he's reading a book written in your skin. "And perhaps you could tell me more about these... qualifications they found so fascinating."

You watch him take another sip of wine, the motion deliberately slow. The crystal catches the light, sending prisms across the white tablecloth between you. "Standard interview questions. Experience, availability, flexibility."

"Flexibility," he repeats, setting down his glass with precise care. "Essential in any new position."

A couple at the next table laughs at something, the sound jarring against the tension coiling between you and Jimin. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on either side of his place setting. The position looks casual, but you recognize the predatory intent behind it.

"And the dress code?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "Did they have any specific requirements?"

Heat crawls up your neck as you remember Jungkook's parting words. Wear red tomorrow. "They seem to have strong opinions about color."

"Red, perhaps?" The corner of his mouth twitches. "It does suit you. Particularly when it's fresh."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. The double meaning hits like a slap, red like the dress he'd given you, red like the blood you spill for him. You force yourself to take a measured sip instead of throwing the contents in his perfect face.

"They also seemed interested in my... previous work experience."

"Did they?" Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "And how deep did that conversation go?"

François appears with the foie gras, arranging the plates with flourish. Jimin sits back, that angelic smile returning as he thanks the waiter in perfect French. But the moment François retreats, his expression shifts back to something hungrier.

"Every detail," he says softly, cutting into the foie gras with surgical precision. "I want to know every detail of how interested they were."

You mirror his movements, cutting into your own foie gras with deliberate care. "The owner took a particular interest."

"Did he?" Jimin's voice remains light, conversational, but his knuckles whiten slightly around his fork. "How hands-on of him."

The foie gras turns to ash in your mouth as you remember Jungkook's fingers on your thigh, that calculated intimacy. Jimin watches you swallow, his dark eyes catching every tell you're trying to hide.

"Very." You take another sip of wine to wash away the memory. "He has an interesting approach to personnel management."

The businessman three tables over laughs too loudly at something his companion says. Jimin doesn't even blink, his focus razor-sharp on your face. "I imagine he does. Did he share his management philosophy?"

Your thigh burns with phantom heat where Jungkook had touched you. Where Jimin had marked you the night before. "He believes in testing boundaries."

"Testing?" His tongue catches the word like it's something sweet. "Or crossing them?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you wait until the footsteps fade before responding. "Both, I think."

Jimin sets down his fork with careful precision, the small clink against fine china somehow ominous. "And did you let him?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. You know he's not really asking about Jungkook's tests, not entirely. The marks he left on your skin throb beneath your dress, a reminder of boundaries already crossed.

"I played my part," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken. "Though there was a small... incident with one of his associates."

His eyebrow raises a fraction. "Oh?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I'm sure." He reaches for the wine bottle, refilling your glass with practiced ease. The motion brings him closer, and his cologne mingles with the rich scent of the food. "Though handling things isn't always the wisest course of action, is it?"

"Depends on the situation," you say, watching him settle back into his chair. "Some things require a... delicate touch."

"Ah yes." His smile is razor-sharp. "And you're known for your delicacy. Like a bull in a china shop." His eyes flick to something over your shoulder. "Speaking of which, François? We'll take the lamb. Rare."

The waiter appears to clear your plates, and Jimin's expression shifts seamlessly into practiced charm. The transition is terrifying, the way he can slip between masks like trying on clothes.

"Though I have to admit," he continues once François disappears, "I'm curious about this associate. The one you handled so delicately."

You think of Taehyung's fury, the whiskey soaking his shirt. The way Jungkook had watched it all unfold like it was a show put on for his entertainment. "Just a minor misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding." He tastes the word like the wine, letting it roll over his tongue. "The way a hurricane is a minor weather event?"

Heat crawls up your neck. "He started it."

"What are you, twelve?" But there's something almost fond in his mockery. It vanishes as quickly as it appears, replaced by that calculating stare. "Tell me, did our friend upstairs seem amused by your little display?"

The memory of Jungkook's knowing smirk makes your stomach clench. "Extremely."

"Mm." Jimin's fingers drum once against the stem of his wine glass. "How fascinating. The mighty Viper, reduced to bar room brawls and schoolyard excuses."

Your nails dig into your palm beneath the table. "Would you prefer I'd killed him instead? Made a scene? Blown my cover on the first—"

The word dies in your throat as Jimin's eyebrow arches a fraction. The subtle movement is more effective than a slap, reminding you of the couples dining nearby, the waiters hovering within earshot. Your voice had risen just enough to draw a curious glance from the businessman two tables over.

"What I prefer," Jimin says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "is precision. Control." His smile remains perfectly pleasant, but his eyes promise consequences. "Perhaps we should discuss your methods of subtlety instead? Besides attempting to assault his inner circle?"

The weight of his stare makes you reach for your wine glass, needing something to do with your hands. Something besides imagining how satisfying it would be to wipe that controlled expression off his face.

"Well?" He leans back slightly as François approaches with the lamb, switching seamlessly into the role of gracious diner. "Merci, François. C'est parfait."

The meat on your plate is exactly as he ordered, blood red in the center. You wonder if he's trying to make a point.

"The owner," you say once François retreats, keeping your voice carefully modulated. "He had questions about my background."

"I'm sure he did." Jimin cuts into his lamb with surgical precision. "And did our thorough friend find what he was looking for?"

The memory of Jungkook's words echoes in your mind: It's like you appeared out of thin air. "He seemed... satisfied with the interview."

"Satisfied enough to hire you, apparently." Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "Though I have to wonder what kind of performance earned such a quick decision."

The double meaning in his words makes your chest tight. You watch him take a deliberately slow bite of lamb, the crystal chandelier above casting shadows across his features that make him look almost demonic.

"I maintained my cover," you say carefully. "Like you asked."

His laugh is soft, barely a breath. "Did you? Because from what I hear, you gave quite the... private audition."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. How does he—

"I do love," he continues, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, "how dedicated you are to your roles. Tell me, did he request the same song as last time? Or did you choose something new for the occasion?"

Your fingers tighten around the crystal stem until you're half afraid it might shatter. Around you, the restaurant continues its elegant dance of clinking silverware and murmured conversations, oblivious to the way your world tilts on its axis.

"Don't look so shocked," Jimin says, cutting another piece of lamb with meticulous care. "Did you really think I wouldn't have eyes in his club? That I wouldn't hear about my secretary grinding against New York's most eligible bachelor to The Weeknd?"

Heat crawls up your neck, but you force yourself to maintain eye contact. "You sent me in there to get information."

"Information." He lets the word hang between you, sharp as a blade. "Is that what you were getting when he had his hands on your hips? When you were putting on a show for him in that pretty red dress I bought you?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you both pause, masks of polite dinner conversation sliding seamlessly into place. But the moment he's gone, Jimin's eyes turn predatory again.

"Tell me," he says, voice dropping lower, "did you enjoy it? Playing dress up for him? Letting him touch what's mine?"

The possession in his tone makes your stomach flip. You think of last night, of his hands on your skin, his teeth in your shoulder. Of how quickly he'd switched to cold professionalism this morning.

"What I am," you say carefully, "is whatever you need me to be for the job. Isn't that what you pay me for?"

His smile is all teeth. "Oh, sweetheart. I pay you to kill people. Everything else?" He takes a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours. "That's just you getting carried away with your performance."

"Getting carried away?" The words taste like battery acid on your tongue. "Like last night, you mean? Was that part of the job too?"

His expression doesn't change, but something dark flashes behind his eyes. "Careful."

"Why?" You lean forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid someone might overhear how you bent your secretary over your windows? Or is it only a problem when Jungkook's the one touching me?"

François materializes at your elbow with dessert menus, and Jimin's face shifts into that perfect smile. "The crème brûlée, I think. Two." He waits until the waiter disappears before continuing, "You're playing a very dangerous game right now."

"I learned from the best." You watch his jaw tick at your tone. "Tell me something— did you plan it? Send me to his club in that dress, knowing what would happen?"

"And what exactly happened?" His fingers trace the base of his wine glass, the motion hypnotic and threatening all at once. "Besides you spreading your legs for the man who's trying to kill us both?"

"You're one to talk about spreading—"

"I own you." The words are soft, precise, but they hit like a physical blow. "Every breath, every move, every drop of blood you spill— it's all mine. Or did you forget that while you were auditioning for your new position?"

The businessman at the next table signals for his check. A woman laughs somewhere behind you. The normal sounds of the restaurant feel surreal against the electricity crackling between you and Jimin.

"How could I forget?" You smile, sweet as arsenic. "You make sure to remind me every time you send me to kill someone. Every time you dress me up like a doll and point me at your enemies. Tell me, is that what last night was? Another reminder of ownership?"

His pupils dilate slightly. "Would you like another one?"

The crème brûlée arrives in pristine white ramekins, the caramelized sugar gleaming like amber in the low light. You watch Jimin crack through the surface with his spoon, the sound sharp as breaking bones.

"You haven't answered my question." His voice is velvet-soft, lethal. "Would you like another reminder of who you belong to?"

"Here?" You gesture subtly to your surroundings with your own spoon. "In front of all these nice people? How scandalous, Mr. Park."

His eyes flash at your mocking tone. "You didn't seem concerned about scandal when you were putting on a show in Jungkook's office. Tell me, did he make you beg for the job? Or did you offer that up freely?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you."

"Jealousy?" He laughs, the sound cutting through you like glass. "Why would I be jealous of him playing with what's already mine?"

Your spoon clinks against the ramekin harder than necessary. "Is that what I am? Your toy?"

"No, sweetheart." He leans forward, close enough that his breath fans across your face. "You're my weapon. And weapons don't get to choose where they're aimed."

"But they can misfire." The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and dangerous in the space between you.

His smile grows slowly, predatory. "Is that a threat?"

"A reminder." You meet his gaze steadily. "Since you're so fond of those."

Something shifts in his expression, a crack in that perfect control. His hand moves under the table, and suddenly his fingers are wrapping around your knee, right where Jungkook had touched you hours before.

"Careful," he says again, but this time it sounds like a promise. His grip tightens just shy of painful. "You're forgetting yourself."

"Am I?" You don't pull away from his touch, even as his fingers slide higher. "Or am I just reminding you that weapons can cut both ways?"

"You know what I think?" Jimin reaches for the wine bottle between you, his movements liquid and precise. "A good vintage is all about control."

He stands slightly, leaning across the table to refill your glass. The motion brings him close enough that his cologne mingles with the wine's bouquet, close enough that you can see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Too much pressure," he continues, angling the bottle with practiced ease, "and everything spills over."

The elderly couple at the next table glances over with polite interest, and Jimin's smile widens. He turns to them, bottle still poised above your glass.

"The '82 Latour," he says conversationally, like he isn't in the middle of threatening you. "Have you tried it? The tannins can be quite... overwhelming if not handled properly."

The woman practically preens under his attention. "Oh, how lovely. Richard, didn't we have that at the Bennett's last summer?"

"Indeed." Jimin's hand is perfectly steady as he finishes pouring your wine. "Though personally, I find it's best to let it breathe. Some things require patience to reach their full potential." His eyes lock with yours as he settles back into his seat. "Wouldn't you agree?"

You take a deliberate sip of wine to avoid responding, watching him over the rim of your glass. The elderly couple continues to eye him appreciatively, completely unaware of the game he's playing.

"The key," he says, loud enough for them to hear, "is knowing exactly how much pressure to apply." His fingers drum once against the stem of his own glass. "Too little, and you waste its potential. Too much..." He trails off, smile sharpening. "Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

The elderly woman - who introduces herself as Margaret, practically glows under his attention. Her husband Richard nods along, completely taken in by Jimin's performance. You watch him work, recognizing this for what it is - another form of torture, drawn out in public where you can't do anything but sit and take it.

"Take my colleague here," he says, gesturing to you with his wine glass. "She has quite the... refined palate. Always willing to try new things."

Your fingers tighten around your own glass as Margaret turns her interest your way. "Oh, how wonderful! Are you in the wine business as well?"

"She's my secretary," Jimin answers before you can speak. "Though she's recently taken on some additional responsibilities. Haven't you, darling?"

The endearment drips like poison from his lips. You force a smile, playing your part in his little show. "I like to stay busy."

"She's being modest." Jimin swirls the wine in his glass, watching the light play through the dark liquid. "She's quite talented at... handling delicate situations. In fact, she has a new position starting tomorrow night."

Richard perks up at this. "Congratulations! Where will you be working?"

Your mouth goes dry as Jimin's eyes meet yours over the rim of his glass. He's really going to do this, discuss your cover job at a strip club with this sweet elderly couple in the middle of Côte.

"A very exclusive establishment," Jimin answers smoothly. "Members only. The owner is quite particular about his employees." His smile sharpens. "Especially the ones who perform."

Margaret claps her hands together. "Oh, how exciting! Is it that lovely new theater in Manhattan? Richard, what's it called? The one with the red lights?"

You nearly choke on your wine.

"Not quite," Jimin says, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Though there are certainly theatrical elements involved. The costumes alone are quite memorable."

Your heel connects with his shin under the table— hard. His only reaction is a slight tightening around his eyes, but you feel a savage satisfaction at the contact.

"Speaking of memorable," he continues, not missing a beat, "you simply must try this vintage. François?" He signals the waiter with two fingers. "Please bring our friends here a taste of the Latour. On me."

Margaret tries to protest, but Jimin waves her off with practiced charm. "I insist. After all, some pleasures are best shared, wouldn't you agree?" This last part he directs at you, voice laden with meaning.

François arrives with fresh glasses, and you're forced to watch as Jimin guides the couple through the proper tasting technique. His voice is hypnotic as he describes the notes of black fruit, the hint of tobacco, the way it opens up on the palate.

"The true art," he tells them, "is in the finish. The way it lingers." His eyes find yours again. "Some things are designed to leave a lasting impression."

You think of the bruises hidden beneath your dress, of the marks he'd left on your skin. Of how he's marking you again now, in a completely different way.

"Of course," he adds, "not everyone appreciates such refinement. Some prefer their pleasures more immediate. Raw." He takes another slow sip. "But those tend to leave a bitter aftertaste."

The threat in his words is clear. Jungkook is beneath you. Beneath us.

