#I feel like you're making less work for your host

[knightwithakay]

trying to figure out if my family is the weird one doing this or if this like a thing that people do

[ishipgenfics]

Outsider POV on Somewhere Else Jonathan Sims must be just. so much.

Like imagine. You're part of a support group, and a new guy decides to join. You ask him his name and he says, "Jonathan," and then after a long pause, "Blackwood. Jonathan Blackwood. But call me Jon."

He doesn't like tape recorders. You only know this because the person who hosts the support group is into retro things, and tries to keep a couple around. She turned one on once when someone asked about it, and you noticed Jon clutching his nails into his hands so tight he's nearly breaking the skin. You lean over and whisper, "Do you want me to ask her to stop?" He says, "It's fine," and you nod, but you still try and change the subject whenever people bring up tape recorders from that point on.

He full-body flinches one day when someone says Hello, Jon. Nearly slams into a wall and everything. He tries to play it off, but after that people say Hi Jon, or Nice to see you, or things like that. Anything but Hello.

He says he used to work at a 'non-profit for studying the supernatural'. Someone asks where it was and he says London. You tell your wife about it, and two days later she emails you an article. Magnus Institute Burns Down In 1999. It was in Manchester. You tell her not to bring it up again.

The guy is snarky and blunt and downright rude at times, but when a woman comes in and tells them about being trapped in a empty warehouse for a week, he comforts her in a way none of the rest of them know how. "I believe you," he says, repeats it like a mantra, like a prayer. "I believe you." He says 'I'm sorry' less like he's sorry this happened to her, and more like he's taking the blame onto himself.

He talks about Martin, sometimes. His reason, he calls him. Normally you'd point out that while it's of course good to love your partner, you should have other reasons to live, but you stay quiet. This guy needs all the happiness he can get.

You leave a little late that day, and when you do you hear him on the phone talking to someone. "She'd been touched by the Lonely, Martin!" he says. "Which is bad, of course, but--" he seems to choke up, "Martin, I didn't feel any compulsion for a Statement. A-at all. I think it's really gone."

You just walk by.

You don't know what's going on with Jon, but it really isn't any of your business. You're an anxious queer lesbian and he's a traumatized ace guy, and you aren't going to make his life any harder than you have to.

Just. Jonathan Sims in a support group.

[suguann]

SAY YOU'RE MINE—GOJO SATORU.

✎.You shouldn’t elicit his attention more than any other Omega at the party—he doesn’t remember inviting that many—but he’s wondering how he let you slip by. | wc. 1.4k+

tags. fem!reader, age-gap, very shy reader, exhibitionism, reader wears glasses, a/b/o, 18+ only

masterlist

The big, awful truth nobody tells you about hosting your fortieth birthday is how the shine of the day wears off once you see your friends and acquaintances laughing with their loved ones, talking about their kids, showing off pictures of newborns swaddled in soft linens, and making plans for upcoming holidays. 

Gojo sips his drink, pretending to understand. He’s never given much thought to settling down, to take an omega as a mate and fill his big empty house with the sounds of pealing laughter and little feet racing down the many halls.

Forty years old, and he’s ready to admit that living the life of a bachelor doesn’t hold the same appeal as it once did. That returning from a two-week-long business trip might be better if there were somebody to go home to.

Forty years old.

Instead of cozying up in the living room with a family he longs to have, he’s going to spend the rest of his night picking up plates and champagne flutes after everyone leaves because he forgot to hire a cleaning company—all alone in his big empty house, wondering if his secretary remembered to pick up his dry-cleaning for the week.

An unmated Alpha—the reminder chafes as much as the fact he’s getting older.

He finally understands why his late aunt divorced and got married again twice in the same year, why people buy nice vacation homes on white sandy beaches that make the crow’s feet around their eyes worse, and spend too much money on sports cars even though they stay parked for three-fourths of the year. He gets it now.

It’s more or less an epiphany of a sad, pathetic truth that he swallows down with something cold and bitter.

In the middle of his backyard, standing between his neighbor and his pregnant wife, Gojo wishes he were anywhere else. Inviting everyone he knows within driving distance no longer seems like the well-thought idea he’d presumed it’d been.

He makes a few more rounds around the garden before sneaking inside, escaping another conversation about engagements and wedding dates to hide away in his study.

That’s until he sees you out of the corner of his eye, looking through the bookcases in his living room.

A pretty slip of a girl in your modest cocktail dress and wide-framed glasses slipping down the slope of your nose. An Omega, alone, just like him; your clean, sweet, floral scent sticking to the back of his throat like syrup until it settles in his stomach. Enough to make him dizzy.

You shouldn’t elicit his attention more than any other Omega at the party—he doesn’t remember inviting that many—but he’s wondering how he let you slip by. Not that it really matters because his back straightens, no longer wallowing in self-pity, and he studies you with interest.

After a few moments, you finally glance his way, only for you to hastily return your attention to the book you pulled down from the shelf. Cute.

Gojo adjusts the tie around his neck and feels his lips twitch.

“Sorry,” you say softly, long lashes fluttering against the top of your cheeks. “I didn’t mean—I was only—My friend invited me, and she—”

You are too busy working yourself up over an explanation that you don’t notice when he sidles up next to you and reads over your shoulder. "I have more in my office if you want to take a look.”

“E-excuse me?” You make this breathy, choked sound and peer up at him from under your lashes. This visibly timid type of girl who bashfully looks away at the sight of his smile. For some reason, that makes his mouth go dry—makes his teeth ache. 

It’s rare to be so driven by instinct and rarer to actually listen to that instinct.

“Books,” he says. “Do you want to see them?”

His words take a second to sink in, and he smiles when he sees liquid clarity in your eyes. You blink owlishly, scent spiking, pleased. He stands there patiently, finding how you start rambling endearing, a slight, private grin splitting across his face—silently amused.

He thinks you'd bolt if it weren’t for the fact that he’s probably standing much too close, trapping a mouse by the tail.

“I–I g-guess,” you finally stutter.

It’s too easy: You letting him usher you up the stairs toward his office. 

If Gojo were a better person, a less lonely Alpha—a better man—he might feel bad for how well it works.

It’s no small thing to work the tiny zipper at your back and watch your dress pool around your feet. He barely gets the top three buttons of his shirt undone before you are—delightfully, inexplicably—up on the tips of your toes, timidly pushing your hands through his hair, mewling into the hollow of his throat, close to where his gland sits.

By the time he has you pressed against his office window, you’re this flustered little mess with crooked glasses, fingers streaking the once pristine glass to keep your balance, and breasts sticky and wet with spit.

“Good girl,” he mutters, pulling back to look down at where he’s splitting you open. “Such a good little Omega for me, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer, and he crowds you closer to the window, grasping your chin and tugging your head up until you’re looking at him upside down. He squeezes your cheeks together, your pouty, supple lips pushed out, and kisses your mouth, tasting you—unimaginably sweet.

“Tell me—tell me what a good girl you are,” even though he knows you can’t with his fingers pressing into your cheeks, but you try anyway.

“U-uh but—people c-can see.” 

The base of his cock tingles as he catches a line of drool spilling from the corner of your lips. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, soothing, and you steadily melt against him when he slips that same finger underneath the elastic of your underwear, lightly nudging your clit with the tip of his finger until you’re shivering beautifully again.

“That’s it. Don’t worry about them,” he coaxes lightly, but it comes out muffled because he says it with his mouth wrapped around the gland at the base of your neck, teasing himself with something he’s never allowed himself to have. Not yet. “Just you and me, okay?”

Gojo doesn’t let up until your back arches and shoulders tighten, his knot caught inside your cunt until all he can do is grind the tip of his cock against that spot that makes you squirm and whine. 

He smiles to himself when you hide behind your hands after realizing you ruined his pants, and he carefully falls back into his office chair, pulling you with him so you’re both looking out across the garden, where his guests walk around wholly unaware of the breathtaking little Omega who made his birthday worthwhile.

“You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you?” he muses, taking great pleasure in the way you start stuttering again.

On his forty-first birthday, he doesn’t throw his own party but still hides in his office, his pretty wife in his lap, flustered because he never turned the lights off this time. If anyone happened to walk by on this side of the house, they’d be able to see everything—his omega, soft and swollen from a piece of him taking root inside you.

Families are about making traditions, he thinks, and he’d like to start a few traditions of his own; leaving his party to fuck his wife in the quiet of his office being one of them.

[rory-cakes]

Alastor's Birdy

Alastor wasn’t a good man. 

In fact, he was no longer a man at all. 

He was the Radio Demon, an overlord of hell, owner of souls, and host of the Hazbin Hotel. 

The only evidence that he was ever human was the gold band worn around his ring finger. No one seemed to notice it; if they did, they didn’t dare ask. 

Not much was known about the terrifying radio demon. The others at the hotel often wondered about the origins of the great Alastor Altruist. 

Well, not until Mimzy comes along.

“Alastooor, Sweetie, doll-face! So good to see you. How’ve ya been? Good? Good.”

Alastor hugs the small woman while everyone stares in confusion. 

“Listen, I was in the neighborhood! I heard you were staying at this ritzy ditzy slob factory-”

A glint of gold catches the light.

“Oh! By the way, where’s your little birdy?”

Alastor’s who? The confusion only continued to grow in the room. 

“Oh, Mimzy, you know she would never have ended up down here.”

Who are they talking about?

“Ah yes, she was such a kind soul. The best of the best.”

Finally, someone asks. 

“Yo! Lady! Who ya talkin' about?”

“His missus, of course!”

His what?

“YOU WERE MARRIED?!”

Alastor’s eye twitched as private information about his life came to light.

“I am married; we never divorced.”

Everyone stared in disbelief. How could anyone marry Alastor, of all people? 

Wait-

“You said she would never have ended up down here. Does that mean that your wife is in heaven? Is she an angel?”

“Charlie, don’t be ridiculous! No one that good could have married him!” 

Mimzy pipes up,

“She’s right. Y/n Altruist was too good for the world and sang like a canary!” 

That she did…

“I fell in love with you the first time I looked into

Them there eyes

You've got a certain little cute way of flirtin' with

Them there eyes”

All eyes gazed upon the stage. His little birdy was much like him in how they entranced others with their voices. If all he heard for the rest of eternity was that beautiful song of hers, then he could die a happy man. 

“They make me feel happy

They make me blue

No stallin', I'm fallin'

Going in a great big way for sweet little you”

It was never supposed to last. It was just for a while to make him seem more normal. To hide his less than socially acceptable hobbies. But she was light, and he was a moth to a flame. As he felt the weight of the box in his hand he wondered how someone like him got blessed with someone like her. 

“My heart is jumpin', you sure started something with

Them there eyes

You'd better watch them if you're wise

They sparkle, they bubble

They're gonna get you in a whole lot of trouble

You're overworkin' them, there's danger lurkin' in

Them there eyes”

Her eyes brightened as they landed on him sitting at his usual table in the back. He was done with work early and had come to pick her up so they could walk home together. 

“I fell in love with you the first time I looked into

Them there eyes

You've got a certain little cute way of flirtin' with

Them there eyes” 

HIS. She was his. He was hers. They were each others.

The only proof that Alastor was ever human was the gold band around his ring finger.

A/N: Here's the fic lol @mag-chan

part 2

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ That heavy breathin' on the floor ❞

Vander x ftm!reader | Sevika x ftm!reader (customer) | Silco x ftm!reader | fluffy, NSFW, angst | reader has had top-surgery & bottom growth | versatile. bottom. reader | NOT PROOFREAD + partly written on my phone | wc: 17k

warnings: violence against a sw, police brutality, r! is nearly assaulted but is saved, r! is a prostitute, brothel mentioned, mentions of addiction, spanking, fingering, anal sex, unprotected sex, strap-on, minor daddy kink (sevika), pussy-eating, choking, slapping, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick/cock, terms like boypussy, pussy, boycunt, cunt are used), murder, graphic depictions of violence

masterlist; pt. 1; pt. 2

authors note: this kind of gets a bit heavy at the end with themes of injustices against s*x workers along side police brutality and r! nearly getting assaulted by a haughty rich dude from Piltover. If its it's too heavy, please prioritize yourself ! *song on repeat: Billie Boss Nova by Billie Eilish *YN is described as being shorter than Vander (202cm), Sevika (185cm), and Silco (182cm) in this fic.

"So, how'd you decide this career was the best course of action in your life?" your lips twitch at the question. Well, less of the question and more of the person asking; there was an accent these Topsiders have. Dripping with condescension and haughtiness. It was like they were bred to have their noses pointed up, as if there was some sort of treasure up those pin-holes.

"You're asking for my life story?" you drawl, watching as his hands crawl up your thighs. They were splotchy with age spots, but plumper than the old timers from here. Figures. You split your legs for him and he wets his lips. "You get off on that sort of things?" you throw an arched brow his way, a look he dismisses with a wanton grope of your unclothed cunt.

"If I say I do, you'd have to indulge, correct?"

Even the way he asks his questions felt like he was talking down to you.

You hated events like these. The brothel hosted them for the handful of clients who could afford to rent out a whole floor for themselves, usually they were sleazy Topsiders with their stupid little kids who'd come of age.

Easier to pop all sorts of cherries in the underbelly of Piltover because 'they'd do just about anything for some coin!'

You take a long drag of your hookah while the old fuck grinds his palm to your dick. It's strange how soft his hands are. You're used to callouses, palms that strike with power behind them and grips that bruises. This was pathetic.

"My dad bailed on my mom before he knew I was even conceived," his eyes glimmer with morbid curiosity. He rubs his hands up and down, a tepid rhythm that sincerely lacks in any semblance of pleasure. "My poor, young, dumb, mother. She tried really, really, really hard." "Did she?"

You nod, looking off at the floor where a whore was sucking off another Topsider; laid on her belly between his legs on the cushions and duvets. The theme of this event had been some dumbass ancient civilization. With white toga's and golden wreaths some of their kids spent a week working on.

"She worked her ass off. Determined to make life worth living for me."

"Did she work...here?"

There it was. That sick fascination. He didn't even know if this story was real, you could be bullshitting him but it doesn't matter. As he strokes your cock, his eyes gleam with a cruelty that only men of his status could possess. Pain was a fetish; it was a welcomed one even. But this? This fetish that he has, of listening to sob stories and fulfilling his torture fantasy. Did he think he was better than a sexual sadist because his hands were soft and wimpy?

He must. Perhaps he even thinks this line of questioning elevates him from your usual customers. Makes this all feel more 'ethical'.

It was funny seeing a predator file their teeth down into shiny sparkling stubs (his veneers were blinding) but forget they still had claws. Your lips curl away from your teeth, in disgust and rising anger.

Then Doe appears in front of you. Her hands stroking up your thighs as she blocks the Topsider's face from yours. The twitch in your brow is hidden behind your mask, but the corners of your mouth twist in confusion. She slips her fingers into his hold, giggling as he greets her.

"Mr. Erikson," she returns the flirting he dishes out, slipping his finger under the strap of her toga and tugging it down. When she brushes her hair over her shoulder, she gives you a pointed expression.

Calm the fuck down, was written all over her face. When she flits her eyes to your trembling hand, you loosen your grip on the hookah and click your teeth. She climbs smoothly onto that old fuck's lap, distracting him with her perky tits while you walk away.

The beaded curtains rattle angrily as you sulk past the threshold. Glaring at every privileged little fuck there on your way out of the hall. When a blonde man tried to grasp at your wrist you tug it away with a snarl. Fucking Topsiders. Going to the Undercity to get their dicks wet, maybe even delude some poor shit into thinking that they could be more. As if they'd ever marry anyone from here, or claim the children they fathered.

Because that's what Topsiders do. They take. All they know to do is take and take and take with no regard nor care —

A hand grabs at your wrist, harshly tugging you back and when you spin you grab the brooch at your shoulder and unclasp it to press the point to Sevika's neck. Your eyes widens and she lets out a low whistle.

"Hello to you too."

"Fuck, Sevika," you hastily bring your 'weapon' down, mindlessly clipping it to the golden make-shift rope-belt at your hip. She lets your wrist go while you lean in to make sure you hadn't actually drawn blood.

"Don't just grab me like that," you chastise. She takes notice of your get-up then glances towards the muffled noises of the hall behind you. "You finished in there?" she asks.

You should tell her no. You'd been asked for by name from the Topsiders, having done well at a previous party like this.

"Yeah. You want me for the night?" she shifts the tooth pick to the other side of her grin, reaching another hand to tug you in by your waist. "C'mon baby, say it nicely."

Sevika tilts her head, her rough hands making your lashes tremble. Both of her hands grab firmly at your ass, hitching you up and close. Her firm body, the scent of smoke and ash and alcohol easing you down as they mingle with Sevika's naturally smoky cologne. Judging from the bag of coin she has hidden in her jacket — that you can feel from under your hand — she was most likely in a good mood from winning a game.

"Say it sweet, how'd you'd ask those Topsiders to fuck you?" she's just getting a rise out of you. It wasn't a secret to Sevika that you despised the Topsiders. Even if you never ranted to her about it, every time they walked into the establishment your mask could barely keep your expression of dismay at bay.

You narrow your eyes at her. Smoothly slipping a hand into her jacket and taking the bag of coins out and holding it out of her reach when she tries to grab it.

"You think you deserve to fuck me?" you play along with her game. Leaning your face in to hers, your mask brushing her cheek. "Little limp dicks like you can barely make me hard, much less cum." Sevika's grip is bruising. The fabric of your toga nearly giving away to her harshness. Sevika was going to fuck you just the way you needed. Fast and hard; a true Zaunite in every way.

Your mask had been tossed aside, most likely on the floor of your room somewhere. The spray-painted golden wreaths, brooch, and belt were safely placed onto one of the dressers. The toga did not get that much grace though. Having been ripped away from your body as Sevika spun you around to pin you down on your stomach at the edge of the semi-circle bed.

"Sevika!" you exclaim in genuine alarm. She can still hear the smile in your voice so she just stares at the cloth material in her hands and breathes out a laugh. It lands next to you while she takes off her cloak.

"That cost money?" she questions mindlessly. You turn over on your back, staring up at her, stark naked. She'd spit out the toothpick before she smashed your lips together up the stairs, yet somehow she's found a cigarette to put between her teeth.

"Yeah," you replied in a matter-of-fact tone, reaching up to your nightstand to grab your box of matches. Striking one to light. She leans over you, her rough hands feeling up your split thighs and you light up her cigarette for her.

"I bought the damn fabric." "Cheap fabric," she replies as she pulls climbs on the bed. Her clothed body pressed against yours.

"Or maybe you're just freakishly strong," you retort with a huff.

"I'll pay extra," she laughs when you raise your brows.

Whores. So easy.

"Fuck, Sevika." She strokes your dick with her fingers which makes your breath hitch. "Yuh - You're gonna...You have to slow down."

"I know you can take more than this." You scowl at her, she just presses down on your poor dick. "I'm talking about gambling, dumbass. You're getting the extra coin from it, aren't you?"

She rolls her eyes, grabbing you face in her other hand and smushing your cheeks — involuntarily making your lips purse out like a fish while she stares down at you. The white smoke slithering up into the air making her grey eyes shine like a vengeful spirit.

"You don't want me here spoiling your ass?" she says gruffly, her fingers now slipping down to your winking hole and smearing your slick over it. "Who else is gonna remind this hole how rough you need it?"

Your eyes soften. She can see your resolve melt as she slips a finger inside of you, she groans just as your brows twitch and knit together. Anal was Sevika's wheelhouse. She always made your entire body shiver and shake when she gets in the mood to fuck you as if you were nothing but her personal flesh light.

"Fuh - fuck you," you hiss out. She knows you don't mean it. Because your customer's moods was your own wheelhouse. You know how they like to play, how much chase they want, how much biting they love. It's why your roster of clients were oddly attached to your fox mask.

She brings her hand to your neck and watch as your back arches of the bed as she fingerfucks your ass while she has her thumb inside of your cunt. Her cigarette was beginning to burn too much and when the ashes drop onto your thigh, you squeak in alarm but don't tell her to stop. So she simply doesn't.

Sevika occasionally slips her fingers back inside of your cunt to gather more lube and you only give her a whine of displeasure.

"You're fine," she reassures, "I'm the first Jane of the night, right?"

When you give her a quizzical look she laughs.

"Your ass is way too tight. Either I'm the first of the night or there's some micro dicks at that party."

"You're way too fuckin' cocky, you know that?"

When Sevika has you fully stretched out, she gives you a moment to catch your breath. Watching your chest raise and fall as you're splayed out on the bed whilst she takes off her clothes and grabs at the cloak and bag she dropped on the ground. Your thighs were wet from your own slick and the lube she'd fished out from your drawers, you watch her move when you lift your arm away from your face.

She's putting on her strap. Just the sight of it has both of your holes clenching. Sevika smushes the cigarette in an ash tray and whistles, twisting her wrist to point down and you hate how much your stomach flutters at the casual dominance. You get on your hands and knees, face pressed to the bed. She grabs the globes of your ass, stroking her dick in the other hand.

"...Are you waiting for me to beg?" you wonder after a moment.

"Might be nice to hear." Your laughter makes her grin. Not that you could see it. You take a few breaths, then look at her from over your shoulder.

"C'mon, daddy. Fuck me." You whine out. Sevika stares on. Unimpressed. You curl your lip, twisting your upper half a bit further to stare back.

"That's a classic."

"I've heard better."

"Hah! From who? Doe?" you fully lay on your side now, smirking as you look up at her. "You're real sweet on her, huh?"

When Sevika grunts, you throw your head back to laugh. She grabs at your ankles but you kick her efforts away and drag yourself further up the bed. She calls out your name flatly but you just giggle.

"You are," you purr. "Thought you said falling for whores are for chumps."

Sevika narrows her eyes, grabbing at your calf and tugging you back down. You squeal, still smiling even when she grabs your ripped toga to tie your wrists together and pull it between your legs as she bends them so far forward your knees are nearly touching your chest.

"Struck a nerve, daddy?" you challenge. Her dick catches on the rim of your asshole, pressing but not breaching.

"You're such a fucking brat. Just a fiend for this kind of shit, huh? Like it rough?"

The thick head of it presses in and you groan. The noise airy — as if she'd knocked it out of you by simply pressing in despite the resistance.

"Your wolfman fuck you like this too?"

You make a noise. Half-squeak and half-gasp, brows furrowing and jumping in alarm when she just slams in more than half of her cock inside.

"Fuck!"

"He fucks your ass like this?"

She readjusts her stance, the bed creaking as she keeps your body at her complete mercy. Pinned under her frame, hands tied up and pulled by her strength while her thick cock is intently filling your ass up. The position makes her hit all the right spots, and you want nothing more than to drown in the overwhelmingly delicious pressure she's pulling you into. But her questions has caught you completely off guard.

"Sevika," you moan out, pushing at her waist with your weak fingers, trying to relieve some of the pleasure. She slopes her brows in faux concern.

"Yeah, you're sweet on him, aren't ya'?"

She slides into you some more, the veins on her cock making your toes curl as your hole clenches around her. She groans as though she can feel it. And you toss your head back.

"You're fucking huge," you whine out.

"Is he bigger or smaller?"

You roll your eyes at her and she smirks. She inches back a few then just drops all her weight down. The moan you let out is nonexistent, mouth opened in a silent scream as your back arches and your vision goes white.

"He make you feel that good?" You suck in a quick breath, as if remembering you could but she doesn't let up.

"I definitely touched something there, huh?"

She starts thrusting. Shallow but quick, just pistoning in and out of your poor ass while your cunt weeps out for a sliver of attention. She ignores it all in favour of waiting for you to flutter your pretty eyes open.

"Duh - daddy," you hiccup out and she just pulls your tied hands out from between your thighs to instead pin above your head.

"S'little too late to act nice, sweet cheeks." You mewl, hips bucking as she continues her onslaught. "Daddy, plea - ah!" The smack of her palm against your ass has your entire body jolting.

"It's a yes or no, baby."

Tears darken your lashes, you bring your hand to her face and use any bit of core strength you have to press your lips with hers but she simply pushes your face down. Not by your neck. No. She's intentionally cruel as she has the space between her thumb and pointer right under the top row of your teeth.

As she thrusts out moan after moan, all you can do is let her hear it. It's humiliating. The noises you make are all choked up, saliva is beginning to pool from the corners of your mouth. No matter how much you thrash or push or try to buck, she just continues to rail you.

You know Sevika would stop if you tapped at her four times in a row. It was something the both of you had long established as a non-verbal safe-word when there's a craving for something harder.

She knows you know how to stop her if you need to. You don't. So she ploughs into you, groaning as she watches you struggle.

"C'mon baby, that's it." She's purring, sweat beading down her face as her hair comes undone. She's a vision like this. Her strong arms flexing under the low lights, her firm stomach clenched as though you were truly milking her cock. It makes you a bit delirious, especially when she's chewing on her lower lip and looking down at you like this.

"Cum around my cock. Like a proper bitch," you groan, knowing she's close from the way her grip on you tightens.

You're feeling the building pressure finally reaching its peak and you bite down on her hand, glaring at her as you moan around her flesh. She just smiles, wide and proud. A true predator.

Her teeth sharp just like her claws.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel your cunt pathetically squirt, the wetness just urging Sevika on as she forces you to bite down harder.

"You alright?"

Vander's voice feels like an ice pack against bruised skin. An apt metaphor considering he was putting an ice pack to your bruised ass.

"Mmm," he chuckled at your muffled response. After Sevika and you got scolded by your madame, you sought refuge at The Last Drop. Of course, Sevika simply thought you wanted a drink and you had. You hung around her side until she got swept up into a game of poker and slipped away to the back. All under Vander’s watchful eye.

He had grabbed an ice pack just as you slipped through the back, tapping another bartender’s shoulder to take over while he went upstairs. Which is where he found you. In his bedroom, shimmying out of your outfit and looking at him with those pleading eyes.

“You’re off early,” he kneaded at the back of your thighs, watching as your muscles jumped and twitched. “You tapped out?”

He sounds rightfully surprised. You’re not the type to just get off work early because of a bruised ass. You’re tougher than most of everyone here. You stare at him, face smushed against your crossed arms. He reaches to brush some hair away, and you melt further on his mattress.

“Darling?” you frown but finally confess. “I ran away from some dumbass party that the madame was hosting for some Topsider fucks.”

“You thought I’d be angry knowin’ that?” Vander arches a brow. Laying down next to you, trusting that The Last Drop could handle just a few more minutes without him. “You’re allowed to be angry at them. Shits bloody unfair.”

You get on your elbows, placing your chin in your palm while he looks down at you.

“Aren’t you angry at them?” you watch his expression shift. It’s a barely noticeable twitch, really it could be written off as a muscle spasm if anything.

“Aren’t you tired of being angry at them?” you continued.

“I put those dreams on the shelf a long time ago,” he attempts to soothe you by cupping your face. It works, just barely, but you lean into his warmth. “I’ve got too much to lose. This place, the kids.” He pauses and brushed his thumb across your cheek, his pinkie tilting your head up.

“You.”

The comfortable silence washes over. You take a breath and sigh, nuzzling into his large palm. The sweet act has him smiling, glad you drop the topic and using his strength to pull you to lay on his front.

“Sorry, I’m a little dirty.”

“Mm, I like you dirty.”

He laughs. The action jostling you a bit but you simply wrap your arms around his neck while he holds you firm.

“You could just work here.” He runs his hand down your back, kneading his thumbs in at a few knots. You groan into his ear, shaking your head. “You dunno’ what you’re sayin’”

“I’m serious,” he adjusts the ice pack and you shiver a bit as the its sweat drips down between your thighs. “Bar could always use a nicer face than mines.”

“Derek’s pretty enough.” Vander laughs. It rumbles in his throat this time and you grin just hearing it.

“B’sides, you’re plenty handsome.”

“Yeah, but not one of us compare to you, darling.” You hum in agreement, sighing as he works more knots loose.

“Don’t have ta’ come here to lick your wounds if there’s no wounds to lick. Could spend more time with Powder and Claggor, the kids are fond of ya’”

Your eyes slip open. Heart squeezing fondly at the mention of those little rascals. Vander and you aren’t exactly a thing, not said outloud anyways, but he introduced you to his kids. That meant something. He taught you how to sneak into his room too. When your landlord had to kick you out for a few weeks to accommodate for her lame ass nephew, you sheltered at The Last Drop and well, you all bonded.

The guilt in your heart stabbing into you night after night as more feelings poured into this already tumultuously boiling pot of emotions.

But Silco thought it was a good thing. He’d probably be telling you to take Vander’s deal on becoming this weird stay-at-home bartender/boyfriend/babysitter to get more information. Whether it be from Sheriff Grayson or the ever restless Vi.

“Think about it?” Vander blinks up at you when you lift your head. When your lips meet, it’s sweet. Slow and sensual, more lips than tongue. Pecks and real long-lasting ones. You murmur his name and he whispers yours back.

“You not sore?”

“Fuck me slow?”

He smiles and claims your lips again. Vander drifts his hand to the ice pack and removes it. The thud it makes when it falls to the ground makes you giggle, so he attacks your neck next; you give him free reign, gasping when he switches your positions to have laid down next to him.

You’re not even sure what happens next. One moment he’s clothed and the next he’s not as he practically snuggle fucks you on your side. He doesn’t have a bed frame but the springs in his mattress makes a few jostling noises as his cock slid in and out of your cunt.

“Vander, ah-mmphf, fuuuuck,” you press your face into the pillow and simply let him move you around. Completely at his mercy as he holds your waist.

Sevika glanced up at the faint thuds she was hearing above her. But refocuses on the table before her, scoffing at her competitor's lame poker face. Someone turned up the juke box and the noises are a distant memory.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he lifts one of your arms to wrap around his neck, kissing the underside of your arm and brushing his teeth there. The sensation of his beard makes you shiver.

“Deeper, please, Vander. Need you s��much deeper.” He kisses you, pulling out to readjust his position. You’re still laid on your side and he straddles your left leg and slides his thick cock inside of you again. Your voice trembles.

“There, darlin’?” you nod, whimpering when he rocks his hips in and out of you. You clutch at the bedsheets, turning your face into the pillow again as your cunt clenches down around him.

“Fuck, c’mon. Don’t push me out,” Vander threads his fingers through your hand and gently, as if you were made of glass instead of jagged metal, turns your head to him.

“Easy, loosen up a bit. Can’t fuck you how you need me to if you’re too tight.”

You whine, taking a few breaths and trying your best not to clench around him. Fuck, he was so thick. Even if you weren’t clenching, you were sure he’d still feel snug. He thanks you with a kiss to your forehead, gently shushing you when he moves again.

“Vuh...Vander...fuuuck, baby, please.”

“I’ve got ya’, come on, cum f’me.”

“You — Are you —”

Vander grunts, nodding as you once again clamp down on him. He knows you’re close, right on the edge and he wants to follow and dive with you. He kisses you, practically straling your breath away as his thrusts get sloppier and harsher. You mewl, nails digging into the back of his hands. Your orgasm washes over like a wave, your hips bucking as Vander feels your cum spurt around his dick and balls. He’s close behind, filling your insides with thick ropes of cum. He’s murmuring something into your skin. Something you can’t make out.

“Shit, shit.”

When he pulls out, your cunt clenched around nothing but air. Twitching and pulsing just like your little dick, aftershocks of pleasure running through you. His cum begins oozing out between your legs and he pants at the sight. You do nothing to stop him when he places you on your back — putting a pillow under your ass — and dives his head between your legs.

“Vander,” you moan out. Breath hitching as he licks a fat stripe up your cunt. “Let me do this for you,” he mumbles, groaning at the taste of your cum and his mixing together on his tongue. “Just let me take care of you.”

You stretch your arms above your head while he eats your boypussy out like he’s a starved man. His beard wet with your juices as your writhe on the bed. He doesn’t even tease, just intently cleaning and eating you out. You moan weakly for him, voice hoarse from servicing the Sevika and now fucking Vander.

You pinch your brows, squirming on the bed and gasping airily as Vander eases you into your nth orgasm of the day.

When you reach that peak, he eases you back down from the clouds. Carefully stroking over your thighs as he watches you catch you breath.

This is where you belong, he thinks. On his bed, legs spread and boycunt leaking with his cum; his name coming out your lips and his hands on your thighs. Vander presses kisses up your hips and chest, finally giving you a kiss on the lips.

“You alright?”

“Mmm.”

He chuckles and you trust him enough to slip your eyes closed.

“Just rest,” he tells you. “I’ve got you.”

Quitting was a sordid affair. There'd been a few passive aggressive claims from your madame about you crawling back and you calling her a cunt. Despite that, the both of you still acknowledge each other when she does walk into The Last Drop — it's hard to hate the woman who'd been generous enough to teach you everything you needed to know to survive.

The month that passed had been smooth sailing. You've gotten closer to Vander and his kids, even Benzo's little protege Ekko had come around to you. Which interests Silco, so you get close to Benzo. When Powder needs help with carrying stuff to his shop, you help. The guy was loyal to a fault and stubborn just like Silco had mentioned.

The first lesson you'd been taught in your ex-profession had been not to get feelings involved. Don't even dare to associate with customers who begin to get emotionally invested — it was bad for business in the long run. Sex isn't complicated but once you tangle in feelings? Bad mix for you. But when it came to listening in and relaying information, that career devastating choice is a powerful weapon. To turn trust into a dagger and thrust it under their ribs, tilting the blade up to hear that poor sucker suffer with each inhale.

So why is it so different this time?

How could you tuck in Powder at night and then sneak off to meet Silco in the docks to tell him what you'd overheard from Vander, Benzo, and Sheriff Grayson's discussions?

Were you that heartless?

Revolution is messy, Silco had once told you. It takes blood, sweat, tears, guts, and more guts. You don't ask for permission and you certainly don't ask for forgiveness after. Violence was necessary for change. Vander had lost sight of that, gotten soft.

But isn't it too cruel to play with his heart this way?

Would he love you if he knew what you were fighting for?

Would he condemn you for how you want respect?

He'd given you free roam of his home. Let his kids get attached to you. Gave you a job. All because he loves you.

"Is this really okay?" Vi says, which pulls you out of your thoughts. Your pupils shrink, turning to face her with your brows near your hairline.

Right. You were at the river with the kids.

The water gleamed and glimmered with metal wreckage in the bottom. There was also the unmistakable sheen of oil in it, but it honestly just added colour to the teal. The kids had breathed in worse, besides, it wasn't everyday they get to swim and just act their age.

"What? It's harmless," you snicker out, smoothly recovering as you lean back on your hands. She frowns, standing next to you on the banks. Vi constantly looks up at every little noise. Even if her head didn't turn, it was like the tip of her ears would just flick up like a vigil cat.

"Vi, it's fine. We're allowed to be here," you peer down at Claggor teaching Powder how to squirt out water between their palms while Mylo is on the shore. Wet and a bit glum looking as he shakes off the water from his hair.

"It's good to get a bit of sunlight," you tell Vi as you swing your legs over and smile as Powder accidentally shot a stream of water up Claggor's nose with amazing accuracy. Mylo laughs and Claggor splashes the water back over him. Her furrowed brow softening the tiniest bit.

It quickly returns as she turns her attention to the tall buildings with their golden ornaments and expensive detailing. You lean on your hands, nudging her leg with your elbow to pull her back.

"Hey, bet if you aim just right you can splash Mylo, Claggor, and Powder when you dive." She raises a brow, smirking at you.

Vi and you didn't have the best beginnings. She knew what your profession was and Mylo didn't exactly help with his long tales of the 'rumours' he's heard. Vander could protect himself, she knows this, but she got prickly when you had unceremoniously moved in during your landlord-nephew fiasco. Over some time though, she finds herself liking your more cynical nature. Although you acknowledge that they're kids, you also give them more credit than most adults do. It's nice feeling respected as a person.

"Hah! What are you betting?" You open your mouth to put an offer of some coins when the yell of an enforcer makes you twist your head and instantly clamber onto your feet.

"You! Stay there!" He yells, his blue uniform gleaming under the light. It's so rare seeing them all armoured up above ground. The sight should mean that you were well within your rights to be here, if he wore the armour that meant you were close enough to the Lanes to get him uncomfortable.

"C'mon, let's go! Let's go!" Vi nods and instantly hurries to gather her siblings attention, Claggor lifting Powder out the water and rushing to the shore while Mylo gathers their clothes. You know the enforcers would take some time climbing down — especially with his dumbass protective wear — so you use those precious minutes to ensure every one of them were ahead of you.

"(Y/N)!" Powder and Mylo call out when they hear you yell behind them. Vi skids to a stop, eyes wide when you find yourself pressed to the brick wall.

"Just go! Go!" she hesitates and you grit your teeth. "GO!"

The enforcer turns his gaze to them, his harsh breathing against your ear making you shudder. Vi is helpless as she grabs Mylo and Powder's wrist to tug them forward.

"We didn't do anything wrong!" you seethe out as you feel him patting you down.

"Not loiterin', not skulking, we were just - Fuck! Take it easy!" he kicks your ankles apart and you try to spin around only to get backhanded by your faceless attacker. He covers your eyes with his gloved hand, moving your head here and there as though he was inspecting you.

"Yeah, you're him," his mask makes his voice sounded inhumane. A machine-like quality that zaps out any bit of remorse or compassion from him. "You fuckin' slut."

Crumpling to the floor, you quickly cover your head and curl up when you see his boots flying in your direction.

Powder can only see glimpses of this violence as she turns her head back. Vi tells her to focus but she can't. Because all she sees is you on the floor, torso bare because you'd been swimming, bare foot too; hair wet, completely defenseless. Your grunts of pain echoing through the tunnel and your eyes having relief in them as the kids narrowly escape.

"What happened?" is Vander's first question when they all tumbled into The Last Drop. Instantly straightening up at Vi's distraught expression. It was still too early for anyone to have stumbled in, even by the Lanes standard, so he gave them all his attention.

"Vi?"

"We - we were just - we were just swimming," Mylo breathes through his nose, knees nearly buckling at the fright and rush of adrenaline. Their run through the underground, barefoot, and wet had certainly brought enough attention as is. Vander ushered them to get in, locking the front doors as they all suddenly find their voices.

"He said it was safe, they just, they grabbed him!" Vi is beginning to stomp, and Claggor nods along.

"(Y/N)?" Vander asks and Powder nods, eyes brimming with tears as she turns her attention to the doors. You should be bursting through it right now. Why weren't you?

"We were just swimming," Mylo repeats. Vander grabs his jacket. "I'm going with you!" Vi announces.

"Your feet are bleeding," he points out. "All you'd do is get in the way. Everyone of you stay here. I'll fix this."

Powder watches on as Vander rushes out the front door. Vi is still arguing, attempting to follow along either way but whatever shit she got trapped in her skin causes her to wince and falter. Claggor catches her, attempting to guide her to the chairs while Mylo is repeating the same thing.

"We were just swimming."

Topsiders had a weird thing for grudges. You understood that better than most. Eye for an eye and all that. But for Topsiders? It seemed rejection was worthy of a grudge. When you come to from the haze, you're on the wooden floors of a familiar face's house. His figure comes in fours, then twos, and finally come together in one.

Mr. Erikson. From that dumbass toga event at the brothel.

He's much more hideous in brighter lights. His plump cheeks and beady eyes more prominent. You cough, attempting to get up onto your feet only to be kept down as a familiar boot presses down on your shoulder. The bruise that was already blooming there made you grit your teeth while he harshly stomped down. Erikson winces, waving his hand to make the enforcer stop.

"Not so rough now. If he's too broken, it'll be painful to look at."