"More wine?" He's already reaching for the bottle again, standing slightly to lean across the table. The motion brings his face close to yours, and his next words are pitched low enough that only you can hear them. "Since you seem so thirsty tonight."

Your pulse jumps at his proximity, at the dangerous edge in his voice that their audience can't detect. Margaret and Richard are too busy savoring their wine to notice the way Jimin's hand trembles slightly as he pours, the only sign that his perfect control might be slipping.

"Tell me," he says, loud enough for the table to hear again, "what do you think of the finish? Does it satisfy your particular tastes?"

The conversation is cut short with a ring erupting from Jimin’s suit pocket.

Namjoon's call lasts exactly thirty-seven seconds. You count them, watching Jimin's face remain perfectly composed as he listens. Only the slight whitening of his knuckles around the phone betrays anything amiss.

"When?" A pause. "I see."

He ends the call with the same precision he uses to end lives, clean, efficient, and final. The elderly couple barely notices when he signals François, too engrossed in their wine to catch the predatory shift in his movements.

As the valet brings his Bentley around, rain starting to fall in earnest now, he tells you Jiwon is missing. One of his most trusted men— gone. At the snap of a finger. This will be an issue for tomorrow.

You're already stepping toward your car when his voice cuts through the humid air.

"Get in."

Two words, soft as a bullet before it's fired.

The leather seat is cold against your back as you slide in beside him. He doesn't speak, doesn't even look at you as he pulls away from the curb. The engine purrs beneath you as he takes the first corner too fast, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, cataloging each micro-expression like you would a mark before a kill. His jaw clenches and unclenches in a rhythm that matches the windshield wipers. The tendons in his neck stand out like rope under skin. His breathing comes slightly too quick, slightly too shallow.

A red light bathes the interior in crimson. He runs it.

Then another.

The city blurs past in streams of neon and shadow. You count his breaths, twenty-three too fast, fifteen too shallow. His fingers adjust on the steering wheel every forty-five seconds, like he's trying to maintain that last thread of control.

The elevator to his penthouse opens with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for the electricity crackling beneath his skin. An elderly woman with a small dog gets in on the thirty-fourth floor. You watch Jimin's mask slide seamlessly into place, perfect smile, perfect posture, perfect lie.

"Evening, Mrs. Chen."

His voice doesn't waver. Doesn't betray how his left hand trembles slightly at his side, how the muscle in his jaw jumps arrhythmically. The woman chatters about building maintenance as you climb higher, oblivious to the bomb ticking beside her.

Nintey-six floors have never felt so long.

The moment his door closes behind you, something shifts in the air. You can feel it - that last thread of control starting to fray. He stands perfectly still in the center of his living room, staring at nothing. At everything.

The first crack appears when he loosens his tie. The motion isn't smooth like usual - it's jerky, aggressive. He tears the silk from his throat like it's choking him.

Then his suit jacket. The fabric whispers against his shirt as he shrugs it off, letting it fall to the marble floor. You've never seen him treat clothing so carelessly.

His chest rises and falls too quickly now, each breath slightly more ragged than the last. You watch him rake fingers through his perfectly styled hair, destroying hours of careful grooming in seconds.

The lamp goes first.

The Tiffany piece you'd admired that night against his windows becomes a constellation of crystal across marble. The sound of its destruction seems to awaken something in him - something primitive and raw that's been lurking beneath his perfect surface.

You don't move when he disappears into his office. Don't flinch when he emerges with a baseball bat that looks wrong in his manicured hands. Just analyze the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders as he takes the first swing.

The glass coffee table explodes.

Then his flat screen, expensive and pristine like everything else in his life. The screen spiders with cracks before sparks fly from its dying circuits.

The grand piano becomes kindling under his methodical swings. Each string snaps with a discordant scream, like the instrument is dying. The sound mingles with his ragged breathing, creating a symphony of destruction.

His aim never wavers. Even in this, he maintains a terrible precision. The bat connects with his drink cart, sending bottles of thousand-dollar liquor cascading across marble. The scent of alcohol fills the air, bourbon and scotch and wine mixing with the ozone smell of destroyed electronics.

You catalog every detail with professional detachment. The way his white shirt darkens with sweat. How his perfectly pressed slacks tear slightly at the knee as he kicks through the wreckage. The precise angle of each swing, like he's conducting an orchestra of chaos.

When he finally stops, chest heaving and surrounded by destruction, you understand. This isn't about Jiwon disappearing. This isn't about business or territory or power.

This is about control slipping through his fingers like water.

Like you, dancing in Jungkook's office.

"He knew," Jimin says finally, voice raw. The bat clatters to the floor beside what used to be a Versace vase. "He fucking knew about Jiwon. About the ports. About—"

He cuts off, running shaking fingers through his ruined hair. You step carefully through the wreckage, glass crunching beneath your heels. He doesn't move as you approach, just stares at the devastation he's created like he's seeing it for the first time.

"This isn't about Jiwon," you say quietly.

His laugh is ugly, sharp enough to cut. "No." His eyes finally meet yours, and they're black holes in his too-pale face. "No it fucking isn't."

Liquor seeps into the hem of your dress as you stand in the wreckage, watching him piece himself back together. His chest still heaves with each breath, shirt clinging to his frame with sweat and effort. The perfectly styled hair you'd watched him ruin now falls across his forehead in damp strands.

He looks wild. Dangerous. More like the man who marks your skin than the one who signs your checks.

"You should go." The words come out rough, like they've been dragged across broken glass.

You don't move. Can't move. Something tells you this moment matters, that walking away now would shift something irreparable between you.

His eyes snap to yours, dark and feral. "I said—"

"No."

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp as the crystal shards beneath your feet. You watch his jaw clench, watch the muscle jump beneath skin that's too pale.

"You don't give the orders here." But his voice wavers slightly, betraying the cracks in his armor.

"Then give me one." You take another step closer, glass crunching beneath your heels. "Tell me what you need."

His laugh is all edges. "What I need?" He runs a hand through his ruined hair again, the gesture almost violent. "I need Jungkook's head on a fucking platter. I need to know how deep his reach goes. I need—"

He cuts off, throat working as he swallows whatever confession was about to spill out.

You're close enough now to smell his cologne mixed with sweat and spilled alcohol. Close enough to see the barely contained tremors in his hands, the wild pulse at his throat.

"Tell me." Your voice comes out softer than intended. "Tell me what you need."

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment you think he might grab you. Might press you against the wall and fuck you right here among the wreckage of his perfect life. Instead, he does something worse.

"Kill her."

The words slip out like a caress, barely above a whisper. You watch his face transform. the wild thing in his eyes crystallizing into something colder, more familiar.

"Miranda?" Your voice remains steady even as your pulse quickens. "She's not involved in this."

"Developing a conscience?" His smile is perfectly crafted to cut. "How disappointing. You've gotten too comfortable behind that desk, haven't you? Started believing your own cover story?"

The air feels thick, heavy with spilled alcohol and the ozone scent of destroyed electronics. A bead of sweat trails down your spine, making your dress cling uncomfortably.

"You're upset," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken at the observation.

"No, darling." He steps closer, glass crunching beneath his feet. "I'm just remembering what you really are. What I made you to be." His perfectly pressed shirt clings to his chest, dark with sweat. "A weapon. Nothing more."

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?" His breath comes quicker now, shallow. "You walk around my building like you belong there. Playing secretary, playing normal." He runs a hand through his ruined hair. "Have you forgotten what those hands are for? What you are?"

Heat prickles at the back of your neck. "I know exactly what I am."

"Do you?" He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne mixed with sweat and rage. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who's forgotten their purpose. Who's started thinking they're more than just a tool."

"And you look scared."

The words hit like a physical blow. His chest stills mid-breath, eyes going dark as pitch.

"What did you say?"

A drop of sweat rolls down your temple. The air crackles between you, heavy with violence and something else. Something rawer.

"You're terrified," you press on, even as your pulse races. "Jungkook's in your head and you can't stand it. So you're here, breaking your own things, trying to break me too."

"Get out." His voice drops to something dangerous, something barely controlled.

"No."

"Get. Out." Each word comes with a step forward, backing you against the wall. "Before I remind you exactly what you are. What you're for."

You hold his stare, even as your heart threatens to break through your ribs. "You mean before you remind yourself that you're losing control?"

His hand slams into the wall beside your head, making you flinch. His breathing comes in harsh pants now, chest heaving with barely contained violence.

"Leave," he grits out, voice raw. "Now. Before I do something we'll both regret."

You can feel the heat radiating off him, see the muscle jumping in his jaw. The perfect mask has cracked completely, leaving something wild and desperate in its wake.

Around you, his perfect life lies in ruins.

So you go, leaving him alone in his destroyed kingdom, both of you pretending not to notice how his hands shake as you walk away.

The elevator descends in artificial silence, only the subtle whir of machinery accompanying your reflection in the mirrored walls. Your hair slightly mussed, lipstick somehow still perfect. Like the confrontation upstairs was just a nightmare your body hasn't woken from yet.

Forty-seven floors to ground level. You count each one, using the numbers to steady your pulse. To push down the urge to go back up there and show him exactly what his weapon can do.

The lobby stretches before you in shadow and marble, empty except for the night security guard who barely glances up from his crossword. Your heels mark time against the floor, each step echoing your thundering heartbeat - too fast, too hard, everything threatening to spill over.

Night air hits your face when you exit the building, carrying the metallic tang of recent rain. The city spreads before you in sharp contrasts - neon bleeding across wet pavement, shadows pooling between towers of steel and glass. You inhale slowly, tasting ozone and exhaust and that particular Manhattan mixture of ambition and decay.

Bass thuds from an upscale bar ahead, all crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. You catalog the exits reflexively, the cameras, the blind spots. Old habits.

"Well, look what we have here."

The voice slides through the darkness like oil. Taehyung leans against a sleek black Mercedes, all dangerous grace in expensive clothes. His white button-down is rolled to his elbows, exposing ink that maps stories across his skin.

You catalog his stance with professional detachment, the same way you'd studied John strapped to that chair. Weight slightly forward, shoulders loose, that same arrogant tilt to his head that says he has no idea what's coming.

"Not tonight." You move to pass him, but he shifts, blocking your path.

"What's wrong, sugar?" Smoke curls from his mouth as he speaks. "ARK not hiring tonight? Or did they finally realize what kind of trash they were letting through the door?"

Fuuuuuuck it.

The first hit is pure precision, heel of your palm to his solar plexus, angled up and in. Just like you'd done to that businessman in Dubai last year. The cigarette falls from his lips as he doubles over, giving you the perfect angle to bring your knee up into his face.

The crunch of cartilage under your kneecap sends electricity down your spine. It's different from torture, faster, rawer. No time to savor each break and tear. But there's something beautiful in this too, in letting the violence flow through you like water.

He swings wild, trained but sloppy. You duck under his arm, noting how his stance betrays formal training. Boxing maybe, some Muay Thai. Everything too clean, too structured. Not like you, you were taught to end things.

Your elbow finds his kidney with surgical precision. The same spot you'd pushed the knife into that politician in Seoul. His grunt of pain is poetry, the way he tries to protect his side leaving his throat exposed for another strike.

The Mercedes alarm wails as you slam him against it, but you're already moving, letting momentum carry you both into the shadows of the alley beside the bar. This is what you're good at, making violence look like a dance, like something beautiful instead of brutal.

He tries to grab you, to use his size advantage, but you're already inside his guard. Your knee finds his liver, your elbow his temple. Each point of impact chosen with the same care you use when selecting knives for a job.

Your dress rides up as you move, but you don't care. This is what you are, not the secretary in designer clothes, not the dancer in red. This is your true face, painted in someone else's blood.

When he finally drops, you follow him down. One hand fists in his honey-blonde hair while the other draws back. His face is a masterpiece of destruction, nose crushed, lip split, eye already swelling shut. The kind of methodical damage that comes from years of practice.

You lean in close, letting him smell the Chanel on your breath mixed with his own blood. "Next time you decide to threaten me," your voice drops to barely above a whisper, "make sure you're ready for what comes after."

You leave him there, crumpled among garbage bags and broken glass. Your knuckles throb as you smooth your dress, check your reflection in a darkened window. A single drop of blood mars your cheek, you wipe it away with your thumb, watching it disappear into your skin like all evidence of violence eventually does.

The city swallows you back into its rhythm, the pulse of music from nearby clubs, the whisper of tires on wet asphalt, the steady beat of your heels against concrete. You rejoin the flow of normal people living their normal lives, carrying your savage satisfaction like a secret beneath your skin.

This is what you are. What you're for.

And for once, that doesn't feel like a curse.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #ark 45 #jungkook bts #jungkook au #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader smut #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #jimin #bts jimin #bts fanfic #bts x reader

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rosemaze-reveries · 10 months ago

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During an interview, the manor guests suddenly get a question about you. (Part 2)

hello hello! here is part 2 as promised. there are less characters than I hoped to write, but in exchange each blurb is a little longer than pt.1 !

part 1 can be found here

🦌🪼🤡🦎🪞🤕🕯️🎭

Q. Could you describe your relationship with (Y/N)?

🦌 Bane rubs his chin, tracing his memory. "Hm... Indeed, I'm familiar with that name. I'd suppose that's someone I knew when I worked for the DeRosses." He crosses his arms with a low, contemplative grunt, as if struggling to remember anything else. "I'd need a photograph." I happen to have a couple on hand, and he takes them gently. A long period of silence follows. After leafing through the photos for some time, he says: "I remember. They were always talking about marriage." With you? "Mm. I was never interested, but I never said no. Eventually I made them a ring from a scrap of iron. I hoped they'd stop visiting me if I satisfied them... It's too dangerous to come to the forest everyday." Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a ring of his own. "In exchange, they gave one back." He's been cherishing it all this time, even when he'd forgotten its origin.

🪼 Ivy - "I'm no stranger to feeling like I'm missing my other half, you know. That sense of loss is one of the only constants I have left. (Y/N) fills my emptiness, and without them it increases twofold." I open my mouth to ask, Do you think you could be soulmates? but then my eyes dart to the Yithian and I realize my mistake. Sorry, was that insensitive? Ivy is not amused with my implication that she might be interested in claiming (Y/N)'s soul. "My dear interviewer, I am a scholar, not a monster. Whatever you're insinuating, you're gravely mistaken."