Glaring venomously at him as you stubbornly peel yourself off the floor and onto your staggering feet. The world spins but you stomp your foot to get some sense of equilibrium. There's a pounding in your head that pierces through your eyes and there's blood in your mouth; but all you can feel right now is the numbness in your limbs and the rapid pulse in your neck,

"I named you to your madame. The fox with the sweet (S/C) skin and pretty lips. The boy with the tightest cunt I've ever felt. You were there at a previous party, my other son's birthday."

You spit out some blood, wiping it away with the back of your hand as you sway in your spot. He curls his nose but continues.

"I had been hoping to give you as a gift to my youngest, Troy. But then you left, and when I asked for you again your madame wouldn't tell me just where you went. "

"You fucking kidnapped me because I wouldn't fuck you and your son on his birthday?"

The incredulity of the entire situation makes you choke out a laugh. Even with your spinning vision, this office was clearly that of someone who made decent money. With its mahogany bookshelves and leatherbound covers. Some books here were probably older than your ass, much more priceless too. Hell, you bet even that stupid fucking nameplate with the name Stephen Erikson carved into the gold had costs more than you.

"She said you quit. It was very hard to find you, considering the masks and all." He sniffles derisively. Off-put by your brash display. You were so nice and tender at the brothel, now you were acting like a completely different person.

"There's other guys with cunts, you geriatric chaser —" The enforcer backhands you again and it sends you flying to a shelf, a few books tumbling down while you desperately try not to fall on your ass.

"Troy," the old man reprimands with a drawl. He turns his attention back to you; "We'll pay you handsomely for a night."

You shake your head, digging your nails into the wood as your vision spins again. Troy, that shit, takes off his helmet and he's much more honest compared to his father; his fetish for pain was evident. Perhaps Stephen hadn't filed his teeth like you'd thought. Maybe they were just made to grind bones to dust, prolong their preys pain because unlike a predator with their fangs these teeth aren't for a merciless death.

Clearly he had learned this from his father who was enabling this behaviour. He probably taught him everything he needed to know anyways. You pant as you notice the painted family portrait on the wall of the study. Mr. Erikson and his three sons, all wearing their Enforcer's badge with pride. You recognized them all, each stupid event flashing through your head and each memory makes you more and more nauseous.

"I'm a fucking bartender now, I don't do that shit anymore" you growl out. Stephen sighs, leaning back in his leather tuft chair, looking completely bored by this entire insane exchange.

"Troy tells me he found you with a few kids. Yours?" When you say nothing in reply, he takes your seething silence as a yes. "Following your mothers footsteps, are you?" He shakes a bag of coins. Then tosses it onto the floor, golden pieces spilling out in front of you.

"You can work your ass off. Make life worth living for them."

There was a knock at the door. You waste no time and yell but get the breath knocked out of you as Troy swiftly pins you to the book shelf, a gloved hand over your mouth as he holds your hips in place with his own. Your skin prickles, just his weight on you has your stomach feeling sick.

"Who the hell is that?" Troy hisses at his father, his blue eyes panicked. The old man, as cool as a cucumber, simply tells the person on the other side to state their business.

"It's just the bloody maid," he scoffs out.

But the maid does not state their business. It's just pure silence on the other end until there's suddenly pounding. It makes the old man stand and Troy loosens his grip so you bring your knee between his legs. As he curls over you shove him away and retreat into a corner just as the door bursts open.

You recognize them. Ran, Lock, a few other nameless goons who you don't quite remember, and in the center of it all?

"Silco," you move and you fall to your knees. His expression darkens. The men and women fill the room, crowding Troy and his father to the other end while Silco makes his way to you. He offers a hand and you take it, leaning against him as he looks you over. Your lip was cut and one side of your face was scratched up, bruised and sore. The fact that you were dressed for a swim, torso bare, and feet scratched up from being dragged, made his ire raise.

"They did this to you?" He shrugged his coat off, and slipped it around your shoulders. You drew the front closed, nodding as you tuck your head under his chin.

"I wouldn't fuck them and they got pissy," you whisper to him. Silco growls, the rumbling noise soothing you just like Vander's chuckle would. He cups your face in his hand, his pinkie sliding under your jaw and his thumb across your cheek.

"What is this? Who are you?" Stephen stands, reaching for something on his desk but getting slammed face first onto the hard wood. There's a loud crackling noise that follows and you flinch out of shock. Silco simply guides your head to his neck, one hand smoothing over the back of your head and sighing in relief as his palms lift with no crimson.

"Dad!" Troy's yell gets cut short when he's forced onto his knees. There was a scuffle, fists meeting face and knees slamming themselves into his diaphragm. A small smile twitches to your face as your eyes slip close. Silco squeezes you, jolting you a bit.

"Stay awake, come. Sit."

Silco moves casually. Setting you to lay down on the lounge chair in the study, taking his coat off your shoulders to instead drape it over your. He pulls out his handkerchief to wipe away your blood while he kneels next to you. He takes his sweet time with you, his men keeping the pigs still as they both find themselves pinned down.

"I'd heard an enforcer had been snooping around the brothel. Asking for someone, demanding even" His voice makes your heart calm down, adrenaline ebbing away as he presses down on the cut on your eyebrow. The pain keeps you awake, but he still purses his lips at your hiss. Silco stands up, sighing softly. A kid comes to your side, offering you a flask of water. He's careful as he tilts your head up, watching intently as you sip it down.

"You're a proud man, aren't you Stephen?" Silco admires the family portrait, taking it the details of each face before he turns his attention to the table of trinkets below it. "A family of enforcers. Protecting the city you love." Silco tilts his head as he hears them struggle once again.

"While the city you constantly take from suffer from your greed."

"Fuckin' trencher," Troy spits out. His cheek pressed on by the heel of a boot. His blue eyes were shaking with indignation. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Fissure Folk, Sump Rat, Undercity scum," Silco answers. He steps over Troy's head and jerks his chin to signal Lock to step away from Stephen. He does and Stephen inhales, his entire body shaking as he coughs and coughs. The impressive table creaked under the old man's rattling breathes.

Ran brings Silco the fallen leather tuft chair and he crosses his legs as he sits.

"I'm sure you boast about being a near native to the undercity. With how often you visit our brothels with your men and sons. Using our bodies for your sick desires then beating it when you have the uniform on. Pretending to be a saint as your city fills your pockets. As if you've actually done anything worthwhile."

Stephen continues to hack, wheezing and whimpering. Every breath he took felt like a blunt blade was scratching up his lungs. His ribs were broken, he was sure of it.

"Yet, despite how many hours you've spent with our men and women, you still fail to understand the most important thing about us." Silco spreads his legs, elbows on his knees as he leans in so Stephen was looking right into his eyes.

"We protect our own."

"Please," Stephen's voice sounded strained. Like air escaping out of a broken pipe, the pitch ear grating. "I'm sorry."

Silco openly observes Stephen's splotchy red face. Cheeks full and plump, his brows trimmed and his dyed hair shining unnaturally cherry red. The family potrait was recent, but the artist had covered up their earlier renditions of Stephen's wrinkles while his blonde sons all looked their current age.

"No, you aren't." He states dryly, motioning for the man to slam Stephen back onto the table, him howling in pain just as Ran switches the radio on.

A jaunty tune plays. The singer sighing about puppy love as the melodic background singers and stringed instruments accompany his voice. He leans back in the chair, nodding as Stephen's captor wrings his hands back.

"But you will be."

"No!" Troy twists and bucks like an animal. His eyes wide with horror. As if he hadn't intended to strip you of all your dignity just moments ago. The sight of that fear on their face, that dawn of realization; even when they don't realize that they're only getting what they deserve, it soothes a part of Silco's soul.

"No?" Silco repeats.

"What do you want?" Troy is pleading now. The sight of his old man's hand pulled behind his body, ready to be broken in half, causing him enough distress for tears to fill his eyes.

"We'll give you anything!"

"Troy!" Stephen wheezes out in retaliation. Silco looks at the golden nameplate on his desk and scoffs. Anything? This house wasn't in any impressive neighbourhood. The portrait maker had been shoddy in their cover-up. The trinkets had a fine sheet of dust across them and the books weren't kept in the best conditions. Their maid had been an old woman with her back hunched, making her shrink down to the height of a pre-teen. Tired, slow at work; not the best money could get.

They weren't rich by Piltover standards. It's why they go to the Undercity for their parties. Things were cheaper there and get even cheaper when you flash your badges.

"You've nothing I want." He says simply, making sure Troy felt that pit of dread consume him entirely.

"We didn't know, we didn't know he was yours" Troy squirms, but the thug above him with the lazy eye simply stomped down on him harder. Knocking the air out of him and making him bite down on his tongue hard enough it fills his mouth with blood.

"No, because all that mattered was he was a trencher and he'd rejected your money. So predictable."

Lock smirks as Silco jerks his chin again and begins pulling Stephen's arm the wrong way. He screeches like a sewer mouse. You find yourself coughing as you laugh, reaching a hand up to cover your eyes at the noises. The song kept playing, the contrast of its sweet melody and words to the scenario before you simply adding more fuel to your delirious humour.

"PLEASE!" The youngest son doesn't even try to fight when his enforcer badge does nothing to intimidate others. When he's in a room full of people who wanted nothing more than crush him, he tucks tail and shows off his underbelly.

You try to hear what Silco says next, but the headache begins to grow stronger and the blonde kid next to you panics when he notices your eyes fluttering close. "Hey," he hisses, drawing Ran's attention as they kneel by your side.

Their voices become a blur and unconsciousness beckons you so sweetly. As hard as you try to fight, you find yourself sinking into that dark embrace, floating into nothingness as the pain shrinks away.

There's an incessant purring next to you. Just under your left armpit, warm and comfortable. It's the only thing you can feel and hear, your senses still dulled. While your mind runs a million miles a second, your limbs feel heavy and locked; as if they'd turned into lead. You're trapped in your own mind. Your eyelids feel like bricks and as your eyes move under them, left to right and right to left, you feel his hand slip into yours.

"Easy now," that voice, that honeyed drawl. You breathe sharply through your nose and he squeezes your hand. "I'm here. Easy."

Silco lifts the darkness from your eyes and your vision takes its damn sweet time returning to you. You see him though. Shifting from a blurry figure to that face you adored so much. He offers a ghost of a smile, bringing your knuckles to his lips as he sees the wildness in your eyes tame itself. The damp rag across your eyes is placed back into the bowl.

"You're alright. The Doctor says your adrenaline just ran out," he pushes you down gently when you try to sit up. It was for the best, considering how much your body was aching. Not even in the sexy, satisfied, way. You wince, grunting when you fall back onto the mattress. The purring machine next to you lifts its head and you raise a brow at the furless cat. It yawns, looking a bit disgruntled at your movement but stubbornly staying put as it curls up.

Breathing ball sack aside, you ask Silco what happened.

"What do you remember?" he lets your hand go to squeeze out the water from the rag, wiping away the cold sweat on your neck. "You giving me your coat, then some girl squealing, but don't remember much after."

Your retelling makes him scoff, clearly amused. The sight of your bruised lips and face twists his mouth into a frown. "I should've been there sooner."

"Don't start with that, come on." You wince as your sides pulsed in pain, a boot shaped bruise already beginning to darken. "How'd you even find out about the Eriksons?"

"The kids were running down the Lanes barefoot and wet - " you gasp and cut him off.

"The kids!" You lurch up, the cat growling in discontent as it sprung up into an arched back pose from the sudden movement. Regret is instant and striking, your muscles screaming in pain and head pulsing once again. Silco steadies you by your shoulders, brows furrowing.

"Fuh - fuck, are they alright? He mentioned seeing them, Silco. Tell me those assholes are - "

"They're dealt with."

His tone makes you pause, you peer at him through your eyelashes. "Did you...?" he smiles but shakes his head.

"Him and his father are more useful alive. But a few bones were broken. He was in the academy with Sheriff Grayson's second in command, Marcus."

Silco leans in, pressing his forehead with yours. Uncaring of the dampness of your forehead or your hair. The tip of his nose brushes agaisnt your cheek and you flutter yours eyes at the feeling.

"So he's in your pocket?"

"I was worried," he dismisses the questions so blatantly you wring out a breathless laugh. "Your madame said she had a feeling who the enforcer was, if it weren't for her..."

"I would've been fine," you cup his marred cheek, allowing him to slip his arms around you. "I'm tough."

No, you're not, Silco wants to say. The fever you've developed from the stress and cold and the wounds on your body — you were a statue made off jagged metal but it didn't mean you couldn't get scratched, bent, melted. You would have survived but that didn't mean you should be going through such injustices.

"I plan on staying here until we're free," you promise to him as you slip your eyes closed. "I wanna see Zaun with my own eyes."

You feel him lean in closer and then his lips are on yours. Your brows knit together, the cut there stinging but you don't mind it. Silco kisses you like he wants to devour you. The heat he brings is like a glowing dagger; the silver steaming and glowing orange from the fire. Cutting you and cauterizing the wound at the same time. Painful, seeringly painful, but not deadly.

You part your lips, twisting your head as he clutches the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his hands making the hairs on the back of your neck stand, applauding him almost. You clutch at his vest, whispering his name as he tangles his tongue with yours.

Feeling you, holding you; Silco can't remember the last time he's felt this light and grounded at the same time. He was truly worried, you know. His heart dropping to his stomach when Deckard informed him about Vander's brats rushing through in complete panic. It was a random act of violence. Piltie's finest once again throwing their weight around.

You lean back and he chases. Your teeth clack together and you wince, so he kneads at your nape and lowers you back on the bed.

You should stop. This wasn't right. Your grip on Silco's vest loosens as you remember sweet Vander. Whose kisses felt like burning smoke going down your throat, filling your body with warmth that is entirely too phantom-like and too suffocating all the same. You shouldn't go further, you shouldn't. Silco slips a hand to your chest, pulling your thin blanket down and you wince, pulling away from the kiss to gasp. Silco and you pant heavily, the heat dissipating the longer you do.

"I'm sorry," he shakes his head and assures you it's alright.

"How long have I been out?"

"A couple of hours. He's been looking for you. His accomplices too." Most patrons of The Last Drop had been anxiously waiting to hear your return. We take care of our own. Those just weren't pretty words. Benzo had told them to calm down, saying Vander will handle it but it was evident that a pin could drop and they'd turn over every little rock to find you.

Their respect for Vander's leadership is the only thing holding them back. It's holding you back too, he can tell. Ever since you'd moved in, you stray away from his touches. You've grown a sort of affection for Vander. Just like he had.

"Shit, I should head back then." Silco nods, helping you sit up. "The boy he says he's at the edge of the Lanes. Asking around."

It makes your heart flutter.

Ran looks you over when you walk up to them, a question in their eyes.

'You okay?'

"Could be better," you tell them. Dressed in an oversized shirt and your pants from earlier. They nod, reaching to slip their hand under your arm and you wince.

"Thanks for this and the save," they shrug and look ahead.

'Don't mention it.'

When you do spot Vander, your face brightens up. But Ran frowns, suddenly hiding behind a couple of crates. You don't quite get it until you see blue.

Vander was talking to an enforcer. Not just any enforcer either, the fucking sheriff.

"Grayson, I'm not askin' for much here," he growls out. She looks away, shaking her head. "You're not giving me much to go off on, Vander. The kids say he got taken by an enforcer for no reason in broad daylight but they can't even tell you any more details?"

"They were terrified, I'm sorry if they didn't come t'have a chat with 'em!"

Vander's muscles were tense, shoulders drawn and jaw clenched. He looked exhausted. His hair tousled from him constantly running his hands through them. The greys in his beard looking more prominent all of a sudden.

"Grayson, please."

Please.

He's begging for help from an enforcer.

You dislodge from Ran, giving them a nod as thanks before you limp towards them. The sound of your uneven footsteps makes their head snap your way. Vander whispers your name, then says it again with more volume as he rushes to hold you. He scans you, from top to bottom as he holds you in his arms.

"Shit, shit, you're okay." You're not, but your anger does calm the tiniest bit as he pulls you into a hug. Grayson looks at you and from over Vander's shoulders, you glare daggers into her. That fucking uniform, that breathing mask hung around her neck.

You still hear it. Vander pleading for help from her.

"Are you alright?" Sheriff Grayson says, coming close as Vander lets you go. You push him away, fists trembling as you walk towards her. Her eyes harden, lips pursing at your unrestrained strife.

"Screw you," you hiss, digging your pointer finger to her chest. "Screw everything you stand for."

Vander calls out your name, placing a hand on your shoulder that you shrug off. Even when your life had been in danger. Even when he could've done something. Vander remained a docile pet to Topside, begging for his masters help like a good lap dog.

Your lips tremble, tears filling your eyes.

"I'm here for you, (Y/N). If you could just tell me the name of the enforcer who'd done this to you, I can help you," Grayson tries to reason. Even when you were patched up, it was clear you'd been smacked around.

"It doesn't matter," you seethe out. "I just want to help, I can't if you don't tell me," you shake your head and walk past her.

"Fuck you."

"(Y/N)," Vander offers Grayson a glance but she shakes her head, turning away as he rushes after you. She watches the both of you, the anger in your posture so evident it makes her mouth twist.

Vander is quiet as you get inside the elevator. As it rumbles to life, you grip onto the railings instead of him and he tires to soothe you but you flinch away from him. "Darlin'" he places a hand on your shoulder and you spin, gnashing your teeth as you yell.

"Sheriff Grayson!? You went to her!?"

"What else was I meant to do?" He grits out.

"Fight! Vander! Fight back!" you throw a fist at his chest, he lets you.

"I was fucking terrified, do you - do you know how fucked it was!? He grabbed me off the damn street! He fucking -" you inhaled sharply as your ribs screamed in pain. If you closed your eyes you could hear the thudding noise of his feet flying to your body.

Vander feels his heart drop and he tilted your head up. His large hand cupping your face as tears streamed down your cheeks. You're running hot, fever returning as your emotions ran high.

"I was so scared, Vander." Your sob pierced through his chest. Nothing had compared to that pain of letting you down. Nothing. Not when the skin of his knuckles ripped apart or when enforcer bullets whizzed past his ears and made his hearing tune into a high pitched ring or when he'd been stabbed. He gathered you in his arms, despite your weak pushes and protests. He holds you to his chest and tucks your head under his chin, just holding you there.

"I'm sorry, love. I'm so sorry."

Heads raised the second the doors opened. You blinked in surprise at the sight of the usual patrons. A blue blur rushed towards you and you grunted at her tight hug but smile down at her.

"Hey, Powder..." you pressed her face to your stomach, rubbing her back as she sobbed in relief. Vi approaches you next, showing a rare moment of softness as she slips under your open arm. Milo and Claggor rush in as well and you wince a bit but just laugh softly. Ekko sighed out in relief, Benzo's eyes softening at the sight.

"You all worried about me?" you give the patrons a coy smile that they scoff at but the relief was evident. "Cut the bullshit and stop smiling," Sevika says, crossing her arms. "What the fuck happened?"

Vander drapes his jacket around your shoulder. "Story for another time. How about some free drinks, yeah?" the mood lightens up a bit, despite the question hanging heavily in the air.

Powder is glued to you, sniffling as she clings but you don't mind. "C'mon, let's go down," you tell the kids and they nod. Milo rambles about what he'd done if you weren't caught off-guard. Vi shaking his head at him while Claggor just helped you down the stairs.

"He alright?" Benzo asks Vander when he comes around to the bar. Derek waves Vander away, pouring everyone a drink and Vander nods appreciatively his way as he sits. "No, he isn't" he confesses, glaring at the bottles of liquor, at his reflection in them.

"Fight! Vander! Fight back!"

Benzo slides him his pipe and Vander simply holds it in his hands. The look in your eyes. That disappointment etched into every line on your face. The rage that flowed down your cheeks. Vander brought the apparatus to his lips, lighting a match and inhaling to calm his shot nerves.

"He'll be alright. He's the tough sort, yeah?" Benzo places a heavy hand on Vander's shoulder, tilting his frame down a bit. "He was scared, Benzo."

"He was scared and I couldn't do anythin'."

"Powder, I'm okay," you reassured for the fifth time in a row. You don't dare try to peel her away from you but you do make an effort to calm her trembling frame. Poor thing was shaking like a damn leaf as she laid besides you on her bottom bunk. Vi smiles wryly, just watching the scene with more emotion than a kid her age should have. Ekko peers down from the top bunk, asking if the cut brow hurt and you just scrunch your nose and laugh.

"Nah, come on. I'm not a wimp, Little Man."

Mylo nudges Ekko, echoing your statement in his own words. Claggor appears, holding a cup of some warm water and offering it to you. "Here, you must be tired," you thank him and hitch Powder up with you as you sit up a bit.

"You guys, I really am okay."

Powder just tightened her grip around you. All she could hear was the sounds of that scene. You sprawled onto the floor, half-dressed, bare foot; a fully armoured enforcer above you with his legs swinging back as you yell at her to go.

"Don't leave," she whispers against your stomach and you brush your fingers through her bangs. "I won't, baby. I'm not going anywhere."

"Where are you four going?" they stiffen up, twisting their heads to look at you as you leaned against the railing leading to Vander's office and bedroom. You were dressed in a large shirt that reached your knees, eyes still puffy from sleep as you held a mug of something warm. Mylo gawks, mouth gaping like a fish as he tries to find the words; hands coming to scratch the back of his head. Claggor just stiffens up like a board and Powder hides slightly behind him.

Vi lowers her hood, looking a bit smug. "A morning walk," she says cooly. You arch a brow, bringing the rim of the mug to your lips. Last night had been a busy night for the bar, a few scuffles ignited because some dumbass didn't know when to cut himself off when he needed to. So Vander was fully conked out and you wanted him to take as long as he needed to recuperate.

"Mhm," you glance at each of their faces for a moment then sigh and close your eyes. "What's the job?"

Vi's shoulders fall. Damn you and your perceptiveness. It was unnerving how good you were at reading people at times.

"Little Man gave a tip," that woke you up a bit more. "You sure you can pull it off?" Vi nods firmly, her shoulders squaring confidently.

"We're ready."

"Stay safe and stay out of sight," they grin up at you and rush out through the back. Powder gives you a wave that you return before silence washes over the empty bar. You crack your neck, grunting as the satisfying popping noises echo then make your way down the stairs.

You prepare to set-up for the noon crowd. Leisurely moving around as you swept and wiped down everything. When Vander does lumbers down, he gathers you in his arms by wrapping them around your waist. Those damned arms. You swear his bicep was as big as your damn head.

"Mornin'" you chuckle as he rubs his beard to your cheek. "You weren't b'sides me, not a very good start" you roll your eyes at him, patting his arm so he lets you go and you can turn around to look at him.

"Kids awake?"

"They left to get breakfast," you turn and plant a kiss on his lips, smiling as he groans into it. "I made you coffee, c'mon. Gotta start the day right." Vander groans again, firmly cupping your ass in his hand and lifting you onto a table. You laugh, glancing at the windows but he simply blocks your body from view.

"If we're talking about starting the day right..." "Vander!"

"You said the kids are out, right?" You squeal when he brings his face to your neck, moaning as he kisses over the previous hickeys he'd left. He brings your crotches together and you chew on your lips as you feel his morning wood against your clothed cunt.

"Fine, let's start the day right." You feel him grin against your neck.

“Atta’ boy.”

Huck is chipper today. Greeting you with that flush on his cheek that never fails to remind you of a blushing maiden. "Closing that deal, Huck baby?" you asked, smiling sweetly his way. He sputters but nods, asking for a pint to sweeten the deal.

"Coming right up" Vander presses a hand to your waist as he walks behind you, asking if you could wipe down a table and you nod. Sevika bumps her knee to yours as you clean the table next to hers.

"Is he a damn vacuum?" she says as she eyes the hickeys on you. "You jealous, Sev?" her nose crinkles at your teasing but she doesn't deny it. She just laughs at it, turning her attention back to her cards. You lean down, making a grimace as your stare at her deck that makes the others start double guessing.

Who were they to believe? Sevika's calm expression or your grimace?

She huffs through her nose, watching your profile from the corner of her eyes. Though that's cut short by the tense scene in Huck's corner. You straighten up, brows furrowing as you watch it unfold.

Though everything goes smoothly once Vander sends them a simple message, something about that interaction makes your stomach twist. The news about an explosion happening Topside didn't help ease this pit of snakes and they only knot themselves into worse shape when the kids walk in.

Vander and you share a look as he walks to their room, you can't leave the bar unattended so you trusted him to ask. But this feeling just wouldn't leave you. When Vander pops back put with a sack over his shoulder and Claggor following behind, you slip out the bar to stop in front of your boy.

“Who did this?” Claggor shifts under your gaze, trying to cover his bruise with his hand. Pretending to scratch at his cheek. “One of us,” Vander answers for him. That brings up more questions than it does answers. So Claggor just shrugs.

“It was some blonde kid and his goons. Said something about us crossing his turf.”

You frown but let them pass after ruffling Claggor’s hair. Turning your attention back to the bar. The rest of the night goes by smoothly enough, a few verbal scuffs but nothing you couldn’t handle. When Vander returns, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“What’d Benzo say?” he tightened his grip then sighed. It was a heavy one and you make a questioning noise.

“What? What happened?”

Vander poured both of you a shot and silently handed you the glass. You take it but the frown does not disappear. He clinks your glasses then throws his head back, you copy his motion. Not grimacing as it burns down your throat, simply staring Vander down as that feeling in your gut worsens.

“They need their slab of meat for the explosion today.”

Deckard bumps into you as he gets escorted out by Lock. Who does not waste anytime in flirting with you: “Hey, hot stuff,” Lock calls out and you scoff. “Keep on dreaming, bud.”

“Every night, baby!” his reply makes you smile, shaking your head as you open the door to the lab. The squealing pink vines on the floor never failing to make you shudder as you avoid stepping on them. You know they’re not technically alive but you swear, every creak and whine this rundown factory makes is just these things making their way out.

“Ah, (Y/N),” your smile tightens. “Hey, Doc.” he shares a glance between Silco and you then walks to his station. In his own way telling you to just ignore his presence. Silco continues to stare at the rat cage, entranced at the squealing and yowling. The splatter of blood against the glass makes you flinch but you stand next to Silco and pale.

“What the hell is that?”

“An upper hand,” Silco traces the planes of your face with his eyes. The micro expressions you display — twitches, spasms, tugs. Even when contorted in disgust, you were a marvel. Especially when backdropped by the creatures of the depths. The speckles of light piercing through the water just add to your allure. He knows you’re not fond of his affections, not without feeling guilt, but he reaches for your hand and presses your knuckles to his lips.

You steel your emotions, expressions turning neutral. As if you could hide the way your lips quiver to hide that grin.

“Silco. Did you ask Deckard to jump my kids?” The softness of the moment is broken by the accusation. He lets go of your hand and glances at the savage rat tearing into the corpse of the cat.

“I told the boy to simply observe. I gain nothing from hurting them.”

You purse your lips, crossing your arms as you walk away from the gruesome view. You glance at the table, picking up the gun-shaped needle device, testing its weight in your hands.

“You doubt me?” You frown at the tone he takes. “No, I don’t.”

Because no matter how you spin it, Silco was right. There was no scenario where Deckard trying to beat the shit out of your kids gave him an upper hand in the grand scheme of things.

Silco watches your fingers tinker with his device. Lost deep in thought while you flip it over and trace your touch down every scratch or bump it had. It's on the tip of your tongue, he sees the way your jaw is clenched. How your shoulders are tensed up despite wearing that thick jacket, hood drawn up to hide your face.

A bitterness ebbs its way to Silco's rationale. That look in your eyes, that contemplativeness. It was doubt.

"I won't be able to give you an answer if you don't ask," he turns around to the underwater scene instead. The sight of you weakens him too much. Silco can't allow you to be a distraction, no when the pieces are falling just where they need to.

"There's nothing to ask." You place the device down and slip your eyes closed. No matter what he says, how he tries to reassure you; it wouldn't change what was already set in motion.

"You said the kids would stay out of it, right?"

"Yes."

He wouldn't look at you as he says it. His figure casting a long shadow on the scuffed floors of the lab and the hairs on the back of your neck pricks. The Doctor calls out your name and you reluctantly tear your eyes away from Silco to tilt your head questioningly at him.

"It's getting late. Best to get back before suspicions raise." The unrest was worsening. The Undercity folk have been walking on a tight rope made off steel for years now. The rope digging viciously into your feet, slicking up the material while you held your hands out to your side. This so called 'peace' that the Topsiders called it was laughable.

With how hard the enforcers were hitting now, that tightrope walker's knees were beginning to buckle as their blood gushes beneath them.

You openly glare at their masked heads, nails digging into the wooden crate of goods. Waiting for them to pass you before you stepped out from the tight alleyway. You worry for a moment about your kids. They were in a more secluded part of town, in their little hideout and you hope they're keeping their heads down like Vander had told them too.

A pair of boots appear in your vision, that obnoxious mechanical breathing lifting the edge of your hood. You scowl, lifting your head to glare into those bug-like lenses.

He says your name, you can tell his face is scrunched up as if even muttering it annoys him. You curl your nose, standing your ground. "What the hell do you want?" Troy scoffs, his gloves creaking when his hands curl into fists.

"Just being thorough in my search, we're looking for four sump rats."

You glance over his shoulder, noticing a few other enforcers asking others who do little to hide their anger. Topside really doesn't know how much restraint it takes to continue this 'peace' and they still insist on poking the bear.

"A councilor's kid almost got hurt."

"So they need four kids to get their lick back?"

One kid almost got hurt and Topside is asking for justice. Yet they turn a blind eye to the kids who were breathing in toxins and starve day after day. Because it's never been about unity, it's about subservience.

Troy glances at your crate and you scoff. "Piss of, Piltie," you shoulder through him and Troy lets you. His fathers arm would never bend right anymore so he knew better than to put his hands on you again. But he still glared at the back of your head, burning holes into you. You turn, walking backwards and lifting one hand to flip him off before you make your way back home.

Sevika's voice is the first thing you hear when you walk in. You place the crate down, slipping your hood down and glancing at the small crowd of people. Vander regards you with a nod and you stand besides him.

"We should hit them back. We got the numbers to beat them." Sevika's words makes a few head nod, soft cheers of agreement echoing through the room.

"Yeah. Let's teach them what it means to mess with us." Another voice says, you cross your arms, leaning your hip against the bar. Sevika is looking right at you, tilting her head at the apprehension on your face.

"You sure that's what you want? We crossed that bridge once before, we all know how that ended." Vander is trying to reason with an angry crowd. An exhausted one. You do nothing to hide your frown at his words. He pretends not to see it.

"You're just protecting your kids," she retorts. A vein jumps in Vander's neck, his jaw clenching the tiniest bit.

"I'm protecting our people. I'd do the same for any one of you. We look out for each other. It's the way it's always been. This will blow over. We just need to stand together."

His sentiments were noble. But the tightrope was beginning to tremble and the walker on top of it was now desperately crouched to grip at it with their hands instead.

"The Vander I knew, the one who built the underground, wouldn't be afraid to fight."

Vander stands and you feel a smidge of fear in your heart. He was pulled taut, all of this stress showing through the tightness in his posture. He towered over Sevika, a rumbling growl building in his throat.

"Do I look afraid?"

Sevika doesn't falter. She scoffs, meeting his challenging gaze with no issue.

"No. You look weak."

Marcus walks in with a purpose. His men following behind him making sure to puff their chests with each stride in. The Last Drop patrons find their fingers twitching, readying itself to grab at the blade near their hips. You level your gaze with Troy, he meets it head on and in a blink-and-you'll-miss motion he glances at the stairs leading down.

You straighten up, heart jumping to your throat.

Marcus' arrogance is like rubbing salt into an already festering wound. He doesn't need to say but he does it anyways and your little tightrope walker is now gone. Just two poles standing in the darkness, with no evidence of the rope or the walker ever existing.

You rush down the stairs, the door flying open and calling out for your kids. You instantly gather Powder and Ekko into your arms, checking over Claggor and Mylo while Vi talks to Vander.

"We need to fight back!" her fist slams into the wall and you meet Vander's eyes from over her shoulder.

Still.

Still, he remains stubborn. He tells Vi he has to show her something and you feel that same disappointment build in you. That day you saw him pleading for help from Sheriff Grayson after she had asked if the kids were truly getting their facts right.

Vander was too soft to protect anyone. Your heart squeezes at the revelation, but you numb yourself out to it. Even when Piltover was calling for the blood of your kids, he still deludes himself into this fantasy of peace.

He was weak.

You bring your lips to Powder's forehead, keeping Ekko close to you while Mylo and Claggor shift uneasily as Vi follows Vander out.

"Come on, help me close up early." Mylo and Claggor uncross their arms, nodding. You pull away from the embrace and cup Powder and Ekko's faces in each hand.

"Ekko, you should get back to Benzo's, it's getting late." He pauses but nods, so you stroke over the back of his head and press a kiss to his temple. "Enforcers are gonna be crawling all over, want me to drop you off?"

"No, I can be sneaky!" Ekko beams up at you and you return his grin, standing to send him off. Powder stands next to you, watching as Ekko disappears into the alleyways with an agility of a street cat.

"Why won't Vander fight?" she looks up at you, brows furrowed. "They're ruining everything. The enforcers. They threw a guy through a window, they're -"

"Monsters." You finish for her. She sees the scar running down your brow and inches close, so you wrap an arm around her. Man, she's grown like a sprout, limbs all lanky and awkward.

She couldn't grow up in a world like this.

"All of them are monsters," she whispers under her breath and your silence just cements this further into her brain.

"All of them," you continue.

When Vander returns with your eldest, he knows he's pissed you off. You won't meet his eyes, nursing a drink in your hand while you stare at a card in between your hands. He stands next to you and plucks your old business card from your fingers. It was wrinkled, yellowing with age and some words already fading. But your writing on the back remains.

'Come see again soon'

"Revisiting memories?" that was the theme tonight it seems. You'd slipped that into his jacket after he pulled off a drunkard away from you. Vander still remembers the seat you were sat in, what you were wearing, and that gleam in your eyes when you catch him staring at you for a bit too long.

He sits next to you and glances at the cast iron gloves. Those memories do little to make him happy. You take a swing of your drink, slamming the cup down and moving to stand. Vander calls out your name, grabbing at your arm to tug you in. You grunt when you land against his chest.

"You're pissed at me."

You roll your eyes at him, using your hands to push away but he does not relent.

"You honestly think we should go to war with Topside?" there's a bite to his tone. His patience with Vi had been in abundance, she was young and hurt. But out of everyone else, he thought you should understand him better.

"You want her to live like this her entire life? Keeping her head down and taking every beat down for a noble purpose?" You slur out, ripping yourself from his arms to grab at your coat.

"I want her to stay alive. I want all of you to stay alive" his voice raised the tiniest bit but he restrains himself and it pisses you off more. You put on your jacket and he sighs. "Where the hell are you going?"

You smack his hand away, stumbling a bit as you turned to face him.

He wants to hear it. A scathing 'fuck you' or 'leave me alone, asshole'. But you just narrow your eyes at him, lips trembling as its set in that frown, then just shake your head and turn away to walk out.

You don't know where you planned on going. You let your legs carry you around, aimlessly wondering through the alleyways until you find yourself at a familiar backdoor. You push the heavy door open. The busy wallpaper and creaky floorboards give you more comfort than you expected.

"(Y/N)?" Doe blinks at the sight of you. She takes off her mask and you stare at her concerned face. "Are you okay?" you shake your head and lean in. Her eyes widen when your lips meet hers, she places firm hands on your chest and push you back.

"You're drunk."

You shake your head, cupping her face again and kissing her. She groans, murmuring your name before she bites down. You hiss, back hitting the wall as she shoves you. "You're with Vander." The reminder makes you laugh. You slide down the wall, putting your head between your knees as your tears well up.

Sevika thanks Doe for telling her where you were, crouching to grab a fistful of your hair to raise your head. Your empty gaze makes her sigh. You don't even fight when she slings your arm over her shoulder and lifts you onto your feet.

"The hell are you two taking me?"

"Silco's." Doe answers flatly.

Sevika feels you stiffen up. "I knew you hated them, but never figured you'd been working with him the whole time," she gruffs out. "Wish you would've told me about it sooner."

"Sorry, I'll be sure to invite you into my super secret group club the next time, okay?"

You're sober enough to be sarcastic without slurring words together. She just adjusts her grip on you and makes her way to the factory by the docks.

The Doctor greets you as Sevika drops you onto a chair. A dark shadow moves idly by the windows and you clutch at your neck as you crack it again. "Why am I here?" you mumble, pinching your brows. "To keep you safe."

You look at him through squinted eyes. "Why wouldn't I be safe?"

You had no idea what had happened. Not Benzo's murder and not Vander's kidnapping. Call it luck or a happy accident, Silco doesn't care. He's glad you're not looking at him with an ounce of hatred, just simple confusion.

"Stumbling around drunk," he begins "late at night." He was worried you'd run away. Ran and Lock had looked for you at the bar, even asked around for you. Thankfully, Sevika had found you.

"I'm a big boy" you reply, leaning back in the chair only to smack your hand onto the edge of a table when you realise it was a stool.

"Sober him up," he tells the Doctor who reaches for a small jar on the shelves. "This won't make you sober," he tells you as he unplugs the cork from the top, you grimace and bring your face close. "But it'll wake you up."

The sharp sting that wafts up your nose makes you groan, backing away from his outstretched hand. Doe keeps you from falling backwards, steadying you while you making hacking noises.

Silco and Doe nod at each other. She's got you, he can trust her with this. He turns and Sevika follows in step. They step out, the door thudding close.

It was better to keep you away from this. You cared too much about Vander, he can't let you get distracted from the freedom that's right there. Shimmering like a desert oasis in front of him. Hate him if you must, but Vander had done himself in the second he decided to put on those handcuffs.

The hound of the underground was nothing but a lapdog now. He can't keep his people in check anymore, it's why they've turned to him instead. They need this. Zaun needs this. Vander will be known as a coward who ran away with his kids. Leaving the undercity to save his own skin, so his hands remained clean from anymore blood. Like the true coward he was.

You'll forgive him for this. You'll have to.

You're standing now, peering into the rat cage while Doe stared at the test tubes full of creatures on the shelves. Every time you even glance at the direction of the exit, Doe steps subtly in your way. He wanted to keep you in here? Seriously? You weren't that damned drunk.

You hear muffled voices from outside and as Doe picks up a test tube, you take your chances wrestling with her. She blinks in alarm, nearly dropping the tube as you suddenly dash towards the door. The Doctor stands as the the glass breaks and splatters green glowing liquid onto the floor. She calls out your name and you twist the handle open, slamming it closed in her face. She pounds on the door, cussing you out for being a bitch and you would've replied with your own string of colourful words but a body crashes next to you.

It's Lock. He groans, jaw loose and mouth bloody as he his head limply falls backwards. You notice the shadows from the bridge and look up.

"Vi!" she feels ice in her veins. She chances a glance down and yells out your name in confusion. Silco tightens his grip on the railing so Sevika whistles sharply. You yell as a few of her men try to grab you.

"(Y/N)?' Mylo repeats, his hands trembling even more. Vander's heart drops to his stomach but he snaps Mylo back into focus.

Why was she wearing those gloves? No, what the hell was she doing here in the first place?

"Silco!" you avoid a pair of burly arms, ducking away and bumping into the crates filled with Shimmer. "What are you doing!? You promised!"

He motions for more of his men to rush the bridge. Vi doesn't have enough time to process your words fully. She shakes her arms, cracking her neck as she prepares to fight. She must've misheard. She must have.

"SILCO!"

Your yells are making Vander's heart race. He can't see you. Only hear you. If Silco was ready to get rid of his kids just to ensure his control over the undercity, he doesn't dare to imagine what he'd do to you. Vi is determined, she cannot let her fathers die here. Not when she was the one who'd put them in this situation in the first place. These series of events, this domino effect all began from that damn explosion.

She can't let herself be orphaned again. She can't let Powder be orphaned again.

You continue to evade them, grabbing a wooden plank and smashing it over a few heads to put enough distance. When you reach the stairs, you yell out for Vi again. Silco doesn't dare look your way as you rush towards the bridge. He cannot get distracted. He can't.

Sevika grabs at you, her arm wound around your waist and you snarl. You aim your elbow at her head, making her flinch enough to loosen her grip. It still isn't enough though. Even then, she squeezes you like a damn snake.

"Let him go!" Vi growls out, adrenaline pumping through her veins. You dig your nails into Sevika, slamming your fist onto her arms while you struggle. Deckard watches this half-dazed, purple liquid oozing out from the corners of his eyes as he's bent over the railings.

"Ready to rise to the surface?" Silco holds the glass vial of Shimmer to his face. Deckard's breathing quickens and he downs it.

It happens quick. One second Deckard is just another boy and the next he's a monstrous figure rushing towards Vi. You yell, finally managing to elbow Sevika right in her face. She drops you and the second your feet are on the ground you sprint towards Vi.

You gather her in your arms and damn near skid to a stop once you past the threshold of safety. "The door! The door!" Vi yells, grabbing the handle and you help her. It slams close just in the nick of time, Deckard squealing from the other side as he pounds his fists so hard, it makes you and Vi bounce away from the door. You dig your heels in and grip onto the handle, sweat beading down your nose as you try to catch your breath.

"(Y/N)! You alright?" you cuss under your breath but let out a breathless laugh.

"Never better."

Vander sighs, looking to Vi next. He feels the rush of cool air as Claggor finally makes a hole big enough for them to escape from.

"You did good, Vi."

She feels hope stir within her.

You don't remember what happens next. It's a fiery blur, only flashes of images bursting through every time you open your eyes to blink. The smoke was so thick and the metal door ontop of you was so heavy. Vi is crying.

Vi is crying and Vi never cries.

She calls for your name, her body trembling underneath you. When you wheeze, she sobs. Whether out of pain or relief, you can't tell. Ahead of you, you see the most horrifying sight.

Claggor. Mylo.

Dead.

"I want her to stay alive. I want all of you to stay alive."

You brace yourself onto your elbows, straining out a yell as you try to lift yourself up enough for Vi to shimmy out. It groans above you, scraping against the floor inch by painful inch as you feel your eyes water. Vi calls out your name again, finally looking her age as she tries to crawl out.

What have you done?

When a hulking figure comes close, you yell in an attempt to scare him off. But it wasn't Deckard, it was Vander. Your Vander, with his veins glowing purple and his body nearly double its size. There's heat coming off from him, his rapid growth most likely putting his body through torture. You swear you can hear his enlarged heart as it beats like a war drum.

What have you done?

Vi finally crawls out and she turns to hold the door up so you can too. You stumble and kneel right in front of Mylo's outstretched hand, grasping at it while your other hand tries to dig him out.

"C'mon, c'mon baby. You're okay, you're okay." You sob, lifting your eyes to look at Claggor next and begin shaking your head. It was just ash and debris, he wasn't that pale. He was strong, he was your strong boy. You wipe away some of the dust from his face and choke back a sob when all he does is loll his head to the side.

"No, no, no. Claggor, Mylo."

There's a loud explosion. The building rumbles, the roof creaking as it sinks down. Vi is clutching at your shoulder, crying as she stares at her brothers. Vander gathers you both in his arms and flies through the escape plan. You scream, feeling the heat lick at your back.

Vander takes the brute force of the fall. Cushioning you and Vi as his last act of love. You hear it, his heart as it slows. You shake your head, looking down at him, cupping his face as rain descends onto you.

"Vander," Vi whimpers out.

"No, baby, please. I'm sorry," you brush your thumb over his cheek, one hand remaining on his chest. The shimmer was wearing down, his pounding heart begins to get slower and slower.

"I'm so sorry, Vander."

He leans into your palm, feeling the tiniest bit of happiness that you two were still alive. He'd always joked about dying, how he wanted to have you over him like an angel. And you'd always laugh, telling him he was ridiculous.

"Take care of Powder."

Vi screams next to you. You hang your head, sobbing as you hold his face in your hands. You press your foreheads together, kissing him one last time before you pull away.

"Vi, it worked!"

Who was that?

"Did you see me? My monkey bomb finally worked!"

Vi gets up and you turn your head to follow her. The sight before you is strange. Vi and Powder were fighting, yelling at each other but you can barely hear it over the rain and crackling fire.

Vi hits Powder and you shakily bring yourself to your feet. As Powder begs for her sister to come back, you stumble towards her. She turns to you, crying nonsensically about how she just wanted to help and you nod, trying to form words but your tongue feels like lead.

Silco finds her desperately shaking your shoulders as you sprawl out onto the ground. He sees your chest going up and down so he concerns himself with the girl.

"Hello, little girl. Where's your sister?"

Then the strangest thing happens. She lunges at him, brings him to his ass, but hugs him so tightly he's confused at her intentions.

"She left us. She's not my sister anymore."

Silco brings a hand to the back of her head, understanding just to well about what she was feeling. He glanced at Vander's grotesque body then at yours.

"It's okay. We'll show them. We'll show them all."

What have you done?

He knows you're pissed at him. Actually, pissed doesn't even begin to describe how you're feeling. But Silco remains cool in your presence, standing in Vander's office, looking at the stack of papers. Stock intakes, accounting bullshit, Powder's doodles. You're sat on the couch, staring at your lap with a blanket over your shoulders. Powder's head in your lap as she twitches and sniffles in her sleep.

"You promised me you wouldn't hurt them."

"I didn't."

You bring your hand over Powder's ears, glaring at him. Your face angled down, eyebrows so tightly knit he swears he sees a vein pop out on your forehead.

"You killed my sons."

"She did."

Your expression hardens. Powder shifts for a second and instantly your anger fades, you smooth out her bangs from her head and pat her back rhythmically.

"We share the blame, (Y/N). I didn't do this alone."

He sits on Vander's chair, reaching for his cigar. Vander's body hadn't even gone cold yet and here Silco was, already intending on desecrating his grave by smoking his cigars, as if intently chasing away the scent of Vander's smoking pipes.

You carefully move Powder, shushing her as she stirs and draping your blanket over hers to keep her warm. Silco watches, lighter in hand, poised to burn. You spin the chair, Vander's chair, and kick his legs apart.

He should be more cautious. Foxes are known to get close to their prey, associated with daggers and tricksters because unlike a wolf they couldn't use brute strength to bring down their enemies. You could choke him out, try to pin him down and reach for a pencil to shove through his eye.

But he uncrosses his legs and you sit on his lap. You reach for the box of matches, and strike it. Silco watches you watching him; the orange glow of the cigar not quite piercing through the darkness in your eyes.

"When Powder drinks from the bar, she has her own cup and metal straw. She likes to make gadgets, she gets restless sometimes and snoop around. She's smart, so you'll have your hands full."

Silco arches a brow, inhaling and exhaling out the smoke. Your eyes flutter, burning a bit but you can't even muster a single tear.

"You're offering to babysit?"

"She's my daughter."

You wrap your arms around his neck, your smudged and soot-stained face tucking itself to his neck. You could rip his throat out right now. But where would that leave you and Powder. Running from his men, constantly looking over your shoulder. No. You made your bed. You lay in it.

You said you wanted a better future for your kids. How could you rip Powder away from the only shot she has at being safe?

"I'd do anything for her." You shift your position, bringing your lips to his ears.

"I'll even keep your bed warm. I know you like how I do you."

Silco isn't stupid. He knows how dangerous you are; he hired you to infiltrate and gather information and for years you did just that. Now Vander was dead. You were as wicked as he was.

And now, you had every right to kill him next. So sleeping with you? Sharing a bed, and keeping you close where you'd have access to his operations. You subtly thrusting Powder into the fray, telling him about her needs and how to take care of her. Saying you'd stay if her safety was guaranteed.

This was a bad idea.

But Silco is intrigued. He'd thought you'd be yelling at him. Screaming bloody murder, wrap your teeth around his neck and try to tear it off.

Cunning little fox. You're planning something. Painful and meticulous. You'd make your revenge something people would whisper about as a warning.

He wants to see how far you're willing to go. He's glad that you share the same obsession with him as he does with you now.

Fine.

If the both of you were going to destroy each other, let it be known that Silco allowed it to happen in the first place; if you need to be broken down to be his, then he'll gladly place his chess pieces on the board with you.

Vander and Benzo's death shocks the undercity. You imagine people glancing at each other, confusion and lost written across their faces. Their protector was gone and in his place was the disgraced Silco.

But what truly sends people reeling is you standing besides him. You, Vander's boyfriend, the one his kids called dad among others. The slut that Vander had given a home too. Had given a job to and loved.

No, adored. He adored you, did you forget that?

He looked at you like you hung the damn moon in the sky.

How could you?

You fucking traitorous whore.

You had prepared for this. Steeled your emotions and walked among Silco's entourage with your head held high. Let them hate you, you know you deserve it. You expect the spit thrown your way, wiping it away with no emotion. You expect the harsh words, the cusses and threats.

But you're frozen in place when a man comes running at you, a knife held in his hand. You recognize him; a stall owner who Vander liked to do business with. Often trading fruit peels for this or that. He used them to do an array of things, though Vander recounts that he often used it as a way to smell fresh.

You smell it. That citrusy scent as he rears his hand back. "You whore!" he yells out.

Sevika kicks him square in the chest and as she leans too far back from the lack of balance (you think the loss of her arm was well-deserved) you keep her steady.

But it invigorates the crowd of grieving people. They throw things at you, trash and dirt at first. But then someone flings a brick and you barely dodge it in time before it smashed against your head.

Silco couldn't have people thinking that his entourage was weak.

So he brings you back to that walkway, the stalls now ransacked and the owners all kneeled before you. Hushed whispers come from the windows above you, children peeking curiously and mothers rushing them away.

These people were all Vander's friends. They did business with him, ate with him. You'd been there, eating with them. You glance away, sighing out a shuddering breath.

"Getting queasy?" Silco muses out.

"I've never been fond of butchers."

"Someone has to get their hands dirty. We can't all be expensive whores." You glare at him reproachfully.

"I want to leave."

"No."

Silco motions for Sevika and you scoff; "Look at you. Asking for another person to suck a John's cock for you. Expensive whore, is that what you called me?"

Silco gives you a tepid look, but then pulls out a dagger. He stares down at Vander's friends. Silco then stands behind them, bringing the blade to their throats. They look at you, nothing but pure hate in their eyes.

"You fucking traitor."

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART I

summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 5.5k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). mentions of sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! this turned out pretty long so i will be splitting it into parts so it's easier. next part will be posted soon. i hope you all have as much fun reading this as i had writing it. enjoy!

part two

The breeze riffled through your hair as you drove, the sun warming your skin through the open windows. The Irish countryside stretching out before you, lush and green, with rolling hills and quaint villages dotting the landscape. The scent of wildflowers and the sound of nothing but the wind in the trees filled your senses.

It was rare, really. The silence, the feeling of complete freedom, and the solitude that enveloped you. A fleeting escape from the chaos of your everyday life.

The ping of your phone interrupted the peaceful moment. You tapped on the pop-up notification after briefly glancing at the directions to your destination. It was a message from Cillian. Well, two, actually. One was asking how far you were, and the other was a Spotify link followed by a question mark. Ever since he started hosting his bbc radio show, he's been sending you potential songs for his playlists to get your opinion. Not that he needs it anyway. But you always appreciate being included in his process.

Your lips curled into a smile as you clicked on the link. The familiar sound of The Blue Nile's "The Downtown Lights" flooded the car, instantly making you feel a wave of nostalgia. It's been ages since you've listened to that song. The synth-pop melody carries you up the pine-dotted path to where his house perches atop a hill, overlooking the crashing waves below. You've been here a couple of times, and yet it never gets less breathtaking. The Victorian architecture contrasting beautifully with the rugged coastline, creating a scene straight out of a painting.

The car glides right past the wrought iron gates, and you cut the engine in front of the stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. You shoot Cillian a quick text letting him know you're here, unbuckle your seat belt, and hop out of the car.

The June sun beats down on your skin instantly, heat radiating off the cobblestones as you open the backdoor to look through your bag for a hair tie. The smell of saltwater mingles with the sound of gulls overhead, sending you into sensory overload. "Gotcha," you mutter to yourself as you finally find the hair tie and pull your hair back into a loose bun.

"You drove here?" you hear him call out from behind you, his voice tinged with surprise. "And you're alone?" you turn around to see Cillian walking towards you, a curious expression on his face.

"I actually had to throw a tantrum to convince them to let me come alone," you reply with a chuckle, feeling a sense of pride at your small victory. "I was like, It's Ireland. What's the worst that could happen?"

Being who you are means being guarded against any potential danger or harm at all times, being driven to almost everywhere, and always having a security team around.

Cillian laughs, a sound that makes your heart flutter and makes you want to hear it again and again. "Well, I'm glad you made it here in one piece, love," he says with a grin. "You're not a very good driver."

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You did regret your decision to drive from the airport 10 minutes later when you realized you were on the wrong side of the road. But he didn't need to know that.

"I made it in one piece, didn't I?" you playfully retort, trying to salvage your wounded pride. Cillian chuckles and shakes his head with a twinkle in his eye. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. He looks good, you thought. Unbelievably good. Well rested. His jet black hair was perfectly styled, even though you know he didn't put any effort into it—the slightest hint of silver at the temples, his sharp jawline, and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. Though they looked a little tired, as if he had been through a lot since the last time you saw him.

You quickly avert your gaze, feeling a rush of heat on your cheeks.

"It's good to see you," you finally manage to say, trying to sound casual. Cillian's smile softens, and he replies, "It's good to see you too." He opens his arms, inviting you in for a hug. The soft fabric of his t-shirt brushes against your skin as you embrace him, and for a moment, everything feels right in the world.

"Come on, let's get inside," he says, leading you towards the house. Once inside, you make your way to the kitchen. The house was quiet; you wondered if anyone else was home. Cillian's family wasn't by any means loud or boisterous, but the silence felt heavier than usual.

"You hungry, love?" Cillian asks, opening the fridge, pulling out a white ceramic container, and setting it up on the kitchen island. You take a seat on one of the stools while he stands across from you.

"For something sweet?" you smile, seeing the container filled with what seems to be a piece of strawberry sponge cake. His mom must've made it. "Always," you reply. He hands you a spoon and takes one for himself, the two of you sharing the dessert in comfortable silence.

Until he broke it.

"How was Madrid?" he asks softly.

"It was good, great crowd," you reply, taking another bite of the dessert. "But tiring," you add, feeling the exhaustion of the long trip settling in.

"How many nights did you perform?"

"Four."

"Jesus, that's quite a lot, isn't it?"

Your eyes meet his; confusion clear in your expression. "You think that's a lot? Didn't you used to do four or five nights in a row of the same play?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "for months…?

"Yeah, but that was a different kind of exhaustion," he explains, taking another bite. "Performing the way you do in front of a live audience for three hours is a whole different ball game, love."

Love.

There it was again. That godforsaken term of endearment that he seemed to throw around so casually. It made your heart race every time he said it, even though you knew it probably meant nothing to him. But the way he looked at you now, with a hint of admiration in his eyes, made you wonder if maybe—

"Want the last bite?" he offered, taking you out of your thoughts. He pushed the container towards you, a small smile playing on his lips. His gaze was intense, as if silently urging you to take it.

"Oh, hello," a voice exclaimed from behind you, breaking the moment. You drop the spoon on the counter, a little startled. As if you were caught in the act of something forbidden. You turned around to see Yvonne, Cillian's wife. She said your name with a surprised tone, making you feel guilty for some reason. "I didn't know you were here," she continued, her eyes flickering between you and her husband.

You started to rise from your seat, confusion clouding your thoughts. That's weird. Cillian usually lets his wife know when you're visiting, but this time it seems like he didn't. She walked towards you, enveloping you in a hug. "When did you get here?" she said.

"Not long ago," you replied, relieved that she didn't seem upset. "I, uh, wanted to take a break and thought Ireland might be a good place to do that," you added, hoping to diffuse any tension that may have arisen. She nodded understandingly. "And you're staying here?"

"Oh, no, no," you quickly assured her. "I rented a place nearby, so you don't have to worry about me."

"Nonsense," Cillian interjected. "You can stay here. There's plenty of room."

"She's already paid for it, Cillian," Yvonne retorted, giving him a stern look.

Something was definitely off.

This was the last thing you wanted. You've specifically chosen the cottage for two reasons. First, to have space. The whole point of this trip was to finally have peace and write music. You've been stuck for months, not being able to find inspiration in your usual surroundings. Everything felt dull inside you all day—an emptiness that was smothering.

Second, you needed to stay the fuck away from Cillian. Being close to him was dangerous territory, one you didn't want to navigate right now. The plan was to come and visit and occasionally hang out and that's it. The thought of being in such close quarters with him was overwhelming. Staying here meant risking your heart and sanity.

You hesitated, also not wanting to intrude on their space, but Cillian insisted.

"Okay…How about if I stay for a couple of days and then move to the cottage?" you suggested, hoping to compromise. "Sounds perfect to me," he said.

This was going to be a long summer.

For the next few days, you dream too much, don't write enough, and try to find inspiration everywhere. As you settled into the routine of staying at Cillian's, you found yourself enjoying the peaceful surroundings and his company more than you expected. The days seemed to blend together, filled with laughter, deep conversations, and stolen glances that left your heart racing.

But you also felt constantly distracted by his presence, making it difficult to focus on your writing or anything else, for that matter.

All you could think about was him.

The piano room surrounded you with its warm, inviting atmosphere, and you found yourself drawn to it more often than not. The big windows overlooking the garden let in streams of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the bookshelf. You felt the softness of the carpet as you sat on the grand piano bench, running your fingers along the keys absentmindedly.

You started humming a tune that had been stuck in your head for days, the words appearing softly and effortlessly as you played:

Please

I've been on my knees

Change the prophecy

Don't want money

Just someone who wants my company

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

Who do I have to speak to

About if they can redo

The prophecy?

The humming went on whenever you didn't know what to say next, filling in the gaps between the notes on the piano and the lyrics:

A greater woman has faith

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

I'm so afraid I sealed my fate

No sign of soulmates

I'm just a paperweight

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

Spending my last coin so someone will tell me

It'll be ok

[Hum, Hum, Hum]

The melody filled the room until you stopped abruptly, frustrated that the lyrics weren't coming as easily as before. You closed your eyes with a groan, trying to clear your mind. "Fuck," you muttered under your breath, elbows resting on the keys of the piano.

"You good?" Cillian's rough voice broke through your frustration, causing you to look up and offer a weak smile. You don't know how long he's been standing there or how much he heard of your struggles. "Just hitting a wall with this song," you admitted, running a hand through your hair.

"Ah, I see," he nodded sympathetically. He moved towards the records stacked on the shelf and pulled one out, placing it on the turntable. "I don't want to mess with your creative process or anything, but maybe a break with some music will help," he suggested.

Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" began to play, taking over the room with its haunting melody.

"So you play one of the saddest songs ever?" you deadpanned, "Thanks."

He chuckled softly, "You were playing some pretty intense stuff; I figured it would fit right in."

Oh, so he did hear you.

"Ah, I know it's different from my usual stuff," you said quietly, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious about your music. "I might scrap that one. They might not be onboard with the change."

"And why's that?"

Thom Yorke's voice faded into the background as you contemplated his question, unsure of how to respond.

You shrugged, "I listen to sad music, not make it."

"I liked what I heard," he reassured you, "and change is good. It keeps things interesting."

His low voice was soothing, and you found yourself feeling more at ease with the idea of trying something new. Pop has been your comfort zone for so long, it's what stands out of you, but most importantly, it's what sells. At least, that's what's important to the industry. Maybe it was time to push yourself out of it.

"I guess you're right," you replied, a faint smile creeping onto your face.

"As always," he said, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. He stood leaning against the table where the record player sat, arms crossed, looking as if he had too many things to say and not enough words for them.

"Would this be a good time to ask you if everything's okay?" you inquired, noticing the weight of unspoken thoughts in his eyes. "With Yvonne, I mean," you added, nervous to bring up the topic.

That first day, when you arrived at the house, you could sense there was something going on between them. Something bad. The tension in the air was so obvious, but you didn't want to pry. However, as the days went by, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that she hadn't been around or the absence of a certain ring on his finger.

"And here, I thought you were never going to ask," he replied, his words laced with sarcasm.

"I was waiting for you to bring it up," your voice trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. "I-I didn't want to overstep."

He studied you for a moment, or at least, you assumed that was what he was doing. Finally, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat,"We've separated."

A cold feeling settled in your chest as you processed his words. The reality of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks, and suddenly everything made sense. "Cillian," is all you managed to say, the concern evident in your voice.

He still wouldn't look at you. Knowing him, in moments like this, he wouldn't want to be coddled or pitied, so you save your apologies for later.

"What happened?"

He waved his hand dismissively, still avoiding your gaze. "Nothing, really," he said, his tone final. He didn't look upset, but rather resigned to the situation. "It hadn't been working for a long time; we both knew it was coming. I guess we were holding on for the boys more than anything." You could see the sadness in his eyes, despite his attempt to appear nonchalant. The weight of his words hung in the air, leaving you feeling defeated and unsure of what to say next. You don't think there's anything you can say that will make this or him feel better.

And boy, did you wish you could take away his pain with just a few words.

Cillian walked slowly over the piano, stopping in front of it. He streched his arms over the wooden soundboard, gripping the edges tightly as if seeking some sort of solace in the instrument. He finally looked at you.

"Why didn't you say anything, Cill?" you asked softly, "I would've—"

"You would've what?" he interrupted, his voice strained with emotion. "I didn't want to worry you, you have more important things than my marital issues."

You could see the pain in his eyes, and it tore at your heart to see him suffering in silence. "You're my friend. These things are important to me, Cill," you said gently, reaching out to touch his hand in a gesture of comfort. He flinched slightly at your touch, but then relaxed, leaning into your hand.

He didn't say anything, but you knew he appreciated your words. You could tell by the way his shoulders slumped in relief and the way his fingers loosened their grip on the edge of the piano.

One morning, you woke up to the wind gently rustling through the trees outside your windows. The morning light was clear and clean, leaking through the glass and falling against the walls of the room in soft patterns. It felt too early to be awake, too peaceful to disturb the tranquility of the moment.

You roll over to look at the little clock on the bedside table: 6:20 AM. It wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep, so you threw the covers and climbed out of bed, feeling the cool wood floor beneath your feet as you walked to the bathroom.

You splash cold water on your face and brush your teeth, trying to wake yourself up fully. Holding up your hair, you tie it into a ponytail while walking over the bedside table to grab your phone and airpods. You put one in your ear and hit shuffle on one of your morning playlists. You couldn't function without some music. "Keep On Loving You" by Cigarettes After Sex starts playing.

On your way to the kitchen, you walked by Cillian's room and noticed the door was slightly ajar. Who the hell sleeps with their door open? Psychos, probably. Curiosity getting the best of you, you peeked inside to see him sprawled out on his bed, body illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the curtains—characteristic warm and cool shades revealing every hollow and speck of bare muscle. He slept with every limb stretched out, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. It was a rare sight, quite poetic.

He looked so peaceful, completely unaware of your presence. So you let your mind wander.

You imagined yourself crossing the room, pulling yourself on top of him. You imagined the way his bare body would look beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his dark hair messy around his face, his skin warm against yours. His hands—rough and soft at the same time—running over your thigh, your breast, your neck. You could almost feel the heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze as he looked up at you.

But then reality snapped back into focus.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath. This was just a fantasy, a dangerous game to play with someone who was somewhat off-limits. But truth be told, the temptation was becoming harder to resist with each passing moment. It was all you could think about ever since he told you about his troubled marriage.

It took a long time for your heartbeat to slow. You headed to the kitchen to get some coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help clear your mind. As you rummage through the cabinets for a mug, his voice startles you from behind. "Need some help with that?" he asks, making you jump.

For a moment you thought you were still imagining things, but you turn around to see him standing there with a t-shirt on as opposed to five minutes ago. Great, him walking around shirtless in his kitchen, sleepy-eyed, messy hair, and rough morning voice would've been lethal.

"I've got it, thanks," you reply, shaking the mug slightly in your hand. You quickly pour yourself some coffee and try to focus on the task at hand: looking for the sugar.

"Sleep well?" he asks, voice still husky from sleep, his accent more prominent. He's rifling through the cabinet for a mug of his own. You can't help but notice the way his muscles flex under his dark t-shirt as he reaches up. You hum in agreement, trying to hide your blush as you take a sip of your coffee. "You?"

"Grand," he replies, pouring himself a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. You exchange small talk about the upcoming day, but your mind keeps drifting back to how good he looks in the morning light.

"Any plans for today other than locking yourself in the piano room?" he teases, and you shoot him a playful glare. "Maybe I'll actually venture outside for once," you quip, laughing.

"How does the beach sound like?" he asks, "The boys are coming over, and they're bringing some friends, and I thought a trip would be a nice change of scenery."

"I could use some sun," you admit, feeling a smile tug at your lips.

"Let's make it a beach day then," he suggests, setting his mug on the sink. "We leave at 10, piano woman."

"Ha ha, very funny," you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. "But I'll hold you to it, annoying man," you reply.

"Annoying man?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "I thought I was your favorite person."

"Only on days that end in 'y'."

•••

"Are you done with your sad boy music?"

Cillian bursts out laughing, the sound taking you by surprise. He's been playing Radiohead on repeat for the whole car ride, and you were starting to feel like you were in a melancholy music video. "I like their music as much as the next person, but I think I need a break from the sadness," you say.

"Fine, fine," Cillian concedes, reaching for his phone to change the song. The bleak atmosphere in the car lifts as "Linger" by The Cranberries starts playing, filling the space with a more pleasant vibe. Cillian glances at you, he's wearing dark shades that hide his eyes, but you can still see his stoic expression softening as he catches you smiling at the change in music.

"Better?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Instead of answering, you start silently singing along to the lyrics, gesticulating dramatically for added effect. Cillian smiles at your antics, his own lips twitching in amusement as he watches you. The boys were so caught up in their conversation with their friends in the backseat that you were pretty sure they weren't even paying attention to the music or your impromptu performance. With a small smile on your face, you face out the window and enjoy the rest of the car ride in content silence.

When you arrive at your destination, all of you unbuckle your seat belts once Cillian puts the Bronco in park. You all pile out of the car, stretching your legs and taking in the sights around you. You close your eyes for a second and take a breath. The sea air—you loved that smell.

•••

A few hours later, after countless swims and some snacks, you find yourself lying on a beach towel, book in hand, feeling the warmth of the temperature on your skin. You're reading a book you picked up at an airport several months ago by Elin Hilderbrand, or the queen of beach reads, as many call her. You were completely engrossed in the story until you felt Cillian settling down next to you.

His hair was damp from the water, and his skin was slightly glistening. Gosh, he looked absolutely stunning. "Mind if I join you?" he asks.

"Not at all," you reply, closing the book and sitting up. "Having fun?"

"Lots," he says with a smile, reaching over to grab his sunglasses. The two of you sit in comfortable silence. The laughter and chatter of his sons and friends coming from the water redirects your attention back to the beach scene before you. You look back at Cillian, his eyes fixed on his sons.

"They love you, you know," you say softly, watching the genuine joy on his face as he watches his children.

"I don't know if I'm doing it right," he says, eyes still fixed on the boys. "I worry I might've fucked them up by letting my relationship with their mother fall apart."

He continues, "Sometimes I feel they resent me for it."

"Why do you feel that way?"

"I don't know, they just seem distant sometimes. Like they're holding back."

"Hey, that's normal for kids to have mixed feelings about their parents' separation. I was so happy when mine got divorced because it meant no more fighting, but it was also tough to adjust to the changes. It's very conflicting stuff," you say, huffing a small laugh. "Also, they're teenagers now, right? That's a tough age to navigate even without the added stress of divorce."

Cillian nods in agreement, exhaling out a yeah.

You squint against the sunlight beaming behind his head before continuing.

"You're a great dad, you always have been. Just show up and be there for them when they need you, even if they don't always seem to appreciate it. They'll remember it in the long run," you offer, remembering how much your own father's presence meant to you after your parents' divorce. "And I'm not a parent, but what parent feels like they're doing everything right all the time, anyway?"

Cillian turns to look at you. He studies your face for a moment before offering a small smile. "I guess you're right," he says sincerely.

"Fork found in kitchen," you retort, breaking the tension with a bit of humor.

He chuckles, "That's clever."

"Well," you continue, "I've been accused of many things over the years, but being unoriginal isn't one of them."

He laughs. Just like he did back in the car: a genuine, carefree laugh that makes you feel a little lighter.

"Want to go for one last swim, piano woman?"

You roll your eyes. "Will you stop calling me that?"

"Not likely," Cillian replies with a grin. "It's too fitting."

You stand up and stretch. You're wearing a one-piece teal-ish swimsuit that you swear you only chose based on comfort and not because it makes your ass and breasts look fantastic. Cillian's eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks away, and you swear you can see a hint of a blush on his cheeks. He doesn't move.

"Are you coming or…?"

"Right, one last swim," he finally says, standing up and following you towards the water.

Maybe that one last swim wasn't a great idea after all.

And why is that?

Because not even five minutes into the water, you thought it would be a good idea to jump from a high rock, and now you're sitting in the car with your knee scrapped, throbbing in pain, and regretting your impulsive decision.

•••

"You're so fuckin' stubborn."

You try to move into a more comfortable position while ignoring the pain shooting up your leg by pressing a hand against one side of the door to keep yourself steady. "And you're so clearly overreacting."

Cillian pushes his bedroom door open. He's also clearly pissed. The ride back to the house was deathly silent. Well, not silent. His sad boy music made a return, and this time with Broken Social Scene. You couldn't ask him to change the music without starting another argument. Even the kids were quiet, beyond asking several times if you were okay, which you assured them you were. Obviously a lie.

As Cillian walks around the room, you reach for your midi white beachy dress and look down at your knee in horror. It's no longer just a bruise, but a gash that is slowly oozing blood. Not as much as before, but still. It looks nasty underneath the shirt Cillian used from his car as a makeshift bandage.

He grabs the first aid kit from a shelf and turns around to face you.

"Take off your dress."

"Pardon me?"

"Take off your dress so I can properly clean and bandage the wound," Cillian repeats, his expression serious. You look down at the blood-stained fabric as if you needed any more confirmation. "Off, C'mon."

You stiffen at his demand, your body going completely rigid at his bossy tone. You watch him stride into his bathroom. He pushes aside some stuff on the counter and tosses the kit onto the counter.

Okay, yeah. He has good reason to be upset. You had no business jumping from that rock.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he'd said before, right when he went to get you. And now you can see the anger still simmering beneath the surface.

You can hear him shuffle in the bathroom while you remove your dress. You still have your swimsuit on underneath, but you feel exposed without the extra layer. Maybe the pain is catching up to you or the fact that you have upset him or that he's waiting for you in the bathroom to take care of you but tears sting your eyes as you try to process the situation. You take a moment to collect yourself. You cannot go in there like this, he cannot see you this vulnerable. At least, not now.

He's braced against the counter, head hung low, when you push open the bathroom door. You nearly back out to give him some space or time to compose himself, but his eyes meet yours and his expression straightens. He clears his throat and then freezes. "I—you're wearing your swimsuit."

"I am. Were you expecting me to change into something else?"

"No," he grumbles, "I mean, nevermind."

He turns back and starts grabbing sterile gauze, his movements slightly jerky. He gestures for you to sit on the counter. "Up."

"I'm not sure I can do that given my—" Before you're done speaking, he scoops you up and sets you on the counter. Your hands are locked around his neck, and his are firmly gripping your waist. They fit perfectly there, like they're made to hold you close.

He reaches behind him, both your faces close together now, and grabs your wrists, pulling them away from his neck and onto your thighs. He puts a hand on your uninjured leg, his touch gentle yet firm. "This is going to hurt." You stare at his impossible blue eyes and think to yourself: yes, this is going to hurt.

"Oh, shit shit," you gasp, gripping his forearm. "Holy fuuuck."

"I've got you, breathe," he commands, and you allow yourself to focus on his voice, letting it ground you. The antiseptic burns both your nostrils and knee as he continues to clean the wound, the pain shooting through your leg causing you to clench your teeth.

"I'm sorry," you breathe out.

There's nothing but silence in response.

"I told you multiple times not to go up there," he finally says, his voice tinged with frustration. "And yet."

"I know," you whisper, feeling guilty.

"Don't do that again," he commands, his accent thickening with emotion. "You could've hurt yourself even more."

"I know," you repeat, not sure how else to respond.

His head is bowed in concentration as he finishes cleaning the wound, his hands steady despite the anger in his voice. You can see his dark eyelashes fluttering slightly as he works. He applies a little more pressure to the bandage than he should've, and you let out a soft moan. This doesn't go unnoticed by him.

The air in the room seems to shift. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see something soften in his gaze before he looks away.

"You're not supposed to like that."

Your cheeks heat up immediately.

He's gotten closer to you, your hands somehow made their way to fist his navy blue linen shirt. His body is between your legs, the delicate material of his pants brushing your skin. His breath is warm against your cheek as he leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't say I mind it either." Your heart races at his proximity, unsure of what to do next.

His hands slide up your thighs, gently caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He's going to kiss you, and you can't help but wonder if it's the right decision to let him.

But now is not the time to be rational about it.

"I'm not gonna stop you," you say quietly, "I wouldn't know how."

His eyes darken, pupils dilating with desire. He doesn't move.

It's like you're both aware of the line you're about to cross, so neither of you moves.

You keep your eyes firmly on his face. His lips inch closer to yours, and you feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Your body is angled towards his, hand gripping the edge of the counter. Your slightly damp hair, now cold, making you shiver.

He's impossibly hard against you, the material of his pants is thin, and you're aware of every inch of him pressing against your throbbing core.

"And I wouldn’t know how to stop kissing you," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He shifts slightly, causing his erection to press even more firmly against you, both letting out a soft moan. His mouth hovers just inches from yours, just kiss me, you thought.

There's a knock on the bedroom door, which is, by the way, open.

"Dad?" You both freeze.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, offering a sliver of privacy but not enough to shield you from any potential interruptions.

"Yes?" Cillian calls out, trying to sound casual despite the intense moment that was just interrupted. "We're ordering takeout, do you want anything?"

"No, buddy, we're good, thanks," Cillian replies, his voice strained as he tries to keep his composure. You hear the steps retreating down the hallway.

Cillian steps back, and the absence of his body against yours is jarring. It clearly would've been a mistake to take this further, but a mistake that would've felt so fucking good.

"We shouldn't do this."

He clears his throat. "Yeah."

He moves towards the door, his movements tense and purposeful. "I'm gonna—" he says, motioning the door.

"Yeah," you quickly reply, "I got it."

You watch him leave, the air heavy with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires.

a/n: thank you for reading! please share your thoughts with me, let me know if you guys enjoyed it :)

part two

[sturnsrecord]

CLIMB THROUGH MY WINDOW

PART TWO — [fuckboy!chris x smart!reader. alcohol, drugs, dj on the vj, fingering, eating pussy]. you find yourself gravitated towards chris at a party, letting up more than you thought you would.

ʚ part one ɞ — ʚ part three ɞ

despite your studious lifestyle, and somewhat good decision making as a teenager, you didn't always turn down a party. if you had done all your work for the week, and had found a good lie to tell your parents, then you’d show up.

after that night in your room with chris he hadn't really spoken to you, other than in class or around school. you hated to admit it, but it bothered you. a lot. 

it had been a week since then and you’d already seen him chatting to other girls by their lockers, leaning on them like some idiot as he chatted them up. 

you didn't let that bother you. you knew chris, and what he was like. he was a fuck boy, of course he was gonna do exactly that and fuck other girls. deep down you wished you had the sexual confidence to sleep with other guys, maybe make chris feel shit. although a part of you knew he wouldn't even care.

you also knew that not having sex with him was bound to push him away, but you weren’t stupid enough to just sleep with him to keep him close. if he didn’t want what you was giving him then he could fuck off. which is what he would do.

this was your first time at a boys party though. you thought there'd be no difference, it was the same clump of teenagers in their school that showed up to all the parties. but apparently, not having a girl as the host meant there were a lot more rouge plus ones and a lot less organisation. 

the house was poorly lit, only adding to everyone's intoxication, as well as the mixed smell of bo and alcohol. 

you walked through the crowd, clinging onto your best friend's hand in the hopes that you wouldn't be separated. the both of you thought that making a beeline for the garden was the best idea, but the second you got out there it was just as busy.

“who the fuck are all these people?” you mutter to bella. “no idea.” she huffed, looking around to observe all the new faces.

as you make your way through the garden, you spot chris. he’s sat on an outdoor sofa, surrounded by other rowdy boys and some girls who were very obviously flirting with him and his friends. you tug at bella's arm, motioning towards chris.

“no, i don't wanna go over there.” bella huffs, raising an eyebrow. “c’mon. it's just chris, you know he's nice. besides, he's my friend.” you say, slightly desperate to go over there. 

“friend?” she questions, giving you a certain look. “you guys are fucking.” she mumbles under her breath. you scoff at her words. “i'm literally a virgin.” you retort, as if that changed anything.

“you're still doing stuff with him.” bella mumbles back, trying to tease you. “okay whatever, i'll meet up with you in a bit.” you say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “kay love ya.” she hums back before you separate ways. 

you walk over to chris, noticing the half rolled joint in his hand. as soon as you’re close, he immediately looks up, a bright smile on his face. “didn't expect to see you here.” he says, returning his gaze to the joint as he delicately compacts the tobacco and weed into a cone.

“why not?” you remark, taking a sip of your drink, the already decided first and last of the night. he shrugs, licking the paper. “dunno, hardly see ya at parties.” he responds, folding over the paper meticulously before looking up at you. “thought you'd have too much work to do.” he remarks.

you raise your eyebrows at his comment. “well i don't.” you say with a smug smile. “hmm, that's a first.” he mumbles, the joint hanging from his lips, making his words even less clear. 

“shut up.” you roll your eyes, frowning slightly. he smirks to himself, leaning forward to get a lighter off the table. 

you hesitate slightly, going to sit on the armrest of the sofa. he takes note as he leans back, “you can sit y’know.” he says, bringing the lighter up to the end of his zoot. you sit down, fixing your skirt slightly to be composed on the small surface. 

he wastes no time wrapping his arm behind you, his hand gripping onto your hip. you’re a little shocked at the tame yet out in the open pda, but watching chris relax as he inhales the weed makes you realise that it was very possible that he'd done other shit tonight too.

“you want some?” he asks, smoke tumbling out of his mouth as he speaks. you look down at the joint being offered to you, hesitating for a second.

“you can say no, m’not forcing-” you interrupt, pinching it from his hand as you take a toke. he smirks, watching as you smokes. he won't deny, you looked very attractive.

you hand it back, appreciating the burn to the back of your throat at the strength. “good?” he questions your reaction.

“better than any other weed i've smoked.” you answer honestly, taking a sip of your drink, hoping it would soothe your throat, despite the fact it was a vodka-coke.