🤡 Joker's face suddenly hardens, in spite of the fragile, twiddling-thumbs demeanor he'd shown me thus far. His hands ball into shaking fists and his lips purse, as if he's psyching himself up for a fight. Are you okay? I ask, preemptively guarding myself with my clipboard. Tears brim his eyes and the strength falls from his shoulders. He mutters out, "All I wanted was to be their sword and shield, their angel of light, and they left me out of my mind. Hahaha... Wanna know the biggest joke of all? I'd let them drive me crazy all over again."

🦎 Luchino's mouth stretches into a lazy grin. "That one's a cutie, eh? Had the pleasure of meeting them yet?" I shake my head, reminding him that (Y/N) is the focus of my current investigation. I guess his laidback attitude fooled me into saying too much. He promptly straightens his back, the smile fading. "Yeah... Yeah, from one researcher to another, I get the intrigue," he says. "But I can't say I fancy another guy using my love as a test subject."

🪞 Mary - "Do you take pleasure in nosing around a lady's private affairs? I'd expect more tact, even for an interviewer." The chill in her tone startles me. I sputter out something in my defense, but Mary huffs and waves me into silence. "(Y/N) is enjoying the privilege of being my right-hand. They're my favorite one so far, too. I dismissed the others without a second thought."

🤕 Naib - "On good terms." Wringing out any insightful answers from this man is tougher than I thought. In hopes of inspiring more of a reaction, I tell a small lie: When I interviewed (Y/N), they described a rather colorful affection for you... Almost immediately, Naib breaks eye contact and crosses his arms. But I still only get a guttural "Hm." in response. Can you confirm if this is true? I press. His answer is, once again, a curt "Hm." (Slightly more affirmative, I would say).

🕯️ Philippe - "My work has always stood as a testament to my love," he caresses the wax figure grafted onto his shoulder, "but shielding someone in life is a far greater challenge than honoring my losses. My worries are endless." Suddenly reminded of his sister's tragedy, I offer a sympathetic smile. Do you believe (Y/N) is in danger? Philippe returns my smile, though I can't make out the intent. "Of course. Evil lurks around every corner. At the very least, it won't reach them while I'm around."

🎭 Sangria - A fond smile graces her face as she recounts her memory. "It was clear to me after some time that I had disastrously entranced them." Then she adds, lightly, "I hadn't meant to, of course. At the time, I thought, I'm not looking for love—no, I'd had enough of it all—but soon, their smile would appear in my mind every time I sang. When someone gives you that much inspiration? You'd be a fool to let them go." She has a playful tone of voice, but I can tell (Y/N) means a great deal to her.

#SORRY FOR THE DELAY 😭 did not mean to disappear for a month oml #identity v #idv x reader #identity v x reader #bane perez x reader #ivy x reader #joker x reader #luchino diruse x reader #mary x reader #naib subedar x reader #philippe x reader #sangria x reader #idv imagines

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newtlesbian · 3 months ago

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urgent list part four

many messages are coming in. i apologize so deeply if they aren’t answered right away. i promise everyone will be given attention.

everyone who sees this please dont scroll away. the people in these lists are in horrible conditions and in desperate need of help. please give something to them it is very urgent.

food is very expensive and they are starving. it is becoming cold and they need warm clothes and blankets. these people need medical treatments. they need money to evacuate. i want everyone to really give something and not only reblog. please.

CLICK FOR PART ONE

CLICK FOR PART TWO

CLICK FOR PART THREE

check back for part five

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OLD LIST 1

OLD LIST 2

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1. URGENT. please send help immediately to khawla’s family. she is supporting her husband and three young children. she reached out to me saying she has an appointment tomorrow and needs money asap. this is a very serious situation and i want everyone to send something asap.

kawla-gaza05.tumblr.com is her blog please reblog the posts.

please send something now

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2. URGENT. abood and his wife maria reached out to me asking for help asap. they need 150 to buy flour as it has become overpriced. if everyone sends some help now they can reach this goal and this family will not have to go hungry.

abood-gaza21.tumblr.com is his blog. please reblog the posts

please send something now

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3. URGENT. fahed shehab is supporting a family of 8 people. this family needs your help as they are very close to reaching their goal. send something to them to help reach it now and end the wait.

fahedshehab-new.tumblr.com is his blog please reblog the posts

please send something now

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4. URGENT. majed is supporting a family including young children after losing the house they all lived in due to genocide terrors of the occupation. please send help with this link

@majedgerbawi on here. please reblog their posts

LOW. 8k out of 70k

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5. URGENT. mohammed salem is supporting his parents and 5 siblings while they all live in a refugee tent together. now his young son is in the hospital with a chest infection and they all need help

@s-sa-mo on here. please reblog their posts

CLOSE. 7k out of 10k

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6. URGENT. ahmed totah is supporting his family of 7 people including his parents, disabled grandfather, and sister. they have no blankets or shoes for the winter and are in dire need as the weather gets cold

@ahmedbm on here. please reblog their posts

LOW 85 out of 100k

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7. URGENT. muhammad is supporting his family with this link. He and his wife have 3 young children all under five years of age. they need your help to buy necessities like milk and food and to find safety.

@mohamed-resh9900 on here. please reblog their posts

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8. URGENT. abdul rahman hilles is the surviving husband of the martyred journalist ola al-dahdouh after they and their young child karam were targeted in another disgusting missile strike from the genocidal occupation paid for by a country you likely read this from. he and karam have been left damaged from the strike and the loss of their wife and mother. please help them recover and find safety together

@abedhilles on here. please reblog their links

LOW. 4k out of 35k

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9. URGENT. reem mohammad is supporting a family with young children while displaced and living in a tent. they are struggling with daily necessities and need financial help asap

@reemfamily on here. please reblog their posts

LOW only 30 out of 25,000!

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10. URGENT. Amany Ubeid is a 40 year old mother of 3 children ages 16, 14, and 9. they have lost their home and way of life. her husband has a skin disease and needs to pay for treatment. send help to this family asap

@amnyaburas on here. please reblog their posts

LOW. 2k out of 65k

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#dimension 20 #star trek #lesbian #election day #newmann #💌

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malleleothreesome · 1 year ago

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Stage Sex - Fellow Honest x Fem Reader (Part One)

🌟 summary: Fellow convinces you to become his latest star, taking your virginity shibari style in front of a live audience. ༶༶༶ 🌟 warnings: afab fem reader. Porn with plot – if the plot is him convincing you to partake in the porn. I didn't write this with the intent of it being dubcon (in my mind, reader is a willing participant, and I never describe her as otherwise), but please err on the side of caution if you're sensitive to that. It's starring Fellow Honest, after all – he comes prepackaged with manipulation skills. He does use a bit of his UM after reader already consents, and I refer to his magic as hypnosis, playing into the fact that you're obedient to him and he can use you as he pleases. There is a MAJOR VOYEURISM theme to this. He calls you names like "good girl", "slut" and "whore". In part 1 he helps bring you to clitoral orgasm for the first time while he jerks himself off. Also a few lines of cunnilingus and some fingering. Shibari bondage starts in part 2, additional warnings will be listed there. Please let me know in the comments if I missed a warning or tag idk I haven't written something of this caliber before. ༶༶༶ 🌟 word count: 7.2k words because I'm DERANGED ༶༶༶ 🌟 song: Carousel - Melanie Martinez "And it's all fun and games... 'til somebody falls in love"

Fellow Honest’s tail swung back and forth. He had certainly done his research, and all of that hard work would finally pay off. He watched as you entered the theme park, skulking in the shadows behind the rest of the students. You struck him as an outcast—no friends, no family. A beautiful girl from another world, with a figure that would make even the Gods themselves lust after. The only magicless human girl at the all boy’s magic college. Nothing to lose. How perfect.

“Hello, Miss…?” Fellow’s eyebrow raises as he tilts his head, leaning towards you on his cane. His calculated, fox-like eyes drink in every inch of you. Extending his right arm out to you, he welcomes your hand into his.

“Y/N,” you answer, a bit startled at his overt friendliness. Yet, you allow his white satin glove to grasp firmly around your hand.

“What a lovely name for such a breathtaking woman.” He bows forward to kiss your hand, maintaining fierce eye contact. In one swift motion, he turns toward his amusement park, wipes his mouth clean of your touch, and proudly waves his arm in the air to show off his property.

“Miss Y/N! Welcome to Playfulland!” he boasts. He turns back toward you, weaseling his way deeper into your personal space. “It is an incredibly rare occasion to welcome someone as beautiful as you into my humble little park.”

You dismiss his praise with a flick of your palm and a shake of your head, desperately hoping not to blush. “Oh, no need to be so modest, dear. A shape like yours could make any man fall in love. I doubt the students at the college are the only ones that appreciate it.” A sly smile is plastered on his face while his eyes continue to look you up and down with intention. Your mind runs wild as you try not to absolutely melt into his praise. “Are you sure you’re not a talking doll? It’s a marvel that a woman so flawless could exist.”

You smile softly and look to the ground, cheeks burning. You tuck a strand of hair awkwardly behind your ear, stalling for composure. How are you supposed to respond to a handsome, magnetic stranger saying all the right things? Not a single soul has spoken so highly of you since you found yourself trapped in this world, forced to attend Night Raven College. Your growing ego leaves you no choice but to soak it all in.

“Tell me, Miss Y/N. Have you ever thought about becoming a performer?” He doesn’t pause to let you answer. “Why waste your valuable early 20’s by studying and attending lectures and surrounding yourself with pathetic boys? Women as blessed as you are don’t need a degree. Surely a wealthy man can care for you far beyond a measly degree. And while you wait for him, why not fill your days with fame, riches, and adoration from performing on my stage?”

You stand in a stunned silence. This guy isn’t holding anything back, is he? Charm and charisma ooze from each syllable, making your heart race. It feels a little wrong, basking in the praise of a stranger like this. But you feel beyond lonely and underappreciated at NRC. You long to feel wanted and cared about. Why not give this attractive, complimentary man a chance?

Before you know it, the fox beastman's arms are wrapped around your torso, pulling you closer to him. "Oh, how rude I am!" he exclaims. "I haven't even given you my name."

"Allow me to properly introduce myself." With a quick spin of his heels, he steps back and bows, taking your hand once again. "The name's Fellow Honest, owner of Playfulland." He lifts his head, keeping his eyes locked on yours. "But please, you're welcome to call me whatever you'd like." He winks.

You could have sworn you felt a physical spark. Suddenly lightheaded, you pull your hand from his grasp, heart pounding in your chest. You can't take your eyes off him. You can't tell if your nervous system is trying to tell you to run towards or away from him. The longer you stare into his fire-orange eyes, the weaker your knees feel. He’s so close you can feel the heat emanating off of his body—is his perfume made of magic?

Something inside of you urges you to step away and re-evaluate. "Uh... I should probably get back to my friends," you stammer, trying to get your legs to move. "I'm sure they're wondering where I went. Thank you for the, uh, offer, though. I’ll think about it."

Fellow's arm is suddenly around your waist yet again, his fingers pressed firmly against your lower back as he pulls you close. Your eyes widen and your breathing hitches as you make contact with his chest. You feel his lips brush against your ear, and he whispers, "I have to insist, my dear. My employees are quite skilled, but you'd be the best thing that has graced my stage in years. It would be an honor to have someone of your caliber work for me."

His proximity. His hot breath on your ear. His possessive touch digging into the soft skin of your back. You feel a familiar flutter deep in between your thighs—you like this. You want to protest, to push him away, but the electricity between you is hypnotizing. His aroma—sweet wine and fresh roses—only adds to the spell, drowning out all logic and giving way to your body’s desperate pleas to take the lead.

"I have an office inside the theater where we can discuss this further, if you'd like," he purrs, and you can feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin. "And please, take all the time you need. You're welcome to stay the night. We have luxurious rooms available—a small taste of the lifestyle you’d have if you make the right choice. I'll have someone escort you back to campus if you change your mind."

Your eyes dart around, desperately looking for a familiar face—a way out. Where the Hell did Ace go?! What about Leona or Trey–surely your upperclassmen should have stuck around to make sure the only magically defenseless student isn’t being taken advantage of by any sexy, suspicious strangers. Not to mention the fact that you’re the only girl at school. Chivalry must be extinct in Twisted Wonderland. You feel your heart drop: maybe they never cared about you at all.

Fellow's tail flicks in excitement as he watches your expression. Your eyes are wide and panicked, and he can sense your desperation. He smothers his own smile as your body language slowly indicates defeat. How utterly effortless! He has you right where he wants you. You're his to play with, and no one is there to stop him.

"Come now, dear, it won't hurt to indulge a little," Fellow coos sweetly. Your brain short circuits, blocking all thoughts unrelated to the electrifying feeling of his slender fingers dancing along your waistline. "You're already here! Why not stay and have some fun?" His lips find their way to your neck and you let out a soft gasp as a pulsing warmth radiates from your cunt.

"Fine," you finally whisper.

Fellow chuckles victoriously against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. "I knew you’d be such a good girl." He spins you around, the sexual tension forcibly dissipating as he rips you from your lascivious thoughts and begins walking you down the cobblestone path. His hand rests on the small of your back, and his cane taps merrily against the concrete as you go. Your mind is still reeling from the shocking exchange, and you can barely match his pace as he escorts you to the grand theater.

You stifle a blush as you hear park goers whisper amongst themselves, eyes glued on you, mouths falling open. "Who is that? Is she a celebrity?”

“She looks like a supermodel,” a woman chimes in, her tone covetous.

Fellow would never waste an opportunity for free advertisement. He turns his head toward the group as you both keep walking. “Stick around ‘til after dark and you might just see this beauty show it all off on my grand stage!” He shouts, waving his cane in the air.

The two of you enter the theater and Fellow wastes no time leading you up the stairs toward a private hallway. His hand never leaves your waist. You pass several doors before reaching a pair of large, heavy wooden doors, which Fellow opens with ease.