“that's cos i’ve got good shit.” he says, his face scrunching as he inhales whilst talking. a couple of his friends leave, creating an open space next to chris. he taps the side of your thigh, motioning you to move to sit next to him.

you stand promptly, walking past his spread legs to sit next to him. 

“what you drinkin then?” he asks curiously, a little smile on his face like he's teasing you for drinking. “guess.” you respond, holding it out for him to try. he sighs, reluctantly grabbing the cup from your grasp to give into your little game.

he takes a sip, grimacing slightly. “you drink vodka-coke?” he questions, the judgement clear in his voice as he hands the solo cup back. “it's better than doing coke.” you mumble, a stupid jokey remark you were almost embarrassed to say out loud.

he gives you a look, a slightly amused smile on his face. “that was a poor joke.” he tells you, despite the grin on his face. “well, it's true.” you say sharply, giving him a look of disappointment.

he shakes his head with a smile before taking a toke. “since when d’you care bout the drugs i do?” he asks casually, a small frown on his face, contrasting his slight smile.

you could tell he was a little offended, and that he actually didn't like the joke you’d made. you shrug. “i wouldn't say i care, s’just not good for you.”

“hmm.” he nods a little, which was him nicely telling you to fuck off. “so like, you wouldn't let m’do a line off you?” he mumbles, looking over at you with an intense gaze as he takes another puff.

you almost choke on your drink, your eyes wide as he asks. “uh.” you cough a little, composing yourself slightly. “what d’you mean a line- like where on me?” you question, now a little curious at the proposition.

he grins at your response, shrugging. “dunno, between your tits or somethin.” he says casually.

“and how many girls have you done that with?” you question, calling him out a bit.

“between the tits?” he repeats, thinking for a second. “none.” you roll your eyes at the obvious insinuation that he'd done lines off other parts of girls bodies. 

“want anymore?” he offers, his eyes now a little more red and sleepy. you take it from him, relaxing back on the couch as you inhale.

“so, s’that a no on the line?” he murmurs, clearly high as a kite as he looks over at you with a lazy smile, subtly holding out a baggie with white powder. 

you look over at him in slight disappointment, snatching the baggie from between his fingers as you shove it into his coat pocket. “don't just pull that out.” you panic slightly, not loving how carefree he was sometimes. 

he looks around, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “no one here gives a shit.” he grumbles, frowning a little before his gaze meets yours again, his eyes silently asking.

“you actually want to?” you question, not really understanding the point. you take a toke of the zoot after speaking, stubbing the end out into the ashtray on the table. 

he shrugs with a small smirk. “why not?” he questions, like he's daring you to do so. you sigh, questioning your own judgement as you actually consider it. 

he senses your hesitation, leaning forward a bit as his elbows rest on his knees. “doesn’t have t’be between your tits.” he mumbles, his eyes roaming over your body like he was looking for another spot. “could do it off your thigh.” he suggests, his voice almost hoarse as he speaks, making it very apparent that he himself liked that idea. 

you definitely preferred that idea, it seemed like less of a hassle. maybe it was the mixture of the alcohol and the weed, clouding your judgement, but you were down to do that. “m’kay.” you mumble, giving in. it's not like you yourself were gonna do a line.

he nods a little, almost proud of you for saying yes and venturing out a bit. then he stands, offering his hand to you before he leads you through the house, your delicate hand gripping onto his more rough one as you tag along behind him. 

he took you to an upstairs bathroom, letting you shut and lock the door behind you. you turn and he's already got the baggie out, holding it open. “shut the lid, n’sit.” he tells you, motioning towards the toilet. 

you do as told, mindlessly chucking your bag onto the floor before you take a seat on the closed toilet lid, the plastic cold against your upper thighs.

“this is so stupid.” you mumble, feeling a little nervous. “and pointless.” you add, watching as he sorts out his shit. 

“nah, it's hot.” he corrects, walking over to you before he gets on his knees in front of you. he holds his id card against your thigh, almost creating a barrier before he sprinkles a small line over your skin. 

you watch intensely, feeling your heart rate spike at the sheer adrenaline of the situation.

“don't move.” he tells you, using the edge of the card to straighten out the line a little. you take in a small breath, trying your hardest to remain completely still.

he puts the baggie and his card away, looking up to see your slightly nervous expression. “you good?” he asks, his hand coming to gently rub your other thigh. you nod a little. “can you just do it, i'm scared i'm gonna flinch or move or something.” you say quickly, clearly quite stressed about the prospect of spilling the expensive substance on your thigh.

he chuckles slightly at your panic, more calm as he trusted that you wouldn't move. but he complies, reaching into his back pocket for a dollar bill.

he rolls it into a tube before leaning over slightly as he brings it to one nostril, pressing the other with his finger. you feel the dollar bill touch you slightly, before he runs it along the line, snorting the coke. 

he's quick to tip his head back, his face scrunching as he sniffs, making sure it's all in.

your grip on the side of the toilet seat loosens slightly, as the muscles in your thigh relax. you look over at him as he puts the bill away, sniffling a little as it passes. then your gaze shifts to the tiny trace of the substance on your thigh, a miniscule amount left.

he pops his thumb into his mouth before collecting the remainder on your skin. “you want it?” he offers, although he's not expecting you to say yes. you shake your head. “how are you meant to snort that?” you question.

he smirks before sucking it off his thumb and then wiping it clean on his jeans. “like that.” he says, watching as you look at him curiously. “huh.” you mumble.

“s’not a lot, won't do much.” he shrugs, before looking back up at you. 

neither of you move as his gaze shifts over your body, specifically at your exposed thighs and short denim skirt. 

the coke was obviously getting to him as his gaze became fixed and concentrated, whereas your mind was spinning slightly. you were minorly cross faded, making you more brave than usual, as demonstrated by that little performance you just took part in.

“what kinda underwear d’ya wear.” he mumbles, his eyes not leaving your thighs. you smile at his question, finding amusement and confidence in the fact that he thought about that kinda stuff. 

instead of answering you begin to part your legs, revealing your black lacy underwear, the material only partially see through. 

his mind blanks at your action, his mouth filling with saliva as he admires the view and boldness. “you wear lacy shit?” he questions, his voice hoarse and lustful. “only when i dress up.” you respond with a smile, looking down at his reaction.

“looks fuckin sexy.” he mumbles, moving his hand forward to lightly brush his fingers over the fabric, feeling the slight dampness.

his head falls against your thigh at the feeling of how wet you are, his other hand gripping your calf. “fuck.” he groans, keeping his fingers there. 

he looks up at you eventually, his eyes heavy. “d’you have any idea how wet y’are?” he mumbles. you nod with a small smile, basking in how much it was sending him over the edge. 

he refrains from moaning again, instead returning his attention back to the heat between your legs. you gently play with his hair as you watch his fixation. “can i?” he murmurs.

you don’t even know what he's asking, but you’re quick to respond. “yeah.” you whisper, catching your bottom lip between your teeth.

he pushes the bottom of your skirt up, watching as it bunches at your hips. then he hooks his fingers into your underwear, tugging it down your legs. you lift your hips up, helping him, and that's all the confirmation he needs to know you’re more than ok with this.

he separates your legs, admiring your naked form. “fuck-” he whispers, reaching out to touch you, sliding his fingers through your folds. you slouch back, looking down at the movement of his hands. you keep an eye on where his hands are going, almost waiting for him to do something.

his middle finger moves lower, gently prodding at your entrance. you flinch slightly at the new feeling.

“you still not into me fingerin you?” he questions, fixated on the way the tip of his finger slipped in slightly. “you can.” you breathe out, suddenly desperate to feel him. maybe it was your intoxication talking, but either way you knew you wanted chris, you just struggled to rationalise and vocalise it to him.

“you sure?” he asks, tilting his head up to look at you. you nod eagerly, opening your legs a little wider to give him access.

he wastes no time slowing pushing his finger in before gently twisting his wrist to get the right angle. you bask in the new sensation, never having had anything up there. then he speeds up quickly, curling his finger up into your g-spot.

“oh fuck-” you gasp, your body tensing slightly at the intense pleasure. he concentrates on the rhythm of his arm, making sure to hit the spot inside you perfectly. 

“can't lie, i really wanna go down on you.” he murmurs breathlessly, clearly overcome with lust in the moment. 

“what..?” you mumble out, returning to reality for a second as you focus your eyes on his face, and the desperate expression on it. 

“y’know, when you give a girl head-.” he explains with a sly grin. you shake your head quickly. “fuck off.” you scowl at his sarcasm. “i mean like, right here?” you raise your eyebrows as you question.

he looks over your body, your legs spread for him, exposing yourself at almost eye level. “well, i mean…” he raises an eyebrow, making a point about the position you were in right now.

you think for a second, looking over the situation. he senses the hesitation, bringing his hand to gently rub your thigh. “it’ll feel real good. promise.” he tells you, venturing closer.

your heart rate picks up as he brings his face closer to your heat, a peak in anxiety and insecurity as no ones been that close to you like that before. but all that vanishes as his tongue presses over your sensitive clit, making your body jerk in pleasure.

“mghh..” you groan, threading your fingers through his hair. he gets the message, immediately going all in, circling his tongue over your clit expertly, his hand still gripping your thigh.

“you're really good at that.” you croak out, your mouth momentarily falling open at the feeling. he smirks against you, concentrating on the task at hand as he soaks in the praise.

after a few minutes of the delicate touch of his tongue, he shifts so that he can hold both your thighs, pulling you closer to his face. for comfort you end up mindlessly resting your legs over his shoulders as he goes in further, sucking and nipping at your clit.

it makes your back arch, chris holding down your hips with his hands. “fuck-” you moan, your voice cut off by a gasp as he gently slips a finger in.

you sit up a little, looking down at  him with an already fucked out expression. “wait- i’m gonna cum if you do that.” he removes his mouth, looking up at you curiously, “is that not the point?” he taunts, his finger slowly moving in and out of you.

“yeah, but i'll be too loud.” you whimper, reminding the both of you where you were, anyone could be outside that door waiting for the toilet.

his smirk only widens at your admission, “be quiet then.” he ushers before his lips connect with your clit again. he leaves you with no time to dispute before gasps and whines are tumbling out of your mouth again.

he's quick to match the pace of his finger with the movement of his tongue, applying more pressure to your sensitive nerve as his finger hits your g-spot repeatedly. 

you grip onto his hand that's still on your thigh, holding tightly as you try to make less noise. 

from the constant simultaneous stimulation you feel, waves of pleasure coarse through your body, digging your nails into his skin as your orgasm builds up.

“gonna come.” you squeak, trying your best to stay silent. you resolve to covering your mouth with your hand, poorly muffling your moans as your high hits. he looks up at you from his position between your legs, not wanting to miss the sight of you coming undone from his touch.

your hips desperately grind forward onto chris's mouth as you come, his movements slowing to a reasonable pace. he removes his mouth, watching his finger pump in and out slowly as your body shakes and you come down from your orgasm, eventually pulling his finger out.

once you've calmed down, he gently removes your legs from his shoulders, planting your feet on the floor. 

“holy fuck.” you breathe out, almost in shock from how good that felt. he basks in your orgasmic haze, loving how good he made you feel. “you taste really good.” he comments, sucking your slick off his middle finger. 

“don't do that- that's disgusting.” you mutter, frowning judgmentally.

“what?” he chuckles, amused by your reaction. “i just had m’tongue on your pussy.” he points out. you grimace a little, despite the truth of it. “don't say it like that.” you mumble, shaking your head slightly with the same disgusted look on your face. 

he rolls his eyes playfully as he stands up, “you're ridiculous.” he tells you before he goes to wash his hands. 

you sit up, your legs a little shaky as you pick your underwear off the floor, stepping into them. you stand, pulling them up before fixing your skirt. 

“you good?” he asks, leaning against the counter as you sort your stuff. before you can answer there's a bang on the door followed by a loud voice telling you to hurry up.

your eyes go wide, and you want nothing more than to curl up into a ball and hide. “chris, i can't go out there.” you whisper, picking your bag off the floor.

“s’fine.” he says, like that's supposed to just reassure you completely. he saunters to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open almost theatrically. 

chris daps the guy up, and from the friendly interaction you can tell it's one of his friends.

“you guys hookin up?” he asks, looking between the both of you with a grin, his gaze remaining on your legs for far too long.

“nah, just doin the usual.” chris says, subtly wiping his nose as he speaks. the guy's eyebrows raise before he looks over at you again. “you do coke?” he questions, clearly surprised.

you go to respond, your words getting caught in your throat. but it doesn't matter because chris is already talking. “she did a bump, wanted to try it.” chris says, leaning closer to the guy as he speaks.

then chris's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you further away from the bathroom. “see ya around.” chris says to the guy, before pushing you so that you were now walking in front of him, a part of you thinking he did it to block the view of your ass from his friend.

“you okay?” he asks you, walking behind you as you descend the stairs with slightly shaky legs. “fuck off.” you tell him, trying to act like he hadn't just made your legs complete jelly.

he chuckles a little at your attitude, holding his hands up in surrender. “m’just asking.” he mumbles, a grin on his face.

you both reach the bottom of the stairs and you turn to look at him. “well i'm fine.” you hum before looking down at your unstable legs. “my legs are just a bit shaky.” you mumble under your breath.

his eyebrows raise a little, his own cockiness taking over. “oh really, why's that?” he asks, leaning on the bannister with a sly knowing smirk.

you roll your eyes, not wanting to feed into his ego further, although to be fair that may have been the best orgasm of your life. 

“why'd you always ruin it?” you huff, moving to stand in front of him, his arm still over the bannister. “m’not ruining nothin.” he mumbles, pressing his lips together as he pulls you in by your hip. 

your bodies are flush, and you can feel his steady heartbeat against your own chest, a contrast to yours. you look around at the crowds of people, some in conversation, others walking past the both of you to go upstairs. “you sure you wanna be seen like this with me?” you question, taking note of the increased pda when he's coked. 

he pouts, a soft frown forming on his face. “what's that meant to mean?” he mumbles, although he knows exactly what you mean. 

“we just look very couply right now.” you point out, looking at the lack of space between your bodies. he shrugs like it's nothing, but you know it is.

“so, we're just two people havin fun at a party.” he says, his other hand coming up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, tentatively tucking it behind your ear. “just cos we look couply, dont mean we are.” he adds. 

“m’kay.” you mumble, just accepting his silly answer. “what?” he questions, frowning down at your change in expression. 

“nothing.” you say, spreading a smile across your face to reassure him. “s’not nothin, what’d i say?” he asks, his hand now playing with the ends of your hair although his gaze is focussed on your eyes, following their every move. 

you sigh, unsure of what to even say. “it's just-” you're cut off by him kissing you, his hands gripping your face to hold you in place. the kiss is hot, but softer than usual. his tongue isn't licking across your lip like usual, instead it's just the soft plush of his own lips. the intensity is there, it's just not in the action, rather in the emotion. which scares you a little. 

he pulls away, pressing a soft peck to your lips. “stop thinkin so much.” he tells you with a small smile, rubbing his hand over your cheek. 

you look up, into his eyes, aware of how adoring your gaze must be right now. “sorry.” you mumble out, drawing your eyes away from his. 

“you're good.” he says shortly, before he kisses her head. you feel cold as soon as he's no longer touching you. 

“i'm gonna go find bella.” you tell him, taking a little step away trying to keep it casual after that interaction. he nods, looking around a little. “i'll see you later then?” he says. you nod before parting ways.

you watch him walk away, letting out a breath you were unknowingly holding. fuck.

©sturnsrecord

notes . reupload from my previous account @/plan8sturn, I will be continuing the series here

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Demon! Nanami Kento x Angel Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: grey morality, religious undertones, corruption kink, worship, power dynamics (subtle fem submission), monsterfucking, smut, tongue fingering, pronged tongue, vaginal sex, oral (f! receiving), mild blood/biting. MDNI!

Summary: The thick muscle of your wings press against cold ancient stone as he circles you with wicked, stone-faced intent. Glimmering obsidian fingers trace along your feathers until they quiver--fluttering with touch-starved bliss no angel should ever feel. It's forbidden--this sensation in your belly, this humiliating slick between your legs that be can smell, this overwhelming desire that you've spent eons trying to quell.

But now, trapped before a demon so captivating that you can't help but feel equally terrified and dreadfully aroused, reality burns your skin like the holy water that bubbles whenever it's within your reach.

You're not here to serve a divine purpose--you're an offering. And only Heaven knows if you'll fall to your knees before him, begging for corruption.

Author Notes: Here it is! My submission for @tsukimefuku 's Spookinky event! I had so much fun writing this. Thank you, Fuku, for hosting such an awesome event, and I truly apologize for the filth (I do not apologize). Thank you all for your support, and thank you, @aliasnnmknt, for letting me use your art for my banner and helping me create it. Your art really inspired most of this fic!

Header: art by @aliasnnmknt | Divider: @arcielee @enchanthings | network tag: @pixelcafe-network

JJK Masterlist | Twitter | Ao3

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

You’ve never set foot in a demon’s realm.

You’ve heard the stories—flames that burn flesh from bone, screams that echo for eternity, demons that feast on corrupted souls. For the many eons that you have been in existence, the pristine light you thrive in tells enough horrid stories to keep you away.

You do what you can to show you are pure in your thoughts and heart and that you will walk the line given to make the one above you proud in His selection of you. You’ve done well. It’s why you’ve been given this task—a pilgrimage to a sacred altar within this dark realm, to find the relic it holds and be promised enlightenment and a deeper connection to your spiritual life. For once, you feel special. You are special.

The relic you search for holds ancient divine text that the Heavens would like to make sure does not fall into the wrong hands. Your ability to decipher that text and other old tongues made you the perfect choice—though you try not to question why that ability exists at all. This mission feels important and they insisted you were the perfect choice. Your gifts would serve the greater good. Serve Him.

Maybe that’s why they sent you alone. A single angel, moving quietly through dark territory, would draw less attention than an entire group.

Finally, after so many years of wary glances and hushed concerns. Your many ‘gifts’ that have set you apart—the way ancient texts rearrange themselves under your touch, how you see patterns in chaos that other angels cringe from, your thirst for knowledge that shouldn’t be explored. Finally, it’s all paid off.

Or…at least that’s what they told you. Even as something in your grace whispers warnings you choose to ignore.

Angels bask in absolutes, in the pure warmth of divine light and the straightforward clarity of purpose. There is certainty in right and wrong, never a grey in between. Your wings should bask in holy breeze, not in this thick air that tastes of dreadful sin.

You expected the realm to smell of death and destruction, to look as if every natural disaster had run through the land so the shadows could roam freely to commit sin. It’s what you’ve been taught at least. This Realm specifically is forbidden and faith has been used as a boundary to keep other angels in line.

The outskirts of this realm is covered in a haze, a thick russet fog that smells of ozone and decaying flowers. It settles on your skin like an uncomfortable garment, scratching the surface and burning your dermis. Your wings curdle in pain, burning to ash and regrowing through your bleeding muscles. Gnarled, skeletal trees reach up like claws, the birds that sit on their branches malnourished and dying. Distantly, you hear the constant drip of water from a faucet, yet there is no water in sight. Whispers of sin and moans of agony carry on the wind.

Your white dress flows like liquid moonlight, now stained with ash and ember burns. The neckline dips lower than most angels would prefer.

“To be comfortable in the vessel He gave you is to honor His creation.”

Is what they had said, their justification now seems like a cruel irony as the fog caresses your exposed cleavage with burning fingers. The bottom of your dress trails on the ground as you walk, the dirt burning with red soil that seeps through the toes of your bare feet. It feels as if you’re walking on hot coals, the heat burning the fabric of your hem in tendrils of smoke.

You knew to expect this pain, but it’s different. There is a calculated precision to it, intentional in how it burns you as if testing if your form is solid, if your soul is worthy of corruption. The bell sleeves of your gown flutter in a nonexistent wind, ash and soot collecting in the folds of fabric that they once praised as divine elegance.

Your eyes burn, tears streaking melanin-soaked skin that cannot absorb the shrouded sun up above. As you navigate blindly through the oppressive haze, the shadows around you morph with the darkness and skitter past you on multiple hands and contorted feet.

An infinitesimal part of your grace shivers in fear. It’s small yes, pushed away and ignored like you have been taught, but it’s there in the quickening of your pulse and the break of sweat on your neck, it’s there as you walk further through the vicious landscape of horror and pain, as you try to ignore the gurgling of what you do not know from all around you.

Your wings curl around your body, a small gesture of protection that you fall into when the fog gets thicker. It slides languidly up your nostrils and down your throat, catching along the corners. You cough, sputtering wildly through ash and decay, your eyes bubbling with more burning tears. That fear flickers again in your chest and wiggles like a worm in search of moist dirt in your rib cage.

You can do this. You have been chosen. Your lips curl and part as you recite your prayer in silence, asking for strength even as your fear climbs higher to the surface of divine worship.

Then—through burning tears, you see it. A path of pure obsidian that cuts through the horror, its surface covered in a thin layer of water that reflects starlight not in the skies above. Your feet pick up in pace, moving before conscious thought, drawn to its dark beauty and vast difference of the world around. The moment your toes dip into the water-slicked stone, the moisture sliding off your skin without wetting it, everything changes.

The burning on your skin and feathers stops. The pungent fog parts like a curtain and dissipates into the air. You pull in a deep breath, savoring the thickness that is no longer there, your throat coated in clean oxygen. Your dress, moments ago stained with ash and fiery burns, returns to its pristine white. Once the tears in your eyes clear, you take in the changed landscape.

Perhaps the realm only transforms if one gets this far, because now there is no destruction but a defiance of what you see. The sky is tinged a permanent grey, overcast even though there’s a warmth to the low hang of the clouds. There are no lakes of fire, and the ground beneath your feet is no longer hot with clay-colored dirt that seeps between your toes. The obsidian path winds before you through tall garden walls of pearly white flowers, the leaves pitch black instead of earthly green.

Above the dark canopy of the garden walls, a monolith looms tall, piercing the grey sky as if demanding to be let into the heavens. It’s built to resemble a vast tree, its surface rippling with starlight, the bright core pulsing like a heartbeat, beckoning you deeper into this realm of misconstrued beauty. The garden path must lead to it. Even the pearly white flowers weaved into the walls all point forward, ushering you on.

Your wings furl closer to your spine as you shuffle to one of the garden walls, hesitantly reaching for the flowers twined in the vines and leaves. It’s a beautiful white, with small petals that curl toward a sage core. They’re littered along the walls, a beautiful landscape against darkness but the closer you get, the more you realize—

Hemlock

A poisonous flower, the symbol of death, betrayal, and sacrifice. It sits in it’s refined beauty, enhancing the black leaves around you, but they are just as dangerous.

You snatch your hands away as if stung, clutching the fabric of your dress like a lifeline. You try not to think about how the hemlock watches you with pale eyes. You try not to think about what they represent. You try not to question why these flowers would point and line a path to the divine relic you seek.

With every step you take, the pulsing from the monolith in the distance vibrates through the ground, the water rippling currents with each beat. The obsidian path narrows, forcing your wings closer to your body, your arms so close to the deadly blooms. The garden walls rise higher, leaves trembling in that same empty breeze.

While the air no longer feels thick, it is heavy with a taste both nonexistent and flavorful. Flavored with the knowledge you seek when others do not look and secrets that make your eyes linger even as your grace warns you against it. The questioning urges of your nature that Heaven always tries to quell stir awake like a beast being poked after centuries of rest.

You should ignore it. You should ask for forgiveness and count the blessings you have been given in this long existence. But your heart leaps at the chance you have also been given, right now.

The monolith’s base reveals itself slowly, the garden walls parting gradually with dark promise. Your breath catches at the sight—this is no crude demon architecture. The structure rises before you like an otherworldly giant, jet black vines weaving within its bright innards.

You’re struck by the beauty of it all, a resplendent sight that you never imagined would bless your eyes. And as you draw closer, the glass obsidian floors open up before you. From the open floor, a column of marble rises, its surface bleached bone and covered in aging vines and greenery.

On that altar, rests the relic you seek. It is no crystal that contains energy to create vasts universes. It is no seed that once planted will wreak destruction with its pollination. It is no amulet capable of manipulating time.

It is a book.

A single book that is thick with words of forbidden knowledge, its cover worn and weathered from eons of hiding in the shadows, its pages yellowing along the edges.

Such a simple relic, but you feel it’s dark power from your spot at the altar.

You’ve been tasked to tuck it away and sneak back to Heaven, to deliver it to your superiors and be given your eternal reward. While simple in theory, your hands hover over it, hesitating with shaky fingers.

Do not open it.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

Do not look inside.

These are your rules—your absolutes. And yet…

Your fingers twitch, reaching and pulling back at the elusive call of the tome, your feathers trembling with a desire you shouldn’t feel. Your eyes burn with tears of veneration as the symbols on the worn leather illuminate and rearrange before your eyes like dancing embers, the translated text reading in your mind like an endless scroll.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

You snatch it up, pressing it to your chest as a means to stop your racing heart. Your soul palpitates with want, a baseless need to curl your fingers under the lips of the book and tilt it open.

It’s temptation, that festering desire that always seems to coil in your belly when the explanations you are given never feel right, when the world around you seems too pristine and you want to know more, when you linger in the mortal realm, watching the humans with a curious eye that is more than what is required of you.

It’s quick and on a whim, you pulling the book from your chest to look down at it, as if by looking it will answer the questions you seek. You trail your fingers along it’s ancient skin, soft and unmarred fingertips feeling along ridges and scars along the cover. It looks as if the relic has gone through it’s own personal Hell, no doubt jerked around from realm to realm over the centuries, pried open and its secrets stolen. There’s a faint beat of sadness that you feel in your chest at the thought of what it must have gone through.

But your fingers still finger beneath the lid, the worn pages jagged on your tips as you worry it up with a slow movement.

Do not open it.

You squeeze the tome, pressing the pages inside more into each other in a silent attempt to seal it and your temptation away forever. Your toes curl into the water beneath you, cold on your skin but still passing over you dry and without moisture.

But once again you catch yourself loosening your grip, your fingers adventurous, your mind begging for more and it’s right here.

In times like these, you find yourself turning to the one manifestation that has never answered you, but exists in your very being.

“Father,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Give me the strength against temptation.” Your wings draw tight, your spine aching from the sudden action, before they expand in a glorious span, feathers opening like extended fingers before they curl around you to shield you from your own curiosity. “Guide me from this darkness, keep my thoughts pure…”

But even as you pray, your body rebels—your fingers part a page and slide along the rough texture of papyrus. There’s a power to the book now, a deep pulse that seems to be in rhythm with the monolith, beckoning you further. The ancient text burns brighter, the translated words whispering in your ears to give in just this once—look inside, soak in your knowledge, seek what others deny.

Your lips quiver, eyes burning with unshed tears at the way your body betrays you. You’re no better than a fallen angel, than a demon or a human who walks the path of darkness—easily tempted and consumed.

You’re not damned, you’re not, you’re not—

“What do we have here?”

The voice slides through your tumultuous thoughts like silk, rich with bored amusement and something darker. Your prayers die in your throat, catching along the edges of your esophagus, your body icing over with a chill of what you try to rebuke as fear.

You’re not alone and you knew the dangers of wandering this realm so freely. You call upon your grace, manifesting a celestial dagger of light and purity, before you whirl around to face the demon who pursues you.

But you’re met with nothing—just the empty garden path you came from.

When you turn back to the altar, your scream catches in your throat.

He stands with casual power and predatory grace. His skin is a pitch lighter than the obsidian paths, but still scattered with constellations. His hair falls in golden-blonde waves, the ends touched with flame that frames sharp features and elegant black horns that curl from the top of his head. His eyes are a burning yellow, studying you with a calculating hunger that makes you shiver.

He stands tall, an inhuman height that makes you feel incredibly small, his wings the color of dark flames spread lazily behind him, their edges flickering with crimson light.

The armor that adorns his upper body is otherworldly and crafted not by divine or mortal hands—navy as dark as night, trimmed with gold that wraps around his shoulders and sides, his chest bare. His hip rests against the altar as if he owns it, expectant like he’s been waiting for you.

He’s beautiful, a manifestation of dark and light, a being that walks his own line not predetermined. As you study him, something tugs at your memory—flashes of encounters that have grown fuzzy over time. In the mortal realm, when you linger in the shadows to observe the humans, a tall figure in navy and tan, warm eyes hidden behind glasses with no arms, hair not tipped with flame but parted clean and tucked behind his ears.

He lingers in the darkness, in damp alleys and abandoned buildings where misery and pain give birth to grotesque figures that terrorize the mortals. You’ve seen him—or you think you have—convinced it was a coincidence and ignored the way your wings would shiver at his distant presence, tilting toward him as if searching for someone lost.

And in your dreams too—dreams of large hands filled with experiences of the world, of whispers in your ear of eternal knowledge. You’d wake with your grace trembling, convinced it was just your mind playing tricks even as the apex of your thighs trembled with the sheen of your sweat and forbidden essence.

Perhaps that’s why your superiors ask for you after these dreams. Perhaps that’s why they press their fingers to your temples and bury the memories deep. So you do not have to worry. So that you can resist temptation. Right?

Yes. All of it is a temptation to test your faith.

But now he stands before you, solid and real, and those ‘coincidences’ suddenly feel intentional. Had he been watching? Waiting for this very moment?

You adjust your grip on your dagger, forcing away those thoughts that never seem to go away. You stagger backwards, your celestial dagger shaking in your hands, your prayer wielded before you like a shield.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” you whisper, desperate words that feel as if they fall on closed ears, your fear radiating from your bare toes, through the strong muscles of your white wings, and up to the top of your skull. “Hallowed be thy—”

The demon moves towards you now, each step gobbling the distance between your retreating form until your back hits the garden wall, a gasp dying in your throat.

“That name,” he murmurs, sultry low as he cages you with muscular arms, “holds no power here.” His eyes drag down your form, cataloging you bit by bit, lingering on the sight of a shaking chest that is pressed to the tome you clutch.

He leans in close, too close, until you feel the burning heat from his skin. You press your back harder against the garden wall, dark leaves and hemlock brushing along your cheeks and neck as he inhales deeply along the column of your throat.

He smells like the archives you lose yourself in, like the green tea you love to drink in the mortal realm, like a dark concoction of burning honey that would make the noses of other angels crinkle but your nostrils open to inhale more. Your divine senses blur.

This is temptation, you tell yourself as your wings putter against the wall behind you. You’ve practiced for this, you know what you should do. But your body betrays you, your head tilting slightly before you can think about it, offering more of your neck for his inspection.

Horror at your sin, ice cold as it washes over you, makes you act. You press your celestial dagger upward, against his bare chest where one particular constellation burns brighter than the rest.

But the blade dissolves like sugar in the rain the moment it touches him, holy light scattering for a home as it shimmers across his skin to form new constellations.

“How interesting…” The deep voice inquires, hot as it puffs on your neck. “An angel, stealing what does not belong to them. Surely there’s a rule about that, is there not?”

You clutch the tome tighter to your chest, your mouth opening to snap that this is your mission, your divine purpose. But the book vanishes from your grip in black tendrils of smoke, your hand smacking into your breasts from the gap created.

“Give it back!” Panic rises in your throat as you try to meld with the leaves behind you, your fingers wrapping around vines and leaves like a vice.

A sigh, long and drawn out as if mentally exhausted, as if this isn’t the first this has happened, leaves his giant form and travels over your body.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he drawls, pushing off the wall and walking away as if your presence means nothing. He turns to face you at the altar, eyes half-lidded as he rests his forearms on the marble surface and opens the tome that is now manifested in his hands. He’s giving off every impression that the relic you seek will not be going home with you, and he is more than prepared to read it all until you go away.

“W-well, you…” you trail off, your eyes flickering to the open book in his hands. You can’t see the words inside, but you can practically smell the papyrus, a smell that warms you when you trail your fingers along the archives in Heaven. You tighten your grip on the leaves, flexing your wings to extend in a display of dominance, even though it feels as if this demon has read you the moment you stepped into this realm.

The tome sits like an infant in his hands, small and precious as he turns a page, long galaxy shimmered fingers gliding along the text as he reads. That curiosity beckons, a familiar pulse of sin that fires along the nerves in your legs to take a step toward him, to peak over the edge of the book and look inside.

“Demon,” you press, swallowing a lump of your frayed nerves.

His eyes flicker up at you, burning gold irises mildly offended.

“That is not my name.” He turns another page, pulling his gaze away from you, dismissive. “Though, I suspect you already know what it is.”

Why would you know his name? While the sight of him invokes some distant memories, you both have never spoken. The confusion mixes with your flood of panic, your eyes locked on the ancient text in his hands.

“I don’t—I’m here on divine purpose. The Heavens sent me to deliver this relic.”

“They sent you to steal this relic,” he corrects. He slams the tome closed, the sound making you flinch before he walks back to you in casual strides, his form almost gliding on the obsidian floors.

“I would not steal.”

“Coming to a place without invitation and taking the items inside is, indeed, stealing.”

You sink back into the flowers as he draws closer, your heart pumping erratically in your chest, your limbs filling with shame at the logic he draws. But still, you resist.

“I was invited.”

You’ve always been around to see the return of angels from long missions where they are surrounded by darkness and pain. They seem so strong, their chests puffed in pride, their wings shining brighter as a badge of honor. There’s a bravery that you wish you could have right now. But you’re afraid—whether that fear is pure or mixed with something sensual and dangerous—you still don’t know.

“I-I was chosen,” you insist, despite what you feel.

“Oh, I’m sure you were.” His head tilts as he regards you.

The book disappears from his hands before materializing in your own, warm smoke wrapping around your wrists before dissipating. “Take it. Return to your divine purpose.”

You clutch the tome, hoping for relief to fill your wings, but you can only feel disappointment instead. You hesitate, flickering your gaze up to the demon who stands expectantly with arms crossed, like he knows what the outcome will be. Like he knows you will be back.

You turn around and flea down the obsidian path. The garden walls adorned with pearl flowers blur past you until—

The walls part again, the altar and demon coming into view.

“That’s not—” you spin, turning back toward the path and running faster this time, your relic pressed to your body, your lungs burning with the truth that you’re trying to deny.

The hemlock flowers seem to laugh as you pass, their white petals pointing the way with mocking fingers until—

The altar. The demon, an eyebrow raised. Again.

“Stop this!” Your voice breaks as you turn around to try again, sprinting so hard that your wings flap against the wind, your toes touching the top of the thin layer of water below you. You come to the altar a third time, then a fourth, each leading back to his knowing and patient form.

“I’m not doing anything.” His voice holds a gentle pity that pricks at your skin. “But why? Why would they send their most curious angel into a demon’s realm? Why alone? Why you?”

Something in his tone, in the endearment wrapped around seduction makes your grace shiver. You long to have an answer ready on your tongue, and you do, but it’s more practiced, copied, and spit out and resonates in your bones incorrectly.

“The relic requires eyes that can transcribe so I select the right one. My abilities—”

“Your abilities,” he interrupts softly, materializing behind you, “the ones that they’ve tried to suppress. The ones that they’ve feared. Yet suddenly, all of it is for naught, and you’ve been given this divine purpose?”

The towering demon circles you slowly, analyzing you like a predator waiting for his wounded prey to finally submit. You swallow hard, fingers digging into the leather of the book, eyes downcast.

“They finally saw my worth,” you insist, but the words sound hollow even to your ears. “I am pure. Free of sin. I do not stray.”

Warmth by the shell of your ear, the rich smell of him forbidden, an erotic melody that makes your blood long to sing.

“Lies.”

Your wings slash through the air in deep powerful strokes, twitching in their plumage. “I would not lie!”

“Neither would I, little angel. But it seems you have been led here under false pretenses.”

“No.”

“There is no relic.” The tome in your hands disappears, it’s solid form no longer tethered to existence.

“Give it—”

“There is no mission,” he presses on. “There is no divine purpose. There is only you. Cast down here and given to me.”

“To you…”

“An offering, little angel.”

The word makes you chill over in disgust, the very thought of being a sacrificial lamb enough to make you sick to your stomach. You shake your head vehemently, insistently denying as best as you can even though your grace radiates with the truth.

“No. They would never sacrifice someone. They—they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t do that to me.”

The demon clicks his tongue, pity filling his otherworldly features with a slight pout of his lips as he studies you. Before you can take another breath, the realm shifts, reality bending in a plume of smoke. The monolith and altar disappear, the darkness of the garden walls fading to give way to the eternal light you recognize as your home.

The tall pearly gates that surround your kingdom smile down at you, pearlescent clouds that seeps beneath the doors kissing your bare toes. Your wings waft in the air with ease, pumping euphoria through your veins as you smile up at your home. The tome is back now, cradled safely in your arms, reminding you of your mission. With a hope bright in your chest, you rapt your fingers on the doors.

“Father! I’ve retrieved the relic! I’m home!”

But the doors do not open. There is no sound of movement on the other side, no shift in the white clouds around you. It doesn’t even feel as if someone is not home. You can feel your siblings, you’ve always been able to sense them in your grace, but this sensation is reluctant. As if they peak through closed curtains on the other side, watching through a window with their hand on the door to prevent you from coming in.

“H-hello?” you try again, voice shaking as you knock with more fervor, denial warring with growing dread. “I-I said I’ve brought the relic.” Silence. “Hello?!” You smack on the doors now, the holy wood splitting at your skin and healing over again. Surely someone must be home. Maybe they are away? Maybe they are busy and do not hear?

You press your forehead against the door, wings drooping. Through your grace, you feel them there, still watching. Waiting for you to leave. But not to welcome you home.

“Please,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “Will someone—”

“They will not open the doors, little angel,” the demon speaks from behind you.

You jump from his sudden appearance, your body drained of all blood at the sordid thought of what is happening right now. Reality shifts again, the divine light of your home sucking back into darkness, the monolith and marble altar and obsidian floors coming back into view.

Your legs threaten to give as realization washes over you. You shake your head, lip quivering as tears blur the edges of your vision, your fingers curling on the altar. How could they do this to you? You have always struggled in this life, always been so ashamed that you do not think like the others. But to cast you out? To give you these wings and then make you feel as if you are beyond saving?

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” you whisper, your hope crumbling with every word. You feel his large form next to you before you hear any steps. “Why would they do this to me?”

You have no choice but to look up at him, to seek some form of answer in his burning yellow eyes. There’s a flicker of something that crosses his face—amusement? Maybe pity?

“They have offered you to me. A sacrifice to take the darkness from their pristine walls and feed it to the realm it belongs to.”

The words hang in the air, the horrifying truth once again presented to you. Your heart lurches in your chest. You recoil, your wings drooping to brush along the water covered floor.

“They fear you, little angel,” he continues, voice softening. “Your potential, your curiosity, your unwillingness to follow their absolutes.”

You slap your hands on the altar, the sound reverberating through the emptiness around you. “I will not.”

The demon chuckles, a low, sardonic noise that crawls up your dress and wraps around your throat. “Such defiance,” he purrs. “It’s quite…alluring.”

You can’t help the noise of shock and anger that crawls up your throat, shooting him a dark look. “I will not be corrupted by the likes of a demon like you.”

“Like me? So you imply that another demon may have a chance?” His jests fall on rageful ears, your wings flapping in defiance as you gape at him. He leans in close, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers. “You deny it all little angel. But you already are corrupt.”

You try to pull away from him, but a large hand falls to the small of your back, his fingers weaving through your wings in a caress that makes you choke on a whine.

“Come now, my dear.” The tip of his nose trails along your cheek, the touch sending flames of desire down your neck. You curl your fingers into a fist on the altar, your body ramrod straight.

“I can smell it on you,” he continues, his voice a silken caress. “The insatiable curiosity, the yearning for more, the essence that pools between your thighs every night before you sleep.”

The fingers in your plumage massage your skin, your shoulders relaxing into a traitorous sigh before with a swift motion, he plucks a feather from its root. You wince, your hand flying back to bat him away before he holds the feather in front of you, its tip stained a deep, inky black.

“Do you not try to hide it? You sneak to the archives. You let them smother your dreams. You do not tell them that you sneak away to the mortal realm to watch them eat, and bathe, and sin.”

He turns your wing to expose the underside where the feather was plucked, your eyes widening as if you’ve been caught. The skin is marred with a dark scar, the muscle underneath dried with blood and presenting as damning evidence of you plucking those feathers over and over, your cheeks covered in tears as you did your best to hide them away.

“You pluck your true self,” he whispers, voice laced with dry amusement. “But they only grow back stronger, don’t they?”

A breath catches in your throat, his words piercing through your defenses that you have built with weak mortar and brick for eons. Your eyes catch his, your desire reflected in burning gold.

“Even so…I cannot leave?”

He hums in reverence, a pointy finger trailing along your collarbone to brush a lock of hair from your shoulders, exposing more of your scent for him to breathe in.

“You have tried to leave already and you cannot. There is nowhere for you to go. I can let you roam to any realm you choose, but the doors of Heaven will be locked for you forever.”

Your eyes bubble with tears. It’s an unfortunate hand that you have been dealt. A hand always opened to you in promise even as the other held a dagger behind the back of divinity. There’s a deep part of you that would try to find some sort of silver lining in moments of darkness, a silver lining that only benefits you.

“If I stay…what will you give me?” you ask, your voice small and defeated.

The demon sinks to one knee in front of you, his eye level now only a little taller than you, but still more humane than his hovering from before. He offers a slow, predatory smile, his lips parting to reveal sharp pearly white fangs.

“You already think in ways that will benefit yourself, don’t you? Whatever you desire, little angel, I will give it.” The sharp point of his nail trails down your cheek, casting a wave of arousal down your body, your stomach tightening. “Anything at all.”

You cannot deny the promise of whatever you want does not make you perk mildly with curiosity, the same curiosity that was always quelled.

You lick your lips in thought, a nervous habit that your siblings have always discouraged. It’s unbecoming of an angel, they’d say, a physical manifestation of want. But you’ve always like the way your tongue feels against the plump flesh of your lips.

“Anything?”

He inclines his head to you, eyes answering without having to say. You hesitate, your mind racing with possibilities, unleashed with nothing to hold them back.

“I want…” you begin, stopping short at the coil of desire that burns in your body. You’ve never given it a true voice, and now that you’ve been presented with the opportunity, you are unsure of how to proceed.

The demon’s eyes roam over your form before they brighten with understanding. “You wish to read the tome.”

You nod, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. He summons it quickly, the worn leather materializing in his enormous hands as he hands it to you like an offering of forbidden fruit.

“Take it,” he urges in a seductive whisper. “It is yours.”

You reach out with trembling fingers, your grace pulsing with desire, it’s feel growing bolder as you snatch it up into your hands and let it flow through you. The leather is cool beneath your fingertips, worn with the promise of centuries of words you’ve always wanted.

When you open the book and let your eyes fall on the faded script, they rearrange themselves like before, translating to you in a seductive dance that makes your toes curl. The knowledge overwhelms you, flooding your senses in a wave of information about this realm—its history and inhabitants and magic. You feel a thrill of excitement, a suppressed sense of liberation as you turn page after page.

From your peripheral, you see the demon offer that same predatory smile. With a snap of his fingers, the world shifts around you again. You are further from the monolith but instead of the altar, you are surrounded by looming bookshelves, all filled to the brim. Ancient tomes and scrolls, dusty relics that have been neglected over the years but kept in condition by this demon who rules this realm.

“This is a taste of what I can offer you. All of it is yours.” He steps closer, the energy that he radiates filling your space with darkness and seduction that terrifies and excites you. “There is so much more I can show you,” he whispers in your ear again. “Would you like that?”

Even though your body and soul buzz with satisfaction from the books around you, the shame is still there, still bubbling beneath the surface next to your dejection.

Sensing your unease, he places tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, a gesture that you long to fall into before the world morphs again.

He takes you back to where you began, the realm’s outskirts. However there is no russet fog that is thick and smells of decay and misery, this time your vision is clear. The shadows that once hovered around you in your quest to the monolith now reveal themselves as souls—humans that you recognize from your years of observation.

“Do you remember her?” the demon asks, pointing to a small woman tending to a bush of flowers. “The woman from years ago who stole medicine for her dying child because she had no money.”

You do remember watching with tear filled eyes. It was an ancient time where death was a sentence given freely, and this mother had been called to the land of the dead for stealing bread.

“You watched her pray for forgiveness even as she did what was necessary.” His hand rests on your lower back, reassuring in its pressure. “Heaven would have condemned her. I gave her purpose.”

“How do you give purpose if you are a demon?”

The demon huffs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “It is true that I gain my strength through corruption. But it is corruption through intellectual rebellion and questioning minds. I am strong because no matter how many years may pass, there will always be a soul that questions.”

Each soul that you pass triggers a memory—struggles you watched but could never reach out and help. And in each memory, you gain more clarity—he was always there in the mortal realm, appearing in navy and tan just like you thought.

“You’ve been watching me then,” you inquire, tucking your tome closer to your chest as you cast a sidelong glance to him.

“It is my nature,” he rumbles from next to you. “You understand the beauty in grey areas. The necessity of balance.” His fingers glide along the empty space where you plucked your blackened wings. “Here, you could judge with mercy and justice. Rule in the knowledge they feared.”

Power.

A destructive thing that has elevated so many and torn them down. But the call of it has always been sweet, and now you are the subject of it. The very thought of it makes your knees weaken, your grace fluttering like a leave in the wind. This could be something more honest, not Heaven’s sterile authority.

The soil that is no longer red vibrates beneath you, pulsing up your ankles and calves, around your waist and torso in thick vines that pull you to the monolith miles away.

“Easy, my dear,” he murmurs, a muscular arm sliding around your waist to prevent you from swaying further. “The first taste of true power always overwhelms.” Your grace flickers between divine light and seductive shadow, somehow grounded by his hold.

Every soul’s story calls to you now, complex choices and grey morality making your divine nature pulse with stomped out recognition. You lean into him, falling more into his scent, your wings brushing his back to seek balance.

“I…” you trail off, clutching the relic in your arms, using it to ground you through your thoughts that fight between light and dark.

“What else would you like?” he purrs in your ear, his hand reaching out to the realm beyond that begins to shift again. A vast kitchen filled with warmth and enticing scents. “Earthly pleasures are denied amongst angels.” The pristine counter tops are soon overflown with rich goods and goblets of wine. “Even something as simple as this.”

You’ve never had wine—it’s forbidden—at least for you. But the way it catches the warm fireplace behind it, deep and rich…your mouth waters.

“Freedom to roam where you wish.”

Glimpses of different realms flash by—clouds of different shapes and sizes, landscapes of mountains and water as clear as crystal, beings that take on their own forms as they wander the lands—places you’ve only dreamt of exploring, of asking to see and always been denied.

His voice drops lower, more intimate and hot on your cheek. “Or perhaps…” Another shift. A dark room you remember faintly—through gauzy curtains, you see two figures entwined in candlelight. The brown skin of limbs and curves wrapped around tan that shimmers faintly. You recognize the hips of the woman, the collarbone and hair, and you realize it’s you. You wrapped around this very demon next to you who appears in the mortal realm as a human with carefully parted locks and a height fit for yourself.

Your blood boils beneath your skin as you try to look away. But like every forbidden thing that’s ever called to you, your eyes are drawn back to the scene—to the way your dream-self arches into his touch, the way your neck cranes, the sight of his tongue sliding along the sweat of your brown breast.

He hums from behind you, his demonic form pressing closer as you watch his human glamour worship your other self. That familiar wave of shame wars with the desire in your body, trying its best to smother the arousal that tightens your nipples beneath your white dress. All of it you suffer night after night—your grace singing, skin hot and sweaty—essence coating your thighs.

“I—” you stutter for words, eyes locked on the human form that rolls his hips and swallows a moan that shakes from your other-self. “This is wrong…”

His starlight fingers trace your collarbone, mimicking the tongue of his human form. “Your body remembers what they tried to smother away. How many nights did you wake burning for this? For me?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The realm shifts one final time, the familiar garden walls and monolith appearing before you, the altar pressing into your back. The demon circles you, giving you no time to recover as his prying eyes pick you apart feather by feather.

“Even your grace recognizes where you truly belong.” He reaches out, trailing pointy nails down your spine, your body arching of its own volition. “Here. With me.”

His hands engulf your entire waist, his touch making you gasp as he lifts you up to sit on the altar before him.

“Every dream they tried to bury,” his hands trail up your thighs, “every desire they made you forget…” he steps closer, taking the oxygen from your lungs that you expel, his naked chest a hairsbreadth from your searching fingers. “All of it has lead to this moment. To me.”

“I—” you try to protest, but it dies in your throat as he tilts your chin to face him.

“You were meant for this realm,” he leans in, trailing his nose along your shaking lips. “I will make you mine. As my queen, my consort, my equal.” You press the tome further into your chest like a lifeline as his hand rests on the side of your neck, his nails grazing the lobe of your ear. “You’ve always known it. Even in those dreams where you surrendered to me so sweetly.”

His lips are close enough to kiss you, but they brush your jaw instead, trailing electricity down your throat. “Anything you want,” he breathes against your pulse, smiling at the sight of it’s rapid flutter, “you will have, little angel.” His mouth moves to that sensitive spot behind your ear that you discovered one night centuries ago. “But you must surrender to me. You have been offered and now you must be consumed.”

You clutch the tome tighter, using it as a tether even as your head tilts to give him better access. “I should not…”

“Surrender,” he whispers, lips ghosting your shoulder now, each kiss punctuated with promises that you should deny. “Let me worship you.” A kiss to your collarbone. “You will never be denied again.” His mouth traces back to hover over your lips. “Submit to what you have always wanted.”

The burn in your body makes your skin tingle, your core pulse with forbidden need, your nipples tighten in pleasure. Everything you’ve always wanted, could be given to you right now.

All of your dedication to faith has only led to tears and shame and disappointment. But here, you could be rewarded for your curiosity, exalted for your power to see what others do not, consumed in pleasure without the eyes of disdain looking down on you.

Here, with this beautiful demon, you can have it all.

For as powerful and as dark as he is, despite the patient hunger in his golden eyes, you realize he’s waiting. You must give the final say. A final say to do away with eons of denying, of plucking dark feathers, of letting them bury your dreams…

“Please,” the words shake from your lips before you can stop it, the tome slipping from your defeated grasp.

His eyes flash with satisfaction, mouth twitching with the urge to smile, but he relents. “Say it properly, little angel.” His mouth brushes the corner of your lips in not quite a kiss. “Tell me.”

Your wings spread wider of their own accord, trembling and stretching past invisible threads that have always held them down. “I want…I will to surrender.”

You hardly finish your words before you feel the press of his lips against yours, gentle and almost reverent. It’s the first time you’ve ever kissed, and it’s as euphoric as you’ve always thought. Your toes curl in satisfaction, your body hums with arousal, low and beneath the surface but quickly growing.

The hand on your neck tilts you up so he can feast further, a wet tongue sliding along the seam of your lips in a quiet ask for permission. You let your body guide you, opening your mouth to welcome him with a groan.

He tastes like he smells—green tea and honey, a hint of rich bread that you occasionally try in the mortal realm. It’s intoxicating, dark mingled with your fading sweetness. One that speaks of corruption and surrender.

What started as gentle quickly turns hungry and consuming. Your grace shivers as you catalogue every shift in your body, learning from the lessons of his tongue. Each stroke of him feels like corruption, like freedom, like finally coming home and you arch into him for more.

Your white dress slowly disappears before you, your body revealing to him naked and shivering. You try to cover yourself, an urge ingrained in you since your coming of existence, but the demon’s large hand stops you, gathering both hands in his strong grip and placing them at your sides.

He does not wait a second longer, his mouth trailing in worship down your neck and across your collarbone to pepper the swell of your breasts, your core pounding incessantly as he gets closer to one nipple before he wraps it in his hot mouth.

A moan shakes from your mouth, unexpected and loud into the quiet air of this monolith room. Your hands reach up to card in his golden locks, they’re warm and impossibly silky, the flame colored ends burning more than the rest. You let the pain of it singe your fingertips, basking in the euphoric pleasure pain of your skin growing back and burning all over again.

His hand envelops your other breasts, his sharp nails teasing your nipple before he drags it slowly across your areola. Your fingers tighten in his hair from the pain, your core dripping on the marble altar you sit on.

“You taste wonderful, little angel,” he purrs into the wet skin of your breast, pulling away before he gently nudges you onto your back. Your wings stretch languidly to make you more comfortable against the flat surface. The urge to cover yourself is not as insistent as before, the desire eating you up without reservation. “But I must taste more.”

He leans over the altar you lay on, kissing your lips gently before his tongue slides along the skin of your neck and down your body. It’s longer than a mortal tongue, and when they circle your nipples again, you shake at the pronged tip that flicks your bud.

He worships down your torso to dip in your navel, over the dip in your hips before his hands push your legs up onto his shoulders and he licks your sopping core from bottom to top.

You arch sharply, teeth digging into your bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop the moan from shooting from your throat.

You’ve watched the humans many times in the shadows, transfixed when their mouths worship these parts of their partner, but to experience it yourself? To feel the demons tongue part your folds and circle the bud at the top that makes you cry into your pillows at night. Heaven has hidden away beautiful pleasure.

“Look at how much you give me,” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh before you feel his tongue on you again, prodding your entrance that you’ve sunken your fingers into at night.

You bite down on your lip, shivering in pleasure as he prods further and further, your legs widening with each current of pleasure until he sinks his wide tongue inside of you. You taste copper from your bleeding lip that heals over quickly, your bare feet digging into the demon’s broad shoulders as he feasts on your essence.

With every gasp, your wings quiver in anticipation, curling into your body to protect yourself from a euphoria that is growing so quickly in your stomach.

“Please,” you whisper in disbelief, hands twisting his hair with your divine strength. He hums in satisfaction, satisfied with what you give and digging for more.

His tongue strokes inside of you with purpose, caressing something along the roof of your hot walls, his nose brushing your bundle of nerves once, twice, the pleasure enough to make your jaw drop, to make you pant feverishly into the air, to make your back arch until the base of your spine hurts as you come apart by the seams.

Your release makes you cry out into the air, the sound brushing along the monolith, the constant pulsing stopping to take in your pleasure before it resumes its steady pulse.

He rises slowly as you struggle to catch your breath, his golden eyes tracing over your shivering form from head to toe. His grey obsidian hands slide up your trembling thighs as he leans over you.

“Beautiful,” he purrs before he kisses your lips. You swallow your taste—tangy and rich like the divinity that courses through your veins. “But I must have all of you to make this complete.”

All of you?

You look down to find that his pants are gone, starlight shining bright on his hips that seem to point down to the member that hangs between his thighs. Your eyes widen—he’s definitely bigger than mortals, purplish veins that trail along the sides, a tip that is darker than his grey, the skin flickering with those shimmering stars you are growing to love.

He’s beautiful, and without thinking you reach out to touch. He’s impossibly hard but also incredibly soft, and you watch in fascination as his dark flame-colored wings expand and shake in supplication.

He leans his head back to the grey skies, swallowing deeply at your touch and there’s a sense of power you feel. To know that with a single touch you can make this powerful demon fracture just a little.

He wraps his hand around yours to stop you, pulling you up so that he can sit on the altar instead. Even though he’s tall, you’re able to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck.

Your wings stretch and flap behind you, sparse feathers wafting in their air to fall around you both in white, grey, and black. Even though you feel loose from your first release, there is a subtle power that thrums with every flap of your wings.

You look at the monolith again. The pulse has picked up steadily, seeming to match your own heartbeat. Maybe there is a connection to the power inside of it and what might be coursing through you now.

As you tail up the length of it until it disappears into the grey clouds, you think faintly of those who cast you out. The pleasure fractures a little with pain, your eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

“My angel,” he calls to you, softly, turning your gaze back to him. His golden and flame locks are messy, his horns pulsing with shimmering light, the navy and gold armor gone so that he is as naked as you are. “That pain that you feel will go away with time. I will make sure you will never know it again.”

The promise fills you with hope, and the press of his lips to yours makes the sordid thoughts fall to the wayside, your pleasure humming to life at the base of your spine.

The touch of his fingers to your core makes you whine into his mouth, pulling away with only a gossamer of saliva connecting you both. He strokes your bud, drinking your sighs and moans as your thighs and stomach tighten, your fingers digging into his soft shoulders.

He pulls you up onto your knees, your wet entrance brushing the thick tip of him before he guides you onto him slowly. It’s a stretch, far thicker than your fingers and foreign inside of you.

The initial pain makes you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. It feels as if you’re being split in two from your hips, torn apart with a strength that only makes you shiver and moan.

One hand slides along one wing to soothe you, his lips pressing to your neck. Eventually, the pain gradually melts into pleasure, his hands possessive on your hips as he guides you with careful restraint. You quake at the feel of him inside of you, stretching and molding your muscles in each euphoric stroke.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your shoulder. “Look how well you take me.” His voice resonates deep in your core, a sound that both terrifies and entices you, a forbidden melody that you are slowly learning the notes to.

You whimper in response, relishing in his praise as you begin to move faster on top of him, bouncing with a newfound sense of purpose. Your wings flap with more insistence, stretching and bending with the power that begins to seep out of your skin, white feathers less in abundance with each flap.

The demon’s nails dig into your waist and you sigh into the pain, picking up the pace until you’re not sure where he stops and you begin.

The power takes you higher and higher, your skin breaking into a sheen of sweat, your gasps dying in the air as you pant and moan above him. The pleasure at the base of your spine heats quickly, bubbling with sticky satisfaction as it slides down your vertebrae and into your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks, canting your hips toward him so the tip of his member brushes that spot on your upper walls once again.

You choke on a moan, head thrown back in bliss, nails dragging down the solid muscle of his chest. Your wings curl around you, dark feathers replacing white with each thrust.

“Transform for me completely. Embrace what you truly are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, your mouth falling open as you struggle for breath. Your core tightens around him, the bundle of nerves shaking even untouched, and you’re falling, you’re falling, you’re—

The demon shifts again, his member leaving your hot core and denying you of release, your hands now pressed to the altar as you’re bent over. You whine in annoyance, looking over your darkening wings at his large form as he heaves with breath.

He regards you with a dark look, one that shows just how capable he is of picking you apart, and your mouth fills with saliva at the thought.

He draws one leg up onto the altar before sliding into you once more without pretense. You groan around the stretch of him, marveling at the pinch of pain that bleeds into overwhelming pleasure as he picks up his pace inside of you.

What starts out as reverent and gentle soon turns feverish. His strokes are deeper, his hips snapping against your open legs, a haze of pleasure clouding every crevice of your mind as he kisses spots inside of you that makes you groan, hiss, and whine.

The monolith picks up in speed, pulse matching your heartbeat as you climb higher and higher up a ladder of darkness that has always been denied.

You don’t know why, you don’t know where it comes from, but the last slivers of your salvation slide to the surface, tickling your throat one last time before they leave your soul forever.

“Please, please, Father,” you moan, eyes filling with tears of satisfaction as your body jerks with every harsh thrust of the demon behind you. One of his hands weaves into your locks, curling tight before yanking you back to him, arching until our stomach presses into the altar. “Forgive me.”

“We will have none of that,” he warns, out of breath. “You seek forgiveness to someone who is not listening. You pray to someone who has cast you out. And here you are. Under me. Calling for him as you weep on my cock in pleasure.”

His sharp fingers slide down your hip to circle over your bud of nerves and you cry out, tears streaming down your face, power radiating up your limbs. “Keep moaning, little angel. Keep begging.” He leans over you, pressing his hot chest into your wings, his breath hot on your ear as the tips of his pronged tongue slide along your lobe. “In your eyes you are soiled. Filthy. And my sweet goddess loves it, doesn’t she?”

You shake your head to deny, deny, deny. But a hard thrust, a stroke of his thick cock that kisses your cervix, and you sob in the pain that molds into pleasure. Your nipples brush against the cold marble, each icy touch shockwaves down your spine.

“I’ve watched you, my dove. When you study the humans in their pleasure. I’ve seen the way your pupils dilate. I’ve smelt the essence between your thighs. You dream of this don’t you?”

You try to whisper your Father��s name one last time, to show with your last breath of divinity that you were an angel who worked hard.

“You won’t say his name here anymore. Not in my realm—in our realm. Not in my arms while you cum on my cock. The only name you will moan and beg and plead is mine.”

Your wings flap in reverence, responding to his demands as they stretch around you. No longer are your feathers white, now they are inky black, as dark as midnight, as mysterious as the darkness you peer into.

The monolith quickens, a hummingbird’s wings, the bright core sliding up and down the tree-like structure and bleeding with vibration through the ground and up the altar.

Even as your mind tries to deny what you are becoming, your soul speaks otherwise, your core clenches around him unwilling to let go. The demon behind you grunts with each thrust, low and seductive on the back of your neck, his nose smelling the skin.

“I can’t—” you choke, fingers sliding on the altar from your sweat. “Please.”

“Please what?” he groans.

“More, please more, more, more,” you beg, words and resolve splintering in your throat as he rewards you with deeper thrusts, each one making you see the stars that shimmer along his skin.

“Say my name,” he demands, one hand sliding up your throat. You gasp at the subtle pressure on each side, not enough to do anything, but enough to make a dark current of pleasure pulse inside of you. “Let the skies above hear who you belong to now.”

You don’t know where the name comes from. He’s never given it to you. You’ve never asked. But somewhere, deep down in some ancient place in your soul, you’ve always known all along. Known him.

“Nanami,” it falls from your lips like a broken prayer. “Nanami, please—”

His teeth graze your pulse, sharp fangs dragging along your skin as pleasure builds in your body beyond reason. Your wings spread impossibly wide, your skin hums in arousal, hot and stinging.

The monolith’s pulse quickens with you, its light growing brighter as the power in your body travels through your veins to complete a transformation you can feel in your fallen grace. Even with every harsh pump of his hips, you feel worshiped. Worshipped by his hands. Worshipped on this altar in front of a monolith that watches over you both.

“You were an offering—a gift to me. Molded by the heavens. And now you’re mine. And your Father sent you to me,” he growls against your throat. “My dark goddess.”

His thrusts grow harder, more desperate, each one a brand searing its mark into your very soul. A mix of your essence and his precum pools on the altar where you are joined. The last embers of your angelic resistance crumble completely, replaced by an insatiable hunger that mirrors his own.

“Let go. Surrender to me completely.”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

That hot lava at the base of your spine explodes like a volcano of unholy fire as his teeth sink into your neck, marking you as his. Your release bursts from you, your core squeezing his thick member, your muscles seizing as your mouth falls open and your cries echo through the realm as divine light fractures into starry darkness.

All of your abilities that have been repressed swirl within the darkness and mix with the forbidden powers awakening within you. It feels like the very essence of your being is changing, transforming into something wild, a reflection of the demon who guided you with a sultry voice down this path.

You feel a rivulet of your blood trail down the side of your neck from his puncture, blazing with the essence of darkness that now pumps through your veins. He releases his teeth from your neck and turns your head to him with more force than necessary, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he kisses you senseless.

You can’t breathe, your body is loose, your grip on the edge of the altar slipping with each relentless thrust but you love it. Every smack of heavy balls against your clit, every slide of sweaty muscles of his chest against your wings and back, every pulse of your cunt around his cock.

Nanami pulls away breathless, the hand around your throat tightening imperceptibly, the sharp tips of his fingernails breaking skin. His pronged tongue slides along your cheeks to collect your fallen tears.

Every noise that leaves your mouth is against everything you hold dear, a sound of sin, debauchery and lust.

“I’m yours,” you whisper against his lips, your breath punching out of you with each desperate thrust. Nanami’s eyebrows furrow and his nose crinkles with a snarl, his wings pulsing with flame as his release climbs up his body as well. “I’m yours, Nanami.”

“Take my essence, little angel,” he demands, biting your lip until you draw blood. You lick up the coppery tang, falling into the prickly grip on your neck as he takes what he needs from you. “One day, when you have ruled with me for centuries to come, when you are one in your skin, perhaps my essence will take root.”

Your eyes widen at the implication, your soul no longer quivering in blasphemy but in satisfaction. How you would love that. One day. With him.

“Yes, Nanami,” you whisper into him, accepting one more kiss as he strokes once, twice, and a final time before he shivers from head to toe and groans with deep pleasure into your mouth.

His darkness seeps into the remnants of your light, a forbidden dance of shadow and flame now made true. He pumps hot semen into you, far too much for comfort and your essence combines with his demonic energy, feeding the power that still ebbs in your veins.

He falls into you, his hold on your throat vanishing to slide down to your naked stomach, pressing to the spot where he is still lodged inside. You reach back, carding your hands through his burning hair, reveling in the shiver he gives you.

He pulls out of you slowly and your cunt clenches around nothing, legs shaking at the feel of his semen dripping from you. He does not entertain the mess but gathers you in his arms, carrying you past the defiled altar and monolith that has fallen into a gentle ebb once more. The obsidian floors open up again, the thin layer of water rising within a large tub of water that steams with inviting heat.

He sinks you both into the steaming water, your new darkened wings flapping at the moisture that touches your plumage. When he dips your head beneath the surface, it feels like baptism in reverse—washing away heaven’s hold rather than blessing you with it. When you emerge, you feel reborn, your shame and disappointment for your former family now washed away.

You sigh at the effect hot water on your muscles, melting into the large expanse of his chest. He does not speak and you do not ask questions, content to watch him manifest a tray of oils and soaps that smell of green tea and burning honey.

He plucks a marble comb from the tray and drags it gently through your curls, each stroke bending with the texture of your hair to guide without tangle, each pass worship and calming.

Once your hair is untangled and silky, he washes your skin with the soap and oils that smell of him. You study him openly now—the way constellations shift across his skin, how his golden eyes hold both demonic power and intelligent precision, the careful way he maintains order even in darkness.

He dresses you in black fabric that flows like liquid shadow, clinging to your curves like his possessive touch. Instead of the starry sky, the black material is adorned by golden accents that match his eyes and armor.

The altar recedes into the floor and in its place, two large thrones emerge. Carved from pure white marble shot through with veins of gold, they’re identical in height and grandeur—a statement of what he promised you—equal rule.

Dark vines curl around their bases, blooming with black roses, while plush velvet cushions in deep navy make them as comfortable as they are magnificent.

He throws you an inquisitive rise of his brow, what was once used to pick you apart upon first meeting him, now make your lips curl in a smile. You pretend to ponder which you will choose, humming noncommittally before you sink into one chair, sighing into the softness around your body and wings.

Nanami bends down, taking a hand in both of his before he kisses your palm. “You look magnificent,” he purrs, your hand still in his while he sits on his throne.

With a snap of his fingers, the garden walls disappear, revealing the vast landscape that was once shrouded in horror and fear when you first arrived.

Now it appears without malice, without misery or shame, but of exotic greenery and souls who have been neglected for only choosing a path that feels wrong even though it is right.

The heavens is but a distant memory now, infinitesimal in the many years you will continue to exist. Now, you bask in the new power in your bones, in the brush of Nanami’s lips to your palm once more.

As the stars on his skin ebb and fade with light, you take in the muscles of his torso, the strength in his movements as he worships you without speaking.

It has taken eons to get to this moment, but some part of you preens with the satisfaction that Nanami has always been watching, waiting for you to come to him.

Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

[https-capri]

dan heng smut

content: fem aligned reader, pwp, multiple orgasms, face sitting, LOTS of kissing, masturbation, aphrodisiacs, no established rls but very romantic still, cream pie, not rlly proofread, also kinda long... lmk if i missed any cws

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the three of you stumble into the hotel that hosted your trio in belebog. the three of you being dan heng, march and you.

exhausted, you languidly throw yourself down in one of the booths and rest your head on the table, letting out a groan.

march and dan heng are talking as they follow in your steps shortly after, only slightly more awake as they sit in front of you.

you feel march's hand gently touch your back as her cheery voice rings in your ears.

"everything okay?" she asks, opting to sit next to you as you sluggishly turn to her, moving only your head.

you nod, not having the energy to form a verbal response. you blink quickly a couple times, trying to seize the tiredness from your eyes as you sit up, offering march a weak smile.

"let's eat, i'm starved~" march says excitedly, eyes pacing over the menu a few feet away hung above the counter some feet away.

"yes, march. that's why we sat down at a booth and didn't go to our rooms." dan heng says calmly, pestering march already.

you cut in, not wanting to hear them bicker this late. "is this a bar?" you ask obviously as your eyes scan the alcoholic beverages splayed out on the menu hung above the counter.

"duh." march deadpans, sighing as she bites her lip, taking her time choosing her dinner.

your eyes lock on a sparkling drink that has a star by its name on the menu. you don't see a key on the board to explain what it represented, but it looked tasteful regardless.

the drink has a metallic essence and was an ombré of light to dark blue with a fruit on the rim, you evidently shrug and figure an alcoholic drink would be fine to wind down after a tiring mission anyways and don't plan on getting tipsy from one drink.

dan heng and march watch as you excuse yourself from the booth and sit at a stool at the counter, talking to the bartender too quietly for them to eavesdrop.

you order the drink and rest your head on your hand, turning slightly to see march leave to a salad bar and feast on plenty of the food present on the nicely decorated table.

you notice you've dozed off for a bit when your drink is presented in front of you, quickly giving the bartender a sincere thank you before admiring the drink and taking it back to your seat.

"you're not going to eat anything?" dan heng asks as he eyes your drink.

"not really hungry." you reply, swirling your tongue around the thin black straw in your drink.

"i still think you should, food is fuel and you never know when we're going to be on our feet again." he comments with a straight face, but his voice held concern.

"i like to think that we're going to be able to rest after a mission like that." you say optimistically, sighing at the idea of having to do more work than you've already done as you sip your drink slowly.

march comes back with a plate full of food for her and dan heng, looking at your drink with confusion as you scoot to make room for her on your side of the booth.

"i thought you were ordering something to eat?" march asks, stuffing her face with food.

"she said she wasn't hungry." dan heng says, budding into her question.

"she can speak, you know." she says with her mouth full, looking at you with a smile as crumbs lay evidently on her cheeks.

you finish your drink, quickly realizing it was mostly ice and surely was only pricey because of its aesthetics. you sigh and twirl the straw around the glass with boredom.

the three of your chat about your mission as you feel yourself slowly begin to participate actively in the conversation less and less.

you turn your gaze out of the window and look at the sky as the stars make themselves more apparent by flickering brightly.

you look down at your clothes and roll up your sleeves, feeling yourself grow warmer quite suddenly as you try brushing it off.

it becomes increasingly harder to push to the back of your mind as a fuzzy feeling makes itself noticeable in your stomach, excusing yourself to the bathroom in case you got sick.

you glance at yourself in the mirror and you notice the glistening of your skin, bringing your hand up to your forehead and undoubtedly soaking your fingertips with sweat.

you grimace as you look down at your hand, washing them off as you grab a paper towel and wipe off your face, going back to the group briefly before explaining to them that you didn't feel well.

"aww are you sure? you didn't even eat anything!" march says, grabbing onto your arms as she looks at your with a slightly worried look.

dan heng only nods in your direction, not failing to notice the glow of your skin from sweat and ill appearing state.

as soon as you get into your room you strip yourself of your clothes and shower. you assume both the stress and possibly the drink were factors as to why you suddenly felt off. you scrub yourself clean of any sweat and get out of the shower.

after slipping on your nightwear, you climb into bed and find that sleeping it off will most likely be best for you, especially because the astral express would be leaving soon anyways.

you fidget in your bed as the sweat beads up on your skin once more, throwing your hands down against your sides in defeat, you toss the blankets off of you and wonder why you're so hot and why you can't seem to stay still... and why there's a undeniable wetness in your panties.

your face feels hotter than before as you come to the realization, clenching your thighs together as you lay on your side.

three gentle knocks rung from your door as you frantically wipe the sweat from your face, reminding yourself that you need to change your panties after you answer the door, quickly grabbing a new pair as you hear a voice from outside.

"yn, it's dan heng. are you alright?" his sultry voice asks, the door muffling it as he gently knocks once more.

you scurry to the door as you throw your new panties onto the bed, cracking it slightly as you peek through, smiling nervously.

"yes? why?" you ask, failing to sound confident as you lean against the doorframe.

dan heng scans your face as he picks up on your repetitive sweating, he reaches his hand to your forehead as he checks your temperature, offering you a subtle look of concern.

"you feel hot. stay here, i'll grab some things." he says quickly before walking away, you watch him leave in his pajamas as you let out a sigh.

you gasp quietly as you rush to your bed, quickly putting your panties away and searching for anything to put on your lower half so you're decent when he comes into your hotel room.

your bent over in one of the drawers when he enters, not being able to see you clearly in the darkness as he inches closer to you, announcing his presence before setting a water bottle on your nightstand.

you whip your head around, quickly standing up and rushing into your bed as you hide your exposed half under the covers as dan heng lights a candle, coming over to you and giving you a pill.

"what's wrong? are you hot because you don't feel well? is it a headache? did this just happen?" he asks, bombarding you with questions as he sits on the bed next to you.

your breath gets caught in your throat as you drink in the sight of him. your lips part as you admire how the little light of the flame and the moon capture his essence perfectly. his t shirt hangs loosely on his body, exposing his collarbone to you and his pants that hung dangerously low on his waist.

"i'm fine, dan heng. i think it was just the drink." you say quietly, shifting away from him in the bed as you go to lay back down.

dan heng nods with a hum, glancing at you as you make yourself comfortable in the hotel bed once more.

"i'll be right back, again. don't fall asleep yet." he says sternly, excusing himself from your room and closing your door just enough for him to slip back in when he returns.

he steps downstairs back to the bar where he looks at the drink you ordered, making eye contact with the bar tender as he walks closer in his slippers.

his eyebrows raise slightly, not knowing the hotels bar was a 24 hour one.

"hi, may i ask what the star next to the alcoholic drinks represent?" he asks, looking at the drinks ingredients briefly summarized under it as the bartender turns their attention to him.

"oh, of course. it just means their an aphrodisiac, and has a higher concentration of alcohol." they reply honestly, sparing dan heng a glance as they continue washing the dirtied glasses in the sink.

"got it, thank you." he says before quickly bidding them a goodbye and making his way back to your room.

you're alone for a brief amount of time as you wait for dan heng to come back. as much as you wanted to sleep it off, knowing that the feeling your body was emitting was arousal made it much harder.

you creep your hand down to your tank top, slipping a hand inside and massaging your breasts as you let your eyes flutter shut, letting out a relaxed sigh.

dan heng comes back into your room again, this time with nothing as he sits beside you on the bed.

"yn? you're still awake right?" he says, whispering as he nears himself dangerously close to your face, studying your features in the dark to see if you were conscious.

"uh-huh! i'm up." you reply quickly, taken aback by how close he was as he sits up once he sees you're awake.

"good. the drink you had was laced, it was an aphrodisiac so... i'm glad that's all it was." he says, voice growing quieter as he picks his next words carefully.

you tilt your head innocently, unsure of what an aphrodisiac was as you listen to his words intently.

"i can.. stay with you if you'd like if you still feel odd, or i can leave you be to.. take care of yourself." he mutters, coughing into his hand and turning his back to you, unable to face you from embarrassment even if he couldn't see you.

"no.. no i need you to stay." you reply, unsure of what you were even talking about. all you knew was that you were turned on but wanted to sleep, and couldn't when you were alone.

dan heng turns his attention to you in surprise, his eyebrows raised attentively as he fully expected you to excuse him.

"a-are you sure?" he asks, looking at you attentively.

"yes, i wanted to just sleep it off, but once i figured out why i was feeling weird i couldn't..." you admit shyly, pulling him down closer to you so he's laying next to you in bed.

"don't you think you'd sleep better if you just took care of it?" he asked, feeling his own face grow hot as he asked the question, embarrassed about asking something so personal.

"i- i don't know, but now that you're here with me i'm not worried about 'taking care of it'" you say, using his term for a lack of better words, feeling like a child again as this new shyness overtook your ability to speak freely as you turn to dan heng.

"if you insist.. just- let me know at any time if you'd like me to leave." he says in a soft voice, whispering since you two were so close. feeling his warmth on you drove you mad. you slide yourself into his body as you feel him stiffen up.

"just relax, if you're natural about it i'm sure it'll go away." you say softly, already feeling hazy as you let his body heat help you fall asleep.

you don't look at the time when you know he's asleep, feeling him breath rhythmically as he pulls you closer to him, resting his chin on your head in a subconscious state.

now it was your turn to heat up in shock, this whole time you haven't been able to sleep because your body was horny and he's peacefully sleeping as if he'd done this plenty of times before!

you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut, begging your body desperately for this feeling to go away, knowing that if you were to cum to get over this feeling that it was too late now.

you shift slightly, seeing if he'd wake up from the movement, to which he doesn't; this was your green light.

you skip your hands down your panties slowly as your other hand reaches to your nipple, rubbing them gently as you try to stay quiet.

you rut your hips against your hand, humping it desperately as your fingertips firmly press against your clit. you bite back a moan.

daringly, you grab a pillow from your side of the bed and insert it between your legs. you wince, knowing that the only way it'd serve to pleasure you would be if you stripped your lower half completely.

so, there you were, half nude under the same covers as dan heng grinding softly against a pillow you were supposed to be sleeping on, soaking it with your juices as you aimlessly attempt to reach your high.

you reach a hand down to your wet cunt and gently rub your clit, feeling the pleasure add up as a whine escapes your lips.

quickly, your hand flys up to your mouth where you cover it quickly, stilling your movements in case dan heng woke up.

your guilt lingered in the back of your mind, but it wasn't enough to stop you from going back for more.

after enough time spent rubbing slow circles over your clit, you turn on your back and slide two fingers inside yourself.

you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling overstimulated by the pleasure as you pump and curl your fingers inside yourself, feeling your slick drench your thighs and the sheets beneath you.

just as you're about to reach your high, you fail to acknowledge the movement beside you that should've alerted you that dan heng was no longer asleep.

in a deep, groggy voice dan heng reaches out to you, confused. "yn? are you alright?" he asks languidly, brain not processing the scene before him as he yawns and squints his eyes.

"mhm~" you try to answer genuinely, only for it to come out as a muffled whimper, to which dan heng sits up and squints in your direction.

you quickly slow your movements down, biting on your lip hard and hoping be wouldn't realize the sin you were committing and would go back to sleep.

unfortunately, he sits up further, causing the blankets to move and reveal your hand deep inside yourself as dan heng undeniably got a full view of the sight.

"ah! i'm sorry- i didn't realize you were busy-" dan heng says quickly, turning away as he covers his face with his hands, mumbling apologies as he tries to cover you back up without looking.

"mm.. can you help?" you ask quietly, still rubbing yourself slowly as to not lose the feeling of your high approaching as he whips his head around to you.

"are you serious?" he asks, turned to you as his face remains hard to read in the dark, though the look of surprise is still evident by his voice.

"yes.. i'm close." you admit, panting softly as you sit up slightly, pleading him silently with your eyes as you reach your free hand out to his and place it on top.

"are you sure that's okay?" dan heng questions, relaxing his body as he finally is able to take in the state your in.