You can't help but gawk at the size of his office. A massive, ornate wooden desk sits in the middle of the room, flanked by shelves lined with books and trinkets. There's a fireplace and two plush leather couches, as well as a small bar in the corner of the room.

"Please, make yourself at home," Fellow says as he closes the door behind him. He makes his way over to the bar, grabbing a bottle of wine with two glasses. You perch on one of the leather couches and he joins you, placing the wine and glasses on the table in front of you. As you inspect his office, you can't help but feel drawn to a mannequin adorned with a gorgeous bejeweled brassiere and matching pants—if there’s enough coverage to even call them that. Your faces heat up, and you quickly turn away.

"Beautiful, isn't it? One of my favorites," Fellow says, following your gaze. "Unfortunately, no one has had the pleasure of modeling it just yet." He furrows his brows in disappointment. He pops the cork on the wine bottle and begins to pour. "Maybe tonight will be the night. How lucky for me that I have the perfect model."

Something is starting to feel very exciting about all of this. You’ve never had an opportunity to wear such a costume. After being enrolled in Night Raven College only because Crowley didn't know what else to do with you, being here is starting to feel quite freeing. And the way Fellow looks at you… you’ve never felt more attractive. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, gifting you the courage and desire to be exactly who he believes you to be.

"Would you like to try it on?"

The question catches you off guard. He's now looking smugly at you. Your cheeks flush red, but you hold eye contact.

"Wh-what?"

"The outfit, Darling," Fellow says, nodding his head toward the mannequin. "You can try it on if you'd like." You take a long sip of red wine, savoring the smooth fruitiness. It immediately goes to your head, and you can't help but down the rest of it.

"Come now, Love," Fellow says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "We both know what you want."

You stare at the outfit and then back at him. Your whole body feels like it's on fire. This is a bad idea, right? Or is it?

"Okay," you say, almost surprising yourself.

Fellow claps his hands together in delight. "Wonderful! Don't worry, I'm a gentleman—I'll look away while you get changed."

You make your way over to the mannequin, wobbling a bit from the alcohol. The bra is a dark purple while the jewels are varying shades of blue, making the whole outfit glitter like the night sky. The "pants" are a matching, dark purple lace thong, with ribbon and jewel embellishments. There is a sparkling, sheer miniskirt attached, more of an accentuation than actual coverage. You reach out to touch the fabric, marveling at how silky it feels. It's so sexy. Imagining yourself wearing it on stage in front of thousands of people, with everyone staring at you, craving you, makes you a bit wet with excitement. Maybe you do want this.

You look at Fellow one more time to ensure he’s not peeping.

Reader, take note that Fellow is, in fact, peeping—through his pocket mirror that he is blocking with his body. He’s far too good at this.

Feeling secure, you unbutton your uniform blazer, letting it slide off your shoulders and onto the floor. You undo the buttons of your shirt next, slowly exposing your bare chest.

Fellow bites his lip as he stares into the mirror, watching in awe as you undress. Your body is even more incredible than he could have imagined.

You slip off your shorts and underwear next, leaving you completely naked except for your bra. Your hands fumble a bit as you unhook the costume, letting it fall to the floor.

Fellow feels his pants tighten.

You can feel yourself getting more aroused, the excitement of being naked in a room with a stranger—soon to show off a revealing costume—starts to go to your head. You grab the brassiere off the mannequin, throwing your arms through the loops, eager to see if you look as good in it as you hope you will.

Fellow takes his sweet time watching in the pocket mirror. He grins, pleased with your inexperience, watching carefully so that he can see every inch of your struggle, savoring in it. “Oh, how easy this is,” he thinks.

After finally finding the right combination of hooks and clasps, you manage to get the brassiere fastened. You gasp softly, feeling the cool jewels press against your nipples through sheer fabric. You can't help but feel like it was made specially for you. The way it pulls your boobs together to create perfect, plump cleavage gives you actual pride. You shimmy the panties on next, loving the way the lacy fabric rubs against your clit as you pull the thong taut against your hips—a tingling reminder that your body is desperate for any sort of friction that may be interpreted as pleasure. You give your ass a little shake as you put on the skirt, reveling in how good the material feels as it brushes against your bare skin. Engrossed in your own experience, you’re completely unaware that you're giving Fellow quite the show.

He can't help but lick his lips, reaching down to massage his groin through his slacks.

You spin around and strike a pose for your imaginary crowd, feeling powerful.

"Are you ready, my love?" Fellow asks, startling you out of your daydream.

He pockets his mirror and adjusts the front of his pants, trying to disguise his erection as best he can.

"I'm ready."

"Show me what you've got," he says. You both turn around to face each other and he gasps, his eyes widening and mouth falling open.

"My goodness, darling," he whispers. "You're exquisite."

The way he's looking at you makes you feel like the sexiest woman alive. You take a step forward, heart pounding in your chest. Fellow stands up, taking his cane in his hand. He walks over to you and stalks circles around you, gazing up and down as though inspecting merchandise. You yelp as his cold, hard cane smacks your ass.

Finally he stops directly in front of you, meeting your gaze once again. "Oh, Darling, you're an absolute vision." He cups your cheek with his hand, rubbing his thumb across your lips. He wears a sinister smile, and you feel your mouth run dry as you finally realize how sharp his fangs are. You're almost certain he can tell how turned on you are right now.

He pulls away to replenish your wine glass.

"I can't wait to see you dance, my dear. You're going to be a star." He gazes dramatically into the distance, waving his hand like he’s envisioning your name written in dazzling lights. He hands you the full glass and you gulp it down greedily, eager for the liquid courage. You don't even care that this man is a total stranger—it actually makes it hotter.

"Oh, one more thing," Fellow says. He stands up and walks over to the mannequin, opening a drawer next to it and grabbing a matching set of lacy thigh highs. He kneels down in front of you, and you rest your hand on his shoulder as he slips the stockings onto your feet. He repeats the process on your other leg, taking his time to run his hands up and down your thighs.

You bite your lip and look away, feeling embarrassed by how wet you are. He's so close to where you want him to touch you, and you're not sure how much longer you can stand this before giving in and doing something you might later regret.

Fellow stands up, his hands gliding up your legs as he does. He gently grabs your chin and tilts your head up so you're forced to look at him.

"What a naughty little minx," he whispers. "You're practically dripping." He smirks, once again bearing his fangs in the process.

Your eyes widen, cheeks flushing pink.

Fellow laughs. "Oh, there's no use hiding it, love. I can smell it." He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of your arousal. "It’s heavenly."

God dammit. You can't help but throw your head back in frustration from being outed so easily. Never underestimate a beastman's sense of smell.

He lets go of your chin and steps away from you. You let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding.

"Don't worry, darling," he says, making his way back to the bar. "I'll make sure you're properly taken care of." He refills his glass and downs it. He doesn't know how long he's going to be able to wait until he's inside you.

You try to get back on track to a more... professional topic. "So, is this the type of outfit I would wear if I were to perform?" You try to sound as innocent as possible.

Fellow laughs a slow, deranged, almost maniacal laugh that makes your skin crawl. "Oh, no, darling. Outfits like these are reserved for the backup dancers. With the plans I have for you, you'll be wearing far less." He sets his wine glass on his desk and opens one of the drawers, pulling out a roll of thin, dark brown rope. Your heart pounds in your chest as he walks toward you, unraveling the rope as he goes.

You stumble backwards instinctively and even in your drunken haze, you start trying to take note of your surroundings and look for the exit. "Is this a joke?" you ask, trying to sound as calm as possible. "You know you don't need to tie me up if you want me to stay, right?" You try your best to reason with him and hope to God you didn’t put yourself in harm’s way.

"Oh, I'm not tying you up to get you to stay, Miss Y/N." He puts on his most pleasant and agreeable facial expression, lips contorting into an innocent cat-like smile, eyes crinkled as he feigns benevolence. "It smells to me like you'd do that all on your own. Am I correct?" He tilts his head toward you and gazes into your soul with piercing, knowing eyes.

He makes a show of walking over to the door and opening it, waving his hand through the open air of the doorframe. "Make no mistake, I'm certainly not forcing you to stay here. You are welcome to leave right now. I'll even let you keep the outfit, if you’d like." He gives you a knowing smirk and continues to hold the door open.

You gulp, feeling the familiar heat between your thighs grow stronger. Your mind is racing, trying to think of every possible rationalization to feel safe staying—anything to get your pussy the relief it deserves. If he really was a predator—you try to reason with yourself—you'd probably be dead by now. And he was right, you do feel like you could get off, just from being tied up. Your body seems to be the decision-maker here, and it’s telling you to stay.

You shake your head at his offer. "No, I'm good."

"Wonderful," he purrs, his expression darkening. He slams the door shut and turns the lock, letting the thud of the door ricochet through your body. "Now then! The reason I am tying you up is for your performance. Just a few short hours until showtime!" He steps forward, closing the gap between you. He runs his fingertips down your bare arm, stopping to wrap them around your wrist. You shiver at his touch, your body instinctively leaning toward him, yearning for more. Your face flushes red with embarrassment and arousal. You don't understand how he's able to turn you on so easily.

"You see, my dear," Fellow begins, his voice soft and seductive, "I'm not the only one who's been watching you hungrily." You feel his hot breath on your neck as he brings his lips close to your ear. "Believe me, Doll, they're going to love what they see." He takes your hand in his and places it on the bulge in his pants. His cock throbs beneath his clothes and your eyes widen at how big he is.

"I'm not just a magician, but a master of hypnosis as well," he elucidates.

He's never before been so forthcoming in his whole career, but there's just something about you that makes him want to be upfront.

Truthfully, he hasn't had to use any hypnosis magic at all to persuade you. No, you wanted this on your own. Despite your innocence and reluctance—you wanted him. His cold heart skips a beat at the thought. He releases your hand and once again cups your cheek. He pushes a thumb past your lips and forces you to suck on it. A deep moan escapes his lips as the sensation of your soft tongue against his thumb runs straight to his aching loins. Removing his thumb from your mouth, he slides it down your chin, tracing your jawline before moving to your neck. You arch your back and press your body against his, feeling the tip of his thumb press along your jugular, sending chills down your spine.

"And I can assure you that by the time I'm done with you, you'll be the perfect little hypnotized whore." You shudder as his tongue traces the side of your neck—it feels so good. He continues to drag his tongue up to your ear, and you moan loudly as he suckles your earlobe. Your knees are giving out, so you wrap your arms around him for support. "That's the beauty of my magic, love. No prior experience necessary. I'll ensure you put on the show of a lifetime. Simply allow yourself to enjoy the ride." You whimper softly, unable to form coherent thoughts or speak intelligibly, too caught up in the way he's pleasuring you.

"But don't worry, Love," he says, his voice low and raspy. "You'll still remember everything when we're done."

Your head is dizzy, trying desperately to process his every word. You can't stop yourself from moaning as his hands continue to explore. As far as the current circumstances go, nothing matters, as long as he’s making you feel this damn good. He takes his time groping and squeezing wherever—and whatever—he can get his greedy hands on, relishing in the opportunity to touch your perfect frame.

Looking into your eyes, he's suddenly overcome with emotion—unusual for him. This isn't something he's ever done with his employees, but there is a twinge in his chest willing him to do it. Perhaps—just this once—he can deviate from the script. Fellow hungrily crashes his lips against yours, kissing you passionately. You melt against him, opening your mouth to grant him entry. You feel yourself losing control as he dominates your mouth, exploring every inch with his tongue. You grip onto his hair, pulling him closer. His fangs lightly graze your bottom lip and it makes you shiver. The way he kisses you is so possessive and needy, and it's driving you wild. You've never been kissed like this before. His hands travel down your body and grip your ass tightly, causing you to yelp. Your hands claw at his blue coat and green vest, desperately trying to remove his clothes so you can feel his bare skin. He growls into your mouth before breaking the kiss.

"Eager little thing, aren't you?" he murmurs against your lips.

You nod in response, gasping when he suddenly pulls away. Seeing how needy you are, he smirks, delighted at how much you want him.

"Oh, Darling. Why don't you save that for the audience?" he teases. "You're going to put on a good show for them, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'll do my best. I promise I'll make you proud," you gasp, feeling even more aroused by his words.

"That's a good girl." Fellow paces the room, circling you like a vulture. You can feel his eyes on you and can't help but squirm under his gaze. He grabs the rope from earlier, stopping right in front of you. His cane appears in his grasp, seemingly out of thin air. "Such a perfect little slut, so eager to please. I bet you'd do anything I asked you to, wouldn't you?" he asks, spinning his cane with the flick of his fingers, utilizing his hypnosis magic for the first time that day. He needs to ensure your loyalty lies with him.

"Yes." You answer without reluctance.

Fellow's cane magically disappears from his hand. "Such a good little whore." He takes a strand of your hair in his fingers and twirls it before gently tucking it behind your ear. "Now, a few more formalities before we get you ready for the stage. Shall we?" You flinch at the sound of him smacking the rope against the floor, like he's trying to command a circus animal.

Your mind is fuzzy, body practically burning with desire—you don't even notice him guiding you to his desk. He bends you over the hard wood, your breasts and stomach pressing against the cool surface. He presses his body against yours, his erection grinding between your ass cheeks, and you can't help but moan. Fellow rips off his gloves, tossing them aside. His right hand snakes around your body and reaches into your panties, his fingers rubbing against your wet clit. He slips a finger inside you—finally.

"My, my…" he whispers. "So wet for me already. You’ll look so beautiful when you're on stage for everyone to see. My precious little toy."

Your breathe heavier as he continues to fuck you with his finger, tantalizingly slow. Just as you open your mouth to beg for more, he slips his finger out of you and slams a contract on the table in front of you.

"I need you to sign this first. Standard contract," he says casually. "This is a business, after all." He drops a pen within your reach. All the while, he continues grinding against you, his clothed cock rubbing against the sheer fabric of your panties, further tantalizing your throbbing clit. "Go ahead, Darling. I can't wait to show you off."

You sign your name on the dotted line, quickly dismissing what seems to be the final roadblock in your path to pleasure. There's nothing else in your psyche than how badly you need him to fuck you. Your pussy aches with desire—you can't wait any longer. "Please. Please, fuck me," you whimper, begging him to give you what you want.