"yes. i am, now please, dan heng. i need you." you whine, pulling him closer to you as your fingers thrust in and out of yourself once more, circling your clit with your thumb as the distinct feeling of your orgasm builds in your stomach again.

dan heng feels his face grow hot at the way you whimper his name, feeling him grow nearer to you as he takes a deep breath, slowly leaning into your neck as he kisses it slowly.

"is this okay?" he asks lowly, whispering in your ear as his breath fans your neck.

you nod and give a weak sound of approval as you feel him put his arm on the other side of you, caging you in with his arms as he sucks love bites on your neck gently.

you roll your head to the opposite side, submitting to him and letting him have more space on your neck, falling in love with the way his teeth graze your most sensitive spots.

impatiently, you take his hand in yours and place it dangerously low on your abdomen, to which you hear his breath hitch, as he takes a moment to process where his hand now is.

you feel him smile against your neck as he moves his hand down, purposefully neglecting your womanhood and rubbing gentle circles on your inner thigh.

his kisses move down your neck and to your collarbone, where he takes his sweet time loving every part of you, leaving gentle kisses on each part of you his mouth hovers over until he gets to your chest.

"come here.. god you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this with you." dan heng murmurs, pulling you by the waist onto his lap, feeling the tent in his pants against your dripping cunt.

you whimper at the friction as you press your face into the crook of his neck. , feeing him wrap his arms around you gently as you get off on his aching dick.

you hear him quietly groan in your ear as he grips your thighs desperately, pulling back from you as he brings a hand up to your face to cup your cheek.

"i want to try something new, sweetheart." he speaks slowly, laying down beneath you as you straddle his lap.

his hard-on throbs in the restraints of his pants as he ushers you to lift your hips as he cups the back of your thighs, massaging them gently.

"sit on my face, angel." he whispers breathlessly, pulling you closer to his eager mouth that's curved into a small smile.

"what? no, i'll crush you-" you try to reason as your words get caught in your throat.

"and i'll love every second of it." he assures, pulling you forcefully over his lips.

hesitantly, you lower yourself onto his face as he grips your thighs, letting out a muffled groan. his tongue slides through your throbbing slit.

you throw your head back and bring a hand up to your face quickly to cover your mouth as you carefully grind down.

beneath you dan heng is moaning and working his tongue in circles around your puffy clit, using his hands and gripping your thighs as you grab at the headboard tightly, trying not to suffocate the man under you.

you gasp and bite your lip as you feel him slip two fingers in your cunt, continuing to lap at your pussy.

"if i can fit my hand under you you're not sitting all the way down." he mutters, pulling you down completely as you feel his nose collide with your clit.

you whine as the pleasure builds up quickly, letting him take control to avoid being too rough with him.

"i want you to ride my face, baby. come in my mouth." he says sincerely, looking up at you with his blue fucked out eyes. his pupils are dilated entirely as his eyebrows furrow together, focused solely on pleasuring you.

you feel your face heat up at the comment, letting out a small whimper as you feel his tongue slip inside you, prodding at your tight walls. he coos about how good you feel in his sultry voice, bringing you closer to your orgasm.

you whisper quietly to him, letting him know you were close as you intertwine your fingers with his and grasp a handful of his hair with your other hand.

"don't stop.. please~" you groan, panting as you feel his thumb rubbing slow circles on your hand as he continues flicking his tongue over your sensitive clit repeatedly.

"gonna cum for me, princess?" he asks teasingly as he observes you patiently with his puppy eyes.

"uh huh! yes.." you say breathlessly, grinding down on his face one last time as you feel your climax wash over you.

your body jolts as a loud moan escapes your lips. your juices that spill into dan hengs mouth cause him to let out a moan of his own. he closes his eyes and relishes in your divine flavor as his hand on your thigh tightens, also holding onto your hand firmly.

you quickly lift your hips from his face, looking down at him lovingly as you cup his face, wiping your essence from his lips as he gently smiles at you.

"did i meet your expectations?" he asks, panting as he licks his lips.

"surpassed them." you retort quickly, rolling over on the bed as you turn to him on your side, leaning in to kiss him as your hand trails all over his body.

he whines into the kiss as your hand creeps lower on his body, you slowly unbutton his pants as you snake your hand inside.

he quickly moves his hand to the back of your head to deepen the kiss, turning his head as he opens his legs, giving you access to pull his dripping cock out of his pants, glancing down at it as it hits his stomach.

you smile into the kiss as you pull away, leaning down as you take his dick in your hand, using your thumb and spreading his pre cum around his shaft.

he lets out a sigh and sits up, making quick work of his pants and kicking them off, leaning back as he turns to kiss you deeply with his girthy cock in your hand.

you move and sit behind him, wrapping your legs around him as you rest you head on his shoulder, languidly pumping his cock in your hand.

he bucks into your hand and whimpers at every move you make, poor boy is so sensitive!

you look down at his deep pink tip, and veins prodding out from his girth as his slit bubbles with pre cum.

"please... keep going." he whines as you patiently stroke his dick, admiring how pretty it looked in your hand.

you slip your hand under his shirt and run your fingers slightly over his chest, rubbing circles over his nipple as you pinch it lightly.

he lets out a groan and leans his head back into your shoulder, you take this to your advantage and latch your lips onto his neck, biting it slightly and sucking hickies of all different colors along his throat.

you feel him shudder in your touch, picking up speed as your hand grips his cockhead tighter, feeling it throb as he mumbled something about being close.

"doing so good, princess.. 'm so close."

you use both hands to pleasure him as one hand jerks his shaft up and down and the other is open rubbing circles on his tip with your palm.

he bites his lip and lets out a low groan before rutting his hips into your hand one final time. his tip spurts streaks of white cream onto your hand.

his chest heaves as he chases his breath, letting out a final sigh before laying down on your shared bed and putting his hand on his chest.

"do you feel better?" he asks, still slightly out of breath.

"much.. but i think i know something that would feel far better than your mouth.." you whisper in his ear seductively, turning to face him as his arms wrap around your waist gently.

"yeah? and what would that be?" he asks, playfully going along with your innocent flirting.

"this~" you say, teasingly dragging your finger up the shaft of his spent cock.

"oh, darling i think it's going to take a bit more than some dirty talk to get me going again." dan heng replies, shocking himself with the words he used as his suggestive response spills from his lips.

you shove your face into the crook of his neck, hungrily kissing it as you work your way down his abdomen.

you leave careful kisses down his body, nipping at his chest as your tongue swirls around his delicate nipples.

he groans, arching his back slightly as he bites his lip, caressing your head as you work your tongue along his body.

you reach a hand down and gently drag your fingers up the shaft of his cock, watching it bounce as it hardens slowly again.

he pulls you into him, desperately bringing his lips to your neck as he bites down softly.

you wrap one leg over him and straddle his hardening dick, grinding yourself on it.

"shit-" he utters airily, gasping as he feels your dripping essence coat his shaft.

you let out a small giggle, tucking your head into the crook of his neck and biting on his ear, whispering to him how good he feels, and how pretty he looks like this, all sprawled out before you.

sitting up, you slide your hand down his chest. you lift your hips up, reaching a hand down to his cockhead, aligning it to your slit as you look at him for assurance.

"please.." he begs breathlessly, watching you intently as a pink blush evidently covers his cheeks.

you lower yourself down on him, moaning in unison as you feel him throb inside you.

you lean back down, connecting your lips to his as you whimper into his lips. you bite and tug on his bottom lip, using it to quiet your sounds of pleasure as you slowly move up and down on his erection.

he's groaning and can't keep his hands off of you when he reaches his hands up to your breasts that beautifully bounce in his line of vision.

the moment is very intimate and passion fulfilled as he looks at you lovingly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he brings you in for a lust filled kiss.

you intertwine tongues, sliding up and down against the girth of his tip as you drag your hips forward, stimulating your clit against toned stomach.

you feel his finger glide over your nipple, ushering a moan from your lips as he quiets you with another kiss.

"are you close, angel?" he asks sweetly, speaking softly and keeping his lips close to yours.

"'m tired-" you sheepishly admit, pressing yourself against him lazily, letting out a whine.

"let me do the work then." is all he says before urging you off of his lap and onto your back, sliding his hand between your legs as he spreads them once more.

"so beautiful." he coos calmly, kissing in between your breasts as he slides himself inside you slowly, taking one of your nipples inside the cavern of his mouth.

"feels so good.." you sigh, wrapping your legs around him as he begins pumping himself in and out of you passionately.

his thrusts grow increasingly sporadic, hips occasionally stuttering as he tries to prioritize your orgasm before his own.

he knows he's found your sweet spot when your whining his name over and over again, wriggling under him and scratching marks into his back as he abuses that sensitive spot in your cunt repeatedly.

"dan heng- 'm gonna cum.." you babble, wrapping your hands around his neck as your thighs tighten around his waist as you feel your orgasm approaching.

his hips meet yours with one final thrust to the base of your cervix that has you squirting, feeling your legs shake as you cover your mouth with your hand and bite down on it hard; silencing yourself.

your juices soak his abdomen as he helps you come down from your high, taking your cheek in his hand as he holds himself up with one arm as he takes the other and wastes no time taking his cock in his hand and pumping it to his own climax.

"inside me baby, put it back in.." you whisper, panting and breathing heavy as your legs find themselves wrapped around his waist once more.

he looks at you with wide eyes, trying to make sure he heard you correctly, letting you pull him back in with your legs.

"are you sure?" he asks again hesitantly.

"positive. 'want you to feel good too.." you mutter, sliding his tip inside you slowly

he nods slowly, falling in love with the way your wet pussy sucks him in and wraps around him so perfectly.

he thrusts into your sopping pussy desperately until he cums. shooting his gooey seed deep in your cunt, only pulling out to watch it seep out of your slit.

"did so good, darling." you whisper, pulling him into another kiss, wrapping your arms around him.

he wishes he could spend the rest of forever with you, but breaks the kiss to grab a towel from the bathroom and clean the both of you up, collapsing next to you soon after.

"did you enjoy yourself, pretty?" you ask quietly, cupping his cheek, taking in how beautiful he was in such a lustful state.

"with you, absolutely." he mutters, already feeling his eyelids getting heavy as he pulls you in close, the position you two had just been in earlier.

with a yawn, you decided that it was best for you to sleep now as well.

[librarycards]

Hello! I am trying to read “the right to maim” by jasbir k puar and I am getting almost nothing out of it, bc of the depth + breadth of academic concepts :( I’m particularly frustrated by it bc it seems to talk about subjects I think about, talk about and do daily, like disability, transness, and (anti)colonialism. I’m most of the way through the intro and it’s gone almost entirely over my head except for a couple isolated paragraphs that are meaningful.

Do you have any advice for how I can get the most out of this book? My main limiter is time, bc I got it out from the library and it is highly requested so I can’t have it for very long

Hi anon! First of all, in terms of time, I recommend piracy. I recommend it in general. I'm not going to post links here in order to protect the places I use, but dm me if you want them.

If you're having difficulty with the concepts (which makes sense - right to maim is a challenging book!) I recommend going back to basics with some background reading. You can get some of Puar's rec'd background reading from the bibliography, and from the keywords she uses in the preface of the text. a few that I see (i'm looking at the PDF now) include debility, rhizome/rhizomatic, soverignty, biopolitics, homonationalism, impairment [in the disability studies sense], precarity, and neoliberalism. if i was teaching this preface, i'd have students break down each of these terms (and probably others, this is just from a skim) using outside readings. it's totally normal to feel overwhelmed when jumping into a scholarly text w/o any context, and most people who use and cite this book have past experience reading Puar's interlocutors and existing familiarity with this language.

you can get up-to-date while reading using resources in tandem with this text. For example, you can read Puar's discussion of debility at that link to get a sense of the context. You can read a decent summary of Foucault (the coiner of the term "biopower") and his thought at Brittanica. I recommend using Google Scholar for terms you're not familiar with, and taking quick notes so that you don't have to google them all over again each time. if you think you have enough context with a new word but aren't 100%, keep reading and use other clues. think about academic reading like learning a new language. the strategies are very similar! because it basically is.

I recommend using the annotation strategies i just mentioned in this post (and/or developing your own). i also recommend looking up Puar's talks on youtube - she's a well-known scholar who does a lot of events, and has spoken extensively about this book and its genealogy (especially in relation to praxis / Palestinian liberation). You can also read her talk with the hosts of Death Panel, my absolute favorite podcast.

Below, I'm going to give you an example of how I close-read, annotate, and analyze a paragraph from Right to Maim (and, by extension, other academic texts. This strategy may not work for you 100%, but hopefully it gives you some solid suggestions. Overall, remember that learning to read scholarly work takes time. A long ass time. Even when it's about things you've experienced yourself! Academia has its own conventions, verbiage, knowledge base, etc, and it's a learning curve for everyone. Don't expect yourself to read as fast or get as much as someone more familiar with the conventions of academic writing - anticipate reading all of these works many, many times, and getting more with each reading. Progress is more important than perfection, and improvement, even if slow, *will* happen, as long as you don't give up. <3

Below is a quote from the preface to Right to Maim, where Puar lays out her argument. I recommend everyone highlight/remember paragraphs like these (pretty much every ac text will have something like this in the beginning as a roadmap) to anchor their reading practice and help them get the most from a book (emphasis mine):

In The Right to Maim, I focus less on an impor­tant proj­ect of disability rights and disability studies, which is to refute disability as lack, as inherently undesirable, and as the sign, evidence, or fetish of injustice and victimhood. I am not sidestepping this issue. Rather, I centralize the quest for justice to situate what material conditions of possibility are necessary for such positive reenvisionings of disability to flourish, and what happens when those conditions are not available. My goal ­here is to examine how disability is produced, how certain bodies and populations come into biopoliti­cal being through having greater risk to become disabled than ­others. The difference between disability and debility that I schematize is not derived from expounding upon and contrasting phenomenological experiences of corporeality, but from evaluating the vio­lences of biopo­liti­cal risk and metrics of health, fertility, longevity, education, and geography.

In the bolded part, Puar outlines what she's not doing: she's not taking a mainstream (white, colonial) disability studies approach, which is, in her words, to refute disability as "lack." She's stating that her goal isn't simply to prove disabled people as equal to able-bodied people, or to claim that disability can be good and liberating (though it is/can be!). Her point is to look at the conditions in which people become disabled, and stay disabled. Often, these conditions are violent and unjust. Acknowledging this injustice kinda throws a wrench into western models of disability pride.

So, if she's not interested in just arguing that disability ≠ badness, what is she arguing? she's looking, in the latter half of the paragraph, to how people become disabled in multiple ways. One, using the verbiage in the book, she's interested in how people become debilitated - physically incapacitated in a way that may not line up with the social category of "disability"). She's also interested in how "disability" as a social identity is constructed - that is, why do disability rights groups look at Palestinians maimed by the IOF and see an injured civilian, but not a disabled comrade? words and context matter immensely. she's looking at why, and what are the implications.

that last sentence sums up the distinction she's making: "The difference between disability and debility that I schematize is not derived from expounding upon and contrasting phenomenological experiences of corporeality, but from evaluating the vio­lences of biopo­liti­cal risk and metrics of health, fertility, longevity, education, and geography."

the difference, she argues, between disability as western disability studies sees it and debility as experienced by people under colonial occupation isn't because we experience our bodyminds differently, or because Palestinians (for example) magically aren't as hurt by occupation as their white/western counterparts would be. rather, the reason she's using debility over disability is because the category of disability isn't objective: it's informed by biopolitical forces such as the ones she listed. her meta-argument is that what we call "disability" can't be divorced from its settler colonial context, not because colonized peoples are immune to disabling violence, but because the category of disability (and health, and violence) is itself affected by settler colonialism.

in "right to maim," Puar is offering a major shift in the way we collectively discuss disability, because the category is not applied equally across sociopolitical, geographical context. it means Palestinians and others living under occupation are either left out entirely, or unsuccessfully co-opted into western-/colonizer-centric disability discourse that doesn't acknowledge the different conditions under which they live. ultimately, "right to maim" means to make that difference, and its implications, visible.

Let me know if this makes sense! it's wordy and tedious, but lots of academic texts are. i hope that breakdown helps you make some more sense of Puar's main argument/the architecture of the text, and maybe serves as a model for future engagement. :)

[drefear]

Written in Blood

Summary: you're just a girl from the village, a place that worships an infamous vampire for his immortality, and one night a year, he hosts a big party in his castle. You finally got an invite, and unlike everyone else, you're less than excited.

TW: blood, drinking, unwanted advances, sex, p in v, loss of virginity, blood drinking.

Glasses of champagne clinked as you straightened your shoulders, nervous and gulping heavily. The music would have lulled you and made you relax in any other scenario, but you were in the vampire castle tonight and the idea of not knowing who could try to drink your blood was making you anxious. Ballgowns swished and swayed, but you stayed glued to the wall, a flower unmoving among a field of breezy flora. All the girls in the village were so excited to be invited, the one night a year that the Lord of the Vampires invited any humans into his mansion, and you were finally of age to be invited. Everyone in the village that was of age received an invitation personally signed with his name and theirs, and when you went to the market for your family a month ago, you saw all of the girls fawning over the extravagant letter with their names in calligraphy and signed in heavy, black ink. You only felt your stomach become filled with rocks, seeing your name in his handwriting and thinking that your blood would be next. 

You snapped back into the present when you watched the townspeople dance and laugh, eating their fill and making conversation like you all weren’t inside of the abode of the monster who murdered tens of your every year. The pins in your hair made your skull ache, but your mother was determined to make you look like a porcelain doll. She sent you in a large dress that was almost as puffy as a pastry, but you insisted on black. You wouldn’t wear one of those frilly pink or blue gowns that you saw in the windows of boutiques, you wanted something that matched the dreadful feeling in your chest. You wanted everyone to know how you felt. 

Vampires and humans mingled, but you stayed to yourself and refused to dance with everyone who asked so far. Glancing upwards towards the massive crystal chandelier in the center of the room, surrounded by smaller ones, you noticed a balcony where someone stood in all black as well, watching the party from above. Your arms folded over your chest and you thought how no one else here was dressed in all black as well, not a single person except you and this stranger. His eyes caught yours and your gasp fell in your throat, choking out as a cough. 

His bright red eyes stared into yours, you could see it all the way from the corner of the ballroom where you stood, and you instinctively took a step backwards. You blinked a few times and he was gone from where he stood, now making you look around frantically and gasp once more. 

Your name made you jump until you recognized a boy you grew up with in your school. His hand was outstretched to yours and his smile was bright as he wore an all blue suit with navy embellishments. You chewed the inside of your cheek and pinched at the meat of your hand as you calmly shook your head and curtsied, but he stepped closer. 

“I’ve seen you standing here all night, come have one try around the dancefloor with me and then you can retreat back into your shell.” He encouraged, but those red eyes were stuck to the back of your eyelids and you shook your head once more. He wasn’t leaving and you furrowed your brow in frustration. Truth be told, you just wanted to leave and now you were being haunted by both that terrifying gaze and this insolent boy you knew. “It’d be a shame if that dress went to waste, you should show it off. I know how much your mother worked on it, she was in the tailor buying fabric every week for the last month.” He joked and you politely smiled. “And we should get acquainted, since your father and mine have discussed an arrangement of marriage.” He answered and you fell silent, shock coursing through your veins. “You didn’t know? Well, we both have competing businesses and it seems that our parents think combining our businesses would be beneficial.” His answer made you feel hollow until the band stopped and a gasp fell over the crowd. 

Turning your head, you saw the man dressed in all black standing at the center of the french doors that led to the ballroom, at the top of a staircase. He looked like royalty, which is also how he was treated among your town and surrounding towns that worshiped him for his immortality. No matter how many he killed with his bloodthirst, everyone still prayed to be like him, but not you. You just wanted to live in peace and support yourself, alone and secluded, but now you were either about to be tethered to this dog of a human or die from being sucked dry by a vampire. 

“Ladies, gentlemen, all of those here.” He said in a booming voice, his words tinged with an accent of some sort that you didn't recognize. “Welcome to my home. Eat, drink, dance, have a good time, and don’t forget to indulge in your wildest, darkest fantasies. Being here is rare, and you should live like you may die tomorrow.” His words left you feeling eerie and squeamish, while everyone else cheered for his ideas. You just stared at the ground before you looked up and saw him staring at you once more. With widened eyes, you couldn’t look away. 

“I’d like to have my first dance in over a hundred years.” He spoke and began descending down the stairs as you back up, his eyes never leaving yours and as he moved inward on the crowd of people and vampires, everyone looked around to see who he was looking at. All eyes finally fell on you and you moved backward once more, bumping into a table of food and staying frozen there as he came closer. “It’s not every year that two people are dressed to match without ever meeting, don’t you think?” He said as he moved to stand in front of you, only a foot of space separating you both now. His hand reached out to ask for a dance and you felt like you may pass out from holding your breath, but he just smiled. “You can refuse if you’d like to not dance. But I’d love to make you feel a bit more welcome in my home, and a dance may be nice.” You looked between his face and his hand before realizing that he could take the soul out of your body with one bite, and you agreed. Stepping forward, you curtsied and he bowed before the musicians resumed playing their delicate music and you both moved around the center of an empty dance floor. You looked out to everyone as you danced in tandem, your bodies moving in sync to the orchestra. “You don’t have to be afraid.” He whispered into your ear, making your body tense for a moment and stepping on his foot, which then made him smile. “I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re so nervous about.” 

He interrupted the conversation as he took you into his arms and hauled you higher than him into the air, a nice trick to the viewers that made everyone watching clap and cheer. His smile was dazzling and you tried not to get too distracted by his entertaining ways. 

“And the other vampires here?” You whispered and he looked around at the other cold faces, empty and hollow in the cheeks as he smirked. “Well, I can’t control others, but I’m sure that after I killed a vampire a few decades ago for drinking from another without their consent, that they’d hesitate before doing it once more in my presence.” He concluded and you were thoughtful now, reviewing each of his words like you were studying the sentence. 

“You only feed on people who agree…?” 

“Yes, of course.” He answered and he spun you into a twirl, dipping you before his face was suddenly mere inches from yours. The song ended and he smiled as he pulled you upwards once more. As you both stared at each other, the crowd became wild with enthusiasm and hollered in your beautiful dance. You looked down from the overwhelming feeling of a million eyes on you and he looked around before speaking again. “Will you let me take you somewhere private where you can take a break?” 

Without a second thought, you agreed and he pulled your hand to drag you through the crowd. 

You both exited those french doors as many people filled the dance floor once more and you looked at them before rushing forward to get away from all of the excitement. He led you to another staircase and to the doors on the left of it at the top. Once you were both inside, you recognized the rich red fabrics and four-poster bed as his master bedroom. 

His bedroom!!!

Your mind began to panic. Alone, with a vampire in his bedroom. A million and one things could happen and none of them ended with your life in your hands anymore. 

“Your blood is running quite high, but I hope you know that I won’t touch you.” He spoke in a deep voice once more, and you turned to see him. 

His face was angular, jaw sharp and cheeks carved to be perfectly symmetrical as you followed his broad nose to his piercing red eyes, a trait no other vampire had. He was so big compared to any other person, standing a foot taller than you and back wide enough to shield you from the entirety of the outside world. If he wanted you, whether it be your blood or your virtue, there was nothing you could do to stop him. The realization made your throat tight and your body shiver in fear, but his words echoed once more and you tried to relax. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you a glass of champagne.” You nodded and sat on the soft, velvet chaise near his bed. He handed you the crystal glass and sat across from you, with a wine glass filled with a thick, red liquid you all but gagged at. He smirked at your reaction and took a sip. 

He was nice to look at, but he was also the most deadly creature in all the world and you refused to let that slip your memory no matter how many gentle caresses you felt in that dance or how nice of a smile he gleamed. He was a monster. 

“You don’t want to be here, do you?” 

“No.” You answered honestly, and stared at the champagne in your hands. 

“Why are you here then?” 

“Because I thought you may take offense to me refusing your invitation and come to kill me.” He roared in laughter at your idea and his shoulder shook with hilarity, but you frowned deeper. 

“That town has surely cooked up many stories of my ways, hmm?” He looked back towards you and sighed, swishing around the glass. “I haven’t killed anyone unwillingly in three hundred years, and I’ve only lived for three hundred and fifty.”He clarified, “Does that make you feel better?” 

You nodded, before sipping your champagne once more and leaning back against the chaise. 

“Why black?” He asked and you could see his eyes narrow. 

You were silent for a moment, wording how you might answer before speaking to him. “I don’t like colors, especially bright ones. I like things that are easy to look at, and bright colors make me want to squint. Black is… soothing, like a rainy day or the night sky.” You answered him with truth and sincerity, and he nodded. 

“You aren’t like those eager ones down there, in their ruffle pink dresses that look like fairytales, you live in the real world, with all of its disappointments and hardship.” He watched you as he spoke and you did the same, staring back with a curt, single nod. He sipped his glass again and you felt your dinner lurch in your stomach before you pushed it back. “It’s cow blood.” He announced and you stopped for a second. 

“It… is?”

“Yes. Human blood can be… dirty. I prefer to make sure the person is not unclean, morally and healthwise. Usually, when someone offers to be my meal, they come and stay with me for a month. I feed them lavishly all healthy, delicious foods, help them be properly rested and live a balanced life before even tasting their blood, and often it’s still not enough. Then, when I am done feeding, I simply have another vampire turn them immortal and they leave.” He shrugged and you were so lost. 

“Where did those horror stories about you come from?” You asked and he became still, thinning deeply as upset etched into his face. “You don’t need to tell me-” 

“When I was first turned into a vampire, I was the first of my kind. My strength and abilities matched nothing of this world… So, I became hungry… for vengeance and power. I tore through many cities, entire countries, like a man from Hell, but many times I cried about the lives I cost the world. I then found a way to turn others immortal, like myself, and the first time I watched them go through the same insane blood thirst I did, but I trained them to control it and only drink to live. Food is still delicious, sleep is less but still nice, and life would be the same for everyone, even if they needed slightly different necessities. No human would be harmed for their mere pleasure, or I would find them and kill them myself.” The way he seemed, so serious about it, made you shiver with the vision in your mind of him ripping a head off of a body. 

“Is that how you kill a vampire? Removing their head?” 

“Isn’t that how you’d kill anything?” He smirked and you blushed at your own blunder, thinking maybe you’d drank too much champagne and putting the glass down on the ornate little table in between you both. His smile made you stare for a moment before you looked around at the room. “Am I too brazen to say that I want your eyes back on mine?” He asked and you snapped your gaze back to his, startled by his forwardness. 

“I am just a bit surprised.” 

“I’ve learned in my… few hundred years, that being direct is the best way to achieve a goal and get what you desire.” He answered and you paused, processing his words before taking his advice and being direct as well. 

“And you desire my gaze?” You asked and he seemed to become more intense in his stare. 

“Mi amor, I’ve been craving your gaze since you stepped into my home.” He admitted and you held back your gasp as you bit your lip to hold back any embarrassing reaction you may have had. “I knew you’d be my weakness the second I saw you, a black dahlia in a sea of sunflowers and roses.” His metaphor made your heart race and you watched as he stood up and circled your chaise, like a shark around a boat. “You are breathtaking, and yet blind to every admirer's attention, so I had to make myself known… and try my best to make you mine, at least for a night.” His words set fire to your skin and made your mind hazy from the smoke, your mouth suddenly dry. He stood in front of you and kneeled down before reaching for your hand, which you gave to him and he leaned closer. He smelled of spices and rust, and you were entranced. 

“I never thought I’d see the Lord of all Vampires kneeling for me.” You whispered as his face moved closer and closer until his breath fanned across your cheeks and warmed your lips. 

“You are the only creature I’ve seen that deserved my worship.” His words felt like a secret that you guarded with your heart, something you wished you could scream from the top of his towers and brandish on your body for everyone to read. “May I?” He asked and you answered by closing the distance. His lips were plush and p[lump, like cold water against the warm sand, and they stole your breath with how experienced they seemed to be. As the seconds went by, you moved in a rhythm, ignorant to anything around either of you and he moved to bend over you and cup your face, now above you on the chaise and licking delicately at your lips, which made you quiver in new ways. 

As the heat between you two rose, so did the escalation of your embrace. His arms quickly wrapped around you and he moved to lay next to you as he pulled at the ties of the corset on your dress, the sleeve slipping as he frustratedly pulled the strings, before finally ripping the corset in half and leaving your topless. You pulled away, shocked, and covered your breasts before he drank you in for a moment. His brash action made you both nervous of his incredible strength, and excited that those same hands wanted to pleasure you. It was like you were a flimsy doll in his care, and he wanted to cherise you despite how fragile you were and how easily he could tear you limb from limb. He dragged a finger over the hands covering yourself before he gently pulled them away, which you willingly obliged, and he instantly pressed his forehead to your skin, breathing in your scent before wrapping his pink lips around your nipple and sucking experimentally. You jerked in response and gasped, shaking a little from the pleasure. 

His eyes watched you as you moaned and you felt something sharp nibble into your skin before you saw his fangs poking through a bit. This made everything even more enjoyable, the bits of danger he exuded. As you moved to sit in his lap, he kept licking andsucking at your chest until dark bruises littered your skin in a cacophony of maps. As you let him continue his claim over your bodice, his hand tugged at the uncomfortable material that made up your skirt and you pushed his chest away as he looked at you with confusion. You stood before the chair and carefully removed the skirt of your gown, his eyes never leaving your exposed skin. As he watched you shimmy it off, his red gaze stared at the blossom of your hips from your waist and his entire being seemed like a man starved. You made no movement for a moment until his eyes found yours once more and you felt the pull of his stare. 

His hands gripped your waist as you moved back to him and he lifted you on top of him like you weighed nothing, before pulling his own clothing off in a sequence of rushed motions. As cloth and expensive fabric littered the floor, you both sat with nothing on for a second before smashing your lips into each other. The depth of his kiss was sharp and dizzying as you tried to grip reality, but his body could swallow you whole and your shadow with it. 

He pulled you into his arms and stood to carrying you over to his bed and as you fell gently into the soft, rich feeling of his blankets, the glow of candles lit up the muscles lining his body, He was like a statute, sculpted and formed with definition between ever different curvature in his skin. From his neck, to his shoulders, to his chest and abdomen, it was all as if kissed by Aphriodite herself and blessed to be man’s greatest temptation. 

Or in this case, your greatest temptation. How damned your soul would be if you gave your virtue to a man sworn to go to Hell, who has feasted on the flesh and blood of mankind, and oh, how much you didn’t care. 

As your eyes trailed around his body, he chuckled and grasped your ankles, before tugging you closer. “Are you sure about this? You look as if you’re a kitten in a Lion’s Den.” He spoke playfully and you returned the favor by covering yourself slightly and shrugging a shoulder. 

“If I did, I think you may be disappointed, as you seem quite…” your eyes trailed down between his legs and he followed your gaze, then looking back at you as you smiled, “enthused.” 

“I’m more than enthused. I haven’t even felt you inside yet, and I’m ready to give my soul to ravish you for eternity.” He concluded before he mounted the bed and hovered over you. “But I will ask again… Are you sure? Vampires can tend to become thirsty while in the throes of passion.” 

“Are you saying that you might bite me?” You asked as you placed your hands on his shoulders, massaging the muscle there, which made you even more excited. 

“Yes.” 

“Will it kill me?” 

“No, of course not.” He shook his head, as if laughing at a joke, “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were to die because of me.” he spoke softly and you nodded. 

“Then do as you please with me, as long as you do not stop once you start.” You answered and he let out a tense breath of relief as he grabbed your hips harshly and pulled your bodies closer. As he pulled your chest to his, you felt him begin to enter you and the stretch of him inside you made you gasp. The feeling burned a bit and as he moved, you tried to catch your breath. He stilled a bit and scanned your face with concern as you bit your lip, but he stopped completely when he realized you were in pain. 

“Are you alright?” He asked gently and pecked your forehead as you nodded. 

“Is it supposed to hurt?” You asked and he smiled before kissing a line down your neck. 

“Haven’t you ever…” He trailed off before you both stared into each other’s eyes, a quiet understanding settling as he learned a bit more. “You haven’t.” 

“No, I haven't.” You whispered and he looked down at your hand before bringing your wrist to his lips and kissing your knuckles. 

“I’m honored to be the first.” He spoke softly and stared deeply into your eyes, “Tell me when to move, alright?” 

“I’m ok, you- you can move.” You nervously agreed and he began to move deeper inside of you, finding the spot that made you shake in pleasure and pressing into them more. You gasped, shocked by how great the feeling was and he smirked at the sudden surprise you wore on your face. 

“Careful. I may want to be the first and last.” His seductive tone made you shiver, the feeling of his muscles around you exhilarating, enclosing you to the bed. His face was so close to yours, and the way he slowly moved against you, on you, with you, made the world feel so small. His groans brought you closer, and the rhythm of his thrusts made you feel yourself about to tumble off of the brink of ecstasy. Your mind spun as everything in your body tensed, shaking and letting out a loud scream as you writhed under him. As you yelled, he quickly sank his fangs into your throat, and the sting of the punctures made you roll her eyes. You hissed through your teeth as he drank, the piercing pain in your veins making your toes curl happily while he drank you in, literally. 

You both groaned and shifted as he closed his eyes and thrusted into you harshly, pulling his fangs from your throat and pushing into you one last time before he clenched his teeth and finished deep inside of you. 

The heaviness of your panting makes Miguel smile as he barely looks as if he’s moved at all. 

“Did you like that?” He kisses your cheek, warm lips pressing into your slick skin and making your eyes close comfortably. 

“Yes… did you?” 

“Of course, I can’t imagine any man who wouldn’t enjoy being with you. I’d like to keep going… everyday.” His voice became gentle and calm as he then said your name. You nodded and held the back of his neck as you pulled him into a kiss. The world blurred a bit as you began to drift into a sound sleep. 

As you woke up, the sun blazed into the room, creating dark shadows against the brightness of the daylight. Miguel walked into the room and breezed past the widows with no fear of the sunlight at all, puzzling you. 

“I thought vampires couldn’t be in the sun.” 

“Vampires don’t like the sun, but that’s because our eyesight is much better than humans. We're perfectly fine in the sun, and we prefer to be in the dark because too much light causes headaches for everyone, vampire or human.” He answered and smiled once more, reminding you about your epic adventure last night with the Lord of the Vampires. 

“Come back to bed…” You begged and he complied, holding your hand as he climbed onto the rich fabrics and laid his head on your stomach. 

“I’d like you to live here with me, and be mine…” 

“Be yours?” 

“Yes. Mate with me, become my partner.” He explained and you were silent. “Not ready to commit?”

“Not sure if I’m enough. I’m just another person from the village.” You slumped your shoulders slightly as you thought more about how wrong he was. He was a historic creature, deadly and legendary, and you were just another townsperson. 

“Mi vida, you are the one I’ve been waiting for, for three hundred and fifty years.” His whispers made you relax your body and snuggle more into his body as he moved to meet your eyes, laying side by side now. “You don’t realize how special you really are, and one day, you will.” His red gaze made you sink into his embrace, his words hugging you like a tight blanket as the sun kissed his tan face and made your heart flutter. His hand brushed the hair from your cheeks and the tickle of his skin against you made everything feel calm and ok… 

After years of feeling out of place, you finally felt at peace in his arms and everything suddenly made sense.

[the--rebel--fae]

ME ME FIRST IM FIRST PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ALASTOR X FEM READER WHO LIKE A HOUSEWIFE IN THE HOTEL AND TAKES CARE OF NIFTTY AND CHARLE AS IF THEY WERE HER AND ALASTOR CHILDREN

A/N: You my friend, caught my attention first because of such an adorable response. So ask and ye shall receive! Here's hoping I do Alastor justice.

(This is an adorable request btw)

Pairing: Alastor x Fem! Reader

Tw: None! Just pure fluff!

Word count: 745

The Hazbin Bunch

Ever since you came to the Habin Hotel, it felt like everyone was a little family. You were an older demon, having died back in the forties. So you have been in hell for quite some time. 

When you first saw the TV commercial you wanted to see what it was all about. Especially since you heard that your old friend Alastor was involved. You haven’t seen him in years. Seven to be exact. And to know that he was back sent butterflies in your stomach. You never told him, but you always harbored feelings for the eccentric radio host. You never had the guts to tell him though since you feared messing up your friendship.

Little did you know, he had feelings for you as well. Alastor was already intrigued with you when you first met. Just the way you carried yourself and treated others. It was also a plus that you hated that infernal TV just as he did. Plus, you were a great conversationalist and probably the only one who could keep up with him when you had the time to dance.

Soon enough, Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Angel Dust, Nifty, and even Sir Pentious became family to you. Almost as if they were your children. 

“Nifty my dear, if you truly want to kill those little bugs I suggest you swing your knife in a diagonal direction instead of a perpendicular. That way, they have less of a chance to escape.” You told the little red-headed cyclops girl as she chased around a few stray roaches.

Nifty paused briefly and looked up at you from your seat at the bar. “Ooh! That’s a great idea! Less chance for them to escape hehe.” She giggled creepily and then started back on her roach hunt. 

You shook your head and smiled fondly at the girl. Then turning back to Husk you regarded him with a warm smile. “Well, since I’m here I mine as well indulge in a small drink. What do you have in mind for me today Husk? I do so love the different drinks you concoct. If you worked at a bar back in my days on Earth, you’d be regarded as an artist.”

Husk chuckled as he started up your drink. “Weren’t you alive durin’ prohibition times though?”

You just waved your hand nonchalantly. “Ah, semantics. Besides, you know what they say. Nothing fun ever comes from following the rules.”

“How right you are Cher! Why if people followed the rules, things would be so terribly boring.” Alastor said as he popped out from seemingly nowhere.

Husk handed you your drink and you smiled as you took a sip. “Oh, hello Al. How was the radio show today?”

Alastor’s eyes lit up and his smile shone brightly. Most people would find it off-putting but you personally loved it. “It went splendidly, my dear! Thank you for asking.”

You were about to say something more, but then Charlie came down the main stairs drawing your attention. “Charlie, my dear! How are you, sweetie? Do you feel any better since the latest meeting with that infernal angel? Ad-what’s his name? The first man, I guess?”

Charlie met your gaze and smiled. “I’m doing a little bit better (y/n), thanks. But you don’t have to worry so much. That meeting was a month ago!’

You just chuckle. “That may be so, but I can tell how stressed you’ve been hun.”

Angel Dust clicks his tongue as he takes a seat beside you. “You know toots, sometimes it seems like you're the mom of this place with how ya act.” He then glanced at Alastor who unbeknownst to you was gazing fondly at you. “An if you're the mother of this joint, that’d make ol smiles here the dad.”

“Haha! You know, that doesn’t sound too bad Ma Cherie. I’d consider myself lucky to be assumed to be your husband.” Alastor said as he put a hand on your shoulder.

Instead of commenting, you could only blush furiously. Feeling the heat crawl all the way up to your ears, you tried your best to compose yourself and hide your growing smile behind your glass. Almost hoping that Alastor didn’t catch how much his comment made your long-dead heart soar. But he was no fool, he could see that beautiful smile of yours even as you tried to hide it behind the crystalline glass. 

Perhaps you truly were like a little family after all. 

Hope you enjoyed the story my friend! I gotta say, this was an adorable request. I had a lot of fun with it!

And if you guys want even more stories--like maybe your own personalized several page long one shots or even a multi-chap fic take a look at my Etsy Shop! I do commissions! I even have listings for Hazbin Hotel!