"Oh, Darling," he purrs. "All in due time."

Fellow leans in close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "I wonder how many people will come tonight just to see this pretty little body of yours?" he asks. "How many men and women will stare at you, touching themselves as you writhe in pleasure? I bet you can't wait for them to see how much of a needy little whore you are. You were born to be a star." His voice is soft and seductive as he plays on your desperation.

"Now. Let's get you out of these clothes." He expertly unhooks your bra with a single hand. With a swift yank, it falls to the floor, revealing your perfect tits, hard nipples on full display. "Beautiful. So deliciously plump and round, my flawless doll."

You're still bent over the table as his fingers snake into the elastic waistband of your skimpy skirt and thong. He pulls it taut, ready to tear it right off of you... but he hesitates, remembering its one-of-a-kind value. Squatting slightly, he gently pulls your skirt and panties to the floor, utilizing the opportunity to bask in the aroma and view of your now-exposed pussy. He grabs your thighs where the stockings are and, quite impatient, rolls them down as his fingernails trail lines down the flesh of your legs in the process. He guides your feet out of each leg hole, revealing your full nudity. Seeing your juices glisten makes his eyes light up, mouth curling into a grin. His mouth waters and he inhales deeply, savoring your sweet scent. He can't help but lean for a taste, his tongue gliding against your folds and lapping up your essence. Your knees buckle as his warm, wet tongue explores your deprived cunt. Nothing has ever felt so good. Your entire body trembles and you cry out in pleasure. He keeps his hands firmly planted on your ass, holding you in place as he continues to lap up your pussy. It feels so good, it's almost painful. He pulls away after a moment and you whimper at the loss of contact.

"So, tell me, Love. Are you a virgin?" he asks with a sneaking suspicion. He traces his fingertips down your spine, awaiting your response.

You shudder, the feeling of his fingers on your bare skin is so tantalizing. "Yes," you answer, unable to hold back your excitement.

Fellow's eyes widen, surprised by how easy it was to get you to admit that. He smirks, continuing to caress your back. "Ah, perfect," he hums. "What a privilege it is to deflower you." He reaches for his phone on his desk and utilizes the speech to text feature to say one thing: “We’ve got a virgin.” He clicks the display off and gives you a wink. "The marketing team will start advertising for a very special show tonight. I wonder how many people will come to watch me break in a virgin? I'm sure we'll sell out! An incredibly rare specimen indeed."

His words send a chill down your spine. The thought of thousands of people watching you lose your virginity excites you even further, and you find yourself becoming increasingly aroused. Your whole body is hot—you can't help but squirm as your juices slowly drip down both legs. You shudder, picturing an entire audience getting aroused, their attention rapt on you. Just the thought of how many people will want you... all of those horny people, with their eager bodies and impatient erections at the sight of you losing your innocence. A hot sensation pools deep in your belly and your clit throbs with need. You roll your hips back toward him, wordlessly indicating your desires.

He pockets his phone, delighted that the plan is progressing so flawlessly. "Tell me, my dear, have you ever orgasmed before?" You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and you shake your head. He grins, leaning in closer, his tail swishing between his legs and up onto your throbbing clit. It tickles so good. "Have you ever touched yourself?" Your body heats up, and a wave of shyness washes over you as you attempt to suppress a groan. He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear you say it. He wants you to surrender yourself completely. "What a beautiful thing, modesty…" he muses. "Tell me, Dear. No need to be so shy." Your face is turning a dark crimson, and he's never found something so appealing in all his years.

"No. Not successfully," you answer softly. You've never been able to get yourself off. Your hands would wander as you'd lie in bed, desperate to find some sort of relief, but it never came. You've never had that pleasure before, and you were starting to think you may never experience it.

"Oh, Darling, you poor thing. I'll have to take care of that for you. I know all the tricks.” Hearing the zipper of his pants, you gasp in anticipation. He takes his cock out of his boxers and you feel the flesh of his hardened tip slide over your wet labia. He takes your hand in his and guides it to your clit, teaching you how to circle your fingers around it in the perfect motion.

"Just like that, Love," he whispers, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "You're doing so well. Doesn't that feel good?" You moan softly as he continues to guide you, his free hand on his cock, sliding up and down its length, using your never-ending juices as lubrication. He bucks his hips slightly as he starts to jerk himself off, letting out a quiet moan, teasing himself and rubbing his cock head against the sopping wet folds of your untouched pussy—knowing he has to save it if he wants a fruitful show. The way your face contorts and your lips part with desperate pleasure, he suddenly has to fight himself not to lose control and break your hymen right then and there.

Knowing that Fellow can’t help but touch himself to you amplifies the pleasure even further. Your fingers continue to dance over your clit and for the first time, it feels amazing. Every nerve in your body is electrified, your breath coming in short pants. Your hand feels like it's floating through space as he moves you like a puppet, directing your motions the way that he wants you. He rubs himself a bit faster as he watches you writhing, becoming more desperate and vocal than before. His own lust becomes insatiable. He’s sculpting you into the perfect masterpiece, just the way he likes it—his own custom sex toy.

"Just imagine all those people in the audience," he murmurs. His hand quickens on his cock and he groans. His hand over yours speeds up to match his pace, and he adds more pressure to show you exactly how to pleasure yourself. "All of those hungry eyes on you, craving every inch of you…" His hips jerk slightly and he moans, losing himself to his own dirty thoughts. Your clit is throbbing so painfully that tears begin to form at the edges of your eyes. He has never seen anyone become so intoxicated with the simple idea of him before, and you don't even realize how loud and desperate your moans and cries have become. His face flushes every time you scream his name, and your beautiful expression fills him with the greatest satisfaction, an image forever imprinted in his brain. The sight of you, so eager to please him—he knows now that he'll never let you go.

You feel yourself approaching explosion—the very first time—and your muscles tense in response. "Oh, fuck, every single one of them will be touching themselves, getting off to the sight of you, desperate to be where I am right now. And here you are, moaning my name as I prepare you, just aching for me to bring you to your first orgasm. You'll look so beautiful when I pop that sweet little cherry of yours."

He groans and bucks his hips, jerking himself off faster and faster. Your clit throbs, ready to explode. "You want to cum, don't you, darling?" His voice is low and husky, and he pants heavily. "Cum for me, darling, cum for me. I want to hear you scream for me." Your toes curl, knees buckling in ecstasy. He guides your hand even faster over your clit. "That's it, Love, just let go." His voice is the sweet encouragement that pushes you over the edge, almost on command. You feel a strange electricity ripple through your leg muscles, a release that exceeds every single thing you thought you knew about pleasure.

Your first true orgasm rips through your body like a tornado, tearing apart any inhibitions and preconceived notions about reality. Everything around you turns bright white as euphoria sweeps through your body, wave after wave leaving you moaning and shaking uncontrollably in his arms. Your legs feel like jelly, and it becomes impossible to hold yourself up. His fingers leave yours, transferring their tight grip to your hair, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him as he fucks himself furiously to the sight of you. You were like putty in his hand, melting and molding according to his wishes—a perfect, brainwashed, fucked-out little slut.

Fellow lets out a strained grunt as he orgasms, painting your ass with his seed. He can't help but sigh in pleasure as he gazes lovingly at the blank and pliant expression on your face as he drains the rest of himself onto you. He sighs as his last spurts dribble from the tip of his cock, admiring how much he's marked you as his. You're still shaking and whimpering as you come down from your high, your face contorted in pleasure, your eyes glazed over and staring into nothing. You look absolutely fucked out, and he takes a moment to admire your blissful expression before finally releasing you from his grip. He gives you a small push, causing you to fall forward onto your hands. He takes a step back to admire his handiwork—your thighs are soaked with your own cum, and your ass is dripping with his.

"Such a good girl," he praises. "You did such a good job for me. You're going to be the best performer I’ve ever had. It's about time we take you to the stage to get you set up, my dear. You’re better than I could have ever imagined.” You can only gasp, too wrecked from your pleasure to respond in words. Fellow grins with satisfaction, memorizing the sight of his seed glistening all over your back, chuckling to himself as he wipes it off with a tissue. He tosses the tissue into a random corner of his office and then helps you find your footing again.

Gently lifting your chin, his gaze softens, mouth opening to form a gentle smirk. His thumb brushes against your trembling bottom lip, a caring and fond expression overtaking his features.

Your heart leaps into your throat as you begin to question the warmth in his smile and his affectionate gaze. Is your body's chemical response misreading signals, or are you witnessing evidence that Fellow perhaps has a bit more going on than simply taking sexual interest? A new, deeper desire to understand the mysterious man behind the curtain of your own experience begins to bloom in your mind. You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut as his hand cups your cheek. He leans down and places a gentle kiss on your lips and you return it, savoring the way his soft lips feel against yours. It feels so intimate, like a lover's kiss, and your heart flutters in your chest. You pull away and look into his eyes once more, trying to figure out what he's thinking, but you can't read his expression. His face is completely unreadable, granting you no indication as to whether you're making any progress in decoding him.

He takes off his coat and helps you put it on, wrapping you up to ensure your modesty is protected for your short walk to the stage. He takes your hand and guides you out of his office, your legs still shaking from climax.

You walk together in silence, hand in hand, your head still spinning as you try to process everything that just happened. You can't believe how incredible your first orgasm felt, and you're already craving another.

"What are you thinking about, Darling?"

"I'm thinking about how I’ve never felt that good before," you admit, blushing slightly.

Fellow chuckles. "That's very sweet," he says. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'll be sure to give you many more orgasms in the future." His grip on your hand tightens slightly, and you can't help but feel a sense of longing for him.

You continue walking in silence until you arrive at the stage. Fellow stops in front of the stage door and turns to face you.

"Are you ready, Love?" he asks, his voice gentle. He takes both of your hands in his and brings them to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly. His carnelian gaze holds yours, his hot breath dancing across your fingers. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.” Your heart swells and you feel yourself melting.

You nod enthusiastically and squeeze his hands, hoping he doesn't pick up on your nervous, pounding heartbeat. "I'm ready," you affirm, gazing intently into his beautiful, half-lidded eyes, feeling braver and more confident than you have all day.

He flashes a subtle smile. "Wonderful." He gives you one last peck on the cheek before turning to open the stage door. He places his free hand on your lower back and guides you onto the stage, leading you towards the center, where the lighting crew are busy at work. He introduces you and makes a show of presenting you to the crew—holding out your arm like he would for a debutante entering a ball, a prince presenting his chosen partner to a ballroom dance. The crew whistle and holler as you walk onto the stage. All you can do is stand there with the distinct smile of a hypnotized-yet-willing participant in the world's most eccentric 18+ theater. Their ogling is the furthest thing from your mind, as your attention remains firmly rooted on the charismatic manager in your grasp.

"Sorry, Boys. This one is mine. No one can have her but me." He places his hand on the side of your arm and pulls you close to him, draping an arm over your waist possessively.

As you glance up, your breath catches and your heart skips a beat; your adoring, hungry gaze is returned by his, a mirror of your own emotions shining through in his flaming irises. There's something strange about his stare—there always is. His face betrays some of that vulnerability again, an instance where he's truly letting his guard down, a crack in his meticulous and calculated visage. It’s a warm hint of softness that signals what he said to the crew might ring true outside of these walls as well.

Fellow turns back toward the crew as a new scene is placed before them, and within a split second, he resumes his demeanor of a business-oriented gentleman. "One hour ‘til showtime. Make her shine, People! We want the audience drooling the second she gets on stage!" He holds out his hand, his cane reappearing like magic. "Have fun in makeup!" He winks at you, the flick of his head gesturing you away.

Stylists appear behind you, and you reluctantly release your hold on him. He flashes a reassuring smile as you are guided away, a bewitchingly charming smile settling onto his lips. You head backstage, and he turns to get back to business.

Damn, if you made it all the way down here... wow. Thank you so much for spending this time with me. If you enjoyed this, that means a lot to me because this is pretty much just a self indulgent fic I started writing as soon as Fellow dropped without really knowing too much about him. I haven't begun writing part two, but I have my general ideas of where I want it to go. If you have suggestions for part two, please comment or send me an ask, I'd love to hear your thoughts! ❤️ Erica Malleleothreesome

#Fellow Honest #Fellow Honest Smut #Twisted Wonderland Smut #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader smut #twst smut #twst x reader smut #twst fellow honest x reader smut #twst fellow honest smut #ferro honest #ferro honest smut #twst fellow #twst ferro #fellow honest x reader #ferro honest x reader #twisted wonderland fellow honest #stage in playful land #my writing

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flowercrowngods · 1 year ago

Text

who did this to you. part 3

🤍🌷 read part 1 here | read part 2 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie. now with robin!

The number rings in his head, echoing off the inside of his skull and sinking lower and lower until his heart strings join the symphony that leaves him shaking as the memory of Harrington’s slurred voice is drowned out by the dial tone that feels harrowingly like a flatline right now.

Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.

Eddie doesn’t really feel like his body belongs to him anymore, or like there’s anything left inside him other than panic and fear and that stupid, stupid shaking that he can’t suppress even as he bites his knuckles. Hard.

The pain helps a little not to startle too much when the dial tone stops and a female voice begins speaking to him. Still he almost drops the phone, cursing under his breath as he pulls his hair to collect himself and get his voice to work.

“H— Hi, hello, Mrs Buckley? This is, uh. I. I’m. A friend of Robin’s, could you, uh—“

“Oh, of course, dear,” the woman says, and Eddie feels his eyes beginning to prick with how nice she sounds even through the phone.

Does she know Steve, too? Would she worry if she knew? Would she curse Eddie for not taking him to the hospital right away? Would she blame him if anything happened?

“I’m sorry? What did you say your name was?” she asks, repeating herself by the sound of it.

He blanks, for a whole five seconds, before he spots a note stuck to the fridge saying Don’t forget to eat, Eddie :-)

“Eddie,” he croaks. “Uh, Eddie Munson.”

“Alright, Eddie Munson, I’ll see if I can grab Robin for you. You have a good day, dear, yes?”

No. “Thanks.”

The hand clenched in his hair pulls tighter and tighter until the tears fall and he can pretend it’s from pain and not from— whatever the fuck is happening.

He waits, phone pressed to his ear with a kind of desperation he’s never really felt, and never wants to feel again. He doesn’t even know what to tell Robin; what to say. It’s not like they ever hang out or have anything to say to each other, so why would she—

“Munson?” Robin’s voice appears on the other end, a little too loud for Eddie’s certain state, and he does drop the phone this time, scrambling to catch it and only making the situation worse as it dangles by his knees.

He drops to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and reaching for the phone again.

“Hi.”

“What do you want? How’d you even get this number? I swear, if you—“

“It’s Blue. I mean, Steve. Harrington.”

That shuts her right up, and Eddie clenches his eyes shut for a moment, hoping to keep the tremor out of his voice if only he takes a moment to breathe.

The moment stretches. And Robin’s voice is wary and quiet when she speaks again.

“What about Steve.”

Eddie rubs his face, leaving more dirt and grime to fill the tear tracks, and clenches his fist before his mouth.

“Eddie,” Robin demands, dangerous now. Nothing left of the rambling, bubbling mess he knows her to be on the school hallways. “What. About. Steve.”

“He… He’s hurt.”

There’s a bit of a commotion on the other end, before Robin declares, “I’m coming over. You tell me everything.”

“You— I mean, he’s in the hospital with my uncle, so—“

“I am. Coming. Over,” she says, enunciating every word as though she were making a threat. Maybe she is. But the certainty in her voice helps a little, anchors him the same way that Wayne’s calmness did. “And you tell me everything.”

Eddie finds himself nodding along, knowing intuitively that there is nothing that could stop her now. Knowing that he doesn’t want to stop her.

“‘Kay.” It’s a pathetic little sound, all choked up and tiny. She doesn’t comment on it.

One second he hears her determined exhale, the next she’s hung up on him and Eddie is greeted by the flatline again. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans his head back against the wall.

Breathing is hard again, but it’s all he has to do now, all that’s left to do, so he focuses. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. His lungs are burning and there’s something wrong about the way he pulls in air and keeps it there, desperately latching onto it until the very last second, his exhales more of a gasping cough than calm and controlled.

It takes a while. Longer than it should. But with Harrington’s blood still on his hands, with his heartbeat in his ears so loud he can’t even hear the words Wayne used to say about breathing in through the mouth or the nose or… or something, he—

He’s fine. He’s home. Wayne’s got Blue, and Buckley is on her way, and… He’s fine.

People don’t just die.

They don’t.

He’s fine.

Eventually, Eddie manages to breathe steadily, the air no longer shuddering and his hands no longer shaking. It’s stupid, really, being so worked up over someone he doesn’t even really know. Sure, everyone knows Steve fucking Harrington, and everyone sees Steve fucking Harrington — whether they want it or not. He has a way of drawing eyes toward him even if all he does is walk the halls with his dorky smile and that stupidly charming swagger he’s got going on. Always matching his shoes to his outfit.

Eddie can relate.

Always reaching out to touch the person he’s talking to; clapping their back or shoulder, lightly shoving them in jest, ruffling their hair or chasing them through the halls, moving and holding himself like teenage angst can’t reach him. Like he belongs wherever he goes. Like he’s so, so comfortable in his own skin. Like the clothes he wears aren’t armour but just a part of him; a means of self-expression.

Again, Eddie can relate. He can relate to all of this.

It’s almost like the two of them aren’t so different after all. Just going about it differently.

And now he’s… Bleeding. Slurring his speech. Wheezing his breath. And Eddie feels protective. Eddie feels responsible. Like he should be there, like he should get to know more about him. About Steve. About Blue.

But he can’t. And he won’t. So he gets up with a groan that expresses his frustration and the need to make a sound, to fight the oppressive silence that only encourages his thoughts to run in obsessive little circles, and he hangs up the phone that’s been dangling beside him all this time.

He needs a smoke.

He needs a smoke and a blunt and a drink and for this day to be over and for time to revert and to leave him out of whatever business he stumbled into by opening the door to the boathouse and, apparently, Steve Harrington’s life.

But unfortunately, the universe doesn’t seem to care about what he needs, because just as he steps outside and goes to light his cig, he catches sight of a harried looking Robin Buckley, standing on the pedals of her bike as she kicks them, her hair blowing in the wind to reveal a frown between her brows. A wave of unease overcomes Eddie, an unease he can’t really place. Maybe it’s the set of her jaw, or the tension in her shoulders, or maybe it’s the worry and anger she exudes.

It never occurred to him before that Robin Buckley might not be a person you’d want to set off. And not because of her uncontrollable rambles.

“Munson!” she calls over, carelessly dropping her bike in the driveway and stalking toward him.

Almost as if summoning a shield, Eddie does light the cigarette. Pretends like the smoke can protect him.

She doesn’t stop at the foot of the steps, though, climbs them in two leaps and gets all up in his space with that unwavering look of determination — so unwavering, in fact, that it almost looks like wrath. Cold. Eddie wants to shrink away from it, not at all daring to wonder what could make her look like that upon hearing that Steve’s hurt.

I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture.

But those are the words of a semi-conscious teenage boy beat to a pulp, they can’t— There’s no way. Eddie misheard him, or Steve was talking about some kind of inside joke, using the wrong terminology with the wrong guy. It happens. It happens when you’re out of it, really! The shit he’s said when he was shot up, canned up, all strung out and high as a kite… He’d be talking of monsters, too, and mean some benign shit.

But the way Harrington looked, none of that was benign. The bruising all over his face, the blood still dripping from the wound by his temple or his nose, the way he held himself, breath rattling in his lungs, or—

“Hey!” Buckley demands his attention, giving him a light shove; just enough to catch his attention, really, and just what he needed to snap out of it. Still the smoke hits his lungs wrong and he coughs up a lung, further cementing his role of the pathetic little guy today.

“Hey,” he says lamely, his voice still croaking as he crushes the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know for what. But it feels appropriate.

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him as she crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Tell me,” she says at last, and even though there is a tremor in her voice, she sounds nothing short of demanding. “I want the whole story, and I want it now.”

And so he does. He tells her everything, bidding her inside because he needs the relative safety of the trailer even though the air in here is stuffy and still faintly smells blue. He pours them both some coffee and some tea, because asking what she wants doesn’t feel right in the middle of telling her how he found her supposed best friend beat to shit in the boathouse he went to to forget about the world for a while.

She stills as she listens to him, staring ahead into the middle distance somewhere beneath the floor and the walls, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug of coffee. Eddie stumbles over his words a lot, unsettled by her stillness, her lack of reaction. She doesn’t even react to his fuck-ups. People usually do.

He wants to ask. Where are you right now? What have you seen? What’s on your mind? What the fuck is happening?

But he doesn’t ask, instead he tells her more about Steve. About how he seemed to forget where he was. About the pain he was in. About the smiles nonetheless. The way he reassured Eddie.

That one finally gets a choked little huff from her, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds like him alright. He’s such a dingus.”

There is so much affection in her voice as she says it that Eddie can’t help but smile into his mug.

“Dingus?” he asks, hoping for some lightness, hoping to keep it.

But the light fades, and her eyes get distant again. Eddie wants to kick himself.

“Just a stupid little nickname. An insult, really.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to do with that. If he should ask more or if he should say that he has a feeling Steve might appreciate stupid little nicknames. Especially if they’re unique. Especially if they’re for him. But what right does he have to say that now? What knowledge does he have about Steve Harrington that Robin doesn’t?

So he bites his tongue and drinks his coffee, cursing the silence that falls over them as Robin mirrors him, albeit slow and stilted, like she doesn’t know what to do either. Or where to put her limbs.

“Wayne’s got him now. I took him here, after the boathouse, because I didn’t know what to do. He said he didn’t want the hospital, said there’s…” He trails off.

Robin looks at him, her eyes wary but alert. “Said there’s what?”

It’s stupid. Don’t say it.

“Eddie?”

With a sigh, he puts his mug on the counter and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He said there’s monsters. In the hospital, I mean. He said that.”

Instead of scoffing or at least frowning, Robin clenches her jaw and nods imperceptibly, her eyes going distant again. Eddie blinks, the urge to just fucking ask overcoming him again, but with every passing second he realises that he doesn’t actually want to ask. He doesn’t want to know, let alone find out.

He just… He just wants to go to bed. Forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t do that, so he continues.

“Brought him here and Wayne took one look at him and convinced him he needed a doctor. And, Jesus H Christ, he was right. I’ve never… I mean, those things don’t happen,” he urges, balling his hands into fists even in the confined space of his pockets. “Right? I mean… Shit, man.” He bumps his shoe into the kitchen counter; gently, so as not to startle Buckley out of her fugue like state.

“You’d be surprised,” she rasps, staring into the middle distance again and slowly sinking to the floor. There is a tremor in her shoulders now, barely noticeable, but Eddie knows where to look. Without really thinking about it, he grabs two of his hoodies he’d haphazardly thrown over the kitchen chairs this morning while deciding on his outfit and realising that it was altogether too warm for long sleeves today. But now, right here in this kitchen, the air tinged with blue, they’re both freezing.

Because fear and worry will take all the warmth right from inside of you and leave you freezing even on the hottest day of the year.

She barely looks at him when he holds out his all-black Iron Maiden hoodie to her, freshly washed and all that, but she takes it nonetheless, immediately pulling it on. It’s way too large on her, her hands not showing through the sleeves, her balled fists safe and warm inside the fabric. It would make him smile if only it didn’t highlight her stillness, her faraway stare, and the years he has on her. She’s, what, two years younger than him? Three?

It seems surreal. Everything, everything does.

Robin Buckley in his home, sitting on his kitchen floor, swallowed by a hoodie that is a size too large even for him, but it was the last one they had in the store and he doesn’t mind oversized clothes, can just cut them shorter when the need arises or layer them or declare them comfort sweaters for when he wants to just have his hands not slip through the sleeves on some days. And now Robin is wearing his comfort hoodie because her best friend was bleeding in his car earlier and then on his couch and now in his uncle’s car, and they never even talk, but he knows that Robin’s favourite colour is blue, but not morning hour blue because that makes her sad; only deep, dark blues.

Her favourite colour. Her favourite person.

It’s so fucking surreal.

He drops down beside her, leaving enough space between them so neither of them feels caged, and mirrors her position: knees to his chest, chin on his forearms. Staring ahead.

And silence reigns.

“Your uncle,” she says at last, finally breaking the silence that’s been grating on Eddie’s nerves and looking at him, really looking as she rests her cheek on her forearms crossed over her knees. “Tell me about him.”

There is a gentleness to her voice now despite how hoarse it is. Maybe she’s just tired, too. And scared. At least the shivering has stopped.

Still Eddie frowns, confused as to why she should be breaking the silence to ask about Wayne when everything today has been about Harrington. About Steve. About deep and dark blues.

“Uncle Wayne?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because,” she begins, and sighs deeply, works to get the air back in her lungs. Eddie wants to reach out, but instead he just clenches his fingers a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. “My best friend is hurt very badly and the only person with him is your uncle, and I need to know that he’s in good hands. Or I swear to whatever god you may or may not believe in, and granted, it’s probably the latter, but still I swear I’ll give into my arsonist tendencies and burn down this city, starting with your trailer if you don’t tell me that your uncle is a good man who will do anything in his power to make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs. And deserves.”

Her jaw is set and her bottom lip trembles, but it doesn’t take away from the absolute sincerity in her threat.

“So, please,” she continues, her voice breaking just a little bit. “Tell me. Tell me about your uncle.”

Tell me about your favourite person.

Eddie swallows, and mirrors her position once more, so she can see his eyes and know he’s sincere. Because he’s learned something about eyes today, about how much in the world can change if only you have a pair of eyes to look into.

And he nods, looking for somewhere to start. “He’s the best man I know. He’s the best man you’ll ever meet.”

She clings to his eyes. Searches them for the truth, beseeching them not to lie. He lets her.

“Took me in when I was ten, because my dad’s a fuck-up and my mom’s a goner. Took me in again when I was twelve after I ran away. Makes me breakfast and I pretends the dinner I make him is more than edible.” He smiles a little, because how could he not? “He’s my uncle, but still he’s the best parent anyone could wish for. Writes those little notes that he sticks to the fridge, y’know, the one with the smiley face? Tells me to eat, because I forget sometimes. I tell him to drink water, because he forgets. First few years, he’d read to me. And the man’s a shit reader, has some kind of disability I think, and at some point I learned that he wasn’t reading at all. He was telling me stories all the time, conning me into thinking that the books were magic, and that every time I’d try to read the book for myself, the story would change.”

There’s a lump in his throat now, and his eyes sting again. But Robin doesn’t seem to fare any better than him if her wavering smile is any indication.

“There’s no one,” Eddie continues, “who will make you believe in magic quite like uncle Wayne. Or in good things. And d’you wanna know what he told Blue when he said he was scared of going to the hospital?”

Sniffling, Robin shakes her head.

“He said, Okay. Then we do it scared. And all of that after he just… with that patience he has, told him everything that was gonna happen. And that he’d be there with him through it all. That he knew the doc and wouldn’t let anyone else near him, and that there’s no need to be scared at all.”

He sighs, breathes, stills. Swallows, before looking back at Robin.

“So, if there’s one person who’ll make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs and deserves…”

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Robin finishes his sentence, her voice still hoarse, but Eddie likes to think it’s for a different reason now.

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Eddie says, nodding along as he does.

There is something like understanding in Robin’s eyes now, and Eddie hopes it’s enough. Enough to calm the spiking of her nerves, enough to settle the coil of freezing nausea that must reside in the pit of her stomach, enough to let the next breath she takes feel a little more like it’s supposed to be there.

He wants to say something more, wants to reach out and reassure her that everything will be okay, but he can’t know that. He doesn’t feel like it’s entirely true, let alone appropriate right now.

There’s something in Robin’s eyes, in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she accepts his words at face value but doesn’t really believe them. Like she’ll only rest when she’s got her best friend back in her arms and hears the story — the whole story — from him.

And Eddie doesn’t fault her, because the thing is, he doesn’t know what happened. Steve said that Hagan came at him, but that’s really all he got out of him before he started talking about death and shit, and Eddie really didn’t want to ask any more questions then.