[lotusarchon]

nezha is a child in the show isn't he? why are you shipping yourself with a minor and writing romance with him?that's so creepy,,,, how are you talking about dynamicsimp when you're doing worst 🤮

Found this cute Nezha fanart anyways

I knew I had to deal with one of y'all eventually but I didn't think it'd be this soon. Damn, at least let me hit 100 followers first 😞

Anyways uh. Nezha's first introduction in season 3 came out in like, what, 2022? I'm assuming it is, because I started LMK in March of 2023, before s4 was released and already found the show up till s3 by then. S5 just released this year, of which we've seen a weird increase of Nezha screentime of which I'm not complaining.

Point blank. The Nezha age controversies are getting old and boring. New fans and old fans need to chill out with those issue about the age business.

1) It's confirmed the Lego Monkie Kid version of the deity known as Nezha is an adult.

2) This is a god of an Eastern religion who is still very much worshipped to our modern day. If you did your research, you should be able to take note that Nezha isn't only seen as a child god, but even portrayed as someone older. I'm not a Daoist nor Chinese, so I advise you check this blog ( @/ruibaozha ) for more information on the subject matter.

3) As is the case with modern media and adaptations, different shows will portray religious figures according to what works for their plot. In the movie Nezha 2019 (forgot the title whoops), Nezha is portrayed as a child, as we are seeing a comedic but angsty interpretation of his origins. In the Legend Of Hei, we see him portrayed as a child, assuming for comedic purposes and to bond with the MC Hei.

3.2) If LMK wanted to portray Nezha as a child like his appearances in Journey To The West, and the Fengshen Yanyi (?), you must understand then his design and personality would've been portrayed more childish or at the very least a mixture of mature and childish. We can see this by comparing LMK Nezha and TLOH Nezha = both are stern but where one acts, looks and often shows childish traits, the other acts like an exhausted 25 year old who needs therapy. LMK HAS made children in the past, as we've seen with the Lady Bone Demon's Host and in season 1 a few kids here and there as background characters. If the show wanted Nezha to be a child, I'm certain they would've given him a similar model.

4) If in the instance that, let's say, the god known as Nezha was a child, and LMK Nezha is an adult, you SHOULD separate fiction from religion. Do keep in mind that Sun Wukong is still very much worshipped, however, I have seen fans, in and outside of LMK, who have written heavy NSFW and simped for him. A god is not the same as a fictional character, because by that logic we shouldn't be simping much less writing NSFW of Wukong either, given his story in JTTW where he becomes a Buddha.

5) I do not like proshipping much like any sane person. I also HATE aging up minors in fiction just for something like self shipping or to write nsfw. I have been in fandoms before this one: Jujutsu Kaisen, Tokyo Revengers, and My Hero Academia specifically, and it makes me uncomfortable seeing porn written of actual minors with excuse of them being aged up. I'm not so hypocritical I'd dare to want to do the same, not when I'm uncomfortable with anyone else doing it. If LMK Nezha was a minor, and there were sources to even prove as well within the series he's a child, then obviously, I would NOT be shipping myself with him, much less write romantic/nsfw content with him. I'm an adult, and I don't feel comfortable with minors in general, so why would I want to write romantic content about a FICTIONAL minor??

If you can find any source that proves me wrong, I'd like for you to do so. But until then, you, and everyone else who still wants to entertain Nezha's age; please stop.

I get it. Some of you like to headcanon him as a child so as such, seeing content with him as romantic or nsfw is uncomfortable. I understand, I do; I headcanon Mei as an aroace lesbian so sometimes it's uncomfortable finding any kind of content with her being paired with others. I do understand where you're coming from with your discomfort.

But I feel like, considering season 5 and hopefully if there's a season 6, the whole thing is just dust now. S3 must've been released in 2022, so it's been nearly two years since Nezha's appearance in the show. People headcanon he's a child, and people prefer to like the confirmation he's an adult. We get it, that's what fandoms are, different views etc.

But calling people proshippers or creepy or pedophiles for not adhering to YOUR headcanons is not only fucking stupid, it's just hilarious and way too old, AND just...boring. Especially considering I feel uncomfortable around minors and hate proshipping with a passion. There's genuinely nothing wrong with liking a headcanon, but if someone likes something that isn't problematic and doesn't adhere to your preference, I think you need to breathe a bit.

I was saving this off for last however, you hit the nail on the coffin with this. There is a literal document talking about the disgusting actions of DynamicSimp. If you still choose to like them that's fine, but forgive me for pointing out how hypocritical it is for you to bring up the person who purposely shared porn with minors to someone who avoids minors like they're the rat plague of the Middle Ages. 🤔

"you talk about DynamicSimp but you're doing worst"

Do you mean writing porn for a character who is confirmed to be an adult? Do you mean ensuring that my 18+ blog isn't found by minors and if it is I'll block them? Do you mean supporting someone who's harassed others about Nezha's age?? Do you mean being an absolute creep around children?? Do you mean breaking the boundaries where people have clearly expressed discomfort? Do you mean romanticizing abuse amongst other things for an au clearly being consumed by minors with no regards or wellbeings?

I wonder who's the worst. Me, the adult who only recently turned 18 and has limited his interaction with minors outside of family members, or the however old they are person who has a literal document and their victims speaking up about their actions, and who to my current knowledge has not spoken up about this and is still posting and carrying on without a care in the world?

Well zoinks Scoob, guess we're not making outta this one alive 😟

Edit: .....*disappointed sighs* I think some people really oughta chill out in my comments. Anon, I blame this on you 😭 why did you bring this here holy fucking shit dawg.

Alright. Alright uh.

Okay, so while I do appreciate being told the reasons as to WHY Nezha was "aged up", because a writer wanted to justify shipping Wukong and Nezha...I feel like the entire, "ah, but this says, and that says here-" about Nezha's age is just ridiculous at this point.

Yes, I understand, this is justifiably weird.

However.

Has anyone else refuted Nezha's age?? And I mean the canon show writers? Has anyone working on Lego Monkie Kid made a statement saying: "This person is disgusting, LMK Nezha is a child." Because, respectfully, unless canon sources provide information on it, I'm not going off based on the fandom opinions.

I'm not happy I have to edit this post to add this, much less try to explain anything, but, oh well.

1) "Ali, you're just trying to justify yourself and keep writing for a child." Listen. I've been groomed and dealt with fucking weirdos my entire life. Trust me when I say whenever I hear about proshipping it SICKENS me to the core. I HATE proshipping. I don't care what the excuse is, proshipping is disgusting.

I'm not mentioning the interesting fellows in my comments because it's pointless and honestly to make drama over this is stupid. But I was given some context to understand where they're coming from, and I do in fact appreciate it. Justifiably I don't blame them for their annoyance/disgust towards the writer Sarah (?).

What I will say though; typically in a situation like this, I'm certain someone in the team would've made a statement about this to explain that the writer is wrong. I'd assume at least one writer, someone OFFICIALLY on the team would've denied this proclamation of Nezha being an adult. I have not seen ANYTHING that says the show denies Nezha being an adult.

2) My friend, who was also in the comments (hi), is a native Chinese and a Buddhist for six years. I also have another friend who I'm not mentioning but ALSO is Chinese and WORSHIPS Nezha. They have more knowledge than someone like me does have on this matter, and I find it really odd how people immediately cite wiki and website sources to say, "Nezha is an eternal child!", and, "No where else says Nezha is an adult."

As I've said. If there are sources including the staff from Lego Monkie Kid that claims Nezha is a child, then I am more than willing to delete any content I've made with him. Full honesty, I have no intention of keeping any content with canon, confirmed minors on my blog.

But not only have I found anything that says the official story writers deny Nezha's an adult, but my friends, who are again, both Daoist and native Chinese, are aware that he ISN'T an eternal child.

If you are Daoist and/or worship Nezha, then by all means you can tell me that what I'm doing is wrong and correct me about Nezha's age. I'm willing to listen. If you also find information where the writers claim Saraha is wrong for her statement, provide it. I'm a person that likes reasoning, and I'm willing to see reason.

3) "Ali, you're not gonna see reason you're just trying to defend yourself again-"

Okay, backstory time: last year when I joined LMK, when I myself was a minor, I thought it was okay to write nsfw content for the character who was Lady Bone Demon's Host. My friends at the time did not tell me what I was doing was bad, so of course I kept it up, until someone pointed out that Bai He (fan name) is actually a minor in the show and was also confirmed by the show's producers. I felt so disgusted about it I deleted all my posts made on my old AO3 about her (which is faeriicrafts and still up surprisingly) and offered a sincere apology to the fandom about writing nsfw content for her. I changed and learned, and now I feel grossly uncomfortable seeing anyone writing nsfw for her despite the canon confirmations.

Justifiably, if more information about Nezha is released within Lego Monkie Kid, of which it's confirmed he's a child, I am more than eager to delete everything I've written about him, and even apologize again for writing nsfw with a minor.

To be honest, I just feel uncomfortable with the comments who are denying actual Daoists for the sake of; "I've done my research, no other sources has said Nezha is an adult, you're lying about worshipping him!!"

It's uncomfortable and really off-putting how you can tell someone that about their religion. Yes, this is for you specifically, that one commenter who jumped in and on my friend. Even if she has long since stopped worshipping Nezha, she very much did once. And I've gone to actual Daoists to ask more information about Nezha and the religion in general, who has in fact confirmed Nezha isn't just a child. I get that this is the internet, people can lie about anything. But it's still uncomfortable, solely because had anyone else claimed they're Daoist or ex Daoist and agreed with your opinion, you wouldn't have said that.

I'll reopen my comments within a few minutes, but don't be a disrespectful cunt. And can you maybe not deny someone about their religion? Even if you don't believe them, that's genuinely not an excuse. Because I know damn well, had she agreed with your statement, you wouldn't have pulled that.

Gods. I can't say I'm not surprised, but I'm just impressed about the lengths people will go for something.

Anyways, I've said my piece. If official show writers (because my Daoist friends have already told me what I needed to know) claim Nezha is a child, I'll delete my stuff with him. If not, then I'm not stopping posting Nezha content.

Toodles.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

the art of breaking (dark!joel miller x f!reader; dead dove do not eat)

the art of breaking part one | part two

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Your meeting is happenstance, but everything that follows? Well, that’s all Joel. He just knows you’re going to be his perfect little toy. He just has to show you how.

written for the #deaddovedecember2023 event hosted by @romana-after-dark | also on ao3 | dedicating this to @kewwrites, who is a master and icon of unsettling-but-still-romantic dark fic & whose incredible vibes made me feel brave enough to write this. love you ty 🖤

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

Seriously, I am saying this as clearly as I can: read the warnings carefully. If anything listed is something you don’t want to read, don’t. The working title for this was “the darkest joel” for a reason (and I actually tamed it down/cut out some of the intense scenes). It’s modern-day/no outbreak, but Joel still lost Sarah and went off the deep end. He was probably a good dom at some point, but now he’s just fucked up.

If you're worried it'll be too dark, it probably will be.

Warnings under the cut:

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, semi-permanent damage (a bone is broken, I’m not fucking around), whipping, spanking, face slapping, tit slapping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, anal, vaginal, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, edging, denial, dacryphilia, bastinado (mentioned), restraints, very brief knifeplay, tiny drop of blood play, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare 

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it. 

Please read responsibly. 

I. in media res

     -the fracture

There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.

Well, never denies himself.

Unless you’ve been real bad, you always take your place in bed with him at the end of the day. You think it’s so he has easy access to you if he wakes up horny, but honestly, that happens a lot less than expected. He works hard all day; he needs his sleep.

No, he likes the comfort of your warm body next to his. The way you curl up and press kisses to him, no matter how bad he hurt you during the day. His sweet little pet, desperate for every bit of his affection you can earn. He’s always gentle with you here.

It’s part of what makes The Pit so effective.

It fucks with your brain on so many levels, exposes you to so many fears, and then you have to reconcile that you were bad enough for Joel to deny himself the comfort of you in his arms at night. That you’re so undeserving of his love.

Of all of the ways he punishes you, this will be the worst. You can take the humiliation, the pain—not easily, but you can, and there’s usually immediate care after.

But a night in The Pit will tear you down completely.

You hadn’t known what to expect when he said you’d have to spend the night alone, but it wasn’t this.

“No, please,” you scream, stumbling to keep up as Joel pulls you by your hair.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

The soil is loose, clinging to your sweat as you try to right yourself. It’s a futile effort. When you reach The Pit, he holds you down with his boot on your chest while he unlocks and opens the bars.

“Get in,” he says.

You’re sobbing and shaking, skin already gone cold. Somehow, you manage to obey.

The Pit is exactly what it sounds like. It has an open wooden frame with mesh on the side walls to keep the dirt in place. The bottom is bare soil. Mounted to the top of the beams is a grate of bars that sit flush with the ground.

It’s big enough for you to curl up at the bottom—which is what you do now.

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

He shuts and locks the gate.

II. from the start

     -intact

It was kismet, really, that he was there that night. He didn’t usually go out for drinks with the guys, not wanting to be the boss who was always cramping their style. But Tommy had dragged him out tonight, and so he was witness (with the rest of the pub) to your relationship falling apart.

And okay, maybe he went outside for a smoke after you moved the fight to the alley so he could eavesdrop. But it wasn’t his fault. How could he not?

You had said, “Maybe you’re just not man enough for me,” to the brawny but pathetic prick across from you in the booth. “Wanting you to be rough doesn’t make me a freak.”

“That’s not rough; that’s fuckin’ abuse. You’re sick,” your boyfriend had practically shouted.

The discussion evolved into a screaming match in the alley, where Joel had been pleased to be right. It was about more than just a little rough sex or spanking.

At the end of it, your boyfriend stormed off, and you went back in the pub. Joel found you at the bar, throwing back another shot and wiping your tears away.

“You did good back there,” he says.

You startle and look at the stranger. The very handsome stranger. Rugged, with a salt and pepper beard and a scar across his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“Standin’ up for yourself. Not a lot of people woulda been confident enough. ‘Specially not a girl lookin’ for that.”

You glare at the bar counter. “M’not a weirdo.”

“Nah, you’re not. Shit like that is perfectly normal. He’s just pathetic.”

You look back up at him, and he sticks one hand in his pocket, trying to adjust himself discreetly. The tear streaks on your cheeks are getting to him.

“I don’t know. He’s probably right. It’s not your garden variety shit,” you say. The tequila and his gentle eyes have loosened your tongue.

“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.

“What?”

“Try me. Tell me what he freaked out over, and I’ll tell ya if it’s weird. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

You hesitate, but he looks genuine and kind. “I asked him to hit me. Like, in the face. And to, y’know, pin me down and—” you trail off.

“And make ya take it?” he guesses.

You nod. “He thought I like, I dunno, actually wanted to be raped,” you whisper the last word, eyes darting to the people around you.

Joel laughs. “Honey, that’s so normal, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve helped ladies out with that little roleplay more times than I can count. If that’s your deepest, darkest fantasy, and he couldn’t take it, then you’re better off without him.”

“It’s not,” you mumble.

“Speak up, honey.”

“It’s not my deepest, darkest fantasy. It’s probably one of the least of them.”

He grins. “Then you’re definitely better off. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ things on the darker side, sweetheart.”

You’re feeling hot all over and are about to ask him more when your phone rings. It’s your idiot boyfriend, who’s realized you have the car keys.

“I better go. Thank you,” you say, standing and offering him your hand.

He gives it a firm shake, tipping his head. “I’m Joel. And if you’re ever so inclined, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

You laugh. “Let me break up with my boyfriend first, Joel.” But you dig a pen out of your purse and write your number on one of the tiny bar napkins.

Your first date was so normal. You’re not sure what you expected. To jump right to hardcore sex?

But no, he turns up at your door in a neatly pressed green button-up, black slacks, and an ostentatious belt buckle. He greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of wildflowers, lavender stalks nestled between pink honeysuckle and red salvia. Not a traditional arrangement, but it reminds you of a summer sunset.

“From my garden,” he says a little sheepishly, but you like them a lot better than some generic store display. You tell him as much and his cheeks flush a little.

You return the kiss and pop the flowers in a vase of water before he sweeps you off in his pickup. You aren’t surprised, really, but it’s more charming than some of the other men and their gaudy trucks.

Joel’s is older but well-kept, with minimal rusting around the wheel wells. The bed is open, and you can see streaks of grease and paint spills. A silver tool chest is mounted against the back of the cab. Everything inside and out has a light coating of sawdust.

He isn’t some insecure man with a truck big enough to make up for what isn’t in his britches, that’s for certain. You’d hazard a guess that the corded muscle of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders are well-earned.

He holds the door open for you, which you tease him for as you slide onto the truck’s bench seat.

“Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause you’re incapable,” he drawls. “Or because you’re a lady,” he adds when he sees the glint in your eye.

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

His grin is lopsided, a little dark. “Nah. I just think you deserve to be taken care of, s’all.”

You flush, the back of your neck burning, but you don’t fight the smile that threatens to break out. “Thank you, Joel.”

He shakes his head. He’s pretty sure, now, that if he plays his cards right, he’s found somethin’ special.

He waits three whole dates to take you to bed, and even then, it doesn’t start dirty.

“Let me get to know your body first, baby,” he urges when you ask him to fuck you rough. Instead, he takes you apart piece by piece. First with his tongue, and then his fingers. He brings you to the edge over and over, but never lets you fall.

After a while, you’re a broken record, pleas and sobs spilling from you.

“That’s music to my ears, darlin’,” he says, pulling his fingers out abruptly to see how your cunt throbs for him. He spits on your clit and watches it drip down to join the mess between your thighs.

“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.

“Please who now?”

“Please, sir,” you try, and are rewarded with his sharp grin. But not with an orgasm.

He slaps your cunt. “That’s more like it, baby. You remember who you’re talkin’ to, alright?”

You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

He shakes his head, sucking on your clit for a moment before pulling back to get a good look at you. “You do like a little pain, huh?”

“Would like more,” you say.

“Oh yeah? What would you let me do to you?”

“Anything, please, sir.”

He clicks his tongue at you. “Don’t go sayin’ that to someone you barely know. It’s okay to mean it when you trust somebody, but you’re gonna end up in more trouble than you bargain for if you pass that out like candy.”

“I do mean it.”

“Yeah? You’ll let me do this?” His open palm smacks across your face, leaving a sting tingling on your cheek and a lightness to your brain.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.

“What about this?” he grabs a nipple in his calloused fingers and yanks, twisting.

You yelp, but it trails off to a moan, and you nod.

“Goddamn, baby. S’good. But what about this?” He flicks open the switchblade he keeps in his pocket.

You jerk and whine, eyes wide and wet as he brings it to your breast. Your breathing falls shallow as you try to hold still, the point scraping the delicate skin as he circles it. But the look you’re giving him almost has him cumming in his pants like he were twenty years younger.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding. I mean, you’ve gotta have limits; everyone does. But you just want me to hurt you, huh?” He digs the tip of the blade in a little on the side of your breast, cock throbbing as you gasp, and you both watch a tiny drop of blood bead and trickle down the blade.

He puts it away. “No,” he says when you whimper. “Not today. I ain’t prepared for all that.”

Joel doesn’t like to break his toys. Not permanently. Just enough that he can put them back together how he likes and then do it all over again.

“Don’t need to be prepared; just do it,” you whine.

He slaps you again and wrenches your head up with a hand in your hair. “First of all, I fuckin’ told you no. Second, I know you want to be a stupid little cunt for me, but I’m not about to cut you open without any goddamn first aid shit.”

He leans back and smacks the breast he had cut. He hits you over and over, alternating sides, until your chest burns, and you’re sobbing.

He looks you over briefly and then shoves his hand between your thighs. “You’re wetter than a slip ‘n slide, baby.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, and wipes the tears from your cheek with his thumb. He feels your cunt twitch when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean.

It’s the last straw for him. He’s not opened you enough, but he has a feeling you’ll like it better this way anyway.

You cry out, back arching when he shoves into you. He meant to go slow, he really did, if only to drag out the anticipation. But you’re so warm. So wet. So he just stuffs himself inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe you love the pain; it’s just that he can’t resist feeling the evidence for himself. He slaps you across the face while you’re still processing his cock, and the resulting clench and jerk of your body drag a moan from him.

He holds back, regulates his urge to pull each whimper and scream from you, but it’s still so fucking good. It’s been a long time since he’s doled out real cruelty to a slut like you who loves to suffer.

When he finally lets you cum, it’s when he’s about to. He pulls out and spanks your cunt, granting his permission. As your pussy flutters desperately around nothing, he cums on it, watching the way it gets prettier as he paints it.

You black out for a minute. When you come to, he’s wiping you down gently with a warm washcloth, wicking the sweat off your face and chest before cleaning his cum from your curls. You whimper, and he grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.

Even after that first night, he goes slow. He can’t scare ya, not while you still have someplace to run. Plus, it’s so much easier if he starts planting the seeds for your training now.

He knows you’ll beg for it, anyway. He’s been getting the nastiest text messages from you. Part of it is the dopamine; he’s not stupid. But part of you really wants this shit. And the rest? Well. You’ll get there.

It’s the little things. He orders you a black decaf at the drive-thru when you ask for a latte. You start to correct him, like you think he’s made a mistake, but he gives you a look, and you shut your mouth immediately.

When he pulls away from the speaker, you look over at him again. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry…?”

You squirm a little, heart pounding, unsure if he’s really doing this at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Sorry, sir.”

He smiles and rubs his hand on your thigh where it peeks out from your skirt. “Thanks, baby.”

And that’s all it takes. You take the cup when he hands it to you and you’re quick to say, “Thank you, sir,” even though the kid at the window is still passing things through to Joel and can clearly hear you.

     -fissured

It goes on like that for a couple of months, but it doesn’t all go so smoothly. One night, he picks you up from work and takes you to a restaurant, saying he wants to treat you. Halfway through the meal, he asks for your panties.

“What?” you say, shocked at his vulgar language in the dining room.

“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”

You go to stand, probably thinking you can go to the bathroom to obey.

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Right here, right now, baby.”

“Joel,” you hiss, sitting back down, “I can’t do that.”

He fixes you with a calm smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, raising one finger in the air. “I’ll give ya three choices. The first one, the one I’m going to advise you pick, is that you do it right now, and I’ll only punish ya for talkin’ back.”

“The second one,” he holds up another finger for emphasis, “is you can go to the bathroom to take ‘em off, but you’re gonna pay for it when we get home. The third one is where you don’t listen, we leave right now, and you learn to fuckin’ regret it.”

Your breathing is shallow, and your pretty eyes are shining. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.

“I-I can’t,” you whimper. “Please, sir.”

“You got about thirty seconds to make up your mind.” The softness is gone—from his voice, from his face, from the set of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and you stand up. You’re only in the bathroom for a minute, and when you sit back down, you try to hand them to him under the table.

“Nah, that was only a choice if you were good,” he says, smirking and laying his expectant hand on the white linens.

Mortified, you ball them up tight in your fist and press them into his hand. He slides them into his pants pocket.

He doesn’t say anything else about it for the rest of dinner, asking instead about your projects at work and your visit with your parents over the holidays. You feel sick, barely eating a thing, and biting your lip to stave off the tears.

As soon as you’re in the truck, you start to cry. “I’m sorry, I was just scared and—”

“Shut up. You made your choice. You’re not sorry. You’re just afraid of the consequences.”

“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”

“You’re gonna have to prove it.” He doesn’t look at you on the drive home, doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t even turn the radio on; just listens to you sniffle.

When he parks, he sets his hand on your thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I know you can be my good girl. All you gotta do is take your punishment and learn from it, okay?”

You sniffle again and nod, blinking through tear-laden lashes at him.

“So pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs. He gets out and comes around to open your door, offering a hand to help you step down from the tall truck. You take it, and he holds on, leading you inside his house.

He sits sprawled on the couch, thighs parted wide to make room and waits until you’re comfortably kneeling between his legs. You’re sat in silence, head bowed, arms folded behind your back.

“Tell me what you did wrong today.”

This is a first, but not a last. Even on days when nothing egregious has happened, you will follow this ritual. He’ll ask for your sins, and you’ll confess. There will always be something you’ll owe him for.

“I argued when you gave me orders. I was disobedient.”

“Anything else I need to know about, baby?”

“No, sir.”

“Why’d you argue?”

“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

“Save your grovelin’ for after, baby. Why were you afraid?”

“I didn’t want people to see. I didn’t want to get kicked out or arrested.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you? You think I would have given you an order that put either of us at any kinda risk?”

Your face burns. “I—”

“I thought you trusted me.” He sounds hurt, and you’re a little nauseous when you look up to see his eyes wide and sad, lips turned into a wounded scowl.

Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t think. I panicked.”

“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”

You look up at him, brow scrunched and lips pouting as you try to parse his words.

He smiles. It’s cold, and his eyes are steel.

You swallow hard, and his grin widens, quirking into a smirk.

“Alright, baby. I got just the thing.”

He leads you into the ensuite. You kneel on the little rug by the tub while he fills it. You’re too afraid to ask what’s happening, so you just sit quietly. He leaves the room and doesn’t come back until the tub is nearly full, and you’re starting to worry that you were supposed to be monitoring it.

He comes back in, and once it’s nearing the lip of the tub, he turns off the faucet. He has you kneel on the top of the three steps leading up to the edge. It’s the most luxurious thing in this house, and you suspect he installed it custom so he could soak his aching muscles.

He bends you over the edge so you’re leaning close to the water and crouches down behind you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he spreads you wide and licks from your clit to your asshole.

He stays there for a few minutes, indulging in your wet cunt and the cries it draws from your lips. After he’s had his fill, he stands up and lubes up his cock before pushing his way into your ass. He’s generous with the lube but rarely preps you, since you both like it better when it hurts.

You’re writhing a little beneath him, wriggling your hips to try to ease the passage. Once he’s fully seated inside you, he grabs the back of your head and shoves it under the water before fucking hard into you.

You thrash, displacing water from the tub, until he yanks you back up.

You gasp for air and scrabble to get a grip on the wet tile, but he pushes you back down and groans at how tight you get while you’re struggling.

He pulls you roughly back up. “Gonna keep going until you stop makin’ a fuss.”

You go to protest, to panic, and he pushes you back down.

The next time he pulls you out, he spanks you until your skin is burning. “Fuckin’ trust me. You think I’m gonna let you drown?”

“No, sir,” you cry, but it’s garbled as he pushes you back down. You’re still fighting him each time.

He pulls you back out and repeats the beating. “Relax, or we’re gonna be here all night.”

He continues the process a few more times and then gives you a reprieve, letting go of your hair so you can rest your cheek against the cold edge of the tub while he pounds into you. He reaches and rubs featherlight circles around your clit until you’re softly moaning.

“You gonna trust me?”

“I’m trying, my body panics,” you pant.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya. You hear me? You know you’re panicking, so focus on me instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but you think he’s long warped your brain anyway. The next time he pushes you underwater, you clench your fists tight and focus on what oxygen you do have, even if he knocks a little out with each thrust.

His hand in your hair is your anchor and buoy. You tense when you feel your body start to jerk, trying so hard to control it.

He pulls you up. “Just like that, baby. Again.”

It gets just a little easier each time. He leaves you under longer, until your lungs are burning, and you’re on the edge of gasping in water, but he pulls you out in time.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” He’s a little fascinated. He hadn’t really been sure it could be done or if your survival instincts would go into a frenzy. But here you are, letting him almost fucking drown you.

Not that he would.

Despite being balls deep in your tight little asshole, he isn’t trying to reach his orgasm. Not yet, staving off his pleasure so he can keep a clear head.

He keeps it up just a little longer. You’re getting tired and tolerating less and less time underwater. The last time he pulls you up, he pinches your clit and tells you to cum while he fills you.

He dunks you again while you cum, and you clamp down on him tighter than you have before, convulsing on his cock. When he pulls you back up, you’re gasping and sobbing. He pulls out and wraps you in a towel, easing you to the wet floor while he cleans up.

When he comes back to you, he helps you stand and dry off, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“So?”

Your brow furrows. It’s not what he usually asks after a punishment, but you think you know what he means. “I’m sorry. I trust you, I promise.”

“I know. M’so proud of you for taking that. You’re turning out so nicely, sweet thing.”

In the morning, you’re almost late to work after sucking him off when you should have been getting dressed. He’s about to walk out the door to head to the site when he hears your frustrated voice from the bedroom.

“Joel, where are my underwear? I need to fuckin’ leave.”

“I told you, baby. There was a price to pay when you picked the bathroom. Y’ain’t wearing ‘em anymore.”

“What?”

He doesn’t need to see you to smirk at the shocked expression he knows is on your face. “We’ll talk about it more tonight; I gotta run.”

     -avulsed

“Y’know, baby,” Joel says, leaning forward to rub your shoulder. “They just don’t fuckin’ appreciate you.”

You’re bent over, elbows on your knees, crying with your face buried in your hands. You sit up and sniffle, wiping the tears. “It’s fine; it’s not like I need to be coddled at work.”

All the stress of the PR world is getting to you, and you hate it, you fucking hate it, but you dropped 50k on a degree, so now you’re stuck.

“But they make you work all this overtime, cut your team in half, and then berate you when you can’t meet the client’s deadline? You do not deserve that, baby.”

You let him coax you into his lap, facing him so you can bury your face in his soft, worn tee. He rubs your back and holds your head to his chest.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.

“Nah, darlin’, I’ve told ya a thousand times. You deserve to be taken care of.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I, well. I was thinkin’...”

You wait, but when he doesn’t pick back up, you sit up and look at him.

“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.

“Please tell me?”

“Alright, fine. Now, I don’t want ya to feel any pressure. It’s just a thought. But maybe you should just quit and stay with me a while, ‘till you can find something better?”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. He must see something on your face, because he tips your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I know it’s sudden, but I mean it. Let me take care of ya while you figure shit out. We don’t gotta treat it like living together if y’ain’t ready. But I’d be open to that conversation, too.”

It doesn’t take much more than that. The first couple weeks, he lets you give it a try—searching for new degree programs, applying for jobs you know you’re overqualified for just to try something different.

After nothing pans out, he suggests you both take a week off. Him from work and you from the burden of trying to escape unemployment. Just relax, like a little staycation.

It’s bliss. You go on dates, eat pizza and marathon the “Jurassic Park” movies, and fuck like crazy.

On the third night, he sits you down. On his cock, of course. While you’re bouncing and brainless, he cups your cheek. “Baby, you’ve been too damn stressed still. What if we… well, what if we tried out a day or two like we’ve been talking about?”

Sometimes, you whisper to him in the darkness, usually while he’s balls deep, how you wish you could be his all the time. His good girl. His pet. And he whispers back, lures you right in with promises of taking care of everything, of you not having a worry or care in the world. Just him.

Now, he fondles your tits while he murmurs to you. “We can just wake up together, and I can take care of ya. Everything you need, baby. All you’d have to do is be good for me, yeah?”

You moan and grind down harder on his cock. “Please, sir. I want it more than anything. Just to be yours.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Joel had no patience for brats, so he usually broke his toys in sooner into the training process. He liked ‘em nice and obedient—scared, if that’s what it took, but devoted. But you had been from the start—you wanted to be good in all the ways you could never seem to be to other people. Your family, your job, the world seemed to just demand more and more.

Joel was the first person to make you feel like you had actually, really, truly pleased him. There wasn’t a higher mark you should have made. There wasn’t any expectation for you to give more and more.

His orders were complete, always. You learned that very quickly. Attempts to go above and beyond were rebuked.

“If I wanted that, I woulda said so,” he told you. And like everything else, you committed his words to memory.

It helped that he gave praise freely. You didn’t have to wonder if he was satisfied, if you should have licked him differently, if you should have made prettier faces while you came. He reassured you until you believed him, and then kept going anyway.

It made it easier for him to slowly peel you away from the ungrateful world.

“You don’t have to take that,” he’d say after watching your face fall further and further while on the phone with your mom. “Family ain’t supposed to make you feel like shit.”

They made it too easy, really, and your relationship with them would have likely just fizzled out. But in the end, he had to step in and snap it off.

You asked him to come with you to dinner at their house. He was hesitant. He wasn’t really the boyfriend type. He wasn’t really even your boyfriend. That was too weird a word for either of you, not when he owned you.

But he knows you didn’t want to go alone, and he has a feeling he’ll be cleaning up the mess anyway.

You want to give them a chance. Things have been so tense, and they said they missed you. But they didn’t even make it through the entrée without ridiculing you.

When your father asks how work is going, you quietly confess to quitting, hastily reassuring them that you are looking for a new position. Though, and you keep this part to yourself, you maybe haven’t been trying that hard.

“What do you mean you quit? How are you paying your bills? You better not have come here to ask for money,” your father says, setting down his fork to glare at you.

“Well, I’ve been living with Joel,” you mumble to the tablecloth.

“I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger,” your mother chides.

Joel tries to bite his tongue and let them dig their own graves. But your father calls you a “fucking whore,” and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you’re cowering in your chair, fighting back tears.

“You watch your mouth,” Joel snaps at your father.

You look up, mouth agape, eyes darting from Joel to your parents.

“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.

Joel stands up and throws his napkin on the table. “She is my fuckin’ business. I wouldn’t stand by and let anyone talk to her like that. You’re not an exception just because you managed to get it up long enough to cum in your wife.”

“Joel,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve. You’re burning, melting on the spot, from the vulgar way he’s talking to them. For him, someone who’s always strict about manners and proper hospitality, to talk back like this? God, you think, he must really love you.

He puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds firmly as you lean into it. He rounds back on your parents. “You treat her like fuckin’ dirt beneath your feet, and I’m tired of it. You don’t deserve the fuckin’ dirt beneath her feet.”

He shoves his chair back and grabs your hand. “C’mon, baby; we’re leaving.”

You take it and stand up, letting him pull you along. Your father follows you into the foyer, and you try not to look at him while you shove your shoes on.

Joel holds your coat out while you slip into it, and you tune out whatever your dad is yelling now. You don’t want to hear it; you know it’s nasty, and your whole world has narrowed to Joel anyway.

He holds out the key. “Go wait in the truck, baby.”

And you do.

He comes out about five minutes later, red-faced and huffing with fury. He doesn’t say a word when he gets in; just throws the truck into reverse and pulls away. You both ignore the blood on his knuckles.

Once you’re on the road, he looks over at you and sighs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You unbuckle and slide over to the middle seat, tucking your hand between his warm body to curl around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Whaddya sorry for? None of that was your fault.” He kisses the top of your head and cups your cheek at the stoplight. “It was gonna happen eventually, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the ride home is silent while you breathe in his comforting musk and try to relax. But the tension is unrelenting, the horrible rotting feeling eating away at your spine.

He knows. Knows what you need, knows what he can do to seal this moment forever. He waits until he’s unzipping the pretty little cocktail dress you’d stressed over.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, breaking away from where he was sucking his claim down your neck to swap out your delicate necklace with his collar.

He unhooks the bra and kisses the marks he left behind with the cane, your penance for being allowed to wear it. It leaves you bare to him, and his hands turn greedy. He presses biting kisses against your lips while digging fingers into your bruises, swallowing your whimpers.

He grabs you by the neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, holding you to him while your vision blurs. When he lets go, you stumble, but his arm around your back holds you upright. He slaps your face with quick, sharp blows in rapid succession to keep you unsteady.

“Knees, hands behind your head,” he says, and lets go.

You fall but are quick to right yourself and take the position. He wastes no time, giving you another harsh smack before grabbing your hair and shoving his cock into your throat.

You choke and gag but keep your hands in place even as your head spins. You feel limp and grateful that he doesn’t seem to require any effort from you as he uses you without mercy.

“Look at you. You’ve got my whole cock down your throat. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your eyes are already glazed over, and you moan your appreciation around him.

He pulls out and hauls you to your feet. “I know what you need, sweetheart. Get your ass downstairs.”

He fucks you, beats you, uses you wherever he wants. But the basement is where he keeps the heavy equipment and where you know you’re about to have your mind and body pushed to the absolute limit.

You’re ready, he thinks, when he gets down and finds you waiting perfectly in place for him, eyes wide like he’s descended from on high. He jerks a thumb to the wooden post, and you meet him there.

“Forget about what they want you to be,” he murmurs as he closes the steel cuffs around your ankles. “You know what you want, baby. Right?”

“Mhm,” you nod, already slipping away into that safe place only Joel can get you to.

“What do you want to be?” he asks, binding your arms up over your head to the eye bolt at the top of the post.

“Yours.” It’s half-whisper, half-whine.

“Yeah? You just wanna be mine? You don’t want to get a new job?”

“No,” you finally confess. “But—”

“But what, baby? If you say somethin’ about money or bills, I’m gonna be mighty unhappy.”

You bite your lip. “I’m scared one day, you’ll wake up and not want me anymore.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, sweetheart. You think I put all this work into helpin’ you, into teaching you how to be mine, just to toss ya out? You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

He slides a silicone cock into the bracket lined right up with your mouth. It’s a fairly standard size, since he knows you’re going to thrash around and doesn’t want you gagging too much and throwing up.

Your torso gets tied to the post by your tits, the wood nestled between them and rope woven around. Securing you there forces your head onto the toy, but he doesn’t make you take it all the way. You keep your mouth open and don’t move closer or further, waiting for his command.

“Suck on it whenever you’d like. You’re going to need it.”

Your eyes roll back a little at his promise. If he thinks you’re going to need something in your mouth to self-soothe, you’re in for an absolutely amazing time.

“Focus on me. That’s all you’ll need to do from now on, baby. No more worries in that pretty little head, okay?”

The first strike is a warm-up. When you feel the lash of his favorite whip lick your ass, you moan. It’s a moderately short signal whip that he wields like a fucking pro. His warmups are quick but thorough, and you’re squirming when he moves on to your thighs and shoulders.

“Already?” he says, laughing when you whine around the silicone cock.

You’re absentmindedly sucking on it when he starts a harsher assault. A particularly sharp strike stings at the valley where your ass meets your thighs, and you yelp, jerking a little and gagging yourself on the dildo.

His smirk burns into your back as the cry melts into a moan, and you writhe a little, trying to get friction where you need it most. What you get, though, is the tip of the whip against your cunt.

By the time he moves around to your tits, they’re covered in spit, heaving with the effort of holding back your orgasm. He comes up to you first, and pinches at your nipples.

“Aw, does my dumb little cunt want to cum?” He croons, tugging and twisting until you moan. He laughs when all you can get out is a muffled “mhm.”

“Tell ya what. You can cum all you want while I hurt you tonight, okay?”

He punctuates it with a particularly cruel pinch, and that, combined with his permission, is all you need to let the pleasure shudder through you.

“Yeah? You gonna get off to being my little toy? Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

You moan around the fake cock, easing it further into your throat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He doesn’t give a warm-up on your tits, figuring you’re already so far gone it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.

He’s right. The first lash is harsh, a welt blooming across the top of your breast in its wake, but you groan, trying to press your cunt up against the post for any relief.

You don’t need it, though. He brings you to your peak again with the skilled flick of his wrist, landing blows across the fat of your breasts. He waits until you’re mid-orgasm to bring the whip hard across your nipples.

The resulting wail almost makes him cum in his pants. He does it only twice more, relishing in your agony, but restraining himself from just letting loose. Not with the whip, as much as he’d like to. Maybe later with a flogger.

Once he’s taken it as far as he’s willing to risk, he moves back around to give the rest of you the same treatment. The hardest hits push you over the edge, and by the time his arm is getting tired, you’re sobbing and writhing in your restraints, overstimulated in every way.

He unlatches your ankles first, helping you find steady footing before untying your wrists and torso. You drop to your knees and open your mouth, throat aching for his cock after the tease of the toy.

He doesn’t have the willpower to torment you by denying it tonight. Instead, he nearly pops the button off his jeans in his urgency to pull his cock out and shove it as far down your throat as he can.