So they sit there for a while, the silence oppressive and unwelcome, clumsy and awkward; Robin’s mouth opening and closing a lot, like she wants to ask questions but doesn’t dare to ask them — and Eddie doesn’t know if he’s glad about it or not. Doesn’t know if he wants to hear the kind of questions asked with that kind of stare.

It is only after a long while, when Robin’s shoulders start shaking again and she buries deeper into the hoodie and her own spiralling thoughts, that Eddie breaks the silence again, replaying in his head the last moment between him and Steve.

“He’s not gonna break,” he tells her, aiming for gentle and reassuring.

What he doesn’t expect is the minute flinch, the jolt shooting through her body and the pained expression it leaves her with. What he doesn’t expect is what she says next.

“You know,” she begins, her voice as far away as her eyes, and it’s like she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. “Sometimes I wish he would.”

What?

Eddie blinks, swallowing hard.

“Just for, just for a break. Just so he can rest. Let the rest take over for a while.”

That… He doesn’t— What the hell does that even mean?

“Like maybe then the world would… snap back.” She snaps her fingers, just once. This time it’s Eddie who flinches. “And everything bad would disappear. But it won’t. And he won’t.” She swallows. Then quietly, almost inaudible, “He won’t break.”

And the way she says it… It was reassuring before. And now it feels like a burden. A curse.

Who the fuck are you, Steve Harrington? And you, Robin Buckley.

Eddie shudders, knowing he doesn’t want the answer to that anymore. He doesn’t want the questions either. So he buries his face in his hands, closes his eyes, and breathes. The adrenaline has worn off by now, the repeated panicking that added fuse to the fire has ceased now, leaving him worn out and strung out, tired and exhausted. He pulls up the hood, burrowing into the warmth.

And then he stills. His usually twitching, fumbling, fiddling body falling entirely still beside Buckley.

It’s like time stops for a while there, even though Eddie knows that it’s dragging ever on and on. He’s inclined to let it, though. He’s too tired, too exhausted to really care about what time may or may not be doing.

“Why’d you call me?”

It takes a while for Eddie to realise that Robin’s spoken again, asked him a question out loud, the cadence of it different to the endless circles of questions Eddie’s got stuck in his head since the early afternoon tinged in blue against crimson.

He lifts his head, tucking his hands underneath his chin, and looks over at Buckley. Her hair is dishevelled now, her mascara smudged and crusty. Her lipstick is almost all gone, with the way he sees her biting and chewing on her lips.

“I… It seemed like the right thing to do, y’know? He kept repeating your number. In the car, it was like… Sounds dramatic, but it was like his lifeline, almost. Repeated it so often it kinda got stuck.” He shrugs. “Seemed important, too.”

Robin frowns; a careful little thing. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Well, he just talked about you. Y’know. Tell me about your favourite person, I told him, because that’s the thing you gotta do to keep people, like, talking to you. Not shit about what day it is, or what. Just, y’know. Let them talk about things they like. Things they’ll wanna tell you about. ’N’ he talked about you.”

She’s quiet for a while, letting his words sink in. And Eddie wonders if she knew. That she’s his favourite person. If he ever told her. If maybe he took that from him now. It’s a stupid thing to worry about, really; the boy was bloodied and bruised on his couch just an hour ago, there are worse things at hand for Eddie to worry about. But now he wonders if he just spilled some sort of secret. Some sort of love confession.

“Did you, I mean… Are you guys, like, dating? Did I just steal his moment?”

Robin huffs, but it’s more like a smile that needs a little more space in the room, a little more air to really bloom. It’s fond. She shakes her head, her eyes far away again, but closer somehow.

“Nah,” she says, and the smile is in her voice, too. Eddie kind of likes her voice like that. “We’re platonic. Which is something I’d never thought I’d say. Not about Steve Harrington, y’know?”

And the way she drags out his name… Eddie can relate. Like it means something, but like what it means is nowhere close to reality. Nowhere close to what it really means. Nowhere close to Blue.

Robin sighs, the sound more gentle than it should be, and leans her head against the cabinet behind her. “We worked together over summer break. Scoops Ahoy.” Her voice does a funny thing, and her eyes glaze over as she pauses. Eddie waits, his lips tipped up into a little smile, too; to match hers.

“What, the ice cream parlour?”

Robin hums, her smile widening at what Eddie guesses must be memories of chaos and ridiculousness. “I wanted to hate him,” she continues. “But try as I might, he wouldn’t let me. Or, he did. He did let me. Just, it turns out, there’s no use hating Steve Harrington, not when he’s so… So endlessly genuine. There’s nothing to hate, y’know? And then he…”

She stops, her mouth clicking shut as her eyes tear up a little. The Starcourt fire. Eddie remembers the news, remembers the self-satisfied smirk when he’d heard about it, remembers sticking it to the Man and to capitalism and to the idea of malls over supporting your friendly neighbourhood businesses.

Guilt and shame overcome him as he realises that they must have been in there when it happened.

“He saved your life?”

Robin’s eyes snap toward him, wide and caught, and Eddie raises his hands in placation.

“In the fire? Were you there?”

“Y—yeah.” She swallows hard, avoiding his eyes. “The fire. He saved me. Yeah.”

Eddie nods, deciding to drop that topic right there; to lay it on the ground as gently as he can and cover it with bright red colours so he never steps on it ever again.

“He must be your favourite person, too, then, hm?” he steers the conversation back away into safer waters.

“He is,” she says, sure and genuine and true. “It’s just. I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s favourite. He has a lot of people who care about him, you know? A lot of people he cares about. Even more numbers memorised in that stupidly smart head of his.” She huffs again, burrowing deeper into Eddie’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her hands some more. “It’s stupid, to be so hung up on this. Is it stupid?”

“I don’t think it is,” Eddie says, scooting a little closer to Robin. “Like, I don’t even know that boy, right? But even I know that he’s got some ways to shift your focus or something. Give you a silver lining, or something to take the pain away even when he’s the one who… I don’t know, that’s probably stupid, too.”

“Nah,” Robin says, scooting closer to him, too, until their sides are pressed together and she can lay her head on his shoulder. “It’s not stupid. You’re right; that’s Steve for you. ’S just who he is.”

It is, isn’t it?

You’re so blue, Stevie.

She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.

Blue. ‘S nice.

Yeah. Yeah, he is.

Eddie lets his thoughts roam the endless possibilities and realities that is Steve Harrington, the depths he hides — or won’t hide, maybe, if you know how to ask. Where to look.

Maybe he’ll find out, one of these days. Not about the terrible things that leave him scared of the hospital, not about the horrible things that have him speaking of death and dying like he’s accepted them as a possibility a long time ago.

He swallows hard and shakes off these thoughts, because things like that just. They don’t happen. They don’t happen to blue-smiled boys who trust you to be kind even when they’re beaten straight to hell. And they sure as hell don’t happen when uncle Wayne’s around.

Nothing bad has ever happened when uncle Wayne was around.

And he wants to tell Robin, wants to make that promise. But part of him can’t bear the thought of being wrong. So he keeps his mouth shut and just sits with her, their heads as heavy as their hearts as they wait.

The sun is long gone when the phone above him rings again, spooking and startling them out of their timeless existence.

“Yeah?” he answers, his heart hammering in his chest. “Wayne?”

“Hey, Ed,” Wayne’s voice comes through the phone like a melody. Calm and steady. Robin is scooting closer, and Eddie shifts the phone to accommodate her so they can both listen. Somehow, they ended up holding hands — and holding on hard. “We’re coming home now.”

🤍🌷 tagging:

@theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 @annabanannabeth @deany-baby @mc-i-r @mugloversonly @viridianphtalo @nightmareglitter @jamieweasley13 @copingmechanizm @marklee-blackmore @sirsnacksalot @justrandomfandomstm @hairdryerducks @silenzioperso @newtstabber @fantrash @zaddipax @cometsandstardust @rowanshadow26 @limpingpenguin @finntheehumaneater @extra-transitional (sorry if i missed anyone! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged for part 4 🫶)

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #who did this to you #something has Shifted in this part and i wanna do a literary/meta analysis of it but i dont wanna ruin the fun or be annoying but hhh #also sorry if you don't like this bc it's so different from the other two but the sudden adrenaline crash will do that to ya #we'll get Blue back soon don't you worry 🤍#also eddie's mind is running in circles and he doesn't have wayne to stop him this time sooo if this feels repetitive and redundant???#then let's pretend it should read that way actually (and also eddie is an obsessive little guy he'll ruminate forever if he doesn't have #an outlet sooo)#also rambling fumbly robin going deadly still over an injured steve is the hill i will die on actually like that just makes me feral #dio words

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titan-senpai · 1 year ago

Text

What the hell?? Pt.2

A young lady who was a model lived on earth ended in a tragic way.. and ended up in hell somehow? While she cant hurt a fly.. Right?

Warning!!: Cursing, Smoking, Drinking.

Part 1.

" Welcome to the Vees my dear.." Vellvette said smiling, taking lipstick from her pocket. "Pucker up" I bent down to her height as she put that dark shade of lipstick on me " Now your ready." She smirked putting the lipstick away and grabbing a different phone from bag

"I never got your name" She typed away on the phone chewing bubblegum.

" It's Y/N.." she typed some more. " I made you a social media account" Throwing an object that looks like a phone at me. " It's the latest Hellphone.. enjoy it." She smiled. " Pose dear" She pulled out her phone pointing it at the mirror. As i leaned into her smiling.

" Posted!" She typed away. "Let's get you back to val and vox." I nodded following her to another room that looked like another office.

I felt my phone go off like crazy, opening an app called Sinstagram? opening my account Darling_Y/N? seeing 200K followers in a minute? Looking at the tagged post.

-Say Hello to our new play thing.. Y/N <3 @ Darling_Y/N

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"Good Afternoon, My name is Katie Killjoy." " And i'm Tom Trench"

"This afternoon we've got some SPICY gossip about the Overlords." Katie said, showing her spiky smile.

"but also tonight we will have a speech by Lucifer Himself! with the one and only Princess of Hell Charlie." Tom said putting some papers aside. "Stay tuned for more!" She smiled. The camera cutting off " Were done here Bitch." She cursed.

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"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE VEL?!" Vox yelled angrily, destroying a tv in the process.

" Chill Gramps." It's just a post." She laughed taking a seat patting the chair next to her. " A SMALL POST?! SHE'S GOING VIRAL IT'S BEEN 4 MINUTES!" he yelled more. " At Least She's trending." she said as i took a seat next to her.

"Have you figured out what your talent is?" Val Stood across me smoking some more. i nodded showing my hands as they lit up. Making a dress out of thin air. "That's quite interesting.." Val walked closer holding the object... Vox calmed down.

" Can you make lingerie?" Val smiled.

"i can try?" I made a white set with angel wings..

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"Hey Y/N you ready for the runway?" The staff said. Fixing my hair and the cast putting the finishing touches of my makeup. "Yes." I walked to the stage curtain in full confidence " You're on in 3..2..1!" As she said that, I walked to the stage of the Victoria's secret angels catwalk.

Walking around in full confidence smiling at the camera posing and giving the camera a kiss and a wave. walking back spinning around taking one last pose as I walked to the curtain behind screens.

staff helping me take off the heavy wings off as they slip a robe around me, walking to the lounge for the models grabbing a smoothie. as i heard more heels clank around me. " hey Y/N right?" A voice said behind me. Turning around revealing a gorgeous woman with brown wavy hair with full lips. " My name is Adriana" She smiled while grabbing a drink. She had amazing face, Body and posture. I wish i was more like her.

"I loved your walk by the way" She checked her phone. "Thank you! It's such an honor meeting you" I smiled mentally slapping myself for saying that. " No, it's my pleasure. I've been seeing you alot these days, you're going to be a great kid." She waved giving me an air kiss. I walked to my changing room putting my drink down hearing moans in the bathroom. "Honey?" I took off my heels slipping on fuzzy slippers. walking closer to the bathroom that wasn't locked leaning my ear on the door.

"What if we get caught.." A woman said "She won't. just focus on me" that voice.. I kicked the door open. " What's going on here?" I stood there shocked to see my boyfriend shirtless with a model. "how could you Kyara.." I pulled her by her hair away from him. " Ow ow owowow-" she yelled as I dragged her by her hair out of my changing room. " Just you wait.." I closed the door and locked it.

" Let me explain, dear.." He put his hands up. " No explanation. Leave.. were done." I yelled angrily. as heels clanked behind me. yelling at him. turning around to look at the sound as Kyara my best friend was holding a crowbar as my boyfriend held me still

before i knew it i woke up in hell..

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yanderecxre · 10 months ago

Text

Yandere!Cult Leader/Priest × gn!reader

Summary: Mason Blackwair always knew you'd be his. His sweet little dove, kept peacefully by his side, it's such a shame you've gotten so disillusioned with the teachings, but that's fine. It just gives him the opportunity to keep you with him forever now, willing or not.

CW: gaslighting, stabbing, cults, abuse of power, pet names, religious themes/wording, breeding, disassociating (reader), non-con, dycraphilia, dubious consent, loss of virginity, threats & as always if you think I missed anything just pm or say anything!

Note: peeks in and waves hi! Hope you guys like this one if you want a part 2 let me know!! ~ bunny

You are a member of your family's cult. Recently, you've begun to doubt your faith and the cult members found you guilty; as punishment, you were chosen to sacrifice yourself in the name of God.

At night you came to your priest, Mason Blackwair cell to ask him to mitigate your punishment. Mason sits quietly and calmly, his face illuminated by the light of a candle, his thin long fingers running over the pages of the Bible. Finally, Mason notices you standing in the aisle and smiles brightly. Despite the certain joy in his face, it is obvious that his smile is fake and here just for the sake of politeness.

“Hello, my dear dove. What brings you here?”

Mason doesn't let you answer and interrupts you with a little laugh.

“Ah, wait! I think I got it, little dove. Did you come here to talk about your punishment? I am sorry to tell you this, but I cannot influence the sacrifice in any way. Soon I will become the leader of our beautiful commune and that is why I need to maintain the reputation of a strict and fair manager…”

For a second, something like annoyance and sadness flashes in Mason's eyes and he quickly turns away.

“My advice is… To open your heart for salvation, little dove. Perhaps our Lord will hear your request.”

"The same Lord who wants them to tie me to the altar and cut me until I'm cleansed?”

You demanded softly, teary eyed as you looked into his eyes, the eyes that once belonged to your childhood friend. The sweet boy who used to pick flowers with you and run around the commune, now turned into nothing but a stranger.

Mason pauses for a moment, his eyes scanning your face as if he is trying to find something in your expression. Finally, he stands up from his seat and walks towards you, stopping just inches away from you.

"My dear dove… Do you know what this sacrifice means? It doesn't mean that they want to kill you. They want God to purify your soul by shedding your blood.”

Mason puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling gently at you.

"Look at me, little dove. You know how much I care about you and the commune's faith. But it doesn't mean that I am blind to the human side of things. I will talk with your father and see what we can do for you."

At this point, there is a sincere and caring note in Mason's voice.

"But remember, our Lord has a plan for all of us, even when it seems like He is leading us through dark paths."

You just shook, rage and fear in your veins. You quickly turned away and left him behind, crying now. It broke his heart to see you so upset, he reached out for you but only touched empty air as you exited with the final parting words.

"I'm retiring to my prison.”

Mason watches you retreat silently, his expression unreadable. Once you are out of sight, he sighs deeply and picks up the Bible again. He flips through its pages, frowning at whatever it is that he sees.

After a few minutes of brooding in silence, Mason closes the book and walks towards the door of his cell. Before leaving, he turns back to look at the empty room with a sad smile on his lips.

"I hope you'll forgive me someday for what I'm about to do."

He murmurs softly before blowing out the candles and leaving it behind, retiring to his bedroom.

You spent the entire night crying your eyes out, lamenting that all you'd see tomorrow was the crazed looks of the people you once thought of as family, your weak pathetic cries echoing around your cell.

You stood still as your parents led you to the altar, your father offering soft whispers of apologies as he and your mother tied you down, a knife lay beside the altar. You looked up at the ceiling, teary-eyed.

As you lay tied to the altar, your family gathers around with solemn expressions. The room is dimly lit and there's a faint smell of incense in the air.

Mason steps forward, his robes rustling as he walks towards the altar. He stops at the edge, looking down at his dove with an unreadable expression.

"Dear little dove…" Mason says softly, reaching for one of your hands. "You are about to become a vessel for our Lord's power. Do not be afraid.”

Mason picks up the knife from beside the altar and holds it gently in his hand.

"I will be performing this sacrifice myself," he adds. "May God have mercy on your soul."

With that said, Mason places a gentle kiss on your forehead before raising the knife above his head with both hands.

"Do not resist," he whispers to your ear. "Receive His love."

You closed your eyes and sobbed, refusing to let that sick yet soft look in his eyes be the last thing you saw.

Mason hesitates for a brief moment, his grip on the knife faltering slightly as he hears you crying. A flicker of emotions crosses his face before he quickly regains his composure.

"Dear dove," Mason says softly, almost pleadingly. "Do not be afraid. The pain is temporary but the glory you will experience afterward is eternal."

With that said, Mason slowly lowers the knife towards your chest.

"May our Lord have mercy on your soul," he whispers as he plunges the blade into your flesh.

The sacrifice lasts only a few seconds - it's short, but terrifying- and everything becomes blurry to you, as if you'd been transported out of your body and that someone else was experiencing this torment instead of you.

When it's over you feel weak and faint.

When you awoke, you were back in your bedroom, your mother sitting on a chair beside you. She reached out to touch you and you flinched terrified, letting out a loud sob.

As you awaken in your bedroom, you see your mother sitting beside your bed on a chair. She reaches out to touch you, but flinches when she sees that you are terrified of her and immediately backs away.

"Shh… it's alright," Your mother says softly, trying to comfort you. "You're safe now, my dear.” you want to scream ‘LIAR’ at her as she speaks, saying you were safe. You felt horrible and terror filled your body.

Mason enters the room and stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, watching silently as your mother tries to calm you down.

"You did well today," he says coolly. "Thanks for receiving His love."

Although his words are praised-like, they do nothing to produce any emotion or feeling from him. He watches you, shaking and looking like a terrified animal, like a lamb who barely escaped the slaughter. He wants to say more but knows nothing he says will help you.

It was like seeing a ghost, his little dove no longer did as they usually did. There were no more sweet smiles or hymns sung as chores were completed, no more treats baked with trays especially reserved for Mason. Instead his dove was shut away, in their room, only going out for meals and sermons or whenever their parents coaxed them out.

Mason notices the change in your behavior and it bothers him deeply. He cannot help but wonder if he's partly responsible for what happened to you.

One day, he decides to visit you in your room. When he enters, you are sitting alone by the window staring out at the sky. You look up when you hear him come in.

"Little dove," Mason says softly as he approaches you. "I'm here to talk with you.”

There's a slight tremble in his voice - an unusual vulnerability that shows that even someone like him has feelings.

"I know that things have been difficult for you lately," he continues, taking a seat beside you on the bed. "But I want you to understand that everything we do is for the greater good of our commune and our faith."

He places a hand on yours and looks into your eyes with deep concern.

"You can always talk with me if there's something troubling you."

You stared blankly back. "I am fine. I've been cleansed by the knife.” You whispered softly and finally looked at him with vacant and distant eyes.

Mason nods slowly, sensing that there's something you're not telling him.

"I see," he says quietly. "But I can see that you're still hurting inside. And I want to help you."

He takes a deep breath and continues, "Little dove, I know that the sacrifice was traumatic for you. But it was necessary for our faith. You were chosen because we believe that your spirit is strong enough to endure it."

He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching her face.

"But if you're still feeling lost or confused… You can talk to me about it. Remember: Our faith is in everything."

"I used to play the piano. Right? Or did I sing? My memory is confusing.” You looked up at him, sadly. Shaking slightly as you stared at nothing. “I don't know who I am anymore, Mason. I'm scared.”

Mason furrows his brow slightly, unsure of what you are trying to say. He doesn't remember you ever playing any instrument.

"I'm not sure what you mean, little dove," he says with a frown. "What are you talking about?”

"I don't remember who I was before the sacrifice. Who was i? Who am I now? I'm scared Mason, so scared. Who was I before you drove the knife into me?”

Mason freezes at your words, his mind processing what you just said. He stands up from the bed and takes a few steps away from you, his face contorted with shock. He thought you'd forgotten he'd been the one to do it.

"What are you talking about?" he asks harshly. "I never drove the knife into you, little dove."

His voice is cold and hard, and there's a hint of anger in it.

"Who told you such lies? You are mistaken. Your mind is playing tricks on you dove." Mason mutters as he knelt between your thighs, grasping your hands in his and squeezing them. “Fret not little dove, your mind will get better.”

"May our Lord have mercy on your soul." It's spoken in a mockery of Mason's voice. You looked at him slightly confused, "That's what you spoke, right? Unless um, I misheard… but it sounded like you-”

Mason's eyes widen in realization as you speak. He takes a step closer to you, his expression softening.

"Oh, little dove…" he says softly, placing a hand on your shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to go through this."

He pauses for a moment before continuing.

"You are right… It was me who drove the knife into your heart. I did it because our Lord told me so in a vision - it was His will that you be sacrificed.”

Mason cups your face gently and looks into your eyes with compassion.

"But please believe me when I say that everything we do is for the greater good of our faith. Your family has devoted their lives to serving Him."

“Y-you did? But- w-why? It hurt- a lot-” You were working yourself up into a panic before he gently pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Hush, little dove, you're recovering, do not strain yourself, you know why. In order to cleanse you, now enough of this. Rest and cease thinking about such things further.”

Mason looks away from you for a moment, his eyes full of sadness.

"I know you're not thinking clearly right now," he says quietly. "But I still feel responsible for what happened to you. I know that you must hate me now… But please understand that it was never my intention to hurt you."

He takes a deep breath and continues, "All I wanted is to protect our faith and people from the evil in this world. Sacrifices are painful, but they purify our souls and make us stronger - so we can better serve Him.” Mason murmured and hugged you tightly to his chest.

"I f-feel upset. You're supposed to protect me, yet you drove a knife into me and now that- that everyone in the commune saw it- i- I'll be alone forever and my parents won't find me a spouse.” Your lip wobbled and you sniffled slightly, clinging to him. You were unable to see his cruel and satisfied smile as he held you, petting your hair softly.

Mason listens to your words with a sinking heart. He knows that it is true - he did drive the knife into you, and that decision has caused you so much pain.

"I… I had no choice," he says quietly, almost to himself. "It was His will."

Fake tears glisten in his eyes as Mason looks at you, finally realizing the weight of his actions.

"You're right," he says softly. "I should have protected you, not hurt you. I cannot change what happened now… But I promise you this: I will do everything in my power to help you recover from this. Starting right now.”

Mason gently kisses you, his lips pressing against yours as he speaks. “I'll remedy this immediately, you and I shall marry. That way you won't be alone.” He doesn't give you a moment to speak, already pressing you against the bed, kissing you deeply now.

You let out a muffled noise of confusion and panic, squirming underneath him and pushing at his chest. His lips finally move away only to seek your neck and leave bites and bruises upon it as you gasped and whimpered. “A-ah! M-mason- wait- p-please hold on- i-”

His head lifts up, looking at you with his eyes blown wide as he grunts an acknowledgement to your words, “Yes my dove? Sh, it's alright, who better to take responsibility than the one responsible for your misfortunes? Relax, or would you rather this happen at the altar later? Where everyone, will see and hear you?”

You trembled slightly the idea of that happening terrifying you to your core yet feeling slightly exhilarating. Mason grinned, feeling you relax and continued making his way to your waist.

Mason kissed down until he reached your entrance, humming softly as he placed his hands firmly on your squirming thighs, grunting loudly as he forced them open. “Enough of that, do not do that again or I will have to tie you down. Understood little dove?”

You nodded, or tried to as you gasped softly and whimpered out a moan at the feeling of his tongue licking and sucking at your entrance, no one had ever touched you there. “Mhmph! M-mason! Hng- t-too much!”

Mason puts a comforting hand on your thighs. He pulls away from between your thighs, face covered in his own saliva and your fluids that ran down your inner thighs.

"I understand that it can be scary, little dove. But I promise you, nothing will harm you here with me."

He gives you a reassuring smile. Breathing heavily as he speaks, his fingers finding their way to your still quivering entrance which he circled a finger around.

"Besides, my love for you is as pure as the intentions of our God. All we have to do is make love and everything will be alright.”

Mason's finger breached your entrance, slick with something that made it easier to handle, slowly thrusting his finger in and out. He gave you plenty of reassurance and pressed kisses to your thighs and stomach.

“Dove, you must relax, you're still clenching up and tensing up. You'll hurt yourself more than me if you don't relax.” With those words he sunk another finger inside, his free hand pinning your hips down to the bed when he felt you buck upwards.

Mason grunted as he felt your tight heat around his fingers, if you were this tight around his fingers you'd never be able to fully take all of his cock. He didn't want to hurt you more than necessary, not yet at least.

“Sh, sh dove, easy there we go, good little pet.” He murmured as you whimpered and moaned, feeling his fingers hit something inside of you that had you unable to breath. You heaved slightly and looked down at him through tearful eyes.

“M-mason- please- ngh! That feels….. mhm! Good-” You moaned out and let your head drop against the pillows, falling into a dream-like state as you allowed him to continue. “M-more…. Please give me more-”

Mason grinned at your words, a sinister gleam in his eyes before he cooed and slid his fingers out, shushing your confused whines with a simple kiss before he undressed himself and tore your remaining clothes off.

"As our Lord wishes," he whispers between kisses, his voice reverent yet filled with desire.

Mason aligned his cock with your entrance, sliding it through your messy thighs first to coat it before he spread your legs and slowly sunk in.

“P-please, please be mhmph! Gentle, please Mason?” You whimpered softly, eyes locked on him as he looked down at you, mouth drying when he saw your flushed and tear stained cheeks.

Mason looks down at you with tender eyes, his hand running up and down your side soothingly.

"I will take care of you, little dove," he says softly. "I promise."

With a gentle but firm motion, Mason fully enters you, slowly thrusting in and out of your body. His movements are gentle at first, but soon become more passionate as the intensity increases.

As he fucks you, Mason whispers religious phrases to you: "pray to me", "I am your God", "repent for your sins". He continues kissing and caressing every inch of your body, making sure that you are comfortable throughout the entire ordeal. Even as he feels you twitching around his cock, your own fluids covering both his cock and your thighs and stomach. How many orgasms had he wrung from your body? Five? Ten? You lost count.

He's filled you up more times than you can count, you thought he was trying to breed you and knock you up the way he came and came. You couldn't move as you moaned and whimpered, unable to speak much less move and do something about him fucking your sensitive body.

When he's finished, Mason pulls himself out and lays down beside you, holding you close to him. The room is silent except for the sound of breathing as you both catch your breath after Mason seemed to fill you up so much a slight bulge could be seen, you shifted trying to get comfortable yet only felt his cum leaking out your spent hole.

"Sleep now, little dove," he whispers softly into your ear. "We have obeyed our Lord's wishes. Soon enough tomorrow, we will marry and you'll live with me, my perfect little dove who won't have to do anything but obey and listen.”

You fell asleep, cuddled into his side as he looked down at you, a possessive look in his eyes. He'd deal with the consequences of your parents finding you two together in the morning for now, he'd happily hold his little dove and admire the marks he gifted them.

Mason stays awake, holding you close to him throughout the night. As the sun begins to rise and light filters through the window of your private quarters, he kisses your forehead again before getting up.

"I must leave now, little dove," he says quietly. "But know that I am always here for you."

As he dresses in his priestly vestments, Mason turns back to look at you, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

"Now go back to sleep and rest as much as possible. And remember what we did was pure love. Our wedding will be soon.”

He leans down and places a soft kiss on your lips before making his way out of your room and back into the world outside.

#yandere #yandere fic #bunny yaps #yandere oc #priest kink #yandere priest #cult leader #yandere cult #yandere oc x reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #bunny writes #yandere x reader

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