Your arms find their place behind your back, and you just take it. He fucks into you without restraint. It’s filthy, from the mess you’re making to the wet choking sounds he pushes out of you with each thrust.

You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.

“I said while I’m hurting you. You don’t get to just cum from getting facefucked.”

“Then hurt me, please,” you sob. It’s right there; you’re so close.

He slaps you across the face and laughs as you cum, shoving back into your throat while you’re still riding out the aftershocks.

He pulls back out, and you whine until he yanks you up by the bicep and pushes you over to the padded bench, bending you over it and shoving into your sopping cunt.

“Still disappointed?” he teases.

“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”

“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”

You clench around him just at the words, but obey. “Please, sir, please hurt me so I can cum. Please.”

“I’ve been hurtin’ you all night, baby,” he says, voice thick with false pity. “Don’t you want me to be gentle with you now?” He can feel how hard you’re trying not to cum as he mocks you.

“No,” you sob. “No, love me, hurt me, please.”

It’s got an edge of desperation and heartbreak to it that he just loves.

He smacks your already bruising ass until you sob harder, shaking uncontrollably as you cum. He wraps his hands around your throat and fucks you through it until he cums, hips stuttering, and filling your cunt with his spend.

He lets himself collapse a little on top of you, pinning you with his weight against the bench with his softening cock still buried in you. “Feel loved now?”

You’re still crying, and when he folds his arms around your chest, elbows resting on the table, you cling to him. “Love you,” you murmur over and over, pressing kisses up and down his forearms.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and sucking at you. “I know, baby. You know I love ya.” He’s half-hard—not something that happens a lot anymore at his age, so he’s not gonna waste it. He pulls out just to manhandle you up onto the bench on your back, climbing up between your legs and shoving back in.

It’s a little sloppy until he’s fully hard again; your combined cream making things a little too slippery. Once he’s erect, though, he sets a punishing pace, folding you in half with your legs up by your ears. He works your clit with his hand, relishing in the way you’re fucking exhausted and overstimulated, but your poor clit’s been neglected. It means he can twist and pull on it, tugging until you give him more and more, until you’re sobbing for mercy that you know you’ll never get.

He doesn’t ease up until he pulls out to cum over your tits and face.

“Mine,” he snarls, shoving his fingers into your swollen cunt and feeding you what’s left of his first orgasm and your… well, he’s not really sure how many. A fuckin’ lot. “You’re all mine. Little fuckin’ toy to do whatever I want, right?”

You’re still gasping for breath, having been half-suffocated in that position, but when you look at him, it’s like he’s a fucking god. “Yes, sir.”

     -broken

The day had started out fine.

He’d laid out a dress for you to wear. Sometimes, he made you go around bare for a while, just to fuck with your head a little, but he prefers to unwrap you like a present.

Plus, the sight of you crawling around in nothing but a slutty, barely-there dress is picture-fuckin’-perfect. He’d know; he’s got a bunch of ‘em on his phone.

And crawl, you do. You haven’t been allowed to walk further than a couple of feet in a long time. There’s penance to be paid if you can’t avoid it.

Joel collects your penance whenever possible, gathering what’s owed for your sins and dealing out forgiveness when it's settled. It’s how he shows his love.

And he does love you. How could he not? Such a perfect little toy. He’s spent so much time training you right to be his prized possession.

He knew it’d happen eventually, so when you commit one of the worst offenses, he has to make it count. You were testing your limits, of course; he had expected it. He had expected it months ago. It was worse now, after you’d been so good and earned so much trust. But now that you’d been nothing but his for two months, you had finally fucked up.

Your punishments were never painful. Okay, they weren’t pain-focused. Sometimes, he had to put you over his knee to let his frustration out before he could give you a proper punishment. But the pain wasn’t the point—you both liked it too damn much. No matter how much farther he took it than a regular session, and no matter how sick you were with guilt, you were always a soaking wet mess after a beating.

This time would have to be different, though.

It was time to finally break you.

He knew as soon as he got home. Not the particulars, but that you’d made a huge mistake.

On the surface, nothing was amiss. You were knelt by the door in your pretty little dress, a short number in navy blue. You had your head down and arms folded behind your back in perfect posture.

But something was off. It didn’t feel like you were happy he was home. And he was pretty sure there would only be one reason for that.

He hung up his keys but didn’t bother to take off his shoes, coming to stand in front of you. “What’d you do?”

You flinch and have to re-tense to hold the position as a sob escapes you. Your hands are balled into fists to fight the urge to cover your face. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked what you did.”

If it were still the early days, when this shit usually happened, he might have been just a little softer. At least until he coaxed the confession from you, anyway. But you were in too deep, now, too entangled in this life that he had little patience for your reticence.

“I—”

“I recommend you spit it out. You’ll tell me in the end, anyway.”

You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”

“You better figure it out pretty fuckin’ fast, little girl.”

“I had an orgasm,” you blurt, whimpers escalating to sobs.

He pauses. It’s worse than he thought. The rush of disappointment and anger sends his heart racing, and his fingers flex in longing for a cane.

“Did you enjoy it?” he says.

It catches you off guard. “No, I promise.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s the last one you’re gonna have for a while.”

You aren’t surprised; you’re actually relieved. Of course, of course he’ll fix you.

He finally takes his shoes off and sets his phone on the counter, beckoning you to follow him to the living room. Taking his seat on the couch, he waits until you’re settled at his feet.

“Why’d you do that, baby?”

“I-I didn’t mean to. I was edging for the last time today, and I don’t know what happened. It was just there, and I knew it, I knew it was coming, and I—” You choke on the guilt, the grief.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I kept thinking ‘no, you stupid cunt,’ but I couldn’t pull my hand away.”

He regards you for a moment. He’s burning inside, but trying to calculate the most effective approach.

“Thank you for telling me right away,” he says, but even though he means it, the words are cold and clipped. “Which hand?”

You look at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What?”

“Which hand did you use? Give it to me.”

You lift up your right hand, and he cradles it in his.

“Listen close.” He waits until he’s sure you’re focused on him, on his words.

This is where things have fallen apart in the past. No amount of training and manipulation can get someone across this hurdle; they have to mean it. The last thing he wants is someone running to the police because they don’t fucking understand how serious he is.

“This is going to be your last chance to back out. I will stop right now and let you pack your shit and leave. But if you stay, you’re agreeing to anything I do to you past this point.”

You bite your lip, stomach churning. “You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

“Good. You should be scared. What you’ve done is one of the worst things you could have. That’s got some serious consequences, baby.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I gotta hurt you. Bad. Y’ain’t going to like this; I can promise you that. I can’t punish your cunt because you’re such a stupid pain slut; anything short of permanent damage is gonna make you wet. And I’m not lookin’ to do permanent damage.”

Your lip trembles, heart pounding. You’ve never been so afraid, but you’re also enthralled. Lured in by the timbre of his voice and the salvation it’s promising.

He squeezes your hand where he’s still holding onto you. “I’m going to break one of your fingers.”

Your heart falters, blood rushing. “Oh god,” you whisper, shaking your head. Instinctively, you tug back on your hand, but he grasps it tight, tight enough that you feel the bones grind under his large fingers.

“It’s up to you. That’s half the price for forgiveness. The rest is gonna be spending the night alone.”

Somehow, that sounds worse. You can’t breathe.

“Gotta choose, baby. You wanna go? I’ll pay for a cab. You can walk away, but you can’t ever come back.”

You think you might be drowning. Leave? How could you leave? There’s no debate in your head; you have nothing without Joel. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And the idea of losing him feels catastrophic.

You’re crying again, and you’re vaguely aware of his soothing voice trying to coach you through breathing. When you focus on him, just like he’s taught you, you start to calm down.

It’s Joel, you think. He’ll take care of you. And he said he didn’t want permanent damage. You just have to suffer for your betrayal and he’ll forgive you.

“I think I might throw up,” you warn him.

He sighs, the fear of losing you flooding away, taking some of his anger with it. “We’ll do it in the bathroom.”

He stands up, and you follow, albeit slowly, as the wave of nausea rises. You do throw up as soon as you get in the bathroom, thankfully making it to the toilet. He holds your hair and rubs his hand across your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, baby, get it out of your system. You’re being so brave for me,” he croons. He helps you up to sit on the edge of the tub and gets you a little cup of mouthwash.

“I’ll help you brush your teeth after,” he promises. “I’d do it now, but, well. You’re probably going to puke again.”

When you’re done swishing the mouthwash, when it’s all turned to foam and you’ve spit it back in the cup, he swaps you for water. You rinse and spit that, too.

He’s laid a few things out on the counter. You feel dizzy all over again. Something tells you the comfort you feel is wrong, but he’s prepared an ice pack and medical tape, and has four little ibuprofen out next to another cup of water.

The other, louder part of you is whispering, see? He’ll take care of you. The act of wondering what’s wrong with you feels like a farce. You’re thinking it because you think you should, just going through the motions.

He takes off his belt and brings it to your mouth. You clench it between your teeth, letting a shaky breath through. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the warmth.

“I knew you were somethin’ special,” he whispers. You’re not sure he meant to.

Your whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He watches you for a moment, worried you’re going to faint, and then sits on the floor with his back against the tub, pulling you into his lap. He lays you back against his chest, caging you in with his arms and thighs. The ice pack sits to his right, already popped and frozen. Waiting.

Gently, he lifts your hand and brings it in front of your chest, taking it in his left. It’s a macabre mockery, the way he cradles it in his palm, fingers wrapped around the sides. In his right hand, he notches his thumb on the knuckle of your middle finger, bringing the other fingers in below it.

He doesn’t drag it out, doesn’t take pleasure in your terror. When he moves, it’s faster than a gunshot. Your scream is raw, breaking free from the spaces between your teeth and the belt. The taste of leather will remind you of this moment for the rest of your life.

He has the ice pack on it before you mentally register that it’s over. You’re sobbing. Horribly, he’s right, and you are sick again. He holds your hair in one fist, holding the ice pack to your mangled hand in the other.

When you’re done, he pulls you back against him, wrapping his limbs around you in a perverse embrace as you shake harder. With his free hand, he brings a damp, cool cloth to your face, cleaning you of the viscera of your sickness.

He’s shushing you, head bent close to your ear. “It’s alright, baby, it’s over. You did so good. I’m so proud. I love you so much.”

It’s good that he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t get one. You’re too lost in the pain and shock.

When it’s time to take a break from the ice, he grabs the medical tape and wraps it around your index and middle fingers. You cry out again as he jostles the break. Once he’s splinted it, he lowers your hand gently to your lap so he can grab the medicine.

“I can’t; I’ll throw up again,” you say, voice cracking.

“Don’t have a choice, baby. Gotta keep the swelling down.”

He feeds you each pill, one by one, chasing them with sips of water.

You look so sad and precious that he almost feels bad. Unfortunately, he’s also rock fucking hard, so he shifts you a little to pull his dick out.

You don’t say anything when he lifts you to lower you on it. He’s careful, trying not to shake you around too much. He was right; you didn’t enjoy this pain. You’ve never been this dry for him before, and you whimper pathetically at the pinch and sting of his girth.

You may be worn out and in agony, but your cunt doesn’t get the message. He grins when he feels you getting wet and clenching around him. He doesn’t push it though, doesn’t torment you, just fucks up into you gently until he fills you.

You’re limp against him now, and he presses a kiss into your hair. “You may have to walk for a bit,” he muses. “But I’ll cap your penance at ten.”

You wince. Ten strokes with the cane on the soles of your feet every day until your finger heals? You usually only owe enough for two or three. It is a mercy, though, so you nod and thank him.

Joel can hardly contain the way his chest is flooding with warmth. You’re so close; he can feel it. So close to being completely his to put together just the way he likes.

He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.

     -kintsugi

You’re cold. So cold. You’re curled in on yourself, tucked into a corner in the hopes that you’d be able to keep warmer. Your whole right hand throbs.

Moonlight only cuts across the corner, but it’s a comfort still. The soil is loose and you keep shuddering, feeling the tickle of a dozen phantom insects.

Worst of all, your chest aches, like he may as well have hewn you open. Dry sobs work their way free every now and then, leaving your mouth tacky and your throat full of cotton.

The only rest you get is when you blessedly pass out. Every time you close your eyes voluntarily, you see the heartbroken look on his face when you begged him not to leave you there.

“I wish I didn’t have to. I wish you hadn’t broken my trust and I could keep you close, baby. But you’re never going to learn how to be good if I don’t show ya.”

Bad, I’m bad, he doesn’t want me anymore, you think to no end.

When the sun starts to rise, you’re limp, still in your corner. You barely turn your head when a shadow falls over The Pit, but your heart starts to pound when the lock clicks, and Joel raises the gate.

“Oh, baby,” he says, soft and sorrowful. “C’mere.” He reaches out a hand, and you scramble to him, letting him take your left arm in his grasp and pull you out. You move immediately to your knees, body bent forward as your knotted muscles protest. He scoots his boot out of the danger zone near your broken finger.

You keep whispering, a broken record of “Sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

He picks you up and holds you to his chest, shushing until you fall quiet. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds as your brain desperately clings to any scrap, any way you can be good for him.

He brushes the loose dirt from you before going inside and upstairs to the ensuite. He sets you on the little rug next to the full garden tub, and he tests the water with his fingers before peeling his clothes off.

You flex your left hand, balling it in and out of a fist. You’ve never been particularly ambidextrous and wonder how you’re going to wash him without falling in or hurting your hand.

Before he gets in, he feeds you four more little red pills. Once he’s settled, he reaches out and guides you carefully by the waist, pulling you into his lap in the warm water.

That’s all it takes for you to start crying again. He doesn’t try to quiet you; just holds you there against his chest and lets you sob.

By the time you’ve calmed, the water has cooled, but instead of getting out, he just drains a little and runs more hot water.

Joel tips your chin up gently with the knuckle of his index finger. “You ready to be my good girl again?”

You nod, lip trembling.

Joel does nothing you hadn’t asked for. The trouble for you was that you asked for too much. Gave him too much. And it was far too late to get any of it back.

He gave what he could, though. Couldn’t replace what he’d taken, so he pours himself in the cracks, puts you back together with a firm hand and loving care. Sure, his love doesn’t look like what you’re used to, but he knows you see it for what it is.

“I know, baby. You took that all so well. Don’t worry,” he pauses to kiss you, “I forgive you. My perfect little toy.”

pls be nice, I'm so nervous about this.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tom Ryder x fem!reader

Summary: You're Tom's makeup artist for a movie he's shooting and you absolutely hate him. However, one round of karaoke later, your feelings temporarily shift.

Genre: Fluff, smidge of angst, Enemies to Lovers (very one-sided lmao)

Warnings: Tom is a stupid asshole (but he's also just a mess), swearing, reader is described as shorter than Tom, light misogyny, slapping, alcohol, being drunk/high.

TOM RYDER MASTERLIST

The bar is dimly lit and the loud music resounds in your ear as your knee bounces. You stir the straw around your drink, sighing as you turn to Vanessa, your co-worker. "He left me another post-it note on the desk yesterday telling me he wants a new lip oil because his now tastes weird!? His last one is only from last week and it's the same brand he always uses! I'm so sick of his bullshit, V," you drop your head in your arms and then peek up at Vanessa again, "He's such a dick."

Vanessa laughs, sipping on her margarita, as she shrugs, "Didn't you know that when you took the job, honey?"

"I mean, sure. But those could have been rumors," you pout and sit up, moving some hair behind your ear as you look around the room, where other crew members have gathered around the karaoke machine.

"Listen, don't think about Tom Ryder. You're off the clock and everyone knows he's a world-class asshole—a pretty world-class asshole, I will let him have that," Vanessa hums and also turns her attention to the rest of your friends and co-workers as she claps her hands. 

You look down at your drink, your cheeks feeling warmer than usual. Not thinking about Tom Ryder was easier said than done when you had to work on his face 5 days a week. He was so infuriating most times, either talking down to you when you worked or wouldn't cooperate with anything you told him to do because he was on his phone. Sometimes he really makes you want to stab the mascara stick into his eye. 

Still, you can't deny he's extremely handsome and that just annoys you more. 

Suddenly, you hear a bunch of cheers and hoots from outside, directly accompanied by the sound of the door slamming open. When you hear an all too familiar voice, your eyes widen and you snap around to make sure you hadn't just imagined it. 

Tom Ryder coming to one of the crew parties? No fucking way. Obviously, he's always invited to them but in a very arrogant fashion he never shows up—which is one of the reasons you do, because he never does. 

Only this time he did and he's not alone. 

Tom is dressed in another one of his boisterous outfits, his shirt loosely unbuttoned to reveal his chest and a peak of his toned abs. Pink-tinted sunglasses sit on his nose and his dirty blond hair curls messily around his face.

He looks drunk, or high, when he walks in and you can't tell which one it is because he's constantly moving and laughing. He's accompanied by a few other low A-list actor friends he has and a pretty blond model hangs on his arm, her giggles instantly infuriating you. 

How can she stand to be near him for more than a minute? Even less hold his arm and be his eye-candy? 

You turn back around, desperately attempting to calm the bile rising in your throat. God, you hate him. You feel even worse when he leans beside you at the bar and orders a drink from the bartender, snapping his fingers as he does. He doesn't even address your presence beside him and your blood boils. 

Your anger immediately turns to disgust when you hear the man hosting the karaoke scream out Tom Ryder's name.

"Tom Ryder everyone! I loved your new movie, man, it was awesome! How about a song?" the man asks, eyebrows wiggling as the crew clap (mostly out of politeness) and his friends make loud, drunken noises like a bunch of animals. 

"C'mon! One song—for all the pretty ladies in the crowd!"

Tom seems intrigued when the man mentions the girls. You roll your eyes and your hand tightens around your glass as he walks up to the host, raising his hands in surrender and feigning humbleness. "Alright, alright, I have to give the ladies what they want, don't I?" Tom boasts, winking at one of the camera girls he never looks at otherwise. 

Someone put you out of your misery now.

The host seems ecstatic to have someone this famous next to him and asks Tom for a quick photo, which Tom obviously doesn't turn down. You pretend to gag when Vanessa turns to look at you and smirks at Tom's behavior.. 

"How about a duet, Ryder?" The host asks as he hands him the mic. 

"Nah, I usually sing solo," Tom says, his words slightly slurred, and then he leans in to whisper something in the host's ear—which probably goes something like, "Unless she's got a nice rack, then by all means invite her up here." 

You lean in and whisper into Vanessa's ear, "Ten bucks he takes home the girl he ends up singing with," you say with a frown, your voice a little strained. Vanessa laughs and then the worst thing happens.

"You," the host shouts and you look up alarmed. Your eyes are wide when you realize everyone, including Tom, is staring at you. "The angry-looking girl in the back. Why don't you come up and join him? I doubt he'd bite." 

Laughter, including some nervous ones from your friends, resounds around the room as Tom's smirk widens. You'd be surprised, you think. You find your voice again and say, "Um, can't you ask one of them?" you point to the group of eager fangirls swarming around the small stage as they ogle Tom. 

"C'mon, sweetheart," Tom slurs, squinting at you, "One song won't kill you." 

But you might just kill him.

Vanessa, the traitor, nudges you again and you stumble from the stool. You glare at her but when all your friends, including Tom's more obnoxious friends, chant encouragements you feel completely trapped. 

The walk to the small stage feels eerily similar to a walk of shame as you look to your co-workers in hopes someone will save you. No one does and you ignore the stares from all the girls who wish they could take your place. 

You're blinded by the lights as you step on the stage and approach the host. "Atta girl," the man smirks patronizingly as he hands you the second mic. You scrunch your nose at him and then look up at Tom, expecting him to be ignoring you like he usually is, but instead, he's staring. 

His cheeks are pink from being intoxicated and he tilts his head, watching you clutch the mic nervously. 

The host doesn't warn you when the song begins to play and he walks away. You realize too late you and Tom are now alone and everyone is watching you as dread slowly fills your stomach. 

You don't even know how to sing! This is so humiliating. 

 The familiar melody of, "Don't Go Breaking My Heart," fills the air and you feel the heat rise in your chest and up to your ears. Your heart is pounding so loudly you can only faintly hear Tom start to sing the song. He sounds fairly good and you aren't surprised considering he's an actor. 

Your voice catches in your throat and you feel tears rise. You don't sing when it's your turn and the crowd is silent. 

Suddenly, you jump when you feel a strong hand on your hip and you snap your head around to look at him. Your hand finds Tom's hand immediately, gripping it, and just as you're about to pull it away, he leans in and whispers, hot against your ear, "Baby doll, you're making me look bad," he states, his tone as condescending as it always is, and your heart does a somersault in your chest.

He looks down at you this time, his blue eyes lock with yours for a moment and his hand falters on your hip. For an actor, Tom Ryder has surprisingly no poker face because when he sees your distressed state, his demeanor shifts, and instead of frustration, he takes on a different approach.   

He takes your hand, suddenly twirling you around and you make a small sound as you stumble. It's been a few seconds since anyone has sung the song, so he sings again and this time, his eyes stay on yours as he sings your lyrics.

"You know this," he mouths, encouraging you as he does this weird, clearly drunk-induced shimmy that makes you laugh despite your better judgment. He points to the small screen where the lyrics are displayed.

You take a breath and then sing, focusing on him instead of the crowd and your head feels light. You would have never guessed there would be a day when you'd find comfort in Tom Ryder. Your friends clap with amusement and laughter swirls around the bar as you both continue to sing and dance. 

Occasionally, Tom will pull you in closer but you'll move away, flustered, and when the song finally ends, you move back and almost trip on the mic's cord. 

With a gasp, you expect to fall flat on your ass but instead, Tom wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you into him as your palms press on his chest. You're breathing heavily and so is he, his hand is still on your back as his eyes roam over all your features until you push him away and walk down the small stairs and back to the ground where all your friends are whispering and clapping. 

You feel like you can't breathe, your heart beating so quickly. You mumble a quick "excuse me" to Vanessa, snatch your purse from the bar counter, and open the door to outside. The cool air calms your burning skin and you lean against the building. 

What the fuck was that? Why was he looking at you like that? 

"You know, it's normal to be nervous around someone like me," Tom's voice interrupts your panic and you spin around, not expecting to see him. "But running from me? Now, darling, that's truly a first," he finishes with a chuckle and an obnoxious smirk. 

"You're so full of yourself," you whisper automatically but then your eyes round as if you've realized what you'd said. 

Tom looks surprised but he also remains cool as he strokes a hand down his jaw and puts it on his hip. "Mm, I assume you're not a fan then." 

You cross your arms and look anywhere but directly at him because fuck, why did someone so incredibly stupid and pretentious have to be so darn hot? "You could say that, sure," you shrug. "Not everyone likes you, Tom Ryder." You shut yourself up as soon as the words leave your mouth. This isn't exactly something you should say to someone who you work with.

However, Tom's expression sours and he lifts his eyebrow. "You don't like me?"

You turn to him, eyes locking with him this time. "That isn't what I said."

Tom's eyebrows crease and he squints at you, removing his stupid sunglasses and they push back his blond hair. "You're confusing me." He sounds genuine. 

You can't help but chuckle at his idiocy and surprisingly for you, your laughter makes him smile. He leans in and you lean away, eyes round when you realize how close he's becoming. "You have such a sexy laugh," he says cockily, "Bet I can make you do it again."

You hate to admit this but your heart does flutter at his words. Can anyone really blame you? It's Tom. Fucking. Ryder. You try to remind yourself how much of a dick he is—and always has been—but as you look into the blue of his eyes, his reassuring touch burns imprints on your skin and you feel dizzy. 

Shit. 

"You look familiar," Tom straightens himself, "Have I seen you somewhere? You been in any magazines? You certainly have the look."

You ignore the so-called complement and stare at him. He has to be kidding. You've been doing his makeup for over six months now and he supposedly sees you almost every day. You worked on his face every single day—how could he not recognize you? You open your mouth to ask if this is a joke but he interrupts you.

"Seriously, I must know you from somewhere. Gimme a hint, baby,"

Your stomach sinks and you feel so so stupid. Tom doesn't sense your shift as he's still focused on whatever fleeting emotion may have been between you before as his hand finds your hip. 

Instantly, your palm connects with his cheek, and the sound cracks into the air. "Don't touch me," you say harshly, ignoring how shaky your voice is.

Tom looks at you, his hand over his bruised cheek, "You hit me?!" he says in disbelief, "What the fu—" 

You don't stick around to hear his whining as you turn around and run from him. 

Again. 

"Hey–wait!" you hear Tom's shout but why would you turn around now? Tears of frustration brim your eyes as you hastily walk down the empty sidewalk.

There is no way you're fucking crying over Tom fucking Ryder right now, you tell yourself and pinch the inside of your eyes. 

No way. 

You ignore Vanessa's incessant calling and her worried texts when you arrive at your apartment. You scream in frustration, throwing your heels across the room and scaring your poor cat, Pumpkin, as she sprints into the living room, her claws against the floorboards.

Quickly, you follow her and scoop her into your arms, "'M sorry, baby," you coo and nuzzle your nose into her fur. "I'm sorry Mommy scared you."

You hear Vanessa's fifth call from your purse but you're too exhausted to deal with her and the fallout from what had happened tonight, so instead you sit on the couch and cuddle with Pumpkin, scratching behind her ears. 

* * * 

When you pull into the parking lot of the new set the next morning, you haven't slept well and you feel like shit—it doesn't help that they're filming outside today, in the summer heat, and grainy sand infiltrates into your Converse. 

You groan as you walk over to the makeup trailer and see Vanessa waiting for you. You almost called in sick this morning until you realized how guilty that would make you look, so you sucked it up. 

"Y/n?!" Vanessa shrieks and pulls you behind the trailer. "Where have you been?! I've called you a hundred times, why haven't you answered any of them? I was worried Ryder somehow took you home and that I'd lost 10 bucks—" 

"Gross, why would you think that?" you say with disgust as if you weren't surprised to hear that after you left Tom hadn't returned to the bar. 

"I mean, for one, Ryder was missing and no one knew where he went. And second, are you shitting me? Girl, the tension was more than palpable! You were practically dry-humping Tom Ryder in front of everyone!" 

You feel like someone has just punched you in the stomach and your voice comes out high and nervous when you exclaim, "I was not! It wasn't like that, V! Is that what everyone thinks?" Vanessa nods as an answer and you want to scream. 

"I swear, I- nothing happened—even outside—I- funny story I slapped him because he's a jerk and I- I don't like him!" you ramble and your heart thumps quicker when Vanessa looks behind you and her mouth curls into a devious smirk.

"Don't look now, sweetie, but your boyfriend just arrived," she pauses and checks her watch, "An hour late. As usual." Vanessa looks you dead in the eyes and then she teases, "Chop chop, time to put makeup on your man." 

Your eyes widen and you pull Vanessa further behind the trailer so Tom won't see you or her. You hold her shoulders. "Please switch with me for today. He won't even notice the difference, and Allie doesn't need to have her makeup done until noon so that way I don't have to see him! Please, V, I'll do anything!" 

Vanessa crosses her arms, "Nothing happened with him, hm?"

You look at her, your eyes round and pleading, "Please."

"Fine, but you're paying for my lunch later," she says and taps your nose, "and giving me a detailed rundown on what happened with Ryder."

You nod reluctantly, whispering a small thank you under your breath as she turns to walk into the makeup trailer behind Tom. You let out a breath, leaning against the trailer. You know you'll have to face him at some point—just not now.

The day drags on and on as the heat is becoming almost unbearable. You stand to the side, your makeup kit secured to your hip as you watch the scene from under a tent. It's another action sequence and it's very obvious Tom's makeup is fading from the warmth and his sweat. 

Shit, you realize, he needs a touch-up. Vanessa didn't use the correct primer. 

You look around, hoping to see Vanessa and tell her Ryder needs a touch but the director's voice cuts in and you tense, "Cut! Someone come to fix his face!" Jody turns to you, her eyes kind as her voice becomes a little less stressed when she sees you're prepared for this, "Can you fix his makeup?" 

Shit, shit, shit. 

This is your job, you can't say no so you walk out onto the set where Tom is leaning against a prop rock. He straightens himself and when he turns, he doesn't have the chance to process your presence as you guide him down and fumble with your kit. 

He's taller than you so he's leaning down so you can fix him up properly. You put your hand on his jaw, near his ear, to steady him as you touch up under his eyes and near his cheekbones. 

He's staring at you and you know he recognizes you this time, his blue eyes wide and puppy-like. 

Silently, you add some powder on his cheeks and nose so the product sticks better this time and when you let him go, Tom opens his mouth to speak, but you shake your head no, and then you turn your head and hurry back behind the camera. 

Your ears are burning from embarrassment as you walk directly to the makeup trailer, without looking back at anyone. 

You've barely closed the door when it slams open and you scream. You spin around just as someone tries to hold onto your arm and on instinct you grab the hairspray that's in your kit and spray it directly into… Tom's eyes. 

He screams too, his voice high-pitched and very un-sexy, as he clutches his eyes. Seeing him only causes you to scream again. "Ryder?!" you exclaim and immediately take his arm, pulling him inside the trailer as he wails like a child and rubs at his eyes. 

You slap his hands away and push him down under the faucet, pouring water into his eyes and in the process drenching his blond hair and ruining his mascara. 

"Fuck," he groans as he sputters out water as he jerks away from you. You move closer to him and without thinking hold both of his cheeks in your hands, looking directly into his, now slightly irritated, eyes. 

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, clearly concerned. 

Tom rests his hands on yours and pulls them away, "What do you think?" he groans and blinks a few times. "You're the girl—" he mutters and pinches his nose, "at karaoke. I remember you now."

You realize how close you are to him now and, overwhelmed, you step back. "Lucky me," you mumble sarcastically and take his arm, pulling him to one of the seats. "I have to fix your face again or someone is gonna fire me." 

He's weirdly docile as he looks at your work as you dry his hair. Once you're done, he speaks up, "Why'd you run from me? I mean, c'mon, the way you looked at me with those fuck-me eyes—" 

Tom has no shame and of course, he wouldn't. He's probably never really been rejected in his entire life and women have most likely let him speak to them like this. You pause and pull his chin harder so he's looking at you as you continue with his mascara. 

"Tell me honestly Ryder, do you even hear yourself when you speak?" you ask, your voice strained. 

"What?" Tom asks, sounding genuinely confused. 

"You're an asshole. That's why I ran from you." You drop his chin and your word vomit comes out without you being able to help it as you cross your arms, "I mean—I have been doing your makeup for months! And you've only ever left me your stupid post-it notes when you have a demand! No "Hi," "Good morning," "How are you?" No. Nothing like that. And I tried! I really tried in the beginning because like everyone else on this fucked up planet I thought you were awesome."

Tom opens his mouth to make a snide comment but you instantly press your finger to his lips. 

"I really thought, "I'm so lucky to be Tom Ryder's makeup artist!" and then I found out Tom Ryder is a shit person that doesn't—"  

"I'm not a shit person," Tom deadpans and stares at you as if your words have hurt him. 

You tilt your head and drop your arms to your side. You don't even know what to say to him anymore. 

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry I made you feel shitty, okay?" Tom defends and his cheeks are pink, "I just—I am really bad with faces—and I-I was completely shit-faced and high on–" 

He pauses, stands, and wraps his hand around your jaw, his thumb stroking your bare cheek as your eyes widen and you tense. Something about his charm makes it impossible for you to move and because his touch is gentle, you aren't too worried. For now. "'M sorry. I am. Can't we call it even since you hit me and sprayed me in the face with whatever that fucking was?!"

He continues, "—listen, I liked karaoke with you and I was shit-faced so I know I must have been a dick."

"You're always a dick, Ryder," you comment, your tone less mad than earlier.   

"Then, you don't know me very well," Tom shrugs, "or like at all." 

"So—you're saying all this dick-ishness is a persona?" You sound very skeptical and Tom just shrugs as his thumb strokes over your skin once more and then he drops his hand, putting some distance between you and him. 

"No. Not entirely. But, you know, that doesn't mean I'm incapable of genuine feelings, Y/n."

You're surprised when you hear your name fall from his lips. Tom sees your expression and another one of his smirks curls at his lips, "As I said, I remember you now. Always did—my hot makeup artist—ask anyone—ask Gail, I mention you a lot. I was just hammered, you know? High out my mind—and it heightened all my fucking senses that I couldn't get your laugh out my head for hours." 

"If you're joking," you say and glare at him, "it isn't funny." 

Tom puts a hand on his heart dramatically, "'M not. Scouts fucking honor." 

You look at him and for once, you can't read him. "Well, either way, that doesn't change how much of an asshole you've been to me. You never said "hi" but you told Gail about me? Sorry, but that doesn't impress me."

You walk up to him and tilt his head using his chin, examining his make-up once more, and then you take his arm and try to pull him out of the trailer, "Now, c'mon, you have a job to do—go do it," you hiss.

"But—" 

"No," you start but he won't move. He turns around and stares at you. Fuck, he's strong. "Why won't you leave?" you ask, breathless as you step away from him. 

"Do you hate me so much that you won't even consider that I genuinely find you interesting?" he asks with a hint of insecurity in his voice again. "That I liked spending time with you and I think you're pretty."  

Your chest tightens and you sigh, "I- I don't know," you admit and you look up at him. You can't deny that your feelings have shifted and a little voice in your head screams that this is a trap and he'll eventually break your heart. 

"Here," Tom fumbles with the pants of his costume and pulls out a pen and a post-it note. 

"You seriously just carry those on you?" you crack a smile, finding that weirdly endearing. 

Idiot. 

"Yeah," Tom says like it's the most normal thing ever and then he writes down something on the paper. When he hands it to you it's the name of a restaurant. You frown, it's your favorite restaurant. He'd written a time beside the name. 

"How do you know this is my favorite restaurant?" you ask. 

Tom looks up, his smirk turning into a smile. "I didn't—it's mine."

Your frown deepens, "Hm, I didn't take you for a low-priced family-run Chinese restaurant kinda guy—don't you have a personal chef or something," you say and look at the time he's written down, "What is this anyway?" 

Tom shrugs and adjusts his hair. "I do but I like this place. The family who owns it never tells anyone I've been there, it gives me some privacy," he sounds serious and he walks closer to you, "Don't tell anyone, it might ruin my reputation and then your favorite restaurant might be swarmed by a bunch of fangirls," he smirks, pleased with himself. 

You can't help but chuckle. 

"And this," he points to the time, "is where I'll be tomorrow evening if you'd like to join me," he says nonchalantly and then opens the trailer door. Just as he does, he takes his phone and takes a picture of the time so he remembers it and he sends you a wink. "I won't wait long but if you do come, it's on me." 

You stare at the paper and realize Tom Ryder has just asked you on a date. You look up but he's gone and your heart does about ten thousand summersaults as your brain screams in agony. Your cheeks feel warm as you fold the paper up and put it in the pocket of your jeans. 

You're so very screwed.

You hear a ding and then a text from Vanessa saying, "Ryder's mic was on—crew heard absolutely everything—we didn't wanna interrupt your moment," she adds a mocking winking emoji but you don't care. 

That's the least of your worries now that you have a date with Tom Ryder.

[kentosbabes]

D for an A.

Professor Nanami who walked into class on the first day not expecting to see you, you had met previously at a party hosted by one of his college friends. But there you are, sitting in his lecture hall with a pen in your pretty mouth. Nanami remembered you vividly, your aura and beauty brought men from all ends of the house to right in front of you. He can remember the drunk kids you shared on a dare. Nanami can see you conversing with another classmate of yours, your head flogging back with a laugh on your lips.

Professor Nanami hated how you made him feel like a blushing schoolgirl. He feels an unbridled desire for you, it shakes him to his very core. He knows he shouldn’t like you like that. It’s wrong, its perverse, you’re so innocent and naive to the ways of an older man. He refuses to acknowledge his feelings for you, which is becoming an increasingly difficult way to suppress his emotions. Nanami fucks his fist with your name on his tongue and your face flicking through his mind in a post-orgasmic state. It makes it much harder to see you the next day for class.

He was nervous, Professor Nanami asked you to stay back after a mock exam. He noticed you haven’t been yourself for a couple days, your usually high exam results have taken a hit. You’re one of his more intelligent students, so seeing you do so bad? It infuriated him. He knows you can do better so that was probably why he asked you to stay back. “I’m disappointed in you and your attitude to my class, do you feel like you don’t have to try so hard because you get good results anyways in the real thing?” Your eyes start to well up and Nanami realises you might actually cry in front of him, “I just want to know why, that’s all, so I can best support you.”

Professor Nanami was shocked when you told him the that the reason why you weren’t doing so well was because of you break up with your boyfriend. You broke it off mutually due to compatibility reasons but it didn’t hurt any less. Nanami was only wishing that he could make you feel better, perhaps go down on you or fuck you till you forget his name and who he was.

It was awkward for Professor Nanami and you after your random breakdown in his office, he was strangely an excellent listener. The kiss you shared at the party was initiated by the crowd chanting and the haziness from the hella drinking you did for your friend's birthday. You assumed he'd want to bring it up but all he gave you were lustful stares when he thought you weren't watching, but you would have to be blind to not notice his darkening gaze when you spoke or looked at him.

You confer with your friend about Professor Nanami and she aptly suggests you need a rebound and he seems single and ready to fuck. Thus began operation D for an A. Nanami noticed a lack of effort on your part in his class work, he asked around and it seemed like this was an issue in his class and his class alone. What was different about him? He told you to stay back to discuss your recent performance in class.

Professor Nanami looked good enough to eat, your plan was simple, to fuck him and rebound from your ex. Hopefully, he's down as well. He asked you to stay back and you hope he's finally gotten the hints you have been giving him all week, including the dropped items you bent down to get and sucking all manners of items like pens and lollipops. He locked the door, "Darlin' we need to talk about your grades." You look up at him and decide to be a brat, "well, have I been a bad girl? Maybe you need to punish me?"

Professor Nanami was not expecting this at all. His eyebrows raised to his hairline, you wanted him? Why? You were under a decade his junior. He stepped forward and put your chin in between his index finger and thumb. "Oh really?" He teased, he would think about the practicalities of this relationship later, right now you're too irresistible for him to resist. You lean in to kiss him and it is nothing you have ever felt before, the sheer practice and experience made you feel out of your depth.

His cock twitched at the thought of you cucking on his dick like you teased him with that god-forsaken lollipop. Lord knows how you pictured yourself on your knees sucking Professor Nanami's cock in his office. The thrill of getting caught somehow made you even wetter if that was possible. You don't know what prompted you to be so promiscuous, but this worked for him. You closed the gap between you and started to unbuckle his trousers, looking up through your eyelashes for permission.

Professor Nanami nodded and you pulled his black boxers down alongside his trousers. His cock was hardening under your touch, it was like nothing you have ever seen before, definitely, the largest you have ever sucked. You wonder if it's even going to fit in your mouth. His grunts and groans sound melodic to you as you kitten-lick him to get used to his size. You breathe through your nose, a tip learnt from your friends but never got to use due to your ex's uselessness in bed. Taking a breath and sucking, deep-throating him. Your cheeks hollowing and tears streaking your face almost made him cum right there and then.

Professor Nanami could've taken you right there on his desk, but he wanted to take his time with you and fuck you senselessly so you forget that ex-boyfriend of yours. He could feel himself drawing to a close, right on the edge, "Doll, I'm going to cum," he pauses, "good girls swallow, can you do that for me? hm?" He throws his head back with a whine caught in his throat, you swallowed. You actually swallowed his seed because he asked, the image of white cum leaking out of your mouth and streaked makeup could've made him fuck you right there.

You ask Professor Nanami for a second round at his place. "Obviously, I still need to fuck you so well you forget his name."

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